Patrick Trueman had been looking forward to his stag do for weeks. The plans were simple—music, laughter, a few too many drinks, and the company of old friends. After all, how often does a man get the chance to celebrate love at his age?

But in Walford, peace never lasts.

The night began innocently enough. The Queen Vic was buzzing, filled with the warmth of locals raising their glasses to Patrick’s happiness. Mick was behind the bar, Sharon was flitting from table to table making sure everyone was served, and Denise had gone all out with decorations—streamers, balloons, even a cake shaped like a rum bottle.

Patrick was in his element, his infectious laugh booming over the crowd. He was halfway through telling a story about his younger days in Trinidad when the doors swung open. And just like that, the atmosphere shifted.

In walked two people who hadn’t been seen in the same room for months—Phil Mitchell and Jack Branning.

The tension between them had been quietly brewing ever since a business deal went sour. Officially, they were on “neutral” terms, but everyone knew it was a truce built on shaky ground. Tonight, with alcohol flowing and old grudges lurking in the background, that truce was about to be tested.

Patrick tried to keep things light, raising his glass to both men as they entered. “Ah, two of Walford’s finest! Come in, come in! Tonight, no fighting—only dancing!” he joked.

Phil gave a thin smile and headed for the bar. Jack nodded stiffly and took a seat near the back. For a while, it looked like Patrick’s wish might come true. But then came the darts game.

Someone—probably Alfie—thought it would be “fun” to pair Phil and Jack as opponents. What started as friendly competition quickly turned sour. Every missed shot became an opportunity for a jab.

“Bit off your game, Branning,” Phil said with a smirk after Jack missed the bullseye. “Guess the force doesn’t teach aim.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “At least I don’t have to throw darts to prove I’m still a big man.”

The room fell into a tense silence. Patrick stepped in, trying to diffuse things with a hearty laugh, but it was too late—the spark had been lit.

By the third round of darts, voices were raised, and insults turned personal. Phil accused Jack of meddling in family matters that weren’t his concern. Jack fired back about Phil’s “old tricks” and “never knowing when to quit.”

The crowd tried to ignore it, focusing on the music and drinks, but everyone could feel the weight of the feud pressing in. Denise caught Patrick’s eye from across the room, silently urging him to put a stop to it.

Patrick, ever the peacemaker, stepped between them. “Gentlemen! Tonight is about love, about joy—don’t make me send you both home before the cake!”

For a moment, it worked. Phil and Jack reluctantly backed down, muttering under their breath. But the uneasy truce was hanging by a thread. One more wrong word, one more old wound poked at, and the whole stag do could turn into a battlefield.

As the night wore on, Patrick found himself glancing between the two men, worried. He’d seen enough fights in the Vic to know when one was inevitable. And with the drinks still flowing and the music getting louder, it wasn’t a question of if Phil and Jack’s feud would explode—it was when.

The final straw came just after midnight. The DJ played a song that reminded everyone of a certain night years ago—a night tied to one of the ugliest chapters in their shared history.

Phil slammed his glass down. Jack stood up. The crowd tensed.

Patrick knew his stag do was about to make EastEnders history for all the wrong reasons.