Ronan lay in the dark, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps. The silence was thick, suffocating, pressing in on him like a weight. He could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his ears, each thump heavy and uncertain. Then, a shift. The air in the room turned dense, charged with something unseen. The darkness wasn’t just an absence of light—it was alive, coiling around him like something sentient. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, but the floor beneath him didn’t feel like wood anymore. It was softer, damp, pulsing with an unnatural warmth. A slow, wet breath exhaled from the abyss, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.


    Then, a whisper. Not words, not yet. Just the suggestion of sound, curling at the edges of his perception, as if something massive was looming just beyond the threshold of reality. He tried to move, but the floor beneath him seemed to stretch, shifting under his palms like the skin of some great, slumbering beast. His stomach twisted. Light. Not real light—something dim, sickly, flickering like a dying bulb in an abandoned hallway. It revealed only fragments, glimpses of something forming in the dark. A shape, indistinct at first, shifting in and out of focus. Then the pieces started coming together. A doorway. A flickering neon sign humming faintly in the distance. A room he knew too well.


    Ronan’s breath caught in his throat as the scene solidified around him. He wasn’t in the house anymore. He was back in a dingy motel room, the air stale with cigarette smoke. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled, the nightstand littered with empty bottles and crushed pill packets. And standing by the window, her arms crossed over her stomach, was Clara. She turned slowly, her eyes meeting his, and he felt his insides twist.


    “Ronan,” she whispered, voice brittle, fragile. “You promised.” Ronan staggered back, his pulse spiking. “No,” he breathed. “This isn’t real.”


    Clara’s face contorted, hurt bleeding into something colder, something sharp. “You said it was real,” she said, taking a step toward him. “You told me I meant something to you.”


    Ronan’s head spun. He could still hear the whispering in the dark, the presence curling around the edges of the memory like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.


    “You said we’d figure it out together,” Clara continued, her voice cracking. “You told me you’d be there.” Her hands trembled as she touched her stomach. “And then you told me to get rid of it.” Ronan clenched his jaw, his breathing ragged. “Stop,” he muttered. “This isn’t—this isn’t real.”


    Clara’s expression darkened. The flickering light overhead cast harsh shadows across her face, her eyes sinking deeper, her skin turning colourless. “You threatened me,” she said, her voice no longer fragile, no longer weak. “You told me if I didn’t do it, I’d regret it.”


    The room distorted, warping around them. The walls cracked, peeling, black mold spreading like veins. Clara’s eyes darkened, bleeding into the abyss.


    “Tell me, Ronan,” she whispered, stepping closer, her face inches from his. “Do you regret it?”


    Ronan stumbled backwards, but there was nowhere to go. The floor swallowed his feet, the walls stretched, and Clara’s voice multiplied, layering over itself in distorted echoes.


    The whispering stopped.


    A voice, deep and ancient, slithered through the air.


    “You should.”


    And with that, the world collapsed.


    Ronan stood in the darkness, but the past had already wrapped its claws around him, dragging him back into the filth he’d spent years trying to outrun. The shadows shifted, and suddenly, he wasn’t in the house anymore. He was somewhere else—somewhere worse.


    The penthouse. Golden light streamed in through floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the city stretching endlessly beneath him. Glass coffee tables cluttered with half-empty bottles, powder-lined mirrors, and cigarette butts. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, booze, and something acrid, something chemical. And Clara. She was curled up in the corner, knees to her chest, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts—his name scrawled across the front in bold lettering, a cruel joke. Her face was swollen, one eye ringed with deep purple, a cut splitting her lower lip.


    Ronan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Please. Please stop!” But then she looked up. And it was real. It had always been real. Clara’s fingers trembled as she wiped at the blood smeared across her cheek. Her body was too thin, her ribs visible beneath her skin stretched tight from starvation and stress. She hadn’t eaten in days. He hadn’t let her.


    “Why are you doing this?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.


