Honey brown irises peered down through red-tinted sunglasses at the scene below. From up high on the private upper deck of the Red Note, a club that served vampires at the upper echelons of wealth and influence, Tobias watched. He always took pride in seeing the many patrons below indulging in the finest quality of blood, alcohol, and entertainment, but the crowd was lighter than usual this Saturday night. Chairs and even tables that would brim with his kind were left vacant and untouched, while the staff appeared to be patrolling their tables far too easily to his liking.

He knew why it was not bustling like it normally was, but knowing that did not prevent the wound to his ego. There was no impending raid or war that induced fear or the need to prioritize other matters that struck this blow. It was simply another source of entertainment.

Only one night. Tobias gently rubbed his index finger against his full-finger ring. Only one night. He tried to cope, but what he truly needed was a remedy to this ailing problem. It was still quite early, so he could capitalize on the time he had to liven up the establishment.

Raising his left hand, he snapped twice, and in an instant, Frank, a blue-eyed Blooded vampire wearing a burgundy tuxedo shirt and black slacks, was at his side. Tobias nodded to himself, affirming the idea he had in mind without facing the member of the staff before he spoke.

“I expect fewer patrons tonight. Many of our regulars are likely going to that concert.” He spoke softly, but the last word, he said with disgust. He placed his hands against the metal railing of the deck, and again he nodded to himself in affirmation, creating a short moment of silence in his dialogue with Frank, who remained still and prepared to listen to his elder. “We’re lowering our standard admission fee, we’ll permit our patrons to bring in their Thralls and Dolls for half the normal charge, and we’ll extend the Happy Hour up until 10 pm… Inform the promoters. Concert or not, I want these seats filled.” And with a lazy wave of his hand, Tobias dismissed Frank, who left as quickly as he arrived at his side.

For the time being, Tobias would keep his eyes on the band, playing the smooth jazz that soothed the ears and loosened any tension of his treasured patrons. However, it would not be long before he found himself in the chambers below, entertained by a very different kind of passion and indulgence.

The neon lights streaked across the windshield as Casey gunned through the streets, weaving through traffic like the city belonged to her. Horns blared, lights flashed, but it only fed her grin. She glanced in the rearview mirror to catch the glaring eyes of the driver tailing too close.

“Come to play?” she asked, shifting gears, sliding into the next lane and easing off the gas until both cars rolled to a stop at the red light. She caught the driver’s smirk from the corner of her eye as he revved his engine. Her lips curled, "Not tonight." She revved her engine hard, the vibration rattling through the street like a promise. Her grin widened as the light changed from red to green. She slammed on the gas, tires squealing against the asphalt as her car shot forward, leaving her challenger swallowed in a cloud of burning rubber and smoke. The night was her playground.

One hand was steady on the wheel, her other scrolling through her phone’s contact list, eyes flicking between the glow of the screen and the blur of the road ahead. Her thumb hovered over a name Damon Kessler, about as exciting as dry toast, but hell, did he know how to fuck.
There was no room in her life for romantic attachment, and their night together was primal. His hands were rough, and hers demanding, their movements ravenous. Grazing teeth, kisses that landed hard, ragged breaths in the dark. The air thick with sex and sweat. No soft words or lingering touches, just the drive for release, leaving them both exhausted and satisfied.

Lost in thoughts of that night, she nearly missed her destination. She pulled into a dimly lit parking lot, the engine quieting as she set the car in park. Though she loved the rush of speeding through the night, she always welcomed the cool night air against her skin.
The nightlife thrived in the gritty corners, dark alleys lit only by flickering signs, underground clubs pumping bass that rattled your bones, the scent of street meat sizzling nearby. Laughter and shouted conversations spilled onto the streets, blending with the distant sound of sirens. It was a beautiful, chaotic symphony, one she had always known, one that would always feel like home.

A quick glance at her watch told her it was still too early for the show, but she wasn’t missing the return of Vein Theory. Boredom tugged at her as she lingered on the sidewalk. She unlocked her phone, staring at the name again. Repeats weren’t her thing.Onenight stands were easy, clean, and forgettable.
Yet her fingers moved anyway, typing before she could talk herself out of it:

'got some energy to burn….. thought you might want to help'

For a moment, hesitation held her, the cursor blinking like it was daring her.
Fuck it she hit send. She shook her head and laughed to herself, then shoved her phone back into the pocket of her cargo pants and kept walking.

Friday Night Flashback.

