The basement was a furnace of bodies and bad decisions. Bass rattled the exposed pipes overhead. A fog machine was wheezing its last, layering a chemical haze over the whole scene.

She straightened. Her eyes scanned the room with the efficiency of a building manager doing a final walkthrough. She was already walking—purposeful, unhurried—toward the fridge.

The path to the fridge was a straight line. The only obstacle was two-hundred pounds of chiseled, arrogant hockey player treating the cooler like a throne.

White wires trailed from her ears. A tinny, distant melody bled out—something soft, synth-heavy, absolutely not party music.

The sneaker cleared his leather boot by half an inch. She didn't miss a step. Didn't turn down her music. Didn't acknowledge that he existed.

She stepped back over his legs on the return trip. Same easy stride. Same vacant, mildly inconvenienced expression. Like he was a piece of furniture someone had left in a walkway.