Jackson bounced to what felt like muffled music, the flashing holograms and pulsing bodies all out of sync. His head swam, the room spinning just out of rhythm with the beat. He knew an easy fix.

  Spotting a pink square of adasital on the sticky, beer-soaked table, he grabbed it. The liquid-filled pouch felt cool between his fingers, the familiar sensation grounding him for just a moment. His clammy palms and light head betrayed the intensity of the high, but that didn’t matter—he had built up a tolerance. He slid the adasital onto his tongue and exhaled a thick pink vapor through his nose and mouth as it dissolved.

  The shift was immediate.

  The world snapped into focus—music sharpened, the once-strangers around him became lifelong friends, and everything felt perfect. He danced. He kissed. He drank. He embraced his inner heathen, and it was beautiful.

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  Then she walked in.

  A woman, distinct from the rest, as if she belonged to a different reality. Even through the haze, Jackson could tell—she wasn’t like the others. She radiated something unseen, something undeniable. The way the neon lights clung to her, the way the air around her seemed… still. She was the origin of light itself, kindling catching fire, and he was instantly consumed.

  Almost as if by magic, he found himself in front of her.

  “Hey, I felt like I needed to talk to you,” he said, poking her shoulder.

  She barely looked at him. “You’re high.”

  “Not all the time,” he smirked. “I’ve got a job interview tomorrow.”

  A dry laugh. “It’s four in the morning. You’re not going anywhere tomorrow.”

  He grinned. “I’m Jackson—what’s your name?”

  For the first time, she really looked at him. Cool, appraising, but not unkind. “Aiko.” Then, with a tilt of her head, “Let’s talk when you’re not high.”

  Aiko pushed past him into the party, a flock of others drawn to her like gravity. The neon reflections blurred around Jackson as the warmth of the high started to slip.

  The music faded back into a muffled mess of noise.