The burn tore down my throat—sharp, raw, revolting. I hate vodka. Always have, unless it’s masked in some overpriced cocktail. But tonight? I didn’t care. Tonight, anything went.
The night blurred in layers of sound and light. We danced. We drank. The music swallowed us. The club was trash, but it didn’t matter. That was the beauty of it—I didn’t have to smile, didn’t have to pretend, didn’t have to be anyone but a girl with a glass in her hand and a few hours of forgetfulness ahead.
Guys came up to us—some cute, most forgettable. One tried to put his hand on my lower back while dancing, and I let it linger for a beat longer than I should have. Not because I wanted to. But because I didn’t want to care.
Because Maksym had been ignoring me. I know, I know. The whole point of coming here was to forget him, drink something questionable, and make at least one bad decision that didn’t involve him. Unfortunately my drunken brain had other plans and kept dragging me right back to him. I hated that I missed the heat in his eyes when he looked at me. Missed his sarcasm. Missed the fucked-up little games we played.
So I danced harder. Drank more. Let the bass crack through my ribs and tried to drown the ache beneath it.
That was when Valeria’s favorite scumbag appeared. The owner. He leaned into her space, murmuring something against her ear. She giggled, eyes sparkling.
“I’ve got something new,” he said, pulling out a small ziplock. Pills. “First hit’s free.”
Valeria was already reaching for it.
He handed it over like it was candy.
She turned to me, eyes wide. “Want some?”
I shook my head. “I’m good with alcohol tonight.”
Valeria was a master when it came to drugs. I, on the other hand, wasn’t. There was no way in hell I was swallowing some shady pill from men who named clubs after themselves.
With a casual shrug, she downed the pill and dragged me right back to the dance floor.
But it didn’t take long before I noticed something was wrong.
She started missing the beat. Her arms weren’t swinging so much as drooping. Her smile faded. Her steps slowed. It wasn’t like Valeria. Even high out of her mind, she could still stand. Still move. Still fake sober like it was a talent. When I leaned in and asked if she was okay, she nodded too hard, too fast, like her head wasn’t fully attached.
Her pupils were blown.
“Lera?”
She giggled. Drooped against me. Her body was hot—too hot.
Then two men appeared.
I didn’t recognize them. They hadn’t been watching us. I would’ve noticed. They just materialized. One said something to Valeria. She barely reacted. And then, without ceremony, they lifted her up like she weighed nothing.
“Hey!” I shouted, voice sharp and ragged. “What the fuck are you doing? Put her down!”
They didn’t even blink. Just kept walking.
I lunged after them, nearly tripping in my heels. My heart was a drumline in my chest, erratic, terrified. I shoved bodies aside, screamed after them.
“She’s not okay! She needs help!”
They were already halfway up a back staircase. I chased them, grabbing at the metal railing to steady myself. The music faded behind us, replaced by the creak of steps and the pounding in my head.
The staircase was narrow and poorly lit, the walls sweating with condensation and old smoke. My heels slipped on the worn steps, my pulse screaming in my ears. Every instinct I had was firing at once—this was wrong, this was dangerous—but I couldn’t stop. Valeria was limp in their arms, her head lollingagainst one man’s shoulder, her red dress riding up as they dragged her higher.
“Stop!” I screamed. “Let her go!”
They didn’t even turn around.
The door at the top of the stairs swung open into a private room that felt cut off from reality. Thick curtains. A pool table at the center. Low lights that didn’t reach the corners. The smell hit me first—alcohol, sweat, something metallic underneath.
The moment I crossed the threshold, a hand came out of nowhere.
