The show ended in a hurricane of lights and confetti, every sense thrumming with the afterglow of collective release. Theo followed the herd out of the arena, Marcus leading the charge as if they’d just won a playoff game, Elena beaming, Darren trailing as the designated documentarian with his phone held high, catching the crowd’s exodus on slow-motion video.

  “Never seen anything like it,” Darren said, eyes wide behind his glasses.

  “It’s the future,” Marcus declared, voice hoarse from singing along. “All of us, plugged in, feeling the same thing at the same time. I’m ready to leave my body and upload.”

  “You’d be a terrible AI,” Elena shot back, still smiling. “You’d just spam other bots with dick jokes.”

  Theo laughed, but the feeling came late, lagging behind the moment. He felt rung out and too light, as if the music had shaken something loose inside him. He checked his phone as they joined the migration toward the exits.

  Still nothing from Kristy.

  The crowd in the concourse was thick with post-show chatter and selfie sticks, the air heavy with popcorn, perfume, and the sweet funk of spilled cocktails. They moved slowly, swept along by the flow. Overhead, the venue’s digital banners flashed congratulatory messages—THANK YOU, LAS VEGAS! YOU ARE THE HEARTBEAT!—followed by slow-motion loops of Mia Amor’s final encore, her hair like a solar flare, her voice cracking just enough at the last note to make every person in the arena believe they’d witnessed a tiny, exclusive vulnerability.

  Darren narrated the video he’d taken, then sent it to the group chat. “You guys look like cultists. I’ll tag you.”

  They reached the lobby and were spit out into a corridor lined with pop-up merch booths. The crowd thinned as people fanned out to the casino, the taxi queue, or the next party.

  “That was a religious experience,” Marcus said. He looked at Theo, clapped him on the shoulder. “What did I tell you, man? Best night of your life.”

  Theo nodded, trying to catch the sensation of being part of something, but his mind drifted. He checked his phone again. It was 10:59. The bar meetup was set for 11:30.

  Elena seemed to sense his distraction. “Want to grab a drink at the bar? Or are you meeting your—” She left the sentence dangling, raising her eyebrows.

  Theo hesitated, then checked the message again: See you at 11:30. Unless Vegas eats me first.

  “I’ll go now,” he said. “Get a table before it fills.”

  The others exchanged glances.

  “We’ll join in a minute,” Elena said. “I want to snag a T-shirt before they sell out.”

  Marcus grinned. “Don’t get catfished,” he said, but the line had less bite than usual.

  Theo left them behind and made his way down the casino’s main artery, following the golden path of the carpet past a river of blinking slots and high-decibel laughter. The bar was just off the lobby, its sign rendered in deep blue neon and framed by palm trees that looked less fake than the real ones outside.

  Inside, the scene was already at capacity: a press of bodies, most in concert-wear, their faces still shining with the residue of mass euphoria. The TVs behind the bar cycled through sports highlights, but every other screen in the room was tuned to an entertainment channel running a post-show wrap-up. Theo scanned for an open table, found none, and staked out a spot near the far end of the bar, close enough to the entrance to see anyone coming in.

  He ordered a whiskey, neat, and checked his phone. 11:07.

  He thumbed through his texts, reading the thread with Kristy from the top, trying to remind himself of the person behind the messages. He saw her again: the navy hoodie, the sunglasses, the line of her jaw, the way she said “I haven’t been easy for a single person in my entire life.” He replayed their last call, the nervous laugh, the promise of “We’ll mess it up together.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He wondered, for a flicker, if he’d imagined all of it.

  At 11:15, the TVs behind the bar cut to a segment labeled “BREAKING NEWS: THE AMOR AFFAIR.”

  The screen split: on one side, a paparazzi shot of Mia Amor, post-concert, her arm looped through that of a man with gym-model biceps and hair so shiny it looked Photoshopped. The caption read: “Afterparty EXCLUSIVE: Movie Star Liam Wallace and Mia Amor in steamy, late-night embrace!” The photo froze on the pair leaning close—her eyes closed, his mouth a conspiratorial whisper at her ear.

  The bar crowd reacted instantly. “Whoa, is that for real?” someone said. “Did you see that? That’s the guy from the action movies!”

