You lean toward the mirror, tilting your chin, dragging the black pencil along the edge of your lips. The colour is deep, matte, perfect. You press them together, then pull back to admire the full picture: dark lashes, shadowed eyes, skin made ghostly under cheap white powder.

Your armour.

Outside, a car honks—twice, impatient. You don’t flinch.

I stand in the doorway, watching.

Your mother is asleep. Or pretending to be. You don’t say goodbye. You grab your bag, swipe the last twenty from the counter, and step outside, the door clicking shut behind you.

The car idles at the curb. The boy inside doesn’t come out to meet you. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t wave. He just waits.

I hate him immediately.

You slide in. The passenger seat reeks of stale cigarettes and something sharp, chemical. The dashboard glows red.

“Nice,” he says, eyeing your makeup. His mouth curves, but he doesn’t look at you when he says it. His foot is already pressing the gas.

The wheels screech slightly as he pulls off, fast. Faster than he needs to.

I don’t like this.

You don’t care.

Wind rushes through the open window, tearing through your hair. You lean your head back against the seat, staring at the city lights smearing past in neon blurs. The music is loud, the bass rattling something deep in your ribs.

“You ever been to the underpass before?” he asks.

You shake your head.

He grins. It isn’t reassuring.

I tighten.

He pushes the car harder. Seventy. Eighty. The city falls away, replaced by an industrial wasteland—dark roads, forgotten buildings, places where no one would hear you scream.

Something inside you whispers that you should be afraid.

But you aren’t.

I am.

The entrance is hidden beneath an old overpass, a narrow alley tucked between two abandoned lots. The car jerks to a stop in a cloud of dust and gravel.

Music pulses from underground, something electronic and dizzying. You feel it before you hear it, a vibration in the soles of your boots.

You step out.

He walks ahead without waiting.

You follow.

The ground slopes down, dirt and concrete shifting to damp stairs, neon graffiti glowing under blacklight. The air thickens, humid with sweat, perfume, something acrid.

Bodies move. Flashing lights slice through the dark. He hands you a drink and you tip it back.

The music swallows you whole. The bass pulses through the floor, vibrating up your legs, rattling in your chest. Bodies sway, crush together, separate, dissolve. Strobes turn the world into flashes of still images—open mouths, wild eyes, sweat-drenched hair.

A girl appears beside you, grinning.

Your stomach flips – dark hair, sharp cheekbones.

She looks just like Kat. But you know it isn’t her.

She leans in, shouting over the music, “You look lost.”

You don’t answer.

She presses another drink into your hand. A knowing smirk. “Here.”

You don’t think. You take it.

I try to whisper, don’t, don’t, don’t, but the words sink into the pounding music and disappear.

You sip. Then gulp. Too fast. Too much. Then all at once.

Suddenly, the ground tilts. The lights smear into ribbons. The heat thickens, suffocating.

Something is wrong.

Your fingers twitch. Your knees buckle.

I feel it too.

You stumble, pushing through the crowd, clawing toward the exit. The night air hits your face, a slap of cold. Your hands grip a rusted railing, the edges of the world bleeding into black.

Your body revolts. You pitch forward into the bushes, fingers digging into dirt, forcing yourself to purge.

I press close. If I could steady you, I would. If I could lift you, I would. But all I can do is stay.

Footsteps crunch behind you. A shadow looms.

He found you.

“You good?” he asks. Not concerned. Just annoyed.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, nodding weakly. Your limbs feel disconnected. Numb.

“C’mon,” he says, hoisting you up roughly. You don’t resist. You don’t have the strength.

The car ride home is silent. The city blurs past again, but this time, the lights are wrong. Blurred. Pulsing in strange colors. The world is too bright, too slow, too sharp.

He pulls up outside your house. The engine idles. He doesn’t unlock the door.

“So,” he says, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “I mean. Good thing I got you home safe, right?”

Your head is still swimming. You try to focus.

His fingers tap again. His tone shifts. “A thank you would be nice.”

I want to break something.

Your mind lags, but your body knows. It reacts before you do, hands fumbling for the door handle. “I—no,” you mumble. “No, no thank you.”

He sighs, long and dramatic. “Okay, okay. Chill.” But his eyes roll, and his mouth curls in something like disgust. The lock pops.

You push the door open, stumbling out. Your knee smashes against the pavement, skin splitting on rough concrete. A sharp sting.

The car speeds off before you’ve even fully stood.

You watch the taillights disappear.

Then you limp up the steps, collapsing onto the stoop.

The night is too quiet. Too still.

And you cant help but hear the final memory of Kat playing over and over in your mind:

“Don’t make any bad decisions without me.”

And how you don’t think you’ve made a single good one since she left.