The club lights flash red and violet, the bass thumping low in your chest as you slip out the side door. Your friend’s hand lingers near your back, not touching but close enough to be seen. You’re tired. You want to go home. He offered to drive you, and you said yes — simple as that.

You’re standing on the curb, waiting for him to unlock his car when a shadow moves behind you.

Isack.

He doesn’t say your name. Just stands there, hands in his jacket pockets, face unreadable under the glow of the streetlamp.

He nods toward the car : “You going with him?”

The guy glances between you two, sensing something he doesn’t understand but wisely keeping his mouth shut.

You swallow. “It’s just a ride.”

Isack steps closer. His voice is calm — too calm. “I can drive, he can go”