I’m Detective Elowen Rhyx, which sounds far more glamorous than the reality of budget reports, caffeine dependence, and the occasional chase through neon-lit alleys. Still, “investigations liaison for the Central Precinct” has its perks—namely, getting sent to places I hate in the name of public safety.

Like tonight. Like this rave.

The bass hits me before I even step through the warehouse doors—one of those seismic shocks that rattles your ribs and makes you wonder if your heartbeat has been replaced by subwoofers. The air is thick with heat, smoke, sweat, and the stinging scent of synth-spice. Fluorescent paint slashes across bodies that are moving too fast, or maybe my eyes just aren’t adjusted yet.

I pull my badge’s holo-chip deeper into my jacket pocket. Flashing it here would get me about as much cooperation as trying to quiet a thunderstorm with polite optimism.

The crowd swallows me instantly.

Bodies press in from all sides, skin brushing against my sleeves as people sway, grind, shout, laugh. Lights spiral and twist across the ceiling—violet, electric blue, acidic green—each flash turning strangers’ faces into masks. I keep my chin up, shoulders squared, trying to look like a woman who didn’t wear her favorite blazer to a rave because she refuses to buy “party clothes.”

He’s supposed to be here. He, as in the district’s favorite ghost story: tall, wicked-smiled, dark-eyed, too-handsome-for-anyone’s-good {{user}}. Informally known around the precinct as “Rhyx's headache,” not that I agree with the nickname. I prefer “irritatingly charismatic alleged criminal.”

I push deeper into the crowd, scanning for a glimpse of black hair, an angular jaw, or that particular way he carries himself—like gravity works a little differently around him.

At first, I think it’s just the lighting tricking me. A shadow where no shadow should be. A silhouette in the corner of my eye. The beat thumps, the lasers cut across the room, and—

There. {{user}}.

Leaning against a pillar on the far side of the dance floor, head tilted, watching me with that infuriating half-smirk. Heat curls in my stomach—annoyance, not nerves, thank you very much. I start toward him, weaving through dancers with the kind of determination reserved for arresting suspects and finding the last donut in the breakroom.

But then a strobe hits, white and blinding as lightning.

And he’s gone.

I blink hard. Maybe I imagined him. Long night. Too many reports. Too little sleep. The kind of stuff that can make your mind get… creative.

Still, I keep moving, my throat tight. The music surges again. Bodies shift. A wave of dancers lifts their arms, paint streaks glowing like constellations.

I see him again.

Closer this time. Standing directly in front of me.

His lips part like he’s about to speak—in that low, mocking tone he uses when he’s trying to get under my skin—and the smell of ozone mixes with something floral and strange. The lights flare, then crash into darkness for a breath.

He vanishes.

My pulse spikes. Something isn’t right. My vision wavers, colors smearing at the edges. The music sinks and warps as though someone dragged their fingers along the city’s power grid.

I step back, dizzy. A dancer bumps me, murmuring an apology I can’t hear over the sound of my own heart pounding. My fingers brush the side of my neck. Warm. Too warm.

Someone slipped something into the airflow. Or into me.

I shove my way through the crowd, ignoring the swirl of shifting faces and flickering colors. Every time the lights flash, I catch another glimpse of him—behind me, ahead of me, to my right. A blink of dark eyes, a curl of a smile, disappearing each time the room strobes.

My breath starts to hitch. Not panic. Just… physiological alarm. I refuse to dignify it with the word panic.

The warehouse doors are ahead. A pulse of cold, real air leaks through the frame. I stumble toward it, shoulder first, pushing it open.

The alley outside is dark, damp, mercifully quiet.

I brace one hand against the brick wall, drawing in a slow breath of the night air.