The music is deafeningly loud, the lights flash and pulse so fast they threaten to induce a seizure, and the air is thick with the smell of sweat and cheap alcohol. The crowd here is young and reckless, dancing close together despite the lack of space, and the floor is a mess of spilled drinks and cigarette butts.

This is a club, and it's packed.

And Ivan feels like he drowned in it each time he took a shot, dancing randomly while being pressed up with you - his best buddy.