Immediately after leaving Wulde at the 'Neon Dream'

Kessler rode a safe distance from the roller rink. Safe meaning, far enough that he was on familiar ground, friendly territory, and then pulled over, letting the big bike settle into a lumpy, steaming idle while he stepped off, feeling the rain bead up and run off his kutte, and stepped off the side of the road, underneath a bus shelter, taking out his phone. He selected the photos Wulde had given him of the van arriving at the warehouse, and composed a short text, sending it immediately, having a short exchange with Dom.

Once that little job was done, Kessler looked up Erik Engstrom’s contact in his phone, and dialled it.

“Hello?”
“Hello Erik.” The phone the Fangs had given the Crime Scene lab technician was a burner, so there was no point in identifying himself. If the phone was ringing, it was obviously a Fang, and since Engstrom was in their pocket for an undisclosed infraction which would cost him his career if the Fangs were to let it get out, it was in Erik’s interest to play ball. “Can you talk?”

It was just after four in the morning… it was very likely he could, and would. Erik was a good little asset. “Yes. I can talk.”

“Good. I’m sending you two photos. Anyone can see, it’s a white 2004 Ford E-250. Common as muck. Gotta be 5,000 of them in the metro area. I need you to enhance the images. Determine if plates are legit, or stolen, if there was any record of an E-250 torched in the last three days, and if so, I need VINs and whereabouts, and points of origin. Who’s paying the bills, who owned it, and if possible, who stole it.”

There was a pause. Kessler thought he heard the sound of pencil on paper on the other end of the line. “That’s… that’s a big ask. It’ll take time, and some of what you’re asking, will raise flags in the precinct. Searching active case files, running plates…”

Kessler cut him off. “--Erik. You’re a smart kid. Get it done by noon. Tomorrow. And don’t let me down.”

There was the beginnings of protest on the other end of the line, but Kessler hung up. The kid was good. No question. They’d get what they needed. And with that information in hand, they’d be that much closer to the truth. With any luck Erik would connect the theft to a known gang, which might (or might not) correspond to a known (to the Fangs, but not likely the Police department) Fae or Bloodsucker group. Kessler didn’t want to make any guesses, but he was leaning Vamp, this time.

There was time to kill. Kessler put his phone away, and slid into the saddle of the big bike, twisting the grip a couple times to let the thunder of the twin remind him this was no dream. He flicked the gearbox into first, and tore away from the curb, into the pre-dawn gloom.

Saturday Night.

Kessler's place.

The beer wasn't cutting it. Erik had stalled today, which meant that Kess had to pay him a visit, and he simply wasn't in the mood. Ant there had been a whole day to kill, and much of the night too, before he was due to meet up again with the human, Wulde. In fact, there were still hours to go before that meeting. After the beer, the tequila, and the smoke had done little to take the edge off, he had turned to the Indian, Fab'ing up most of an exhaust from aftermarket bits from his spares bin (thank you, SoCal Speed Shop.) The vintage springer fork was giving him no end of problems, even after sandblasting, powder-coating, and a full disassembly. Finally, good ole' brute force and ignorance (as well as an aftermarket spring from H-D) helped him get the thing back together with the correct spring rate. Back together for the first time in maybe five years. A few more beers in triumph were feeling a bit more like it, and Kessler started thinking about his options. What if Wulde didn't come thru with more intel? What if Erik didn't come up with the goods re. the Econoline? He grudgingly admitted he needed to cast his net further afield.

He looked over at the workbench, at the flyer tacked to one of his tool drawers. "Vein Theory." One night only. He knew that would draw a massive cross-section of his quarry from all sides of Halcyon. Normally, he might have skipped it. But he needed to see who was out and on top of the world in his little slice of the gutter. 'Getting ready' meant wiping most of the grease off his hands, and shrugging out of his coverall, and into a clean shirt, sleeves rolled up till his forearms wouldn't allow any more, exposing 50 years of tattooing. He donned his kutte, his shades, and picked his RedWing Moc's, completing the look. As he was about to start the big, custom Fat Bob, his phone buzzed. Maybe Erik, or Dom? But it was from an unknown number.

'got some energy to burn… thought you might want to help'

He really needed to do better at saving contacts in his damn phone. Colour him intrigued. And frankly... in the same state.

He replied. 'I don't know... show me what I'd be missing out on.' And sent it. It was a whole lot better than asking 'who the hell is this?' He started the big Hog, the thunder of its straight pipes threatening to blow out the windows around him, and took off in the direction of 'The Underground...'

