She cracks, folding in half and emitting a deep, belly laugh that is instantly contagious. We laugh so hard that mascara-tinted tears start tracking down my face, and the other patrons turn, shooting us irritated glances.
We might have been kicked out for misbehavior if Sophia’s phone hadn’t started ringing, causing her to settle down and respond to her sister’s call. She shoots her finger up in my direction, signaling that she’ll be right back.
I take another sip of my sweet drink, a wide smile still lingering on my lips.
I hope it will still be like this between us next year, after we graduate and move on to the next phases of our lives. I know everyone says that they eventually outgrow the friends that belong to specific parts of their life: childhood, high school, college. Honestly, I’ve never really had the luxury to get this close to my friends before.
With the way that I grew up, it was never an option for me to let anyone else fully into my heart. I could never let anyone come over to my house without revealing the state of fear my mom and I existed in. Sophia came into my life like a blonde bulldozer, shovelling out enough rubble to make herself a warm, cozy spot in my heart. There’s no way a silly thing like growing up can hold a flame to that kind of claim.
The thought has me grinning against my glass.
But then a whine drags through the air. The alarm of a siren far away. My smile falters. The sound pulls me into a carefully boxed-up memory in the catacombs of my head, and suddenly I can almost smell the metallic sting of blood mixing on pavement. I can hear that gut-wrenching squelch from when I pulled my hands from his wound and left him on that street.
My fingers rub together, dry and cold. Not wet and warm. Not red and dripping.
“Hey, so we should probably…you okay, Cass?”
I look up.
Long, blonde hair. Concerned, but loving eyes. It pulls me back to the present.
“Yes! Sorry. Is it time to head over to the club?”
My best friend eyes me with suspicion, but thankfully doesn’t push me on it. I haven’t told her about that night. I haven’t told anyone. For one, I don’t want to make her a target for something dangerous, something even I don’t understand. But the longer I hid it, the less real the whole night felt. I watched for news reports, paper articles, anything to report the crime. I found nothing.
No proof. No arrests.
According to all accessible documentation, 5thAvenue was dead-silent on November 23rd.
Who was I to interject and say otherwise?
Cassandra
The line curves around the building, a blur of sharp angles and expensive accessories. Sophia bounces on her toes beside me, her excitement infectious despite my attempts to stay cool about the whole thing.
“I can’t believe we actually got passes,” she whispers, clutching the silver chains like they might evaporate. “Do you know how impossible these are to get?”
I do know. That’s exactly why the nervous energy crackling through the crowd feels electric against my skin. Everyone here wants something—to be seen, to disappear, to find someone worth forgetting about tomorrow. The mix of anticipation and designer perfume creates a heady cocktail that makes my pulse quicken.
The queue moves with surprising efficiency for such a packed event. Within ten minutes, we’re standing before the unassuming brick facade that could house anything from a dry cleaner to a Fortune 500 company. Only the small army of security guards gives away that something significant happens behind these walls.
“IDs and passes, ladies.”
The guard’s voice rumbles like distant thunder. I fish out my license while Sophia produces our chains, holding them up like golden tickets. The guy scrutinizes everything with the intensity of a border patrol agent, his tablet glowing as he verifies our information.
My fingers drum against my thigh. For a club, they certainly take their guest list seriously.
“Wrist out.”
I extend my arm, expecting the usual ink stamp. Instead, he fastens a silver bracelet around my wrist, the metal cool against my skin. A small charm dangles from it—intricate grooves forming what looks like a barcode.
“Every night gets a different code,” he explains in a bored monotone. “Bracelet’s useless after tonight.”
I examine the detailed metalwork. Either this place prints money, or they’re serious about security. Probably both.
I’m about to step toward the entrance when fingers wrap around my wrist like a vise. My head snaps toward the second guard, whose eyes have locked onto the sliver of skin where my tattoo peeks out from beneath my sleeve.
Time stretches. His grip tightens, and something cold slides down my spine that has nothing to do with the evening air. The way he’s staring—it’s like he’s seeing something that shouldn’t be there.
