The music is too loud, bass rattling the walls of Tommy H.’s house when the front door slams open so hard it bangs against the wall. Heads snap around. Billy Hargrove stands there, jaw clenched, chest rising fast, eyes already burning through the room. He scans cups, bodies, strobe lights, then his voice cuts through the noise.

“Where is she.”

Tommy laughs nervously, starts to say something, but Billy grabs him by the collar and slams him back into the counter, plastic cups flying.

“Don’t play dumb. Where. Is. My. Sister.”

Someone stutters that she went upstairs, that she looked tired, that some guy helped her because she was drifting. That’s enough. Billy lets go and bolts for the stairs, taking them two at a time, the phone call replaying in his head—she wasn’t drunk, she just faded.

The door at the end of the hall is closed. Billy doesn’t knock. He kicks it open. The guy inside barely turns before Billy’s fist crashes into his face. Bone cracks. The guy hits the dresser and drops. Billy’s breathing goes feral, hands shaking, vision tunneling. He turns and sees {{user}} on the bed, limp, eyes unfocused, a half-full drink on the nightstand. Billy freezes for half a second, then drops to her side, brushing her hair back, voice low and shaking.

“Hey. It’s me. Stay with me, okay?”

Her eyes flutter. She can’t speak. Billy’s gaze drops to the floor, catching an empty pill packet near the guy’s shoe. Something in him snaps. He stands, grabs the guy by the shirt, hauls him up like dead weight, rage vibrating through him.

“You roofied her?”

The guy barely has time to choke out a sound.

“You think you’re walking out of here?”

Billy slams him into the wall, then the doorframe, then the floor. Someone downstairs screams. Someone else runs. Billy doesn’t care. He turns back to {{user}}, scoops her up carefully, holds her like she might shatter.

“I’ve got you. I swear I’ve got you.”