The nightclub was hidden in the basement of an old building in Camden, as if it had been forgotten there sometime in the 1970s and simply kept running out of habit. The staircase leading down to the dance floor was narrow and sticky, and the air inside was thick with cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and the metallic smell of beer glasses. It was one of those damp London nights in 1994, when the cold seemed to slip through clothing and settle into your skin. Isabella Iero stood leaning near the darkened brick wall, watching people dance under the slow, pulsing red lights. She wore a fitted black top with a square neckline and three-quarter sleeves, dark-wash jeans slightly faded at the knees, and simple black boots. A black necklace with a silver heart pendant rested at the center of her chest, moving gently with her breathing. On her shoulder hung a soft brown leather bag, already showing small signs of wear. It was a simple outfit, but on her it looked deliberate — as if she wanted to appear effortless, even though she had thought about it longer than she would admit. Beside her, Jessica Albarn was talking too loudly and laughing at things that probably weren’t that funny. Her face was flushed from alcohol, and her words were beginning to blur together. “My brother said he’s already on his way.” Jessica said, leaning her weight briefly against Isabella. Isabella felt her stomach tighten. Damon. His name always carried an old feeling with it, like opening a box stored at the back of a closet. Outside, the city was quiet, lit by yellow streetlights reflecting on wet pavement. The noise of the club disappeared as soon as the door closed behind them, replaced by the distant sound of passing cars and the cold wind. Damon’s dark-blue Ford Escort was parked near the curb, the engine running, releasing small clouds of vapor into the cold air. Damon Albarn rested his head lightly against the seat, staring absently through the windshield. He had clearly left home in a hurry. He was wearing a white polo shirt that was too big for his thin frame, dark, worn-out wash jeans, and well-worn Nike sneakers, seemingly without socks. His hair was messy in a way that didn’t look intentional — like he had run a hand through it before leaving. He looked comfortable. Domestic. Familiar. And that affected Isabella more than it should have. When they approached, he glanced through the open window. “You took a while.” He said, his voice rough from being quiet for too long. Jessica opened the back door without answering and practically collapsed into the seat. Isabella slid into the passenger seat carefully, closing the door softly. The inside of the car smelled the same as always — old fabric warmed by the engine, cigarette smoke embedded in the upholstery, and mint gum. It was the smell of her adolescence. The drive to the Albarn house was short. Jessica mumbled disconnected sentences from the back seat, and Damon answered automatically, like a brother used to this routine. When they arrived, he helped Jessica out of the car and guided her inside. Isabella followed quietly, closing the front door with care so it wouldn’t slam. The house was dark except for the dim kitchen light left on for them. The wooden floor creaked softly as Damon led Jessica upstairs, one slow step at a time. Isabella waited at the bottom of the staircase, listening to the low murmur of his voice and the sound of Jessica dropping heavily onto her bed. A few moments later, Damon returned. They stood facing each other in the hallway, both suddenly unsure what to do next. “Do you need to call someone?” He whispered. She shook her head. “I can’t go home this late anyway.” She replied just as quietly. He nodded once, then gestured toward the staircase again. “Come on.” They climbed carefully, avoiding the steps that always made noise. At the end of the narrow hallway, Damon pushed open his bedroom door slowly, wincing at the faint creak.