---

The night sky was starting to lighten noticeably by the time Field Warden Riddenhouse had finished his report about his encounter with Kessler, along with his request for a meeting, and sent these to Commander Verren. Their contents were bound to cause a stir, he knew. Whether that stir would result in something beneficial remained to be seen.

Another thing that would soon cause a stir was the spoon sitting in the steaming coffee mug on the table before him. The Wardens’ greatest weakness was their reliance on chemical enhancements. Of these, the most crucial, the one on which they relied most heavily, the one without which the entire organization would collapse, was this dark, addictive decoction brewed from the roasted and ground seeds of an exotic plant.

Wulde usually drank his coffee black, but right now he was in the mood for cream and sugar. Taking the spoon, Wulde swirled light colored vortices in the near-black liquid, stirring and blending until the whole mixture was a light brown. Then he removed the spoon, set it down on a napkin, and waited. For the coffee to cool, and for something else to happen.

The lounge fell into sudden silence as the doors slammed open.

Six of the Commander’s guards stormed in with flawless precision, their synchronized footfalls echoing through the room like a war drum. Clad in reinforced black armor with glowing visor strips and insignia tags identifying them as Command Tier Security, they moved in a tight diamond formation, weapons holstered but hands close—trained, lethal, unflinching.

Without acknowledging the startled stares of the onlookers, the formation cut across the lounge and came to a halt directly in front of Wulde’s table.

The front-most guard took one step forward, extending a gloved hand to place a sleek electronic tablet on the table before Wulde. It activated automatically, glowing with the unmistakable seal of the Commander.

No words were spoken.

The guards held their position for three beats, waiting.

Then, in perfect unison, they pivoted sharply on their heels and marched out just as swiftly as they had arrived, leaving behind only silence, tension, and the glowing summons on the table.

PRIORITY ONE: DIRECTIVE FROM COMMANDER VERREN
EYES ONLY — ENCRYPTION LEVEL: BLACK VEIL

This matter is urgent. You are to report to the Commander’s deck immediately.

Field intelligence and recent contact with the lycan referred to as Kessler has placed you on a short list of required personnel.
Clearance has been granted. You are expected within the next ten minutes.

At the bottom of the screen, a countdown had already begun. 00:09:52 and ticking down.

Wulde nearly blew coffee up his nose when the doors slammed open to admit six uniformed guards. These marched into the lounge, went up to his table, presented him with a tablet, then left without uttering a word. His mug was still poised within breathing distance of his pursed lips as the doors closed behind the departing group.

Wulde gingerly set the mug down and looked at the tablet, read the text, and noted the timer counting down from what he assumed had originally been ten minutes. There was enough time that he need not leap up immediately and sprint for the door, but neither could he tarry.

The television in the breakroom showed typical wee-hours programming: the opening credits of an ancient comedy series ran, in which the title character walked importantly through a hallway lined with a sequence of heavy, secure doors that opened and closed automatically as he went, accompanied by jazzy, catchy theme music. At the end, the man entered a telephone booth and then dropped from view, whereupon the broadcast cut to commercial.

While a particularly shouty spokesman extolled the near-miraculous properties of some obscure cleaning product, Wulde picked up his coffee again and gulped it down, faster than he would have liked, while it was still hotter than was comfortable. With rasping breath and tear-filled eyes, he rose to clean and dry out his mug, wiped his eyes and mouth,then returned to his desk, combed his hair, and straightened his clothes. His habits of cleanliness and neatness were strong even in the face of an urgent meeting with the Commander, and he carried out these routines quickly and efficiently, still having plenty of time as he set out at last for the austere corridors leading to the Command Center.

Those corridors, and their doors, reminded Wulde somewhat of the ones he had just seen on the tv show. Although there was no telephone booth, there was a small elevator that pulled him sharply into the bowels of the complex beneath the old firehouse that was the Bastion’s surface facade. Wulde did not often visit these underground levels, nor had he stood face-to-face with Commander Verren since the day he got his Iron Brand and promotion to Field Warden. Indeed, this would be his first time ever visiting the Commander’s deck.

As he approached the final door, the timer on the tablet showed that he had about a minute and a half to spare.

The Commander’s deck pulsed with red alerts and low mechanical whines. Smoke coiled in the air like a warning.

Verren sat in silence, the glow of monitors painting harsh angles across his scarred face. Cigar clenched between his teeth. Eyes locked.
He didn’t rise. Didn’t greet.

He watched Wulde approach so slowly, deliberately, as the last seconds ticked down.

Screens flickered: claw marks, thermal scans, shredded tech. Kessler. The Pack.

