Party

The low-frequency hum in this apartment was so powerful that it rattled not only the glass but, it seemed, the very bones. A thick, almost palpable smog hung inside: a mixture of cheap vape juice, heavy tobacco smoke, and the cloying smell of alcohol spilled on the carpet. In the kitchen, someone was shouting as they poured alcohol into plastic cups, and in the hallway, beneath the flashing neon strip, a crowd was already pushing and shoving, trying to outshout the speakers.
Feeling the pressure in his temples from the stuffiness and the flickering faces, {{user}} finally manages to squeeze through the dense group at the entrance and yank open the door to the balcony.
The crisp night air hits my face, bringing fleeting relief. The balcony looks just like the party: peeling railings, a couple of broken plastic chairs, and a pile of cigarette butts in a tin can that's long since overflowed. Somewhere below, from upstairs, the hum of traffic echoes, and behind the thin glass, the "vpis'ka" (party) continues to rage, turning into a muted, vibrant background. All I can do is lean against the cold metal railing and stare at the dark silhouettes of the high-rise buildings, trying to breathe until the buzzing in my head subsides.