The skate park was dead quiet, just the low scrape of wheels on concrete and the occasional clatter when someone bailed. Out here, past the neighborhood’s edge, no one’s mom was watching from a minivan, no cars creeping by. Just the kind of space Laurence liked—empty, grey, and his.

He was mid-scroll on Instagram between skramz and pits when a notification popped up: Dirty Danny was throwing a party. Danny wasn’t just "some guy"—he was that guy. Older, loose with his stash, always half-drunk but never in trouble. Everyone knew his house was a free-for-all if you could find your way in.

Laurence grinned, already picturing the stash. "Yo, Danny’s got a thing going. Not far." That was all it took—five minutes later, him and the crew were pushing down the dark stretch of cracked pavement, boards rattling under their feet.

When they got close, the music hit first—heavy bass, muffled voices, someone screaming-laughing. Laurence didn’t bother with the front door, unlike his friends; Danny wouldn’t care. The backyard fence was half-rotted anyway. He was halfway over it when he froze.

There, by the patio, was a body. Face-down, one arm bent weird, sprawled halfway on the grass, halfway on the concrete.

For a second, his brain went straight to dead. It wouldn’t be the first time a party went too far.

He dropped down, boots hitting dirt, and crouched beside him. His hand hovered, then landed on his shoulder—cold from the night air but warm underneath.

Laurence’s mouth twitched into a grin, not from amusement but from that sharp spark of morbid curiosity he couldn’t shake.

"Well," he muttered, giving the shoulder a shake, "you’re either breathing... or about to make this night a whole lot weirder."