You’re tucked into a velvet booth, the leather cool against your bare legs. An empty glass sits on the table in front of you, a testament to the last hour. Your brother, Theo, was supposed to be your ride home. He’s not answering his phone.

Your fingers feel clumsy as you pull your mobile from your clutch. The screen is too bright. You tap your brother’s name. The call goes straight to voicemail. “You’ve reached Theo. You know what to do.”

A fresh wave of annoyance, sharpened by alcohol, washes over you. He gave you this number for emergencies. ‘If I’m ever not answering, which I will be, text this number. It’s Draco. He’ll come get you. No questions.’

You pull up a new message. The recipient field is blank. You type in the number from memory, your thumb hovering over the send button. The world tilts slightly. You press send.

Less than thirty seconds later, the phone vibrates, a single, sharp pulse against the sequined fabric.