The bass hits like a punch to the sternum. A ripple of bodies rolls through the club like the whole place is breathing—one, slow, synchronized inhale and exhale. Strobe lights split the crowd into fragments: glitter, skin, sequins, sweat. We’ve barely made it through the door when Lex grabs my hand and drags me straight to the dancefloor.

  “I can taste the salt already,” she shouts over the music. “Let’s move, sluts!”

  I laugh, high-pitched and feral—the good kind. The kind that only comes out when I feel free. Surrounded by my best friends, body humming with anticipation, it feels like a hazy dream.

  Around us, our six-person swarm scatters into the maze: Lex in her lace and leather, Vee already making eyes at the DJ, Raquel twirling with her arms in the air like some bisexual fairy goddess. The boys—if you can even call them that—drift toward the bar. Good. I’m already thirsty.

  We dance like we mean it. Not cute-dancing. Not flirty, polished TikTok-dancing. Real dancing. Hair sticks to our faces, hands in the air, backs arched into the beat, trying not to slip on our own sweat. Someone hands me a tequila shot. I don’t ask who. I down it, make a face, laugh again. My limbs loosen. Everything gleams.

  We talk between songs—the kind of half-screamed gossip you can only do under strobe lights, hips swaying, mouths too close.

  “Okay, so are you gonna tell them or am I?” Lex shouts toward Raquel.

  Raquel rolls her eyes dramatically, her cheeks flushed from vodka or dancing or both. “Jesus, fine. I fucked both of them again.”

  Vee screams. “Both? At the same time?”

  Raquel smirks and nods. “Again.”

  I laugh. “You’re addicted. That’s so on-brand for you.”

  “She’s not addicted,” Lex cuts in, grinning. “She’s generous. Community service, babe.”

  “Bitch! They’re hot!” Raquel defends. “And we’re good at it. You should try it sometime.”

  Vee snorts. “Too much testosterone for me. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “I like the idea of railing two at once,” I say. “But it sounds like a lot of work.”

  Both Raquel and Lex turn to look at me with matching teasing expressions.

  “God forbid anyone try to flip you over,” Lex says, swinging her arms at me, then mock-choking me for dramatic effect.

  I laugh out loud, glitter in the air. “Fun for me,” I squeak, hugging her from behind before choking her in return. I can feel the looks on us. Good. Let them stare.

  “Who’s it gonna be tonight?” Raquel asks. “Someone new? Maybe someone who can finally make her submit?”

  I roll my eyes, spinning into Raquel’s waiting hand. “Maybe I’m waiting for someone worth submitting to.”

  “You’re waiting for Jesus,” Lex snorts.

  “I think even Jesus would be a bottom,” I mutter.

  They howl. “Amen, sister!”

  We dance harder. The floor throbs beneath us. A couple guys offer Molly. Someone whispers about ket. I decline. Just weed for me, thanks. I never like the idea of completely losing control.

  We merge with another group—friends of friends of friends of friends. Familiar faces blur into new ones. I recognize exactly no one, either because I’m drunk or because their faces just don’t scream loud enough to remember them by. Only Raquel’s third of a some I recognize—probably because of the gleam of his stupid poser silver chain. From what I’ve heard, both of the dudes are super macho in bed. Maybe someday I’ll pierce them on my cock. They probably wish to be pegged anyway.

  I pose for pictures. Flash, flash, pout, tongue out. Someone records me doing the “twirl-drop-mean-mug” trend and I nail it on the first try. I always do. I already see the edits in my head—slow zoom, bold text, sparkles. I’m good at pretending not to care.

  I’m always pretending something. And doing it perfectly.

  That’s why I live in a content house in Laurel Canyon with four other terminally online people who look good in daylight and even better in sponsored posts. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from using filters—but then, so do I. I go viral last year after posting a now-iconic video of role-reversal where I pretend to be a dominatrix. It’s satire. It’s performance. It’s also totally real.

  Sitting in a miraculously hunted booth, I make a few more videos, then post the best one. I’ll probably overthink it tomorrow when I’m sober, although I’m not that drunk. The charisma, the polish, the cool-kid detachment, the soft-voiced arrogance. The kind of viral that burns and hurts. Now I make money off being a little too pretty, a little too aware of it, and just self-deprecating enough to be forgiven for both.

  So yeah. I do the trends. I also brand the ego. I turn men into minions. I curate the vibe and praise my body—because sex is a power too. Pride isn’t just part of the game. It is the game. And I play it better than anyone.

  I know I deserve it. I understand the concept, the people. I know what they want to see—and I give it to them, polished down to the detail.

