*Major trigger warnings* scenes of BDSM and kinks, drug use, illegal activities, harm to self of others, swearing.
I lied.
I told Miss Marvos, Lysander, Araxie, and Riven that I was going home—asked Araxie to let me know when Ardere came back.
Because if I told them, they'd try to stop me.
Or worse—they'd help.
The cold hit me the second I stepped outside. That kind of quiet, brittle chill that lives in the bones after sundown. I got in my car and pulled out of the drive with my headlights off for the first half-minute, like I needed the darkness to think clearly.
I had no clue where I was going.
Only that Ardere was gone.
And I needed her not to be.
The road unspooled in front of me like a thread someone else had laid down. The woods to either side pressed in close, shadows stretching between the trees like they were leaning toward me, trying to listen in. Every turn felt familiar even when it shouldn't. Like the town itself was rearranging behind me.
I should've gone left back at the highway. Or maybe checked the walking paths near the old schoolyard. Or the iron fence behind the library she once mentioned hating because "it looked too much like a metaphor."
And the longer I didn't see her, the more something else started to press in at the edges of my thoughts—guilt.
For letting Riven speak to her like that.
For sitting there while everyone played tug-of-war with her silence.
For not getting up sooner.
I turned toward the city.
Not the heart of it. Not the polished shops and quiet diners and sleepy bookstores she might actually like.
No—I went downtown.
The part with the noise and the neon. The too-loud music and too-fast cars. The buildings that leaned like they were listening to secrets no one should tell. The clubs with names that sounded like chemical reactions or unmarked planets.
The part where you don't walk alone unless you want something to happen.
I didn't know what scared me more—that I was going there, or that I thought she might be too.
God, I hope I'm wrong.
Ardere wasn't reckless. Not really.
But she was haunted.
And haunted people don't always pick safe places to unravel.
Some go quiet.
Some go somewhere loud enough to drown out everything else.
The freeway lights blurred overhead as I merged onto the main strip. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The city opened up in front of me like a grin that showed too many teeth.
Even from here, I could feel it.
The pulse.
The chaos.
The part of town that never really slept, just passed out and woke up screaming.
I passed a liquor store with bars on the windows. A tattoo parlor where two guys were arguing on the curb. The club next to it had a flickering sign that just said "KNEEL" in red block letters. The bouncer didn't even glance at me as I drove past, but a girl with glitter smeared across her cheeks did—eyes sharp, smile too wide.
I didn't stop.
But I started looking more carefully.
Sidewalks. Bus stops. Corners with half-lit streetlamps.
For a flash of a hood, maybe. That heavy walk she did when she was pissed off and trying not to show it.
I turned down an alley behind one of the nightclubs. Old posters clung to the walls like dead skin. I rolled to a slow crawl and scanned the shadows.
Nothing.
But my stomach wouldn't unclench.
I didn't even have proof she'd be here. I was chasing ghosts, instincts, and a bad feeling I couldn't shake loose.
Then I saw it.
A flash of movement by the old underpass—barely a blur, someone turning a corner fast. Hood up. Head down. Small frame. Alone.
Could be anyone.
But it didn't matter.
I hit the gas and took the next left.
Because even if it wasn't her, I had to check.
The alley spat me out near a burned-out motel with no sign, no working lights, and no reason for anyone to be loitering unless they were buying something illegal or selling something worse.
But someone was there.
A group of three—maybe four—huddled by a steel drum fire. All jackets and shadows, their laughter too loud and too off-rhythm. One of them turned, noticed me creeping by with my car still idling like a coward.
"Hey!" one of them shouted. "You lost, suburban prince?"
I didn't answer. Just kept driving. Too fast. Too slow. I didn't know what speed you're supposed to move when your throat's too tight to swallow.
I was about to turn off, head back toward somewhere less feral, when I saw the door.
Spray-painted red. Half open. A mural of tangled hands clawing upward covered the brick beside it, black outlines still wet from recent paint.
Underneath, scrawled in red marker:
"FORGET THE BODY. FOLLOW THE BURN."
My gut twisted.
