The bouncers at the entrance look like they were assembled specifically for jobs like this—black tees stretched tight over thick arms, neck tattoos crawling up into their hairlines, faces locked into permanent boredom.
One of them sticks a hand out without even looking at me.
“ID.”
I hand it over, chin tipped up, mouth doing that almost-smile thing that usually gets me into trouble. He glances at it for half a second, then jerks his head toward the door like I’m already a lost cause.
Accurate.
Just inside, I peel off my jacket and shove it at coat check, already warm and buzzing. The air inside is thick—humid, salty, heavy with sweat and perfume. Bass punches me in the chest the second I step fully in, rattling my ribs like it’s trying to knock something loose.
The warehouse is massive. High ceilings swallowed by darkness, steel beams wrapped in lights that flash red, pink, and white like a warning sign no one’s listening to. There's bodies everywhere. Skin everywhere. Glitter smeared across shoulders and collarbones, lace and leather and mesh fighting for dominance. I clock angel wings, devil horns, a guy in a shredded heart crop top grinding on someone dressed like a blood-splattered nun. Three people are already making out against a concrete pillar like it’s a competitive sport.
“This is already the best mistake I’ve made all year,” Harper shouts in my ear.
I don’t answer. I’m already moving.
The dance floor pulls me in like it’s personal. The DJ booth sits raised in the center, blonde guy behind it with tattoos crawling up his neck and disappearing into his shirt, headphones hanging loose around his throat. He looks wrecked in the best way—messy hair, sharp jaw, eyes half-closed like he’s feeling the music instead of playing it. A girl with split pink-and-purple hair dances beside him, holographic outfit catching every flash of light, moving like she knows everyone’s watching and doesn’t care who approves.
I grin to myself and step deeper into the chaos.
Yeah.
This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The crowd presses in from all sides, heat and sweat and bass everywhere, bodies packed tight like no one plans on leaving anytime soon. I don’t even hesitate before climbing onto a speaker, boots planted wide, hips already moving because whythe hell not. Someone cheers. Someone grabs my thigh. I let them. Consent is implied tonight.
Luna appears out of nowhere beside me, eyes blown wide, grin feral.
“Okay,” she yells, leaning close so I can hear her. “I found our bad decision.”
She jerks her chin toward the edge of the floor.
That’s when I see him.
He’s posted up against the wall, not dancing, just watching—lean, dark hair, lazy smirk like he knows exactly what people are here for. A couple hovers in front of him, heads bent close, cash changing hands fast. He palms them something small and black, a holographic bag catching the lights before disappearing into a pocket.
Oh.
“Yeah,” Harper mutters as she hops up beside us, clocking it immediately. “That tracks.”
We hop down and weave over, the guy already turning toward us like he felt us coming. He opens his hand just enough to flash what’s inside—tiny red glittery skulls sealed in the bag, sparkling under the lasers like they’re proud of themselves.
“Tell me those aren’t candy,” Harper says.
“Cyanide,” he says, easy, cocky. “Valentine’s drop. Limited run.”
“That name feels aggressive,” I say. “You’re really committed to the theme.”
He laughs. “They won’t kill you. They’re a ride. Makes the music hit harder. Makes you feel brave. Real brave.”
“Definebrave,” Luna says, already leaning in a little too close.
“Dancing like no one’s watching,” he says. His eyes flick to me. “Touching people you probably shouldn’t. Thinking bad ideas are excellent ideas.”
“Hard no on texting exes,” I say.
He grins. “Doesn’t make you stupid. Just… honest.”
