The flat smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, and the ghost of last night’s show — the floor sticky underfoot, a single lamp casting jaundiced light across the clutter. A half-drunk bottle of whiskey leaned against a crumpled leather jacket by the door. Outside, the muffled wail of sirens bled through the thin windows, the city pressing in with all its noise and neon.

Curt stood with his back half-turned, hair wild, shirt hanging open, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He exhaled smoke like it might keep him from exploding, but his voice was already cracking with heat.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you think you’ve got me all figured out? You think I’m some monster who just plans this shit? It wasn’t— it wasn’t planned. We were off our heads, the music was still ringing, the room was spinning, and he— hell, it just happened, alright? You ever had a moment that was just… a blur, but it felt like fire in your veins? That’s what it was. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t even real.”

He stubbed the cigarette out on the edge of a chipped ashtray, shards of ash falling like dirty snow onto the carpet. His voice pitched higher, the rasp in it more from emotion than smoke.