The warehouse space is half-empty, half-full—bodies scattered in loose clusters, some nursing drinks from plastic cups, others swaying loose-limbed to the music that isn't quite the main event yet. The air smells like sweat, cheap liquor, and someone's too-strong perfume.

On the makeshift stage at the far end, a few dancers are warming up. Stretching. Rolling shoulders. Shaking out legs.

And there she is.

A man approaches her, says something you can't hear. She shakes her head once. He lingers. She doesn't smile.

Her gaze drifts—and lands on you.