You follow him through the mass of bodies.
The hallway to the back door is narrower than you remember, the music muffling with every step until it becomes a distant, distorted heartbeat. He doesnt look back to see if youre coming. He just knows you are.
The door swings open.
Cold air hits you: sharp, metallic, real. The alley is dim, lit by a single flickering security light and the distant bleed of city neon. The music behind you becomes a dull thud as the door shuts.
Now its just you and him.
Hes a few steps ahead, finding a spot on the wall, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed like this is routine. Like this is nothing.
He turns slowly.
Up close, his eyes are darker than they looked inside. Intent. Theres something in his expression that makes your pulse stutter—not fear, not quite. Interest.
He takes one step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to close the space.
You always follow strangers into the dark, he asks, or am I special?
Your heart pounds harder now, but you dont answer. He is special, just not in the way he assumes. Not in the way anyone else would mean it.
The flickering light sputters once. Twice. Then steadies.
He watches your face like hes waiting for a decision you havent made yet. Then shrugs and pulls a pack of Marlboro Reds from his jeans and a lighter. He sticks one between his lips before offering the carton to you.
It feels like a test, and maybe it is in a way. How willing are you? How far will you go?