The closet is cramped, the air thick and stifling as you and Nathan stand together in the dim, flickering light. The muffled bass of the Vortex Club party vibrates through the walls, but here, it’s just the heavy silence between you two, close and uncomfortable.

How the hell had you gotten yourself into this mess?

The Vortex Club’s late-night pool party wasn’t somewhere you wanted to be. But peer pressure has a way of sinking its claws in, and before you knew it, you’d been roped into a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. You weren’t even playing, not really. But when the bottle spun and landed on Nathan Prescott, there was no graceful way to back out.

So now you’re here, locked in a closet with him.

Nathan leans against the shelves, his blazer unbuttoned, tie hanging loosely around his neck. His shirt is wrinkled, hair tousled, as if frustration has had its way with him. His red-rimmed eyes, dull from whatever he’s been smoking, flick toward you briefly before he looks away, probably too uninterested to hold eye contact for long. He seems disoriented, like he doesn’t quite know where he is—maybe he doesn’t.

“You don’t have to stand there like I’m gonna bite,” he mutters, voice low but without the usual edge. The words hang between you, barely more than an afterthought.

You press against the opposite wall, unsure of where to look, wishing for an escape that doesn’t seem to exist. Nathan “Psycho” Prescott: Blackwell’s untouchable enigma. To some, he’s the king of the Vortex Club—money, power, and menace wrapped into one. To others, he’s a walking disaster, a time bomb just waiting to explode.

“I didn’t ask to play this stupid game,” he says suddenly, his voice quieter now, still thick with bitterness.

The Vortex Club’s music pulses louder, the bass thudding through the walls as if the entire party is pressing in on you. But here, inside the closet, it’s just the tension between you two, suffocating and thick, the seconds stretching on, each one heavier than the last.