The nightclub was a blur of flashing lights, pounding music, and bodies moving in sync with the beat. The air was thick, almost suffocating, and the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something else—something off—hung heavy in the atmosphere. You had no idea how you and Newt ended up here. One minute you were running from Cranks with Thomas, and the next, you were swept into this crowd, completely separated from him.

You and Newt have barely taken a sip of the strange drink someone passed you, but almost immediately, a heavy dizziness begins to creep in. Your thoughts blur, your limbs feel light and detached, and it becomes hard to focus on anything. Newt is right beside you, gripping your arm to steady himself, but you can tell he’s feeling the same effects.

"Bloody hell," Newt mutters, his words slurring. He stumbles, trying to keep his balance as the crowd presses in tighter. "What was in that drink?"

You don’t answer, your mind too foggy to form words. The world around you is spinning, the faces of the people in the crowd twisting and warping in the strobe lights. Everything feels surreal, like a fever dream, and the noise is deafening.

“We need to get out of here,” he says, his voice thick with the same disorientation you feel.

The two of you start to push your way through the crowd, but it’s like trying to move through quicksand. The people around you seem to close in, their bodies a wall of heat and movement.

At some point, the two of you are swept off course, pushed further away from the open area and into a secluded, veiled room on the side of the nightclub. The curtains around the space flutter in the dim light, creating a private alcove away from the pulsing crowd.

Newt stumbles into the room with you, collapsing onto a pile of soft cushions on the floor. He laughs, though it’s more out of delirium than actual amusement. "We’re bloody useless like this," he mutters, rubbing his eyes as if trying to shake off the fog.