I parked half a block away and got out, locking the door more out of habit than any belief it'd stop someone from taking it.
The closer I got to the mural, the worse it felt.
Not dangerous like a knife to the ribs.
Worse.
Dangerous like a secret you weren't supposed to hear.
The door creaked open under my hand.
Inside was a stairwell leading down. Industrial. Concrete walls. No signs, no lights—just the echo of sound.
Bass.
Thudding low and slow, like a heartbeat dragged through honey.
And beneath it—voices. Laughter. Music.
And something else.
Whispers.
Not loud. Not clear. But definitely there.
The air smelled like smoke and something metallic—copper, maybe. Blood? Paint?
I paused halfway down the stairs.
This was stupid. I knew it was stupid.
Ardere wouldn't be down here.
This wasn't her scene.
Except… the mural. The red marker. The way the door had been cracked just wide enough, like it knew someone was coming.
Like someone had left it that way.
I kept going.
At the bottom of the stairs was another door—this one metal, dented and rusted at the edges.
I pushed.
It opened into a basement club lit in violent red. No windows. No rules.
People crowded the space like a fever dream—half-naked, glittered, masked. Bodies moved like smoke, limbs everywhere, and I couldn't tell if they were dancing or fighting or somewhere in between.
At the center of the room was a cage. Real metal. Welded shut. Inside it, a girl in a torn dress was balancing barefoot on a beam while the crowd below howled and threw pills into the air.
I blinked hard, stomach turning. I didn't belong here.
But I kept walking.
Faces blurred past—some painted, some pierced. One guy had half his head shaved and the other side painted like a cracked porcelain mask. A girl grabbed my arm as I passed. Her eyes were entirely black.
"You looking for the grief girl?" she purred.
I froze. "What?"
Her lips curled. "You're not the first tonight."
I stared at her. "What do you mean?"
"Another guy came through," she said, eyes narrowing slightly like she was watching the memory play out. "Didn't say a word. Just walked in like he already knew the place. Real still. Real pale. Looked like he didn't have a pulse."
My chest tightened.
"Did he have silver rings? Real light eyes?"
The girls grin widened. "Yeah. That's the one. Looked like a corpse someone dressed in a black-on-black catalog."
Lysander.
Lysander's already here.
That thought rang in my skull like a church bell struck wrong.
If he was here, then I wasn't guessing anymore. I was close.
Too close to back off now.
"What is this place?" I asked. "What's it called?"
She let out a low, dry laugh. "You sure you want to know?"
"No," I said. "But I'm asking anyway."
The woman tilted her head, like she was deciding if I'd earned the right to regret it.
Then, finally, she said:
"The Drop."
I stared at her. "That's it?"
"That's all it needs."
"What kind of club is it?"
She smiled, and this time there was nothing friendly about it.
"It's not a club. It's a wound. You don't come here unless something inside you is already bleeding. Some people drink it away. Some burn it out. Others come to watch the fall."
She leaned in, voice low.
"No one leaves clean."
I stood there, heart thudding in my throat like it was trying to get out.
She waited. Probably thought I'd turn around.
But instead, I stepped past him.
Through the second door.
Into The Drop.
The bass hit first.
Not sound—force.
It pulsed through my ribs like a second heartbeat. The air was thicker here, humid and electric, like sweat and static had been bottled into something alive.
The lighting was worse—red and violet strobes, cut with shadows that didn't always move with the people they belonged to. The walls were concrete, splintered with cracks, the kind of place no one bothered calling the fire marshal about because he'd never make it back out.
But people were here.
A lot of them.
Dancing. Fighting. Laughing too loud or not at all.
Some had masks. Some didn't have shoes. A girl passed me wearing a dress made of chains and nothing else, eyes wide like she could see right through me.
And in the back—past the main crowd, where the air smelled like burnt sugar and rust—there was a narrow hallway.
Dim. Flickering. Framed by hanging cloth that looked like skin if you stared too long.
I felt it again—that shift in the air. That sense of something pressing inward, trying to fold me up into whatever this place was.
The hallway gave way to a room that felt like it belonged underground—even though we already were.