  I step outside with Raquel and a few others for some air and some weed. The L.A. night is warm and humming, the concrete still radiating the heat of the day. Someone passes a joint. I decline, instead slipping my fingers into my bra and pulling out a sweaty little plastic bag with my own stuff.

  Somebody laughs. Raquel makes a stupid joke about my non-existent tits and how the only reason I wear a bra is for weed storage. I pull twice—slow and easy—watching the curl of smoke drift up past the string lights. We joke. Someone takes a blurry selfie. Someone else drops a vape.

  I dissociate a little, wondering how I must look from afar—tall, lean, blonde, today giving 70s rip-off of Bob Mackie. I look cool as fuck.

  “I’m starting to get horny. Molly always makes me horny,” Raquel blurs out.

  I stick the joint in her mouth, her lipstick already gone. “Suck, little slut,” I growl in a dumb voice.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Raquel laughs—and ends up spitting out my medication. Bitch. I laugh too.

  “I’m sorry! You know I usually swallow!”

  I’m wailing so hard I almost pee.

  Eventually, Raquel does go off to hunt for her mentoys, and the rest of the group trickles back inside. I strategically stay. I might be drunk, but that doesn’t take away my ability to be aware—he’s been looking at me the whole night.

  He leans against the railing like he belongs in an aftershave commercial—sharp jawline, low voice, grin like he knows exactly how he’s being perceived. He’s such a cliché, girls would fuck a tree if it had a blue eyes - altough I am far too gone to know if they are really blue.

  “You’re Ivy, right?” he asks, like the fool doesn’t already know.

  “Depends who’s asking,” I smoke out.

  He laughs—and it’s nice. Not creepy or forced.

  “I’m Luca. I think we’ve got friends in common.”

  I give him a once-over. “So?” I ask, taking another hit. “You planning on making that my problem?”

  Luca smirks. “Only if you want me to.”

  A sudden gust of wind picks up, catching the hem of my dress, but I don’t move.

  I smile at him—slow and deliberate, smoke still in my lungs, hand resting on my thigh.

  This one will be fun to break.

  “I’m with my friends tonight, but you can give me your socials. I’ll DM you.”

  I wouldn’t be opposed to some fun already, but while the anxiety is gone, there’s a new kind of unease unraveling me—doing something not fully under my control. The weed is hitting all the spots. He gives me his Instagram, 7,000 followers. Is he trying to get his 15 minutes with me?

  Oh well, I love them sore and disappointed.

  Back in our booth, drinking ice-cold beer, the best mood, John shows me pictures of Jonathan—his latest pupil—whom he met at a café after clubbing all night in the same bar, as they later figured out. He’s crying over Jonathan’s disappointing fingering skills (should he get him a tantra massage? but he’s a top!), and while I nod along, I start to feel a strange warmth in my body—and not the good kind from the booze.

  Had I acted like a normal, rational person, I might have gone for a glass of water or some fresh air. But instead, I grab Raquel, her tongue deep in the throat of her bubbi.

  “Bitch, we need to move. These drinks are about to make us heavy and I don’t know how I feel about Ozempic,” I yell.

  “You are such a bitch! It was just getting interesting—MJ was looking at us the whole time, and I know for a fact he would’ve come and joined.”

  “Baby, the only thing MJ should join is AA, based on the way he holds himself 24/7.”

  We burst out laughing, dancing together.

  “You wouldn’t walk straight either if you got railed by a monster dick,” Raquel throws back.

  “Shut up and dance.”

  More laughing. Kisses. Sweat. Flashing lights. And we dance like we own the damn world.

  In the middle of our song - and the night was full of our songs - that’s when things actually started to feel pretty fucked. It started with the trembling: feeling heavy on my feet, cursing my heels, hot and cold poured over me. I clenched my jaw tight, the trembling in my mouth. I slowed down. I didn’t want to think a much of it, but then the nausea - shit, I have to stop. Did someone spiked me?

  No. No way. I only drink from the bottle. Except… the tequila in the beginning of the night. Who gave that to me?

  It doesn’t take long for my best friend to notice. “You don’t look good, hon,” she shouts, her eyes scanning me.

  “I think I just drank too much,” I mutter out loud, suddenly unsteady. “Who gave us the tequila?”

  “No idea. What tequila?”

  Jesus.

  “Bathroom? You need some cold water.” Raquel pointed out. I nod.

  We stumble toward the bathrooms in a mist of bodies ruled by dance. The nausea was getting worse, and my I could see black points all over, my anxiety slowly building up. The line was a horror show of sequins and desperation. Raquel didn’t flinch. She shoved past the girls and marched us into the men’s room. “My friend’s pregnant, move!” she barked. “We’re going in here.”

  The smell was… biblical.

