Local high-society fixture, Cheryl Tan, expressed deep irritation after a series of gunshots at a gala dinner interrupted her perfectly timed boomerang of a crab cake slider.

“Honestly, the timing was just so inconsiderate,” Cheryl whispered while crouching under a mahogany table with a glass of vintage Krug.

“I was halfway through tagging the florist when the screaming started; does nobody have manners or situational awareness anymore?”

Despite the tactical teams swarming the venue and the VIP being hauled away like a sack of damp laundry, the surviving attendees agreed that the party must go on.

The kiasu spirit dictated that one does not simply leave an open bar when there is still premium gin to be consumed.

“It’s about resilience,” said another guest, wiping a splash of mystery fluid off his Prada loafers.

“If we stop drinking just because someone tried to rewrite history with a semi-automatic, then the bad guys win.”

“Also, the wagyu tartare is already paid for, so we are staying.”

By midnight, the smell of gunpowder was successfully masked by the scent of expensive cologne and moral bankruptcy.

Guests were seen frantically scrolling their feeds, not to check for fatalities, but to see if their ‘Safe’ status update got more engagement than their outfit reveal.