Time warps around me as the high kicks in. The bathroom becomes my sanctuary when the room starts spinning too fast. A girl snorting lines off the bathtub scrambles past me as I stumble in. I slam the door, gulping down air that tastes like cheap perfume and desperation.

My reflection tells the story—bloodshot eyes, pupils blown wide. Heat builds inside my skull, my chest vibrating with each thundering bass note.

Maybe both.

But fuck, it feels good.

Too good.

Scarily good.

This feeling, right here, is the slippery slope everyone warns about.

I slide down against the cold tile wall, letting the chaos fade into white noise. Time stretches and I'm not sure if minutes or hours have passed. My pulse pounds against my temples, drowning out the music. The world outside this small sanctuary carries on, unaware or uncaring of the storm brewing inside me. Exhaustion claims me there on the grimy bathroom floor, and I drift into uneasy dreams of emerald eyes.

The hangover hits like a fucking freight train today. It’s currently 5 PM and I have this fucking headache hasn’t left me alone since I woke up.

I suppose I deserve it.

Every pothole in Jay's path is agony, each jolt a hammer to my skull. I should focus on keeping my stomach contents down, but my mind's stuck on replay—on last night.

Nora looked petrified. Of me.

That image of her backing away, eyes wide and trembling is seared into my brain. I became the villain in her story, the guy she never thought I'd be. She wasn't just scared of Connor sprawled on the ground, she was terrified of me, the monster I'd become.

I wanted to tell her, to scream that it wasn't really me, that I snapped seeing how that asshole handled her. But what's the use? She saw what she saw. There's no talking my way out of that.

Seeing myself through her eyes—through the lens of fear and profound disappointment—that's a special kind of hell. One I have no idea how to escape from.

The front door's creak echoes through the silent house, sounding almost accusatory. Inside, stillness grips me—the uneasy quiet that feels like walking into a scene you weren't meant to witness. Then the smell hits me—apple pie.

Kat's apple pie.

I find her in the kitchen, back turned, rolling out dough with practiced precision. The sight of her, so content and focused, nearly drives me to retreat but my feet won't move. She turns, probably sensing my presence, and her face lights up with that old, comforting smile.

"Nate, you're back." But as her eyes truly meet mine, her smile fades to concern when she sees I’m wearing the same clothes from last night. Only now, my t-shirt is painted red in places.

"Yeah," I mumble, hands diving into my pockets. "Where is everyone?"