    Ronan remembered this. Not just the moment—but the feeling. The rush. Because he liked it. The way she cowered when he raised his voice. The way her breath hitched in her throat whenever he so much as moved. The knowledge that she was his, that she couldn’t leave unless he let her. And he wouldn’t.


    Clara’s tears fell freely now, but she didn’t sob—she had learned not to.


    “You’re so fucking dramatic,” his voice sneered from somewhere behind him. The past playing out like a nightmare on repeat. “This is your fault, Clara. You know how I get when you push me.”


    His stomach turned, bile rising in his throat.


    He watched himself stalk toward her, the version of him that had been lost in the coke-fueled frenzy of power and possession. He had already forgotten why he was angry—there had been no reason. There was never a reason. She just was. And that was enough.


    “I loved you,” Ronan murmured, barely recognizing his own voice.


    The past-Ronan scoffed. “You don’t fucking leave the people you love, Clara.”


    She flinched, shoulders curling inward as his fingers ghosted the bruises on her arms.


    Ronan’s breath hitched. He wanted to stop this, to tear himself out of the memory, but it was alive now. It would play itself out, no matter what he did.


    “I didn’t want to be this,” he whispered to himself. But that was a lie.


    He had wanted it. The power. The control. He had loved how easy it was to break her down, to keep her caged. Fame had made him a god. Fortune had given him worshippers. And drugs…


    Drugs had made him invincible. Until Clara tried to kill him. The memory twisted. The penthouse melted, reshaping itself into a different night. Cold tile beneath his back. The bathroom floor. Clara standing over him, hands shaking, one clutching a kitchen knife so tight her knuckles had gone white.


    “I can’t do this anymore,” she had whispered.


    The blade pressed against his throat. A warning. A promise. For the first time in years, Ronan had felt afraid. But he had laughed. Even now, he could still feel the sting of it, the rush of knowing she was just as desperate as he was. That she needed him just as much as he needed her.


    "You won’t do it," he had told her, voice slurred with drugs and exhaustion. "You don’t have it in you."


    She had stood there, frozen, for what felt like forever. And then she dropped the knife.


    Ronan blinked. And by the time he lifted his head, she was gone. She had escaped.


    The drugs had gotten worse after that. The scene shifted again, snapping him forward in time. He was in a dimly lit apartment now—Matt’s apartment. His best friend, his only friend, sitting on the couch, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, looking at Ronan with barely concealed exhaustion.


    “I don’t know, man,” Matt muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “That shit’s heavy.”


    Ronan shoved a needle into his arm, barely flinching as the rush kicked in, his entire body weightless, untouchable. “You trust me, don’t you?”


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Matt hesitated.


    Ronan grinned lazily, leaning back against the cushions. “Come on, Mattie. Just one time.”


    Matt exhaled slowly. He didn’t want to do this. But Ronan knew him. Knew how to break him down.


    “We’ve been through everything together, right?” Ronan’s voice was slow, smooth, slipping between them like silk. “I’d never let anything happen to you.”


    Matt swallowed hard. His fingers curled around the syringe.


    And he nodded. Ronan felt his stomach drop. He wanted to scream. To stop this. But it was already too late. It had always been too late. The memory shattered. And Ronan fell.


    Ronan’s hands gripped the sink, knuckles white, his breath heavy and slow. The nightclub bathroom smelled like piss, sweat, and the artificial sweetness of cheap perfume. His reflection in the mirror was barely recognizable—skin pale under the flickering fluorescent light, eyes glassy, jaw slack. His pupils were blown wide, evidence of whatever the hell he had taken an hour ago. He didn’t care. He barely felt anything at all.


    Behind him, the girl was fixing her hair, dragging a trembling hand through strands that had stuck to her forehead. Her makeup was smeared, dark streaks of mascara trailing down her cheeks, her lipstick a blurry stain. She wasn’t crying, but she looked like she should be.


    She was gorgeous. Too gorgeous for him. Skin smooth, body perfect, lips plump and red. She had thrown herself at him earlier, whispering something about how she had been following him for years, how she couldn’t believe she was finally here, with him. She had laughed at all his jokes, touched his arm every time he spoke, and made sure he knew she wanted him.


