By the time the party really starts, it’s already out of control. It began like any other—just a handful of people showing up early, music playing low, lights on, drinks being passed around like it was nothing serious. The host was still pretending they had control, greeting people at the door, telling them to keep it chill, to stay out of certain rooms, to not make a mess. No one listened. Because once the first wave hit, everything changed. More people showed up than expected. Then more. Then even more. Cars lined the street, people spilling out onto the pavement, laughter echoing through the neighbourhood like a warning sign no one paid attention to. Someone turned the music up too loud, bass shaking the walls hard enough to feel in your chest, and just like that—the party tipped over into something else entirely. Now the house is packed. The living room is a blur of bodies moving too close together, heat building, drinks sloshing out of cups onto the floor. Someone’s dancing on furniture while others cheer them on, phones out, recording everything. The kitchen is worse—crowded, loud, sticky with spilled alcohol, people arguing over nothing, shoving past each other like it’s normal. Upstairs isn’t any calmer. Doors are half-closed, half-open, people slipping in and out of rooms like secrets. Laughter mixes with hushed voices, the kind that sound fine until you listen closely and realise they’re not. Someone’s crying in a bathroom while their friends try to calm them down. Somewhere else, a group is gossiping, voices low but intense, names being thrown around like weapons. The backyard feels like a different world—but not a safer one. It’s darker, lit by dim string lights and phone flashes, people gathered in circles, passing things around, talking louder, acting bolder. Someone nearly knocks over a fence. Someone else is throwing up behind a bush while their friends laugh instead of helping.