The air in Obsidian was thick with sweat and the nauseating sweetness of spilled liquor, the bassline of some unnamed track vibrating through the soles of Mya’s stilettos, up her legs, settling like a second pulse between her thighs.
She shouldn’t have come here. Not tonight. Not when the city felt like a trap, every shadowed alley and flickering neon sign a warning.
But the vodka had been cheap, the music loud enough to drown out the voice in her head that whispered run, and for three blissful hours, she’d almost forgotten.
Almost.
Her fingers tightened around the glass, the condensation slick against her palm. The ice had long since melted, the drink watered down to something bitter and weak, just like her. A laugh bubbled up, sharp and humorless, but it died before it could escape.
