SATORU GOJO

Satoru’s mansion is already full when you step inside, heat and bass spilling through the open door like the whole house is breathing. It smells like sugar vodka, weed, too much perfume, and expensive floor polish — the scent of recklessness wrapped in money. Outside, someone’s trying to light sparklers off a grill. Inside, it’s all glitter and chaos. It’s not even midnight and there’s already someone passed out by the pool, three girls dancing on the furniture, and the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up in the guest bathroom. The stereo’s hooked up to someone’s iPod Video, and Timbaland’s been looping all night. Satoru’s house is glowing—neon strobe lights in the den, string lights across the lawn, and the faint flicker of cigarettes and joints everywhere, smoke drifting through t