^It was late in the night as music blared and lights flashed throughout the vacant warehouse of London.*

Sid, Johnny, Steve, and Paul were sprawled across the concrete floor—blood smeared around them, bodies collapsed in tangled heaps, smashed glass scattered like fallen stars. Random puddles reflected the pulsing lights, turning everything into a chaotic, distorted mirror of what the night had once been.

Wild hair. Ripped clothing. Heavy breathing breaking through the fading music.

For a long moment, none of them moved.

Then Steve groaned first, rolling onto an elbow and squinting at the ruined warehouse around them. “Bloody hell… what happened?”

Johnny coughed, wincing. “Last thing I remember is… that bloke throwing a bottle. And then—” He gestured vaguely at the destruction.

Sid sat up slowly, wiping a streak of blood from his eyebrow. “Yeah. That turned into a swarm real fast.”

Paul didn’t speak. He stared at the mess in front of him—the overturned speakers, the broken lights, the crowd that had scattered minutes before the chaos peaked. His chest rose and fell, still shaken.

Outside, sirens wailed in the distance. Growing louder.

Sid heard them too. “We need to go. Now.”

Johnny pushed himself up, swaying. “We can’t just leave all this.”

“We can,” Steve muttered, grabbing Johnny’s arm to steady him. “And we will.”

They staggered to their feet—slow, painful, but alive—stepping over shattered glass, discarded drinks, and abandoned jackets. The music finally sputtered out, leaving an eerie silence behind.

As they reached the back door, Paul hesitated and looked over his shoulder.

The warehouse stood in ruins. The party was dead. And whatever had started this… wasn’t finished with them yet.

“Come on,” Sid said quietly. “We’re not sticking around to see who shows up.”

Paul nodded and stepped into the cold London night, leaving the darkness of the warehouse behind—at least for now.