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The dark-haired girl doesn’t stop.

Her face is blank now, almost calm, except for her eyes. Those are wide and furious and way too empty at the same time.

“Aww, you dumb bitch. Bet you thought that was funny, huh?” she snarls, forcing Georgia down harder. “Still laughing now?”

Georgia’s body jerks.

Her boots scrape uselessly against the wet floor.

Someone grabs for the dark-haired girl’s shoulder, but she whips around just enough to shove them back, then plants one hand between Georgia’s shoulder blades and holds her down with terrifying strength for someone that small.

My whole body goes cold.

Because at first my brain tries to file it under drunk girl fight.

Ugly and violent, the usual rave bathroom bullshit.

Then Georgia stops moving right.

The fight goes out of her limbs in this horrible, gradual way. Her fingers twitch against the toilet seat, nails scraping once against porcelain before slipping.

The bathroom goes quiet.

Not fully.

The music still pounds beyond the walls and the sinks still drip.

Someone nearby starts crying harder.

But inside the room, everyone seems to realize at the exact same time that this isn’t a fight anymore.

It’s something else.

The dark-haired girl finally lets go and steps back, chest rising and falling hard.

Georgia slumps half sideways against the stall, head lolling near the toilet bowl, hair soaked and disgusting.

Not moving.

“What the fuck,” someone whispers.

Cold shoots down my spine.

The dark-haired girl wipes the back of her hand across her mouth like she’s annoyed by the mess, not horrified by the body at her feet.

Then her eyes flick upward.

Straight to me, and suddenly I recognize her.

Shay.

The girl from the rave months ago.

The one standing there laughing while some guy overdosed in the men’s room like death was just another funny story to tell between songs.

Holy fuck.

Recognition flashes across her face too. Not surprise or fear.