Page 42 of Overdose

Dagger thinks the message was from a rival.

Fucker’s not wrong.

Just not in the way he thinks.

I killed the supplier. I sent the fucking message and lit the fuse.

Because whenshedisappeared, I made a promise.

Dagger was going to pay.

He’s just starting to feel it.

The beat in the warehouse spikes, dragging me back to the booth. A DJ slides up next to me—neon lashes, candy-pink hair, half her tits hanging out of a mesh top. “I’m on.”

“Take it,” I mutter, already walking off.

I can’t breathe in here. Not until I find her.

Not until Iseeher again.

Not until I touch her.

The bass rattles my ribcage as I jump down from the booth, ditching the decks and dropping straight into the sea of bodies below. Hands claw at me immediately—girls with smeared makeup and glitter-drenched skin, breathless from the beat and high off everything but reality. They know who I am, and thanks to the drugs Dagger or whatever one of his slum crew guys sold them, they’re desperate to touch me. To taste me.

But I don’t stop. I don’t dance, I don’t even smile.

Not for them, I just push past them.

I’m wearing a black hoodie vest tonight—unzipped, open like a dare. Ink crawls across my chest and down both arms, catching flashes of strobe light like it's alive. Three thick silver chains hang around my neck, swaying with every step. My lip is still split from the fight with Dagger the other night—swollen and raw, blood crusted at the corner. My knuckles, bruised and scraped, pulse with every thud of the music. I didn’t bother cleaning them up.

I like the way they throb. It’s a reminder that despite everything, I am keeping my promise.

The bass drops—hard enough to rattle ribs—and chaos erupts across the warehouse like a lit fuse. Lights strobe, bodies surge, and the DJ’s scream cuts through the static.

She’s here.

I feel it before I see her, like the set was building just for her arrival.

Blair always leaves a trail. Glitter-dusted chaos, cigarette ash, lip gloss, and fucking sin.

I find it in the second-floor stairwell. A smudge of purple against the rail. Faint heel prints in grime. The emergency exit door nudged just enough to catch the breeze.

She’s outside.

The fire escape groans beneath my boots, metal flexing under weight and rage. Cold air hits my face like a slap. And then?—

There she is.

Slumped against the railing like she wants to melt into the skyline. Neon smoke rises from the crowd below, but up here it’s quiet. Removed. Like a dream someone left in the ashtray to burn out.

Her hair’s braided—pink and purple, glowing soft in the city light. That short skirt she’s wearing barely counts as coverage. Purple. Tight. No leggings. Just bare thighs and a black thong cutting up the curve of her ass. Her top’s off one shoulder, clinging to sweat-slick skin like plastic wrap.

She’s high and probably fucking drunk.

Yet still fucking beautiful.

My hand clenches around the railing as I step closer.