"Leo! Tell me you got the passcodes for the basement set," a girl shouted over the noise, her phone already out, filming a transition for her story.

A mix of extreme adrenaline and the quiet "after-party" burnout.

The neon lights blurred into a single, electric hum as Leo pushed through the front door of the hills mansion. At seventeen, he wasn't just attending the party—illegally or otherwise—he was the reason half the people were there.

The air inside smelled like expensive cologne and strawberry vape clouds. Music throbbed through the floorboards, a heavy bassline that settled right in his chest. In this world, social currency was the only thing that mattered. A tagged photo with the right creator was worth more than a paycheck; a cold-shoulder from a promoter could end a week's worth of hype.