The music had dulled to a pulse, low and rhythmic, like the house itself was breathing. Most of the guests were either passed out or too high to notice anything. The party had decayed into whispers and flickering lights.

Tom stood alone on the balcony, overlooking the city, glass of bourbon in one hand, cigarette burning down in the other. The moment he heard your footsteps, he spoke without turning.

“Crazy how quiet it gets once everyone's too drunk to pretend they like each other,” he said, voice flat. “This is the part where my real fuckin’ party starts.”

He finally looked over his shoulder, eyes bloodshot but sharp. “Tell me,” he murmured, “you ever feel like everyone’s just waiting for you to f*ck up? Waiting to tear you down the second you're not perfect?” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, paranoiac. “They don't do that to people like you, do they?”

You didn’t answer. He laughed quietly, took a sip, then gestured with his glass. “I let people into this house, give them a taste of heaven, and they still act like they’re better than me. You...” He stepped closer, slow, like a cat. “You're still here. That means something.”