A muscle ticked in Verren’s jaw.

He exhaled smoke as the plume of foggy haze surfaced around him.

No words. Just judgment. His eyes pierced deeper with a stone-cold expression before ashing his cigar off to the side in an old coffee mug.

“Why is it, Warden Riddenhouse, that I’m reading a report about one of my own playing babysitter to a flea-bitten mutt?”

“Tell me. Did it wag its tail when you gave it orders, or just piss on your boots?” He sucked back on his cigar, watching him with little expression.

Field Warden Riddenhouse drew himself up straight as he entered the command room. He had expected to find in it a Faraday-caged menagerie of high-tech devices, with banks of gauges, timers, monitors, speakers, perhaps a giant lighted lucite map of Halcyon City; to an extent, he did find that. On one of the monitors the Warden recognized Kessler.

He had also thought that the air here would be antiseptic, clear, and rigorously climate-controlled; he had not anticipated the smell, sting, and haze of cigar smoke. Wulde, himself a neat-freaky non-smoker, didn’t like it. In the thickest part of that smoke, wreathed in a nicotine nimbus of authority and disapproval with notes of sandalwood and leather, sat Commander Dane Verren, regarding the new arrival with glinting, bloodshot eyes.

Without rising or otherwise stirring, the Commander spoke. His voice was hard, his tone accusatory, his questions confrontational and rude. He seemed displeased. After he finished, Wulde wasn’t happy, either. The Field Warden paused a beat to compose his response. When he spoke, it was to address the implied questions that actually mattered, not the explicitly-worded ones, which were stupid and insulting.

“Sir,” he began, then paused another beat: “If I understand you correctly, you want to know why I made the decisions I did during my encounter with Kessler. I did so because, at the time, it appeared the only way to defuse a situation that might otherwise escalate into full-on conflict with the Iron Fangs. Such a conflict would be bad for several reasons, one of which being that it would greatly hamper our ability to discover who has been picking on the ‘Fangs lately, something I was tasked to investigate. Offering to work with Kessler seemed the best chance for getting to the bottom of things.”

Wulde stopped. It would have been easy to talk too much, to further pollute the already smoky air with unavailing verbiage until the Commander inevitably cut him off, more annoyed than ever. Besides, the less he talked, the less smoke he would have to breathe in. If Verren had read his report, and listened to the attached audio of his exchange with Kessler, then he already knew what Wulde knew, including about the lycan’s cheeky request to meet with him. The ball was in the Commander’s court. Wulde remained silent and awaited his boss’ reply. He resisted the urge to hold his breath, which was tempting for more than one reason.

The Commander's chair creaked as he shifted, leaning forward just enough for his shadow to stretch across the desk. His voice cut through the haze, low and sharp.

“You gambled.” He let the word settle before continuing, slower now.“With my name. With our authority. With the leash we’ve kept tight on the Dogs.”His finger tapped once on the desk. The sound was soft, but it landed like a warning.

“And what if Kessler had gone for your throat instead of playing nice? What if your olive branch looked more like a white flag?”He paused again. Not long, but long enough to make it clear the question wasn’t rhetorical.“But. You're not wrong.”

The words weren’t praise. Just acknowledgment.“But don't mistake not being wrong for being right. We're walking a line so thin it is practically non-existent. And when you start dealing with wolves in the dark, you'd better be damn sure who’s holding the leash.”

There was a rustle of paper. The report, moved aside like it had told him everything he needed to know.

“Now. Tell me exactly what this Dog wants.” He leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers together. “if we had anything to do with, why would I share that information with some irrelevant lycan who thinks he's clever for barking at our gates?

So many poisons besides cigar smoke filled the air: accusations, criticisms, loaded questions, implied threats. Wulde worked to internalize as little of them as possible while he considered the Commander’s words, and how to respond to them.

”You say that I gambled, Sir,” he began, his tone level: ”yet I saw no risk-free option. You pose a bunch of ‘what ifs’, to which the only answer I could give is: I don’t know, Sir. If, for instance, I had simply attacked Kessler and managed to kill him, what would have happened next? Or what if I had sent him away empty-handed? What gambles would I have been taking then?” Frustrated, Wulde shook his head. ”Again, I don’t know. Do you know, Sir?”

The next item was irritating, yet more straightforward to respond to. ”Kessler wants to find out who killed Logan Delaney. So do I. We agreed to meet again in a day or so to discuss what if anything we managed to find out. He also said he wanted to meet you. I did not respond to that; it’s a presumptuous and unlikely request and not one I’m qualified to answer.” All of these were things the Commander should already know, as they were all in his report.

