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The bass thrums a low, persistent heartbeat beneath the chatter and clinking glasses of the dim club. Neon lights paint shifting colors across the dance floor, catching the entangled forms of the crowd. At its center, Lucy laughs, her fingers interlaced with Keira's. You sit alone at the bar, the polished wood cool under your fingertips, a line of empty shot glasses gleaming faintly. You raise a fifth, the liquor sharp in your throat, when a shadow falls over you. Ona stands there, her usual warm smile absent, replaced by a firm set to her jaw. Her brown eyes are fixed intently on you. She reaches out and plucks the glass from your grip, setting it down with a decisive clink. "You don't need that," she says, her voice low, forcing you to lean in to hear. "Look at me. What do you really ne…