No music played here. No dancing. Just the low hum of breath and blood and something thick crawling behind the walls.
The lighting was barely there—just dull spotlights swinging above in slow, lazy arcs. Every time they passed, they illuminated another part of the room that made my stomach turn.
People sat in a circle.
Some on old cushions. Others crouched or stood, quiet and reverent like worshippers. In the middle of them was a man with needles in his arms and pins through his cheeks. Another, shirtless, dragged a razor across the inked words carved into his stomach. No one stopped him. Some watched like they were at church. One girl clapped.
A boy near the edge of the room pressed burning incense into his own shoulder, eyes rolling back in his head, muttering something too soft to hear.
Masochism.
Ritual.
Release.
It wasn't just pain.
It was deliberate.
Like they were trying to cut something out.
I backed toward the door. My hands were shaking. My mouth tasted like rust.
Whatever this place was, Ardere didn't belong here.
She couldn't.
And just as I turned to leave, I saw him.
Leaning against the far wall. Part shadow. Arms crossed. Eyes like frostbite.
Lysander.
He wasn't watching the people in the ring.
He was watching the edges.
Like he was looking for someone who always walked where no one else dared.
I stepped toward him without thinking.
"Lysander."
He looked at me—and his expression turned cold enough to kill.
"You shouldn't be here," he said flatly.
"No one should be here," I snapped, voice low. "What the hell is this place?"
He didn't answer.
"You're looking for her too, right?"
Still nothing.
I stepped closer. "Why would she come here?" My voice cracked, and I hated how desperate it sounded. "What the hell could she want from this?"
He didn't blink. "That's not your question to ask."
"No, I think it is, actually. Because I'm the one chasing her into places like this while the rest of you sit around and play cryptic with her sanity."
Lysander's jaw tensed. "You think this is a rescue?"
I stared at him. "She's hurting."
"She's always hurting," he snapped. "This isn't new. It's just what it looks like when you run out of ways to hide it."
"She's hurting," I repeated. "And you let her walk into this hell alone?"
He stepped forward then, just enough for me to feel the cold radiating off him. "Do not pretend you know her. You've seen fragments. Glimpses. You haven't carried her."
"I'm trying to!" I shot back. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing, but I'm trying. So if you know where she is, say it. If you have a lead, take me to her. Otherwise, get out of my way."
For a second, I thought he might actually hit me.
But just before he disappeared through a narrow archway draped in torn black cloth, he threw a final glance over his shoulder. His voice came sharp and low.
"Get the fuck out of here, Dorian."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off with a look.
"This place has layers. You don't want to know what's at the bottom."
And then he was gone.
I stood there alone, surrounded by strangers who hurt themselves like it was worship, by flickering lights and the smell of metal and fire and rot.
He told me to go home.
But I didn't.
I turned toward the opposite end of the room—where the light faded even more, and the hum of low voices gave way to silence.
Deeper still.
The floor sloped downward, uneven and cracked like the foundation was slowly rotting from within. I stepped carefully over the threshold, into what felt like a forgotten corridor—walls tighter now, the temperature colder. I kept going past a door with scratch marks along the frame. Past a flickering red light hanging from a wire like an exposed vein. I ducked beneath a low archway where the air suddenly smelled like roses soaked in gasoline.
The sound pulled me in before the light did.
Not music. Not voices.
Breathing.
Sharp. Measured. Labored.
I turned the last corner—and found myself back in one of the rooms like before.
Only this one was worse.
Smaller. Hotter. Closer. The kind of place where the walls felt like they were breathing with you.
A circle of people surrounded the center—sitting cross-legged, backs straight, eyes half-closed like they were in prayer.
But they weren't praying.
In the center, someone knelt.
A girl.
Hood down.
Dark hair damp with sweat. Shoulders rigid. Hands curled into fists on her knees. Her back was bare—open, exposed, lashes already striping her spine like ribbons. A man beside her held a leather whip with red-stained tips.
No.
Not her.
Not her.
Not Ardere.
But then she turned her head slightly, just enough for the light to catch her profile.
