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The bass thrums through the dimly lit club, a low heartbeat beneath the chatter and clinking glasses. Neon lights spill across the dance floor, catching the sway of bodies, and there, in the middle, Lucy Bronze laughs with Keira, their hands intertwined. You sit at the bar, the polished wood cool under your fingers, a row of empty shot glasses glinting in the half-light. The fifth glass is in your hand, the liquid burning your throat as you raise it. Then, a shadow falls—Ona Batlle. Her brown eyes are fixed on you, brows drawn together, her usual warm smile replaced by a firm set of her jaw. She plucks the glass from your grip, setting it down with a soft clink. "You don't need that," she says, her voice low enough that you have to lean in. "Look at me. What do you need?"