I text him the address, and ten minutes later, the familiar roar of his black Camaro pulls up. I crush out my cigarette and head toward the car. Besides drugs, cars are our common ground. I helped him restore this piece of shit he bought, and somehow, we managed to turn it into something I'm actually proud to be seen in.

"Who the fuck lives here? Bill Gates?" Jay peers at the mansion, whistling low.

"Let's go."

"Where to?"

"You know where. I need to unwind."

His eyes catch on my poorly bandaged hand, swollen and likely broken, though whatever I took earlier is numbing the pain. "What happened to your hand?"

"Nothing. Just drive."

"Are you sure you don't wan⁠⁠—"

"Drive, Jay."

I close my eyes and lean back, letting the seat cradle my throbbing head. Jay mutters something under his breath, but I'm too exhausted to care. I want to get as far from this party and these people as possible. There's only one place that lets me escape.

A couple winters back when everything at home went to hell—Mom and Scott's screaming matches that could wake the dead—I needed out. My late-night wanderings led me to South End, where I met Jay and others seeking the same escape. These people weren't friends but acquaintances who never probed too deep. That's how I found myself at the Quarters, a sort of halfway house for the lost.

The dim room greets us with its familiar mix of ragged couches and a coffee table scattered with baggies—white powder, pills, my old friends.

But tonight, something new catches my eye: capsules and vibrant blotter paper.

"It's like LSD," Jay says casually, watching my reaction.

The urge to grab it, to feel the tab dissolve on my tongue or snort the contents straight into my bloodstream is almost unbearable. Instead, I reach for an oxy. As it hits my tongue, my muscles start to unwind. I shut my eyes, picturing the pill's journey, imagining it dissolving into nothing, seeping into my veins, slowing the relentless pace of everything.

The bass pulses through me, owning my heartbeat, dragging lights into long, haunting streaks across my vision. The music cages me, wrapping around my bones like barbed wire.

"You're gonna be so fucked up," a girl laughs, her voice grating against my ears.

"Isn't that the point?" I snap back. "To fade into oblivion?" The words come out sharper than intended, but she just smirks—that calculating kind of smile I've seen too many times before.

"You're Nate Sullivan, right?" she asks, like she hasn't already figured me out.

I despise small talk; silence is rare currency here. "Depends who's asking."

Her smile sharpens, predatory—the universal look of someone who thinks they're about to get fucked. After everything that happened tonight with Nora, all I want is to be left alone.