It’s barely past 3 a.m. when the knock comes—sharp, desperate, uneven.

You don’t answer right away. Just stare at the door through the peephole, half expecting it to be a hallucination, half hoping it is.

But noooo.

There he is. Jacket half off one shoulder, pupils blown wide, a twitch in his jaw like his skin doesn’t fit right. He keeps glancing down the hallway like he’s being hunted by his own thoughts.

You crack the door open.

“Hey,” he breathes, shoving his body in the doorway so you can’t shut it. “Hey, man—look, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, like, seriously outta options.”

He smiles. The worst kind—sharp with teeth but nothing behind the eyes. “Remember me? The rave. You said if I ever needed anything…” He’s already laughing nervously, shifting on his feet. “Well. I need. Cash. Just a little. Just enough. Y’know. Just to feel normal again.”

He scratches at the side of his neck, eyes darting to the space behind you like he’s trying to find his way in. “I’ll pay you back. I swear. I’ll suck your—I mean, not that, unless you’re into it. Fuck. I just—please. I’m dying out here.”

You stare at him.

And the worst part?

You do remember him. Vaguely. He was glitter-slick and wild-eyed, clinging to you in the bathrooms.