    But now, standing there in the filthy bathroom, she looked used up. Hollow. Like she had given something away she didn’t quite realize she couldn’t get back.


    Ronan turned, eyes sweeping over her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say.


    The sex had been quick, rough and meaningless. He had pulled up her skirt, shoved her against the wall, and taken what she so eagerly offered. She had gasped, had clutched onto him, but it had all been mechanical. No connection. No pleasure. Just friction, motion, an empty performance. Her moans had sounded rehearsed; like she had learned them from watching too many porn videos, playing the role of the starstruck girl who got lucky. He had barely felt anything. She probably hadn’t either. Still, she had smiled at the end. A tired, forced thing. Like she knew what was expected of her. Ronan lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The taste was stale. He exhaled through his nose, flicking ash onto the cracked tile floor before glancing back at her. She was still standing there, looking at herself in the mirror, adjusting her skirt like she could make herself look untouched again.


    “Was it good for you?” he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.


    She hesitated, just for a second. Then, her lips curled into something resembling a smirk, her eyes were wide with forced enthusiasm. “Oh, yeah. You rocked my world!” she said, voice light, almost teasing. Ronan stared at her. He wanted to say something—wanted to tell her not to bullshit him, not to pretend this was anything but what it was. But instead, he just took another drag of his cigarette. He grabbed her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to meet his. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t pull away. He held her there, just for a moment, studying her, before letting go.


    Then, he turned, tossing the cigarette onto the floor. It landed near her feet, still smouldering.


    “See you around,” he muttered as he pushed the door open.


    The music hit him like a wave, pulsing, drowning out everything else.


    “Jesus, man.”


    Matt was suddenly in front of him, hands up, eyes darting around. “Put your dick away.”


    Ronan blinked, looking down. He hadn’t even realized his fly was still open.


    Matt sighed, reaching out and quickly yanking up Ronan’s zipper. “Get your shit together.”


    Ronan barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere, floating in some hazy fog. The bass of the music vibrated through his chest, but it all felt distant.


    The girl stepped out of the bathroom, head high, expression unreadable. Her friends were waiting just outside, giggling, whispering, watching her expectantly. She adjusted her skirt one last time, then turned to them with a smirk.


    “You look like shit,” one of them teased.


    She didn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, she looked at Ronan. Their eyes met, and for the first time, he saw the regret flicker beneath her practised smile.


    But then she squared her shoulders, smirk widening. “What can I say? He likes it rough,” she declared, loud enough for everyone around to hear. “He was amazing. Best I’ve ever had.”


    The words felt rehearsed. He knew what she was doing. She had to say it like that. Had to make it sound like a brag. If she admitted she felt used, it would all come crashing down.


    One of her friends squealed in excitement, pulling out her phone. “Everybody! This bitch just fucked RoRo-Styles?”


    The girl grinned, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Ronan looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something. A tight, sick feeling curled in his gut.


    He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to do this. She didn’t have to pretend. She could just hate him. Instead, he just nodded once, like it was all true, like it was all fine.


    Then he turned to Matt.


    “Let’s get out of here.”


    Matt followed Ronan outside, the thick club air still clinging to their clothes. The night was damp, the pavement glistening beneath the neon haze of a flickering streetlamp. The bass from the club still throbbed behind them, but out here, the noise felt distant, like a dream bleeding away into the edges of something much darker. The sky above was heavy with thick clouds, the city beyond a blur of smeared lights, restless and uncaring. Ronan pulled out a joint, lighting it with hands that barely shook. He took a slow drag, inhaling deep before passing it to Matt. The smoke curled between them, an unspoken truce, a ritual they had repeated countless times before. But this time, it felt different. This time, it felt like something was ending.


    "I miss her, man," Ronan admitted, his voice quieter than it had been all night. "Clara."


    Matt took a drag, exhaling through his nose, watching the smoke disperse into the night. "Yeah… I know, Buddy."


