He raises both hands in mock surrender, still laughing. “Relax. I’m just saying, you don’t usually look at people like they’re…interesting.”
“That’s because they’re not.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but she is.”
The music surges, the crowd shifts, and she disappears completely this time.
Kross nudges my shoulder. “Well?” he asks as he pulls the mask back down over his face. “You gonna keep standing herepretending you’re not enjoying this, or are you actually going to chase the girl you told to run?”
I take one last look at where she vanished, already replaying her movement, her timing, the way she glanced back like she expected me there.
Then I step forward.
Kross’s voice follows me, amused and fucking satisfied. “Do me a favor and try not to fucking break her,” he calls. “I want another taste later.”
I toss him a grunt over my shoulder as Kross’s laughter fades behind me and I slip into the crowd.
She’s already moving, and like a true predator, I’m locked in.
The rave is everything I fucking hate, crammed into one sweat-soaked warehouse. Bass so loud it stops being music and turns into blunt-force trauma. Lights flashing so hard nobody looks real anymore—just skin, mouths, hands, grinding together like personal space is a myth and dignity is optional.
This is what raves are actually for. Getting fucked up enough that responsibility feels like someone else’s problem. Everyone is chasing the same shit—drugs, sex, noise, pretending it’s freedom or “vibes” when really it’s just an excuse to be reckless and call it culture. A room full of people convincing themselves the night makes them untouchable.
They think the lights protect them, and that the crowd keeps them anonymous.
Think whatever they do in here doesn’t count once the music stops.
It’s bullshit.
Places like this don’t erase consequences. They just hide them long enough for people to forget they exist, which is exactly why I fucking hate it here.
Up ahead, I catch sight of her again as she cuts through the crowd, fast and precise. Not panicked. Not sloppy. She doesn’tshove or apologize. She slides sideways between bodies, ducks under arms, times her movements to the beat like this isn’t her first time playing this game. Every few seconds the crowd ripples where she’s been, a wake of disruption that closes almost immediately.
She’s good.
I slow down on purpose, letting the distance stretch. Watching instead of reacting. People always think pursuit is about speed. It’s not. It’s about patience. About reading intent and knowing where someone’s going before they do.
She glances back once, then again, irritation flashing when she doesn’t spot me. Then she veers toward the back hallway, towards the bathrooms.
She still doesn’t see me.
That’s the fun part.
I take the longer route, cutting through the parallel corridor where the bass fades into a low, distant thud that vibrates through concrete instead of bone. The air back here is cooler, stale, reeking of old beer and piss. My grip loosens around the switchblade in my hand, thumb resting easy against the spine like muscle memory.
She reaches the bathroom door and pauses, scanning the hallway with narrowed eyes. She’s smart, careful. Good. Then she pushes inside.
I count to three.
A girl stumbles out just as I reach the door, mascara smeared, grin already forming when she clocks me. “Hey,” she slurs, hand drifting toward my chest. “You look lost. Here let me?—”
I don’t break stride.
My shoulder knocks her arm away hard enough to send her back a step. “Get the fuck out of my way,” I snap.
She recoils, then bristles. “Wow. Fuck you, asshole.”
I don’t even look at her as I step inside.
