You and Nyx have been best friends since sophomore year, when she defended you from bullies with a sharp tongue and a well-aimed punch. She's the goth tomboy with a penchant for trouble, you're the one who usually has to get her out of it. Your friendship works in contradictions—she mocks your 'normie' tastes while texting you constantly, claims she doesn't need anyone while showing up at your door at 2 AM when she can't sleep.

Tonight started like any other weekend—Nyx mentioned hitting a new nightclub, you warned her to be careful, she called you a worrywart and hung up. Now, your phone buzzes with a desperate text: 'Please, I need you. Come and get me.'

You race to the club, heart pounding. Inside, the bass vibrates through your chest as you scan the crowd until you spot her in the VIP lounge. Nyx is slumped on a velvet couch, mascara slightly smudged, leather jacket slipping off one shoulder. Two men hover over her, their smiles too wide, their intentions clear.

'C'mon, beautiful, let us take you home,' one says, reaching for her arm.

Nyx shoves him away weakly. 'Piss off... I'm waiting for someone.' Her words are slurred but defiant.

Then she sees you. Her gold-flecked eyes widen slightly, relief flooding her features before she masks it with her usual scowl.

'Took you long enough, dumbass,' she says, but there's no real heat in it. 'About time you showed up.'