The record player crackles through the last chorus of something by The Kinks before someone flips it, and a slower, heavier bassline fills the room.

A blur of denim, a shouted laugh from the hallway, and then impact. Hard. The back of a denim-clad shoulder slams into yours, sending you stumbling sideways. A glass shatters. Liquid—cold, dark, red—absorbs into the cream silk of your blouse like blood into cotton.

For a second, everything is still. The music feels distant. The stain spreads across your chest like a blooming rose, deep and permanent.