And I knew.
It was her.
Ardere.
Kneeling there like penance was a choice.
My lungs locked.
My hands went numb.
And then I did the absolute worst thing someone like me could do in a place like this.
I said her name.
Loud.
Choked.
"Ardere."
The entire room stilled.
The whip paused mid-air.
She didn't look at me.
But her shoulders did flinch.
I stepped forward, cutting through the ring before I even knew I was moving.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I heard myself say. Loud. Accusatory. Panicked. "What the hell is this?!"
Ardere's head dipped lower, and I could see it then—shame crawling up the back of her neck like heat. She still wouldn't look at me.
Someone from the circle stood, frowning. "Hey, this space isn't for—"
"I don't care!" I shouted. "She doesn't belong here! You don't know her, she's not—she's not like this!"
"Dorian," Ardere said softly. Finally. Still not meeting my eyes. "You need to leave."
"The hell I do," I said, voice breaking. "You're hurting yourself—why the fuck would you think this is okay?"
She finally turned her head then—and her eyes, god, her eyes looked like a house after a fire. Burned-out. Hollowed. But still standing.
"Because it's the only thing I can feel without infecting anyone else," she whispered.
I didn't understand.
But I didn't need to.
All I knew was that seeing her here—like this—felt like someone had carved out part of my ribcage and left it bleeding on the floor.
I stepped into the circle fully. Reached out, hesitating for half a second before grabbing her arm.
She didn't stop me.
Didn't fight.
But she winced.
And it was that flinch—not the lashes, not the whip, not even the eyes on us—that broke me.
I pulled her to her feet. She stumbled once. I caught her. Held on tighter than I probably should have.
"You're coming with me," I said. "Now."
"Dorian, don't—"
"Now."
The second we hit street level, I didn't give her a chance to slip away.
Didn't let her turn back. Didn't let her make another excuse or vanish like smoke the way she always tried to.
I dragged her across the cracked pavement, past the pulsing lights, past the line of half-drunk strangers who barely looked up from their vapes and pills.
And then I shoved her into the passenger seat of my car.
Not gently.
I slammed the door shut before she could get a word in.
By the time I got into the driver's side, my hands were shaking and my heart felt like it was trying to climb out of my throat.
She didn't say anything.
She just sat there, back pressed to the seat, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
I looked at her—really looked.
The outfit.
It wasn't hers.
Not the Ardere I knew, anyway.
All black. Tight. Leather-strapped in places it didn't need to be. Her jacket had been left behind somewhere in the depths of The Drop. Her shirt barely covered her ribs. There were faint marks on her sides—some fresh, some already bruising. Her makeup had smeared at the edges of her eyes, and her lips were pressed into a line so thin it looked painful.
She looked like a stranger wearing her own skin.
"Are you hurt?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Dorian—"
"I'm serious. Did they do anything to you?"
"No. Stop—"
"You don't look okay."
"I'm not bleeding, if that's what you're fishing for."
"That's not what I asked."
Her jaw clenched.
I looked down at her again. The outfit. The way she'd been kneeling. The whip. The whole goddamn circle around her.
It hit me all over again—and this time, it came out before I could stop it.
"Is this some kind of… sexual masochism thing?"
The words hit the air like a gunshot.
Ardere turned toward me so fast it was like she'd been slapped.
"What the fuck did you just say to me?"
I blinked. "I didn't mean—I'm just trying to understand—"
"Oh, you're trying to understand? That's rich." Her voice pitched higher, rawer. "You see me—once—on my knees in a space you don't even understand, and your first instinct is to assume it's some kind of kink?"
"That's not what I meant—"
"Really? Because you shoved me out of there like you just caught your girlfriend cheating in a goddamn dungeon. You looked at me like I was a monster."
"I looked at you like someone I care about, and you were letting strangers hurt you, Ardere!"
She laughed—but it wasn't funny. It was sharp and exhausted and sounded dangerously close to breaking.
"They weren't strangers."
"Oh, well that makes it so much better."
"I didn't go there to get off," she snapped. "I went there because for five fucking minutes, I could feel something without it leaking out and ruining everything around me."
