Page 10 of Overdose

He looks up.

Meets my stare and fucking smiles.

Not friendly. Not even smug. Just that slow, teeth-baring grin that says,I saw her first.

Then he looks back at her. Lets his gaze trail down her body like he’s already marked her, already memorized every fucking curve. When he gets to her ass, he lingers. Enjoys it.

Then—

He smirks, just walks the fuck out.

Because that’s what he does. Lights the fucking match and strolls away like he’s not the one who poured the gas.

I take the headphones off. Set them on the table like I’m not seconds from slamming my fist through the glass.

Because if he touches her—if he lays a fucking finger on her—I’ll rip his throat out with my teeth.

She’s the first variable I can’t control, and I hate it.

Hate how I notice the way her hair sticks to the back of her neck. Hate how I memorized the shape of her mouth from three stories up. Hate that she doesn’t even know she’s pulling me apart from the inside out.

I light a cigarette with trembling fingers. Smoke curls between my lips, sharp and bitter.

She probably won’t remember this night the way I will.

She’ll brush it off like a high. Another faceless night, another chemical blur she won’t bother piecing together.

But me? I’ll remember every fucking second—burned into my skull like a bad trip I can’t come down from.

She’ll slip away easy. But I won’t, and I don’t even know her name.

What I do know?

I’m not letting him touch her.

Not again. Not ever.

Three

Blair

The rave turns to static.

A living, breathing pulse of neon chaos.

Lights strobe in broken flashes—acid green, UV purple, blistering red. Glowsticks swing like fireflies in a warzone, casting trails across smeared bodies. The air is syrupy with heat, thick with the bite of sweat, smoke, and artificial fog. Every breath tastes like chemicals and bass.

Sweat glues my clothes to my skin. Glitter clings to every inch of exposed flesh. The floor throbs beneath my boots, each bass drop vibrating up my spine like a defibrillator.

I don’t remember leaving the dance floor, but somehow I’ve migrated.

My legs move like they’ve got their own agenda, stumbling forward through a kaleidoscope of flashing color and skin. People push against me—half-naked, painted, pulsing with the same reckless energy.

A girl stumbles past in a plastic corset and LED wings, eyes rolling back in her skull. A guy with smeared eyeliner kisses someone mid-spin, both of them glowing like radioactive saints.

Everything is motion. Everything is blur.

I catch glimpses—white teeth, wet mouths, flashing eyes. The world bends at the edges.