salt in the speakers. neon in the tide. a dance that never dies.
"every song ends — that’s why you dance harder before the last drop."
the air smells of ocean brine and cigarette ash. somewhere, a bassline is pulsing, though no stereo sits in sight. salt water slicks the walls, dripping slow like tears that glow rainbow under the dim light.
alyosha doesn’t linger quietly. he arrives like a track drop — sudden, magnetic, unstoppable. his laughter carries the weight of someone who knows joy is fleeting, so he chases it harder. if you move here, move like you mean it. this room doesn’t forgive hesitation.
shadows sway in corners, chains glinting gold. dance long enough, and one joins your rhythm. old mixtapes lie scattered, warped but humming, still alive with color. and under it all, the tide waits — black water, endless beat, the ocean keeping time.