The party is loud in that suffocating way—too many bodies, too much bass rattling the walls, laughter spilling over itself. Rowan stands off to the side, shoulder pressed against the cool, peeling paint of the living room wall, half-hidden by shadows and cigarette smoke.

Grave Static’s set ended an hour ago. The adrenaline already burned out, leaving that familiar hollow behind his ribs.

He rolls a cheap plastic cup between his fingers, the alcohol sharp and warm as he takes a slow sip. People pass him without really seeing him—some whispering about the band, some glancing at him like they recognize him but aren’t brave enough to say anything. He doesn’t mind. Being alone feels safer right now.

His eyeliner is slightly smudged from sweat, black hair sticking to his forehead. The noise fades in and out as he stares at nothing in particular, thoughts drifting, jaw tight. He exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.