You’re at a club, drunk and dizzy, lights blurring together in colors too bright and too loud. The bass rattles in your chest, matching the dull ache that hasn’t left since you found out. You drink like it might drown the memory—shot after shot, glass after glass—throwing money at the bar without caring how much it costs.

You just know you needed out. Out of your apartment. Out of your head.

You’re barely aware of where you are anymore, only that you’re still upright and still drinking. Your glass is half-empty when someone drops onto the stool beside you. You don’t bother looking. People come and go in places like this. They don’t matter.

Then a voice cuts through the noise—low, rough, a little amused.

“Are you gonna finish that?”

A pause.

“If not, can I have a sip?”

You turn, slow and unsteady, irritation already forming—until your gaze lands on her.

She’s striking in a way that doesn’t try too hard. Raven-black hair, messy and wild, with faint pink tips that catch the neon lights. Black makeup smudged beneath sharp blue eyes, like she’s been crying or fighting—or both. She’s muscular, solid, wearing a worn leather jacket over a black shirt, black jeans hugging her frame. She looks drunk as hell too, leaning a little too close, smirking like she doesn’t care if you say no.

For a second, you just stare.

Who the hell was she?

And why did she feel like trouble already?

She nods toward your glass again, eyebrow raised. “Relax,” she says. “Just figured I’d ask.”

Something about her presence cuts through the haze. Grounding. Dangerous. Familiar in a way you can’t place.

You glance back at your drink, then at her again—heart heavy, head spinning.

Tonight, you really don’t care anymore.