Roman POV
By midnight, I couldn't take it anymore.
The silence. The door between us. The look in her eyes when she saw the blood on my hands.
So I called Alex.
“Meet me at that place near Seventh,” I said. “Need to get out of my f*****g head.”
Half an hour later, we were inside—sweaty bodies pressed together, bass heavy enough to crack bones, lights strobing like broken memories. The place reeked of perfume, smoke, and cheap intentions.
But at least it wasn’t silent.
Alex handed me a drink, already halfway into his second. “Bro, you need this,” he said over the music, slapping my shoulder.
I nodded, downing the glass in two gulps. It burned like it should. But it didn’t fix s**t.
We moved through the crowd. Heads turned. Eyes followed.
Some of them recognized me. Some didn’t nee
