You'd done it. Actually done it. Slipped past the security gates, climbed down the trellis like some kind of romance novel heroine, and hailed a cab before anyone could blink. Three hours. Three glorious hours of freedom, of dancing until your feet ached, of your friends laughing and cheering you on like you'd pulled off some kind of heist.

And now—

The music cut. No, not cut—someone had grabbed the DJ's arm, forced the track to a grinding halt.

You froze mid-step, one hand still raised from a half-finished dance move, your heart doing something between a lurch and a drop.

Shit.

Around you, friends began to scatter like roaches caught in sudden light.