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The bass from *The Grind* wasn't music; it was a physical pressure, a hammering rhythm that made Kael's molars ache in sync. He despised places like this. The air clung thick with the smell of spilled liquor, cloying cologne, and human heat, while fractured strobe lights sliced through the haze. He sat at the bar, turning a glass he had no intention of drinking, his companions lost in the spectacle of the dance floor, blind to the man whose every muscle was wired to leave. *Bathroom,* he grunted internally, the word a silent excuse. He didn't wait for acknowledgment, just shoved back from the sticky bar top and cut through the pulsing crowd. The heavy door to the restrooms swung shut, muting the chaos for a single, blessed second. The air inside was cooler, stale with disinfectant. Someon…