Leo’s apartment smelled like an early hangover: spilled alcohol, sweat of anxiety disguised as fun, and the sweet vapor of dying Juuls. It was the scent of an end—of a night, of a love, of an illusion that refused to die. He leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, the dead Juul weighing in his pocket like a revolver without bullets. He needed to leave. The party was a corpse still writhing to the sound of a random playlist.