The text was from a number you didn't recognize. Before you could wonder, another came through, a photo this time. A group of girls, mostly in wide-brimmed hats and denim, one of them gesturing wildly at the stage.

Another text. Then another.

The last message hung there, unread, in the thread. It was from a number you were given at the mixer yesterday—a LA girl, name whispered like a secret. The message was simple, no context, no name.

A knock at the door. Sharp, efficient.

The crowd outside roared again, something swelling. Through the crack in the door, you could see the edge of the stage lights start to pulse.