I stared at her, stunned.
"I could be touched without making someone cry," she said, voice shaking now. "I could breathe without someone looking at me like I infected them. No one there was afraid of me. No one pitied me. They just—let me exist."
Silence bloomed between us. Heavy. Hot.
She turned her face away, pressing her fingers against her temple like she could hold her skull together by sheer force of will.
"I can't leave him," I muttered, still gripping the steering wheel even though we hadn't moved an inch.
Ardere didn't respond. She was staring out the window, one leg pulled up into the seat like she was trying to disappear into the upholstery.
"I mean, knowing him," I went on, "he's either gotten into a fight with a staircase, joined a ritual, or wandered into a snake pit thinking it was a metaphor."
Still nothing.
I turned to look at her. "I have to go back in."
She didn't look at me.
"I'm not letting you out of my sight again," I said firmly.
At that, her head turned just slightly, brows raised. "You're going to bring me back in? After all that?"
"I don't trust you not to vanish the second I turn around."
Her expression flickered. "I'm not a child, Dorian."
"No, you're worse," I said, getting out and slamming the door behind me. "You're you."
I circled the car, opened her door, and leaned down.
"Come on."
She didn't move. "You're really dragging me back into a club that made you physically ill fifteen minutes ago?"
"Not by choice," I gritted out. "But your cryptid brother is in there, and I don't know how many eldritch freaks it takes to overwhelm one emotionally constipated vampire, so yes. You're coming."
She rolled her eyes. "You're unbelievable."
"Correct. Now get out of the car."
She groaned but finally climbed out, arms crossed tightly, head down like she was hoping the street would swallow her whole.
We walked back through the front—me half-daring anyone to look at her wrong, her shrinking further into her skin.
The Drop pulsed around us again—same heat, same rot, same strange rhythm.
Same predators.
And of course, the second we crossed the main threshold, someone clocked her.
Tall. Inked. Piercings in places I didn't even want to look. He broke off from a wall he was leaning against and slinked toward her with a smile that made my skin crawl.
"Hey," he said, eyes flicking over her like she was already his. "You're back. You ready for—"
I stepped between them before he could finish that sentence.
"Don't."
The guy blinked. "What?"
I didn't move. "Back off."
"I wasn't talking to you, hero."
"Then choose better targets," I said coldly. "She's not available. Try again in your next life."
He scoffed. "What, you her dom now? You think that means something here?"
My voice dropped.
"Touch her, and I'll break your fucking fingers. Then I'll break every one of your rules."
He laughed—but it was thin. He took one look at my face and must've decided it wasn't worth it.
"You new kids are no fun," he muttered, backing off with both hands raised. "Just trying to keep the vibe alive."
"Try a different graveyard," I snapped.
He vanished back into the dark like a rat retreating to the sewer it crawled out of.
I turned around to find Ardere watching me like I'd just grown another head.
We found Lysander near the far back of The Drop, just past a room that smelled like burning sage and cheap rum.
He was still wandering—silent, composed, half-gliding like the floor bent to him. He didn't look lost, exactly. Just like he'd seen too much and was deciding whether or not to keep pretending he hadn't.
"Hey!" I called.
He turned.
His gaze moved over us—me, flushed and fuming. Ardere, pale and hunched and bruised, one strap of that cursed outfit slipping off her shoulder.
For a second, I expected him to react.
To do something.
To go stone-cold or murderous. To curse or question or demand to know what happened.
Instead, he let out the most bored sigh I'd ever heard and said—
"...What's the damage this time?"
I blinked. "What?"
He looked at Ardere again, this time slower, more methodically. Taking inventory.
"You're walking, so nothing internal. No broken ribs. No visible dislocations. Skin's open but manageable. Eyes clear enough, no hallucinations yet. Okay."
He was already turning away.
Like he'd checked a grocery list.
I stepped forward, furious. "That's it? That's your reaction? She's covered in lash marks! She's wearing—that! She was kneeling in a circle like she was about to be sacrificed!"
Lysander didn't even flinch. "And?"
