Chapter 2
AERI
The warehouse sits right off the beach, big, ugly, and very obviously not zoned for whatever the hell is happening tonight.
Rusted metal. Graffiti everywhere. Bay doors thrown wide like it’s daring someone to shut it down.
Red neon bleeds out over the sand, flashing CUPID’S KILLHOUSE above the entrance.
The K flickers like it’s one bad decision away from burning out, which honestly just makes me trust it more.
The Uber barely stops before Luna’s already shoving the door open, heat rushing in like a slap.
Glitter dusts the backseat when she moves, like she shed on impact.
Harper laughs and hooks her arm through mine as we step out, platform boots sinking slightly into warm sand that still holds the day’s heat.
The air’s thick. Salty. Sticky. It smells like sweat, sunscreen, weed, and poor impulse control.
The ocean’s right there—dark, loud, dramatic—but no one’s paying it any attention.
Every single person is moving in the same direction, pulled by bass thudding through concrete and red light pulsing like a heartbeat.
This place doesn’t feel safe.
Which is kind of the point.
“Okay,” Luna says, craning her neck to stare up at the sign, “if I die tonight, please delete my phone and tell my mom I was brave and hot.”
“You’re not dying,” I snort, tugging my jacket tighter even though it’s useless in this heat. “Worst case scenario, you fall in love with a DJ who owns exactly one extension cord and lives out of his trunk.”
Harper grins. “Best case?”
“We dance until our legs give out, make bad choices with cute strangers, and pretend tomorrow’s a rumor,” I say. “So. Self-care.”
Luna hums. “Love a wellness journey.”
The bass hits harder as we get closer, vibrating up through the sand, into my bones. Sweat already slicks my spine. My pulse is up, not from nerves—never nerves—from anticipation.
Tonight isn’t about being careful.
It’s about noise, heat, bad ideas, and seeing what happens when I stop pretending I give a shit.
And yeah—forgetting him.
Or better yet?
Replacing him with something way more dangerous.
The bouncers at the entrance look like they were assembled specifically for jobs like this—black tees stretched tight over thick arms, neck tattoos crawling up into their hairlines, faces locked into permanent boredom.
One of them sticks a hand out without even looking at me.
“ID.”
I hand it over, chin tipped up, mouth doing that almost-smile thing that usually gets me into trouble. He glances at it for half a second, then jerks his head toward the door like I’m already a lost cause.
Accurate.
Just inside, I peel off my jacket and shove it at coat check, already warm and buzzing. The air inside is thick—humid, salty, heavy with sweat and perfume. Bass punches me in the chest the second I step fully in, rattling my ribs like it’s trying to knock something loose.
The warehouse is massive. High ceilings swallowed by darkness, steel beams wrapped in lights that flash red, pink, and white like a warning sign no one’s listening to.
There's bodies everywhere. Skin everywhere. Glitter smeared across shoulders and collarbones, lace and leather and mesh fighting for dominance. I clock angel wings, devil horns, a guy in a shredded heart crop top grinding on someone dressed like a blood-splattered nun. Three people are already making out against a concrete pillar like it’s a competitive sport.
“This is already the best mistake I’ve made all year,” Harper shouts in my ear.
I don’t answer. I’m already moving.
The dance floor pulls me in like it’s personal.
The DJ booth sits raised in the center, blonde guy behind it with tattoos crawling up his neck and disappearing into his shirt, headphones hanging loose around his throat.
He looks wrecked in the best way—messy hair, sharp jaw, eyes half-closed like he’s feeling the music instead of playing it.
A girl with split pink-and-purple hair dances beside him, holographic outfit catching every flash of light, moving like she knows everyone’s watching and doesn’t care who approves.
I grin to myself and step deeper into the chaos.
Yeah.
This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The crowd presses in from all sides, heat and sweat and bass everywhere, bodies packed tight like no one plans on leaving anytime soon.
I don’t even hesitate before climbing onto a speaker, boots planted wide, hips already moving because why the hell not.
Someone cheers. Someone grabs my thigh. I let them. Consent is implied tonight.
Luna appears out of nowhere beside me, eyes blown wide, grin feral.
“Okay,” she yells, leaning close so I can hear her. “I found our bad decision.”
She jerks her chin toward the edge of the floor.
That’s when I see him.
