The underground club did not welcome—it consumed, for the moment Sarah stepped past its shadowed entrance, the air itself felt heavier, thick with something unspoken, something that clung to skin and breath alike, and the dim crimson lights bled across the walls like something alive, pulsing faintly as though the place itself had a heartbeat, slow and patient, waiting.
Her steps slowed.
Not from fear.
But from awareness.
"This is insane," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible beneath the distant thrum of music that did not quite reach rhythm, her fingers brushing against her arm as though grounding herself, "what the fuck am I even doing here."
Yet she did not turn back.
Because turning back meant returning.
And returning meant—
Facing everything she had left unresolved.
"They left you."
The voice did not come from the crowd.
It came from nowhere.
And everywhere.
Low.
Smooth.
Unhurried.
