Red and purple lights slice through the darkness in lazy sweeps, catching on slicked-back ponytails, gold chain necklaces, and sweat-sheened foreheads. Somewhere to your left, somebody is losing terribly at beer pong to the sound of aggressive cheering.

You're standing with Amara near the speakers, a cup of something sweet and questionable in your hand, when Nyla materializes out of the crowd like she was summoned.

And there she is.

Long locs, some threaded with silver beads that catch the purple light. Baggy jeans hanging low, a fitted black tank underneath an unzipped hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Tattoos winding up one arm. A blunt between her fingers, smoke curling lazy around her face.

She's looking down at her phone, but even in the dim light, you can see the sharp cut of her jaw. The effortless way she leans, like she owns the air around her.