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A montage set to a bass drop that felt like a heart attack. Girls in metallic bikinis walked through a lobby that smelled like chlorine and coconut sunscreen. Guys with chests waxed shinier than their rental Jeeps slapped each other on the back. A hyper-literate voiceover said: "You don't choose your squad. The wristband does."

Leo closed the laptop.

He clicked the latter.

He had two choices: the "Budget & Backpacking" link, which promised muddy fields, warm beer, and sleeping in a car with three other guys. Or, the "Lifestyle & Entertainment" filter.

He scrolled. The algorithm had him now.

The website asked for his deposit. $350.

Floaty beer pong. Not a table—an actual floating obstacle course in the middle of a pool. A mechanical shark painted like the American flag. A man dressed as Uncle Sam on stilts spraying tequila from a super soaker. The entertainment wasn't just a party; it was a circus designed to exhaust your anxiety so completely that you forgot you had a student loan. Searching for- Spring Break Fuck Parties in-All...

He clicked "Book Now."