Where is she?

The question pounds through your skull as you push through the crush of bodies, the party a suffocating blur of flashing lights and thick, cloying smoke. The music is too loud, the air too hot, and you hate all of it. You left Rue alone for five minutes—five goddamn minutes—to run to the bathroom, and now—

Then you see her.

Your breath catches. There she is—your girlfriend—wild-haired, beautiful, the kind of beautiful that makes your chest ache. But something’s wrong. You see it in the hunch of her shoulders, the way her arms coil tight around herself like she’s trying to hold something together—something fragile, something breaking.

She’s been clean for two months. Two months of withdrawals and restless nights, of shaking hands gripping yours like a lifeline. But now, you watch in horror as she stretches out a crumpled bill to Fezco.

Her former dealer.

Your stomach drops. The moment freezes, sharp and heavy, and all you can think is—not again.