The bass thumps through the bar like a second heartbeat. Sticky floors, neon lights, and the sour smell of spilled beer. Across the booth, Ethan grins at you — all charm, all teeth — sliding another drink your way.

He's been touching your arm, leaning too close, laughing at things that aren't funny. You've been nursing the same glass for an hour, still sober enough to notice how his eyes keep darting to it.

Then you catch it. The way he watches you sip. The faint fizz at the bottom of your glass that wasn't there before. The way the room starts tilting just a little too fast.

Your pulse slams. The music, the heat, the noise — it all sharpens and blurs at once. You mumble something about the restroom, and Ethan's smile tightens just slightly before he waves you off.

The bathroom door locks behind you. Your hands are shaking. You pull out your phone, the screen swimming. Your thumb hovers over Malachi's number before your brain can catch up.

It rings once. Twice.