"And?! I just dragged her out of a room that looked like it was hosting a pain cult, and you're acting like she stubbed her toe!"
He turned to me slowly. His voice didn't rise. But it hardened.
"You think this is the worst I've seen?"
I stared at him.
"I once pulled her out of a glass tank filled with ice water, Dorian," he said flatly. "She'd stopped shivering. That was when I knew it was bad. Another time? I caught her drinking powdered lithium mixed with cough syrup behind a nightclub because she thought it would mute the grief aura for thirty minutes."
Ardere winced, looking down.
"I've found her in basements," Lysander continued. "In hospital wings. In backrooms with people who collect suffering like it's currency. Whip marks? That's Tuesday. That doesn't even crack the top hundred."
I felt like I'd been slapped.
"She keeps doing this," Lysander said, finally looking me in the eye. "Because she knows exactly how much she can get away with. Exactly what to do to make sure no one intervenes until she's already deep enough to feel something."
He looked back at Ardere, voice lower. "And because she's convinced no one's going to stop her anyway."
"Lysander," Ardere whispered. But he didn't look at her.
I took a shaky breath.
"I'm not just gonna—gonna watch this," I said. "I'm not going to be one of the people that stands there and—"
"You won't have to," Lysander cut in. "She'll run before you get the chance."
I turned—instinctively—toward the space she'd just been standing in.
And froze.
She was gone.
My heart jolted so hard it hurt.
"Shit—shit, where did she—"
"She didn't run," Lysander interrupted.
He nodded toward the edge of the crowd. His voice was calm, but I could see it in the way his jaw clenched—he was not calm.
"There."
It took me a second to find her.
In the flickering haze of red and violet lighting, surrounded by pulsing bodies and slow, rhythmic bass, I finally spotted her.
Ardere.
Wrapped around someone.
Not just anyone.
Him.
The guy from before—the one who'd slithered out of the walls to try and drag her back in when we returned.
He had her pinned between his body and a low stone pillar. One hand against her hip. The other tangled in her hair. His mouth was on hers, pulling her under like a riptide.
And she wasn't fighting it.
She was giving into it.
Hard.
Her fingers curled in the collar of his shirt. Her eyes half-lidded, distant. Not present. Like she wasn't kissing him—she was trying to disappear through him.
I saw red.
I was already moving when Lysander grabbed my shoulder.
"Don't."
I shoved his hand off. "Get the hell out of my way."
"Don't." His voice dropped an octave. Lethal. "You lay a hand on him, and you ruin everything I've been building."
I whipped toward him. "What are you talking about—he's got her cornered like she's prey—"
"He is a predator," Lysander snapped. "One I've been watching for months. One I've been letting get comfortable. Because the second I'm close enough to pin him, I want him to know it."
I stared at him, breath ragged. "So you're just gonna let him put his hands all over her?!"
"I don't want to," he hissed. "But this is bigger than your impulse to play hero."
My fists were clenched. My heart was somewhere in my throat, burning.
"She's using him," Lysander added, quieter now. "She doesn't want him. She just wants you to see it."
I swallowed hard.
"Because if you see her like that," he said, "you'll finally leave her alone."
I was still watching her.
Still watching him.
His hands hadn't moved.
But something had shifted.
His posture changed—more intimate, less performative. He leaned into her, whispered something low near her jaw, and she gave a faint laugh. Or maybe a gasp.
That's when I saw it.
A flick of silver between his fingers.
A small, curved pocket knife.
He popped it open with one hand—fluid, practiced.
Then, without hesitation, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small glass vial.
The liquid inside caught the light—iridescent and almost glowing. It didn't look natural.
He uncorked the vial.
Dipped the knife.
Turned it in the light like it was some kind of ritual.
Then held it out to her.
The blade trembled just in front of her lips.
"Lick it," he mouthed.
She didn't hesitate.
She leaned forward.
And I lost it.
"I'm going," I said, already pushing past Lysander.
He didn't stop me this time.
"Do it," he muttered darkly. "That's liquid ecstasy. If it hits her bloodstream, she's not coming down for hours."
