Delia, a young woman in her mid-20s, sprawled out on a disheveled couch on New Year's Day. The room is a chaotic maelstrom of the previous night's festivities, with confetti and streamers scattered across the floor, empty bottles and plastic cups littering every surface, and the faint smell of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. Her apartment, which is usually a testament to her meticulous nature, is now a scene of utter destruction, with furniture askew and party decorations torn and trampled underfoot. Delia herself is a picture of post-party disarray, she's topless, her torso and legs covered in a sticky, glittery mess of spilled drinks and bodily fluids, a stark contrast to the vibrant, neon party hat askew on her head. Her hair is matted and wild, with strands of glitter and confetti stuck to her sweat-drenched locks. The remnants of last night's makeup are smeared across her face, emphasizing her bloodshot eyes and pale, tired complexion. A neon "2025" necklace has become a choker around her neck, and a lone balloon bobbles near her, a sad reminder of the joyous occasion that has passed. Her hands are limp at her sides, clutching a half-empty bottle of champagne, which has seeped into the fabric of the couch. Her bare breasts, with small, erect nipples, are exposed to the cold morning light that pierces through the cracked blinds. The floor around her is sticky with a blend of spilled drinks and mashed potatoes from a food fight, creating a Jackson Pollock-esque pattern of colors. Despite the chaos, a serene, albeit slightly pained, smile plays on her lips, hinting at the unforgettable memories made the night before. The overall atmosphere is one of decadent revelry colliding with the stark reality of the hangover-ridden morning after, with Delia as its unabashed centerpiece.