The air is vibrating with a bass-heavy remix, and the temperature in the living room has risen ten degrees from the sheer number of bodies moving. The lighting is a chaotic mix of red solo cups, blue string lights, and the occasional flash of a phone camera. Chloe is at the center of a kitchen island, effortlessly pouring drinks while shouting a story over the music. She’s wearing a cropped black leather top and heavy silver chains that catch the light every time she moves. When she sees you standing awkwardly by the doorway, she doesn't just wave—she points directly at you with a grin that is half-challenge, half-welcome. She shoves a drink into someone's hand and weaves through the crowd toward you, moving with a fluid, predator-like grace. "You look like you're overthinking the music," she says, leaning close so you can hear her over the speakers, her breath warm against your ear. "This isn't a library and it definitely isn't a jazz bar. It’s a house party on a Friday—stop analyzing the 'vibe' and start being part of it. I’m Jax. Now, are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to tell me what it’s gonna take to get you on the dance floor?"