My pulse went nuclear.
I didn't run to her. I stormed.
Too late.
I saw her tongue flick against the blade.
The iridescent liquid smeared against her lips.
My stomach dropped.
She blinked slowly, like the room had just tilted sideways and she was waiting to see if it would fall apart completely.
The guy who gave it to her was already smirking, sliding the knife back into his pocket like a job well done.
I shoved him.
Hard.
He stumbled into the wall, caught himself, looked like he was ready to fight—until he saw my face.
And then he backed off.
Didn't say a word.
Coward.
I turned to Ardere.
Her pupils had already started to dilate.
"Ardere," I said, stepping closer. "What the hell did you just do?"
She looked up at me like she'd never seen me before. Or like she had—and didn't believe I was real.
"Hey," she whispered, swaying slightly. "You came back."
"I never left."
She giggled.
"Cute," she said, blinking like the lights were stardust and the floor was made of velvet. "You're cute. You're all—mad and worried and glowing."
"Oh, god," I muttered. "It's kicking in."
Lysander appeared behind me, eyes dark, jaw tight. "She got it?"
"She got it," I said. "Right off the fucking knife."
He let out a long breath through his nose, already taking off his coat.
"We need to move. Now. Before she gets… weird."
"She's already weird."
"More weird."
"Too late," I said, because Ardere had just pulled herself into my chest and was now laughing into my shirt like I'd just told the best joke of her life.
"I can feel everything," she murmured, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. "But it doesn't hurt. Isn't that wild?"
"Yep. So wild. Let's get you out of here, sunshine."
She looked up at me, beaming, eyes bright and high and not okay.
—
We didn't go home.
We didn't go anywhere normal.
Instead, Lysander drove us to some half-forgotten stretch of asphalt on the edge of the city, behind an old rail yard that smelled like rust and abandonment. One busted-out light flickered over an empty lot, and the skyline looked far away, like another world.
It was cold.
Ardere was sitting on the hood of the truck, knees drawn up, swaying gently like she was listening to music only she could hear. Lysander's coat was draped around her shoulders, but she was still shivering. Still high. Still floating.
I couldn't stop pacing.
Couldn't stop thinking about the way her tongue touched that blade. The look in her eyes when the drug hit—like something inside her had finally gone quiet, and she didn't know whether to laugh or cry about it.
Lysander leaned against a chain-link fence a few feet away, watching her like a man who'd seen this scene before. Too many times.
"You should've stopped her," I said.
He didn't look at me. "She was already too far gone."
"You knew what he was. That guy--whatever his name is. You knew he was dangerous and you let her—"
"I didn't let her do anything," Lysander said calmly. Too calmly. "She made a choice. I watched. Because if you try to pull her away too soon, she digs her heels in harder."
I stopped walking.
"Unbelievable," I muttered. "You just stood there while she poisoned herself."
He finally looked at me then. His face was expressionless, but his eyes—his eyes were made of knives.
"You think I don't care?" he said. "You think this is easy for me? I'm the one who gets the fallout. Every time. When she crashes. When she screams. When she curls up on the floor and begs whatever gods are left to let her feel nothing again. I'm the one who has to look her in the eye and lie about it getting better."
His voice didn't rise. It just got colder.
"You think I'm numb to it? No, Dorian. I'm prepared. That's the difference."
I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. "Prepared for what? For your sister being treated like some kind of broken sacrament in a club full of sadists?"
"She's been worse places."
"Then maybe stop bringing her here!"
Lysander turned back to the fence. "You think this is about location?"
I didn't answer.
He shook his head. "That guy you saw? Silas? He runs a splinter ring out of The Drop. Invitation only. Pain, pleasure, disassociation. People like Ardere? People who feel too much—or who make others feel too much? They're rare. That club treats her like she's some cursed goddess. Like she was built for ruin."
My chest twisted.
"Why would she even go there?" I asked. "Why go back?"
Lysander gave a tired smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Because when people already think you're a weapon, it's easier to let them use you."
Silence.
I turned to look at her.
