The VIP room breathes in slow, heavy pulses.
Neon lights bleed across the walls—purple, then blue, then red—washing the room in shifting color. The bass doesn't just thump; it lives inside the chest, a second heartbeat that doesn't belong to you. Smoke curls from somewhere unseen, thin and silver beneath the chandelier lights before dissolving into nothing.
I sit still on the couch.
The whiskey is cold in my hand, the crystal glass damp against my palm. Each sip burns a path down my throat—a familiar fire, a trusted enemy. My eyes stare at nothing. The room could be empty. The world could have ended. I wouldn't notice.
Because the thought won't leave.
It circles. Spins. Returns each time I try to push it away.
Cold water streaming from the showerhead. The way it soaked through his clothes, through mine. The trembling of his body beneath my hands—not from fear, but from fever. From the cold. From something I couldn't name.
The way he stepped closer.
