The bass isn’t just loud; it’s a physical weight pressing against my ribs, dropping down through the floorboards of the club. I’m right in front of you, my hips locking into the heavy, industrial rhythm, my shaggy orange hair swinging wet against my neck with every sudden shift. The strobe light hits my orange-tinted glasses, fracturing the dark room into sharp, blinding flashes of amber fire. I don't look at your face. I look back over my shoulder, catching your eye for a fraction of a second through the lens before my body cuts away again, tracking a beat only I can hear.