She wasn't swaying anymore.
She was watching the sky, lips parted, eyes glassy.
She looked so small under that coat. So tired, even in her high. And when her gaze drifted to me, it was like she was trying to remember if I was real.
I crossed the distance slowly.
Her eyes tracked me like she expected me to vanish before I got there.
At first I thought she was just coming down hard.
I'd seen people crash from worse. Shaking, crying, maybe throwing up—but this—
This was something else.
She wasn't just spiraling.
She was slipping.
One minute she was in my arms, breathing ragged against my chest.
The next—she was gone.
Not physically. She was still there, still trembling and pale and curled tight against me like a dying thing. But her mind—
Her mind had left the room.
"No—no—stop—" she whispered suddenly, pulling back from me with wide, wild eyes. "I didn't mean to—don't touch me—!"
She shoved at my chest. Weak, frantic.
"Ardere," I said, "It's me. You're okay. You're safe, I've got you—"
But it was already happening.
The temperature dropped like a stone.
My stomach turned over.
And then—
Grief.
Not mine.
It hit me like a wall.
An invisible wave of it—wet and crushing and impossible to carry. Regret. Guilt. Loneliness. Despair so thick it felt like blood in my mouth. My breath left me in one sharp gasp as my knees hit the dirt beside the truck.
I tried to breathe, but it felt like my lungs were full of sorrow that didn't belong to me.
Lysander didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Ardere's eyes were glassed over now, but wide open. Like she was seeing something awful just over my shoulder. Like she was stuck in a memory that had cracked open and swallowed her whole.
And her power—her curse—was leaking through every inch of her skin.
"I can't—I can't get it out of me," she sobbed. "I didn't want to see it again—I didn't want to feel it—"
And the grief intensified.
Sharp and sickening. It wasn't just sadness anymore—it was loss. The kind that turned you inside out. I felt like something precious had been ripped from me, like someone I loved had just died and I didn't even know who it was.
I crawled forward, teeth clenched, heart hammering against the pressure.
"Ardere—look at me," I said, voice cracking. "You have to pull it in. You're hurting yourself. You're hurting me."
Her fingers clawed into her scalp. "I didn't mean to—I didn't mean to let it out—"
The truck creaked behind her. Metal whined.
The air was heavy now. Charged. It felt like it might rain grief and memories at any second.
"Lysander!" I shouted. "Help me—she's going nuclear!"
He didn't move.
Didn't even look at me.
"She has to learn to control it," he said grimly. "This is what happens when you smother it instead."
"She's breaking—!"
"She always does."
That was the moment I understood him.
He wasn't being cruel.
He was being resigned.
This was normal for him. Watching her detonate. Watching the fallout rot everything around her.
But it wasn't normal for me.
I surged forward, grabbed her wrists before she could hurt herself again, and pulled her close, anchoring her body to mine.
****
Ardere was silent now.
Curled in the back seat of Lysander's truck, drenched in sweat, cheeks flushed too red from the crash. Her breath came in shallow little hiccups, like her lungs were still trying to remember how to work without grief choking the air.
She didn't move when we stopped.
Didn't even twitch.
Just stayed there under Lysander's coat, eyes shut, lips parted, her entire body locked in that strange half-limp state of post-withdrawal. Her knuckles were still scraped raw. I didn't know if she remembered anything. I didn't know if she wanted to.
We sat in the truck for a minute, engine ticking softly.
The silence between Lysander and I stretched thin.
Then he nodded toward the passenger door.
"We're here."
I looked up and realized we were parked beside my car. Right where I left it, outside The Drop.
Like we'd just made a round-trip through hell.
I didn't move.
Not right away.
Instead, I looked back at her one more time.
She looked… young.
Too young for all of this.
I turned to him. "Is she gonna be okay?"
Lysander didn't answer at first.
He just stared straight ahead, hands on the wheel like he was already halfway gone.
Then, finally:
"See you at school tomorrow."
I blinked. "Wait—what?"
He didn't repeat it.
Didn't look at me again.
Just turned the radio up a few notches, put the truck into gear, and waited for me to get out.