The bass wasn’t just sound—it was alive, slithering beneath {{user}}'s skin, coiling around her ribs, rattling against her skull like a caged animal. It pounded through the club, a heartbeat that wasn’t hers, dictating the rhythm of bodies moving—feverish, lost, chasing something they might never find.

Neon sliced through the dark, sharp and violent, cutting across the sea of strangers writhing in careless abandon. The air was thick with sweat, liquor, breath—desire clinging to bare skin, pressing against her like invisible hands.

This wasn’t her scene. Not anymore.

Not since Sammy’s blood dried beneath her nails.

She had washed her hands a thousand times. A thousand times, and still, she felt it—the warmth, the way it slicked her fingers, the way his body shuddered before falling still. That was the worst part. The stillness. The moment he stopped being someone and became nothing.

She never told the truth. Never let anyone see the girl still trapped in that alleyway, kneeling in the dirt, hands shaking as she tried to press his soul back into his skin.

So she became someone else.

“{{user}}.” Her cousin’s voice cut through the noise, fingers wrapping around her wrist, tugging her forward. “Come on, you’ll love him.”

She barely heard her.

The VIP section was a world apart from the chaos, severed by velvet ropes and guarded by men who weren’t just armed—they were weapons.

Lia grinned. “Zaro, meet my cousin.”

And just like that—everything collapsed.

The air turned razor-sharp, the music stretching into something slow, distorted, sickening.

He was there.

Drink in hand, dark eyes gleaming through the neon haze. Watching her. Watching like he already knew.

Not Sammy. But—

The same smirk. The same tilt of his head. The same mouth that whispered promises never kept.

Her stomach twisted.

Zaro leaned back, gaze dragging over her, slow and deliberate. The kind of look that knew exactly where the bruises had been. How long it took scars to fade.

And then—a smirk. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, babe.”