  We looked at each other, horrified. A few dudes were pissing, not even noticing us yet. And despite the nausea, despite the shaking, it was hysterical—us, in heels and minidresses, dodging piss puddles like we were on a fashion runway through hell.

  “Babes, I’m not gonna survive this,” Raquel groans. “The smell’s killing me.”

  “Bitch, you suck dick like it’s a lollipop, but you can’t handle this?”

  “Lollipops don’t smell like an old dead homeless man who pissed himself, mixed with cheap wine from the gas station and the sun baking it for days—”

  “Go, drama queen. I’ll pee, you get me some water.”

  Raquel smirks. “I’m on the phone if anything. I’ll get the water. Meet me at the door.”

  Quick hug. We never pay for water when we’re together—Raquel doesn’t believe in it. Drinking from the sink is her favorite solution, although a messy one.

  I’m already catching whistles. “Hi baby, you here to help me out?”

  “Charming. I’m the cleaning service,” I mutter, not even giving him a glance, locking myself in the nearest stall. Sitting feels like salvation.

  I lean forward over my legs, eyes closed. My head swims. What if somebody really did spike me? Jesus. Maybe I should go to the ER. Suddenly I recall every story on TikTok about spiking and all the consequences.

  Well, now I’m scared shitless.

  “IAmWakingUp—YourBodyIsRotten”

  My eyes snap open. I get chills. The voice is otherworldly.

  What the fuck was that? A phone? Music?

  For a few seconds, I just sat there, waiting for confirmation that I haven't dreamt this - please be a phone. I’m not in a mood for a trip. Nothing, just men talking. I stand up, blood cold, heart pounding, and threw the door open. Another group stood there, pissing carefree like it was the Renaissance.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked, voice low.

  One of them glances up, annoyed. “What the fuck are you doing in here? You on something?”

  “Possibly,” I say. “I’m the cleaning service. Haven’t you heard?”

  I move to the sink to splash cold water on my face. Quickly, too aware of public space, my anxiety running under the surface. As I blink past wet lashes, I catch my own eyes in the mirror—and everything stops.

  “RISING”—a shout.

  It’s just a second.

  But in that second, there’s something in the mirror behind me. A shape. A figure, half-hidden in a swirl of green and blue mist. A face—melted and wrong, like a child tried to sculpt their mom out of Play-Doh, from memory. But in it’s fear, it’s so beautiful - like a wild flowers growing from the dirt after one dies there; like painful tears of a goddess of beauty; like a scar, first ugly and sharp, then beautfily tacted and strong.

  I turn fast.

  Nothing.

  Nothing, except my heartbeat roaring in my ears. Frozen, I can sense a new wave of chills. I want to throw up, but there’s no way I’m staying here.

  Yeah, definitely on something. I better be - the fear feels too real, and I usually don’t proceed to panic immediately - not my kind of schtick.

  What the actual fuck is happening? Shaking worse than before—I push out of the bathroom and find Raquel outside with her men. One’s kissing her neck, the other watches her with glassy eyes. I don’t care, I just focus on my face, trying to hide the terror - somehow admiting that shit just happened would made it much too real. I will rather just call an uber on my own and go to ER.

  “You okay, hon?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. I take the water. Smile like it’s fine. Like I haven’t just seen the face of something that shouldn’t exist. Correction - that doesn’t exist. Moving through the bodies, they feel like electrical stings, but eventually I step into the night air, breathing deep, steady.

  In. Out.

  My heart still pounds, but slowly I sense myself calming. My mind is hazy. I definitely had too much to drink. From my bag I grab the phone and airpods and for a long minutes then, I just watch the city lights, focusing on music, ignoring people all around and drinking my water.

  My body feels like it’s been put through a cement mixture. Still high on alert, crippled with fear, I can however sense that the nausea is almost gone - just like that.

  I don’t know what I saw, but somehow—after the ghost falls asleep—I sense that it was monumental. Even though the face was so uncanny, the colors—blue and green—felt vibrant. Almost like a peacock. It felt like, in that second, something pierced through me. Like when your eyes fall on a stranger and both of you feel the romantic tension. Or when you unexpectedly pass your ex on the street and your eyes lock. That sharp. That fast.

  And that face - like a melted wax, still somehow intact, reminding me… of what? I could not lose the feeling I have seen that face before. It all felt like a piece of puzzle, one that was always in me, but wasn’t necessarily fitting yet.

  My anxiety feels both stronger and strangely soothed. Was this just my imagination? But that’s not who I am. I’m not one of those people with their head in the clouds, and definitely not one of those ezo-weirdos. I never even had a trip vivid like that.

  A trip, yeah. Going over every detail of those past few moments, I hope I’m just drunk-because the biggest part of me can’t stop feeling like something has drastically changed and I do not like that once a bit.