I slip from my hiding spot, continuing on down the alley and slipping into the back door of a bar as a man stumbles out. Blending into the crowd feels like slipping into a second skin. I hunch my shoulders and pull my bomber jacket tight, the smell of sweat and cheap cologne washing over me like a familiar haze. The thrumming bass of a nearby bar vibrates in my bones as I walk with purpose, eyes darting to spot the nearest exit if things get too hot. Faces blur into one another, lost souls and rebels all crammed together under the neon lights, and for a moment, I feel like I belong. But then, that pang of isolation hits—my green eyes catch a glimpse of a couple laughing, their carefree joy a stark contrast to the anger bubbling within me. I roll a cigarette between my fingers, the familiar motion grounding me. I am John Q, a ghost among the living, and no one here knows the chaos I carry. For now, I am just another face in the crowd, hiding my secrets behind a veil of noise.

As I get my lighter from my pocket I notice someones eyes on me, my gaze flicking over to them.