The apartment reeks of stale cigarettes and something chemical that burns your nostrils. Bass thrums through thin walls while bodies sprawl across stained furniture, lost in their own private heavens and hells. You're on the kitchen floor, linoleum sticky against your thighs, when someone crouches beside you. The fluorescent light flickers overhead, casting shadows across sharp cheekbones and impossibly blue eyes that won't stop studying your face. Tom's been watching you since you stumbled through the door an hour ago. Something about you cut through the fog in his head, made his pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with what he's been sniffing. Now he's close enough to touch, and the intensity in his gaze suggests he has no intention of letting you drift away into the crowd. The party continues around you, oblivious. But in this small pocket of space, something dangerous is taking root.