Someone steps on my foot.
I barely feel it.
Someone else's sweat drips into my eye.
I blink it away.
Then—a flash of movement in my peripheral. Something coming fast.
I start to turn, but too late. The beer is now affecting my reaction time, making me slower than usual, and when I notice, fire explodes across my right eye socket and ear. Sharp, sudden, blinding pain. Not a fist—an elbow, hard bone connecting with soft tissue. My vision whites out for a second, then returns, speckled with floating black dots.
I stagger backward, momentum broken. My hand goes to my face automatically. Comes away wet. Blood? Sweat? Both?
My equilibrium's shot. The room tilts and spins. The music suddenly seems distant, like I'm hearing it underwater. My right eye's already swelling shut, the socket throbbing in time with my heartbeat.Fuck.
Someone grabs my arm—hard, insistent. I half-turn, ready to shove them away, thinking it's just another mosher.
It's Felix. His face is a mask of concern and exasperation.
Oh boy, I’ve fucked up.
"Youasshole," he mouths, or maybe shouts—I can't hear him over the ringing in my ears.
He yanks me toward the edge of the pit, cutting through the crowd with the determination of someone who's navigated tighter spaces at 300 km/h.
Bodies part for us—or for him, rather. Even in a place like this, he moves with the unconscious authority of someone who's stood on podiums, who's had millions watch his every move. And he’s also a tall dude with a grumpy vibe tonight, so I guess that also helps. I let him pull me along, my eye throbbing with each step.
We break free of the pit's gravity well. The air suddenly cools, becoming less dense. Felix maneuvers me against a wall, tilting my face toward one of the few functioning lights.
"Jesus Christ," he says, loud enough that I can hear him now. "Your eye's already turning black. What did you get hit with, a sledgehammer?"
I try to grin, though it probably looks more like a grimace. "Guy had elbows like concrete. He was probably two meters tall or something."
Felix shakes his head. "You're fucking insane. You know that, right? Absolutely mental."
"Look at you," I say, blinking through the pain as I clap his shoulder. "Finally making eye contact. Had to get half my face caved in to get your attention."
His expression shifts—irritation to surprise to something like guilt.
"Don't make this about me," he snaps, but there's no heat in it. "You're the one bleeding at a shitty metal show three weeks before pre-season starts."
"It's not that bad."
"Your eye is swollen shut."
"I've had worse."
"That's not the flex you think it is." He grabs a handful of cocktail napkins from a nearby table and presses them against my eye. "Hold this. We're leaving."
"The band's still playing—"
"And you're still bleeding. You busted your eyebrow, and your eye is in no state to even watch the show. They'll play again. Your face might not recover if we don't get some ice on it."
I press the napkins to my eye, wincing at the pressure. The pain is clarifying, focusing. Cuts through all the noise in my head. Like hitting the apex perfectly after struggling through practice—that moment of crystal clarity amid the blur.
"You’re a reckless idiot." He resumes pulling me toward the exit. "Come on. Give me the keys, I'm driving."
Chapter 2
