Chapter 6: One Shot Too Many

The lights pulse like warning signs, and my heart races to match them. Bass vibrates through the floor, shaking the drinks on the counter. It’s too loud, too hot, too bright.

Zoey’s laughing beside me — half-drunk, half-dancing, and already halfway to trouble.

Me? I’m gripping a cup I don’t even want, pretending I belong here. The burn of the liquor sears my throat like punishment, but I take another sip anyway. Maybe that’s what tonight is — punishment disguised as fun.

“Here,” Zoey slurs, bumping her shoulder into mine hard enough to spill a few drops onto my hand. “You should have a refill.”

Her grin is wild and free — the kind that dares the world to tell her no.

I glance down at my half-empty cup, feel it tremble in my hand, and turn to her fully, plotting my escape. Maybe the bathroom sink. Maybe a waiter. Maybe anywhere that isn’t this chaos.

“I’ll pass,” I say, shaking my head. Then, trying to distract her, “Go talk to him.”

She follows my gaze lazily. “The one with the old-money jawline? Or the trust-fund-and-trauma combo?”

“Same guy.”

He’s leaning against the bar — dark suit, faint smirk, eyes that cut through the strobe lights like they have a purpose. The kind of man who makes you want to look away but can’t.

Zoey downs the rest of her drink, wipes her lips, and grins. “Oh, shit—hold me.”

Before I can react, she sways into me, nearly knocking the cup from my hand.

“Let’s go,” I mutter, steadying her.

“Ab-so—hell no,” she slurs. “Chair. Water. Now.”

I sigh. “Fine.”

I guide her to a booth at the corner, trying to ignore the way the room seems to tilt and pulse around us. Setting her down, I rush back to the counter. “A glass of water, please.”

The bartender looks bored, busy polishing a glass. I tap my finger anxiously against the counter. The thought of leaving Zoey alone, drunk and vulnerable, in a place like this makes my stomach twist.

Then — a voice behind me. Calm, low, controlled.

“I know.”

I freeze. That’s not the bartender.

Turning, I see him — the man in the suit. Close now. Too close. His cologne wraps around me, dark and clean. His jaw is as sharp as I thought it was. His eyes… sharper.

He looks at the bartender. “Make it two.”

Then, to me, “Your friend’s slipping off the couch.”

My lips part, useless. “Oh—I can cover that. I didn’t mean to—my friend, she’s—”

But he’s already walking away, no urgency, no expression. Like he’s seen this scene before.

For a moment, I just stand there — heartbeat pounding in my throat. His words replay in my head: “She’s slipping off the couch.”

I grab the water and rush back to Zoey, guilt clawing up my chest.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter, forcing the glass to her lips. “I got distracted.”

She swallows reluctantly, then chuckles weakly. “Relax. He’s fine. Even I saw from over here.”

I look around sharply. “Who?”

“The man you were talking to,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

My stomach tightens. “Let’s just leave, Zo.”

“No,” she groans, sinking deeper into the seat. “Talk to him. I’m fine. I can handle alcohol.”

Lie. She’s swaying as she speaks.

She squints past me, smiling faintly. “Oh, here he comes.”

I whirl around, heart racing — but it’s only the waiter, setting another glass on the counter near us.

“From the admirer across the room,” he says, gesturing vaguely before disappearing back into the crowd.

I stare at the drink. Then at the table, he pointed. Empty.

Confusion knots in my chest. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But curiosity wins.

Maybe I should stop being so wound up. Zoey brought me here to live a little.

Free Hailey, she said.

I take the shot. The liquid burns, sweet then bitter. A slow warmth crawls down my throat.

When I look up again, he’s there — watching me from across the floor. Eyes locked. A faint smile that doesn’t reach them.

My stomach dips. I stand.

“You’re leaving?” Zoey asks, her voice half-asleep behind me.

I force a smile. “No. Just—going to talk to him.”

She smirks, lifting her glass. “That’s suspicious.”

“I know.”

“Fine. Go. You need this. Live a little.”

She waves me off, and I turn toward him. Each step feels heavier, the lights sharper, the music louder. I catch the faint scent of smoke, sweat, and something chemical.

Then my head starts to throb.

My vision blurs. The bass distorts, twisting in my ears like underwater thunder. I blink hard, but the room swims.

Someone brushes past me — same cologne, twice now. My chest tightens.

No. I’m just drunk. I must be.

Less alcohol from now on, I tell myself. You can’t handle much.

I push through the crowd, trying to find the man again — the suit, the green-tinted eyes — but he’s gone.

Instead, everything tilts. The floor lurches sideways. Faces melt into colors and shadows.

“What the—” I reach out, but the wall misses me. My arm feels weightless. Detached. My legs no longer belong to me.

Something’s wrong.

The music fades into a single low hum. The crowd becomes a blur.

My breathing quickens. “Zoey?” My voice sounds far away, muffled like I’m underwater.

I blink, and he’s there.

Closer. Watching.

His outline was sharp against the strobe lights. His hand — steady, sure — reaches for me.

“That’s not him,” I whisper. Or think I do.

But his fingers close around my arm. Firm. Cold.

My body gives out. The floor rushes up to meet me.

The lights smear into streaks of colour.

The last thing I see is his shadow leaning over me — calm, unhurried — before the world folds in on itself.

Then—nothing.