He’s posted up against the wall, not dancing, just watching—lean, dark hair, lazy smirk like he knows exactly what people are here for.
A couple hovers in front of him, heads bent close, cash changing hands fast. He palms them something small and black, a holographic bag catching the lights before disappearing into a pocket.
Oh.
“Yeah,” Harper mutters as she hops up beside us, clocking it immediately. “That tracks.”
We hop down and weave over, the guy already turning toward us like he felt us coming. He opens his hand just enough to flash what’s inside—tiny red glittery skulls sealed in the bag, sparkling under the lasers like they’re proud of themselves.
“Tell me those aren’t candy,” Harper says.
“Cyanide,” he says, easy, cocky. “Valentine’s drop. Limited run.”
“That name feels aggressive,” I say. “You’re really committed to the theme.”
He laughs. “They won’t kill you. They’re a ride. Makes the music hit harder. Makes you feel brave. Real brave.”
“Define brave,” Luna says, already leaning in a little too close.
“Dancing like no one’s watching,” he says. His eyes flick to me. “Touching people you probably shouldn’t. Thinking bad ideas are excellent ideas.”
“Hard no on texting exes,” I say.
He grins. “Doesn’t make you stupid. Just… honest.”
Luna pulls cash out of her bra without breaking eye contact. “My treat,” she says. “Emotional support purchase.”
He takes the money and slides her the bag. She bats her lashes at him, full shameless.
“So,” she says, “do you come with the product?”
He chuckles. “Sorry. Spoken for.”
She pouts dramatically. “Rude. But hot. We respect boundaries.”
I shake one pill out into my palm. Red. Glittery. Skull-shaped. Extremely not legal.
“Cheers to making questionable choices,” I say, popping it back dry.
Sweet. Chemical. Definitely a felony in at least three states.
Luna and Harper follow suit, and then we’re already turning back toward the floor, because overthinking has never once improved a night like this.
Harper follows, Luna right on her heels, already laughing like she knows tonight’s going to get weird.
“If this turns into a Dateline episode,” Harper shouts over the music, pointing at Luna, “I’m haunting you specifically.”
Luna grins, completely unbothered. “Worth it.”
We’re back on the floor before I can say anything else, swallowed by bodies and bass.
The music is loud enough to rattle my teeth, and I let it.
My outfit moves when I do—red crystals catching the light, the dripping edges of it swaying against my skin like they’re alive.
Every step makes it flash. Every grind earns me looks.
I feel hot, exposed, untouchable. Exactly how I wanted.
I dance like I’m not thinking about anything else.
No past. No tomorrow. Just sweat and lights and the way the crowd presses in close enough that strangers’ hands brush my hips like it’s normal.
Someone whistles. Someone bumps into me and apologizes with a smile that lingers a second too long. I smile back. Why not.
Luna’s already gone feral, hair sticking to her face, laughing at nothing.
Harper’s yelling lyrics she absolutely does not know, one arm thrown over my shoulders like we’re sharing a single brain cell.
We dance hard enough that my thighs start to burn and my chest feels tight—not bad, just charged. Like everything’s turned up a notch.
And then Luna leans in, shouting directly into my ear.
“Okay,” she says, way too proud of herself. “I bought the pills. You’re buying drinks.”
I laugh, nodding. “Fair. What do you want?”
She rattles off something red and sugary without thinking. Harper asks for something strong and cheap and points at the bar like it personally offended her.
“Don’t move,” I tell them. “If you die before I get back, I’m not explaining it.”
“No promises,” Harper yells, already dancing again.
I peel away from them, weaving through the crowd, feeling loose and warm and very sure of myself.
The Cyanide is starting to work. My skin feels tight in a good way, like I’m plugged into something.
Lights blur at the edges. The bass feels lower, heavier, like it’s settling right in my bones.
Every touch feels louder. Every glance feels loaded.
I head in the general direction of where I think the bar is, but this place is massive, and every time the crowd shifts, I end up somewhere else. I don’t mind. I like the way people move when I move, like I belong wherever I decide to go.
By the time I realize how dry my mouth is, I’m already too far from the girls to turn back without effort, and effort feels optional tonight.
So I keep going.
The place is huge—warehouse huge. Exposed beams overhead, concrete underfoot, red lights bouncing off everything like the building itself is bleeding.
Every hallway looks like it might lead somewhere important.