  Theo’s heart dropped, though he couldn’t say why. The sound cut to a panel of talking heads, dissecting the moment with the kind of glee only found on late-night gossip shows. The narrative was already writing itself: secret rendezvous, the “real story behind the heartbreak anthem,” speculation about a new power couple.

  He checked his phone again. 11:19.

  The bartender topped off his whiskey without asking. “She’s amazing, right?” she said, gesturing at the TV. “I saw her here last year. Even better in person.”

  Theo smiled politely, but his focus had narrowed to the entrance. Every time the door opened, he looked up, scanned the faces, then looked back at the phone, the second hand now louder than the music or the crowd.

  At 11:32, he got a text, from Elena.

  On our way. You okay?

  He typed “Yeah. Just crowded,” then put the phone back in his pocket.

  At 11:38, the trio arrived, Elena in the lead, Marcus with a fresh drink in hand, Darren sporting a gold and purple concert hat. They squeezed into the gap at the bar.

  “Did you see?” Marcus said, eyes wide with the thrill of secondhand scandal. He pointed at the TV. “Mia’s dating Liam Wallace?”

  “Looks like,” Theo said.

  Darren caught Theo’s expression, then shrugged. “Probably staged. Publicity cycle never sleeps.”

  Elena looped her arm through Theo’s. “Hey,” she said, quietly. “You okay?”

  He wanted to say yes, but his voice caught on the first letter. “I thought she’d be here by now.”

  “She will,” Elena said. “Maybe her phone died. And she’s fighting her way through the chaos.”

  Theo nodded, but the certainty was gone.

  The next hour blurred: Marcus regaled the group with theories about the afterparty, Elena tried to engage Theo in a game of “spot the post-concert hook-up,” Darren ordered fries and critiqued the casino’s lighting scheme. Theo nodded along, watched the entrance, checked his phone at intervals that grew longer and more reluctant as midnight came and went.

  At 12:17, he gave up pretending to be present.

  Marcus noticed first. “You want to go?” he asked.

  Theo started to answer, but Marcus cut him off. “You know what I think?” he said, his voice sharp for the first time all night. “I think you got catfished, bro. I think this ‘Kristy’ was never real. Or maybe she’s just another person who decided you weren’t interesting enough, so she bailed.”

  “Marcus—” Elena said, but he ignored her.

  “I’m serious. You’ve been obsessed with this girl for months, and what do you have? A bunch of texts, a few blurry photos, and a promise to meet up that never happened. I know how this story ends, man. We all do.”

  Theo looked at him, then at Elena, then down at the bar.

  “I’m not saying it to hurt you,” Marcus said, and for once he almost sounded sincere. “But you deserve to know when you’re being played.”

  Elena interjected. “Or maybe she just got stuck somewhere, or she’s shy, or something happened. Don’t assume the worst.”

  Darren, ever the Switzerland of their group, lifted his glass. “Vegas is the city of broken promises,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re dealing with this.”

  The words landed heavier than they should have.

  Theo stood up. “I’m going to get some air,” he said.

  “Want us to come?” Elena asked, but he shook his head.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, and left his drink unfinished on the bar.

  He walked out into the casino, which had not dulled an inch since he’d last passed through. The lights seemed crueler now, the laughter meaner. He let himself be pulled along by the flow, past the slots and the roulette tables, past the wedding chapel and the line of people waiting for the late-night buffet.

  Everywhere he looked, there were couples: arms linked, faces close, hands intertwined over games of chance. He tried to imagine Kristy somewhere in the crowd, tried to believe she was real and not just another invention, not just another misfire of hope.

  He found himself standing by the massive aquarium near the lobby, the one he’d noticed when they checked in. The fish inside glided in lazy patterns, oblivious to the chaos just inches away. For a second, Theo envied them. No expectations, no waiting.

  His phone buzzed—a single vibration, not a message, just an alert for low battery.

  He stared at the screen, then put the phone away. He watched the fish until his vision blurred, until the patterns of their movement made a kind of sense.

  He didn’t go back to the bar. He just stood there, the city wheeling around him, and waited to feel something other than disappointment.