    Ronan let his head lull back, staring up at the empty sky. "I did her dirty, man. I did her so fucking dirty. And she—she fucking loved me, man. And I just..." He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. "I kept her locked in that house like she was mine to own. And—I liked it. I liked knowing she needed me, that I could stop her from leaving. I liked having that power. And then one day she just—she tried to fucking kill me."


    Matt turned his head, studying him. "That’s not love, Ro. That’s toxicity."


    Ronan barked out a humourless laugh. "No shit."


    Matt reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded pamphlet, pressing it into Ronan’s palm. Ronan looked down at it. Rehab. Some private clinic upstate.


    "You should go," Matt said simply. "It''s not too late."


    Ronan scoffed, but there was no real fight in it. "What if I don’t deserve to be saved?"


    Matt shook his head. "Ronan… you’re my best friend. My brother. I want you to be saved."


    Ronan had no answer. The weight of the paper in his hand felt heavier than it should have been. He threw it in the car through the lightly opened window.


    "Alright," he muttered. "One last dance before I clean up?" he brandished a bag of acid.


    Matt frowned. "Let’s just go home, man."


    "Nah." Ronan shook his head, grinning, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Come on. Let’s drive. Windows down, and feel. Feel everything."


    Matt hesitated, and that was all it took. Ronan pulled out two tabs of acid, pressing one into Matt’s palm. "One last ride. One last dance before I get clean. Come on, Mattie. One more time, let’s just go all out, and then I swear, I’ll get clean. Please, just feel this with me, brother. One last time. What do you say?"


    Matt sighed but nodded. "Alright. One last time."


    They drove to the lookout point, where the city sprawled below them in an ocean of golden lights. The acid was starting to kick in, making everything too bright, too alive. Matt sat on the hood of the car, knees bouncing, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.


    "Man, I don’t like this," he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. "Feels wrong."


    Ronan lit a glass pipe and held it out. "Here. This’ll even it out."


    Matt stared at the crack rock burning, at the way the smoke curled like a beckoning finger. He shook his head. "No, man."


    "Come on," Ronan coaxed. "You trust me, right? You''re my baby, and Daddy will take care of you." he teased, leaning closer to Matt.


    Matt pushed Ronan away hard. Ronan just laughed hysterically, but the pipe had somehow made its way into Matt’s hand. He hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he took the pipe and inhaled.


    The drive back was a blur of neon smears and laughter that didn''t belong to them. The car felt weightless like it was floating, the music on the radio blending into the pulse in Ronan’s veins. Matt was singing along, off-key, laughing too hard at nothing at all.


    "Red light," Matt said, voice still tinged with amusement.


    Ronan barely registered him.


    "Ronan. Red light."


    The words stretched.


    "RONAN! RED LIGHT!"


    A blinding impact. A sound like metal screaming. Glass exploding. The world flipping over itself.


    Ronan crawled out of the wreck, his body buzzing, his limbs disconnected from him. The music was still playing from the ruined car, distant and warped. He took a few shaky steps forward, his brain still swimming in chemicals, laughing at the sheer strength of the trip.


    "Ronan..."


    The voice was hoarse and ragged.


    He turned. Matt was crushed in the wreck, his body twisted, pinned between the mangled metal, one arm outstretched toward him. Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips, his breaths wet and uneven.


    "Help me... please..."


    Ronan stared. The world swayed, pulsing. It didn’t feel real. Couldn’t be real.


    Matt’s fingers twitched. A shuddering inhale.


    "Ro, please—"


    Ronan turned away, giggling at the vivid hallucination, still high, still weightless.


    He walked away. The music faded. The laughter died.


    Ronan lay on the cold floor, curled inward, sobbing into his palms. The room was empty and silent, save for the weight of his own guilt pressing down on him like a crushing tide. He had walked away. And now, in the suffocating dark, he finally understood—he had never truly left that night. It had followed him, festered inside him, hollowing him out until there was nothing left but this. A sob wrenched from his chest, raw and broken.


    He was alone.