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The second we step inside, heat slams into me.

Good god.

Smoke machines churn through flashing neon while lasers slash across the warehouse in violent streaks of pink, blue, and toxic green. The crowd is packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath exposed steel beams, bodies grinding and jumping and screaming while the DJ absolutely assaults the sound system hard enough to qualify as attempted murder.

The entire building shakes with bass.

Sweat. Bodies.

Spilled alcohol sticky beneath my boots.

It smells exactly like every terrible decision I’ve ever made.

Considering the last few days of hell I’ve been forced to ensure, it’s very emotionally healing honestly.

The warehouse itself is massive too.

Concrete floors vibrating beneath hundreds of people dancing like they’re trying to outrun their own nervous systems. Shipping crates turned into bars. Graffiti covering the walls. Chains wrapped in neon hanging from rafters overhead.

It feels familiar enough to make something ugly twist in my chest.

Not the same.

But close enough to Severance Point’s old rave scene that my lungs almost forget how to breathe for a second.

Mina notices me staring out over the crowd and bumps her shoulder into mine.

“You okay?”

I exhale slowly while lights flash across the room.

“Unfortunately I think this might be fixing me.”

“That’s the untreated mental illness talking.”

“Probably.”

Honestly though?

The freedom hits hardest first. There's no Dagger hovering every five seconds like an emotionally unstable bodyguard. And no Noir staring at me like he’s one inconvenience away from murdering somebody.

No apartment walls or rules.

Just noise loud enough to drown my thoughts out completely.

Mina grabs both my hands dramatically. “Okay. First things first.”

“Yes, babysitter,” I say, smoothing both hands down the front of my outfit. “Please enlighten me. What’s the grand master plan?”

Mina looks at me like she’s deeply proud of her own criminal influence.

Which she most definitely should be, because the outfit is horrifyingly perfect.

Tiny black leather skirt with silver chains swinging against my thighs every time I move. Black mesh sleeves stretched over my arms. A cropped black top with a sharp little zipper detail and flashes of neon pink peeking through underneath, like I’m either going to a rave or auditioning to ruin someone’s life professionally.

Very versatile. Very, I am that bitch.

My split pink and purple hair is pulled up high and messy, with two long braided pieces hanging down the front of my face. It gives the whole look this bratty, don’t-touch-me-but-also-maybe-do energy.