Terror floods through me, sharp and clarifying for one bright second, then the fog rolls in, thick and oppressive.
“Whoa.” I try to set the bottle down but my hand misses the table. It hits the floor with a dull thunk. “Something’s—wrong?—”
The lights seem too bright, their warm golds bleeding into each other, smearing across my vision. The music stretches—beats landing a fraction late. The pink bass line drains toward the edges, leaving a weird, washed-out center.
The floor tilts.
“You good?” Reed asks, voice farther away than it should be.
“No.” I try to shake my head but the motion is too loose,too slow. My neck muscles aren’t connected right. “Not—staying here?—”
“Hey. You look like you need air.” He steps closer, expression soft with fake concern. “Come on. Just outside for a sec.”
I try to step back. My right foot stutters, ankle wobbling. I grab the wall with both hands to keep from tipping. This can’t be happening. This doesn’t happen to me. I’m careful. I watch my drinks. I?—
“Easy,” Reed says, and his hand lands on my elbow. Too firm. “See? You need to sit down.”
Every kata, every sparring drill, every instinct screamsno. My body tries to respond—weight dropping, stance widening, elbow coming up to strike. But the signals misfire. My muscles turn to water. The trained movement collapses halfway through.
Move. Fight. Do something.
Nothing works.
“No,” I manage, but it comes out slurred. “I’m waiting—Aubrey?—”
“She’ll find you,” he says smoothly. “It’s loud. You’re gonna pass out. Just fresh air.”
He slides an arm around my waist.
This is how it happens, some distant part of my brain whispers.This is how girls disappear at parties. Everyone thinking they’re fine, just drunk, being helped by a friend.
I dig my heels in. They don’t respond. My knees buckle. I have to grab his sleeve to keep from falling.
“See?” His voice goes faux-soothing. “Definitely need to sit.”
He steers me toward the stairs.
“No—” Panic punches through the cotton in my head. “Don’t—upstairs—no?—”
“It’s quieter,” he says. “You’re about to face-plant. Do you want everyone to see?”
I twist, trying to catch someone’s eye—anyone’s. But faces blur past, none of them focusing on me. To them, I probably just look drunk.
I’m not drunk. And he’s not helping.
Someone see me. Please.
My phone. I fumble for my pocket.Text Kieran. Get help.
My hand feels like it belongs to someone else, fingers thick and clumsy. I drag the phone out. The screen lights up, searing white.
KIERAN
On my way back. Where are you? I lost you in the crowd.
Here. Help. Something’s wrong.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. The letters blur and multiply, sliding away. I aim for the H, hit J. Try to backspace—nothing registers.