Or nowhere. Hard to tell. I lose Luna and Harper somewhere between a speaker and a stranger’s shoulder, but I don’t panic.
We always find each other again. Or we don’t.
Both options have worked out fine before.
I push through a side door that I’m ninety percent sure leads to the bar and immediately realize… it does not.
Cool.
I’m suddenly outside, in a narrow alley running along the back of the warehouse.
The bass still punches through the walls, muffled but steady, rattling the concrete under my boots.
Graffiti coats every surface—layers on layers, some fresh, some ancient—and a single security light flickers overhead like it’s debating whether it wants to stay alive.
I stop, hands on my hips, squinting down the alley.
“Wow,” I mutter. “Absolutely crushed that, Aeri.”
I turn to head back inside and then I see them.
Two figures at the far end of the alley, framed by the flickering light and the red glow spilling from a cracked side door. One guy is on his knees. Very still. The other two are standing over him like this is on a checklist.
Heart-eye masks. Glowing red.
My brain pauses. Skips. Then reboots.
Oh.
“Holy shit,” I murmur, and yeah, definitely impressed.
The taller one is shirtless, chest and arms covered in ink, blood streaked across him like he didn’t see the point in wiping it off.
White feather angel wings are strapped to his back—full Cupid situation—and a fake bow hangs over his shoulder like an accessory he committed to.
Knife loose in his hand. Relaxed. Curious.
He tilts his head when he spots me, like I just wandered into his favorite scene.
The other one is different. Still. Solid. Shirtless too, but wearing a leather jacket open over his chest, darkened with blood where his blade’s been working. He stands close to the guy on the ground, knife steady, posture tight. No extra movement. No curiosity. Just control.
They both look up.
Both masks lock onto me.
For a beat, nobody moves.
Then I laugh—full, loud, unfiltered laughter.
I clap a hand over my mouth, half because it’s funny and half because I absolutely cannot believe my luck.
“Oh my god,” I say. “There’s two of you.”
They don’t say a word. The red hearts in their masks just glow, unblinking.
My heart kicks up, not from fear, more from the fact that I don’t know if it’s the Cyanide, my terrible taste in thrills, or the way I’ve been low-key craving chaos since that alley, but holy shit… this is better than anything I’ve ever done on purpose.
The winged one’s gaze slides over me slowly and deliberately, like he’s stripping me down piece by piece without ever touching me.
Like he’s already decided exactly what I’d look like pressed into a wall or dragged closer by the wrist. Holy shit.
My thighs clench on instinct, heat curling low in my stomach, my body reacting before my brain can catch up and pretend this isn’t doing things to me.
Then the other one shoves him, hard. A quick, irritated move, shoulder checking him like focus, like this isn’t a show, and I’m not something to gawk at.
They exchange a look I don’t get, but definitely feel the weight of, tension snapping tight between them.
The serious one’s heart eyes lock back onto my face, knife still steady in his hand, chest rising slow under the open leather jacket like he’s already decided how this goes and just hasn’t said it yet.
My pulse is pounding now, not panic but anticipation. My mouth opens before common sense has a chance to intervene.
“So,” I drawl, dragging it out, rocking back on my heels like I’m not standing in an alley with two masked killers and very much enjoying it. “Is this the part where I scream? Because that feels like a lot of effort.”
Nothing.
They don’t rush or threaten me.
They just stare through their glowing masks.
Their body language remains quiet, confused, and focused.
I wait.
One beat.
Then two.
Still nothing.
I sigh. Roll my eyes. “Okay, wow. Gold star for intimidating silence.”
Then I grin—sharp, reckless, and fully high on myself.
“Oh nooo,” I mock, pitching my voice up. “Mister slasher guys, don’t kill meee.”
I quickly turn back toward the warehouse door and shoot them a smirk over my shoulder.
Then, I run.
Not fast. Just enough.
Behind me, boots instantly scrape concrete and the air shifts—heavy, charged, and fucking electric.
They’re coming.
Oh, fuck their coming.
I laugh as I sprint back toward the lights and the bass. My heart hammering, and adrenaline buzzing through my veins like I just unlocked a goddamn bonus level. I burst through the door and back into the noise, the crowd swallowing me whole.
And even as I disappear into it, breathless and grinning, I already know—
They didn’t let me go.
They’re chasing.
And I can’t wait to see what happens when they catch me.