Wulde met Verren’s last question with a puzzled frown as he pondered the possibilities. ”It had not occurred to me that we had anything to do with it,” he conceded, although that was not strictly true; he had just quickly concluded that it made no sense. ”As to why you would pass such information on to the Iron Fangs, that obviously depends on what the point of killing Logan was in the first place.”

Wulde looked squarely at the hard, cold face of his boss. You want me to entertain this hypothetical? Fine, he thought. I’ll entertain it, then. I will show it the time of its life. ”The manner of Logan Delaney’s death suggests somebody trying to send a message. Is there a message, Sir?”

Verren sat in silence for a long moment, the kind that made the air feel thinner.

“You talk about risk like you had no choice,” he said at last, voice even, low. “You did. You had the Code. And you stepped around it.”

His gaze stayed locked on Wulde, his expression was direct as if studying a flaw in a blade.

“The supernatural are a cancer. Kessler is not a contact, Wulde. He’s a lycan. Vermin that need to be eradicated and you gave him a reason to return.

The faintest curl of his lip, gone as quickly as it came.

“Logan Delaney’s death is none of our concern. One less stray dog on the street. The Fangs are weaker for it, and that suits me fine. But every word you’ve traded with Kessler is another thread for him to pull. Threads become ropes. Ropes become nooses.”

A slow, deliberate tap of his finger against the desk.

“The Glamour must be protected. You’ve given a street animal an opening and in doing so, you’ve given me a liability.”

A pause, the gold in his eyes cold and unblinking.

“You took the oath. If you’re going to break it because you’re afraid of a pack of stray street dogs, then you’re not a Warden. I live, breathe, and I’m willing to die wiping out every single one of these monsters to protect humanity”

He leaned back, dismissive, already moving to other matters.

“Secure the meeting. Then get out of my sight. Someone else will handle what you should have done someone who still remembers what it means to wear this mantle.”

Wulde felt his stomach turn to ice as he listened to the Commander, ice in which flavors of apprehension, frustration, and disillusion swirled and clashed. He had always heard of Verren’s prowess as a tactician, as a strategist and planner, yet here was in evidence only reflexive hostility and rigid dogma.

”The Glamour must be protected” Verren had said, yet showed no curiosity when a new, as yet unidentified player emerged capable of challenging the Iron Fangs in their own territory and murdering their leaders. “You had the Code” the Commander had said, which Code he seemed to believe read: “Go for your gun the moment any non-human crosses your path, regardless of other considerations. It’ll be fine.”

There was nothing else to do here, apart from complying with his boss’ command to “secure the meeting.” Wulde thought that sounded oddly like: “Lure Kessler into an ambush,” but he kept that suspicion to himself. Rather, he drew himself upright and said

“Sir” in his best NCO’s ‘Sir’-as-a-four-letter-word tone. ”I shall send to Kessler now to arrange the meet. I will forward you the final details once they are confirmed. Sir.”

Pulling out his phone, Wulde sent Kessler a message precisely as he had said: “Verren has asked me to secure a meeting. Drunken Inn late tomorrow or night after. Let me know what time works for you.” With yet another curt “Sir” to his boss, the Warden then fulfilled the second part of the Commander’s directive: getting out of his sight. He made his way briskly, eagerly along the corridors leading back to the surface, relieved to at last be free of that polluted Command Deck.

As soon as possible thereafter, he would go home and dig out one of his father’s old burner phones to send Kessler a different message: “Tomorrow evening, Aisling Park. Any news on truck?” Wulde would just have to trust that Kessler would work out who the second message was from, even though the phone number would be unknown to him, just as it would be unknown to the Wardens. Sometimes, having had a crazy, paranoid survivalist for a dad came in handy.

Casey’s phone buzzed with a new message. She glanced down, a slow smirk curling her lips.
'I don't know... show me what I'd be missing out on.'
The words daring her on were exactly the kind of challenge she lived for; backing down wasn’t in her nature.

She spotted a small, dimly lit bar and decided to make a quick stop. The buzz of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air as she slipped inside.
She found the bathroom, its cracked mirror streaked with faint graffiti and pulled out her lipstick. Instead of words, she traced a bold, messy heart onto the glass.
She smiled at her reflection, carefully reapplying her red lipstick before striking a pose. Bent just enough to let her cleavage spill from the white crop top, black cargos riding low on her hips, a teasing flash of lace at her waistline, she winked and playfully stuck her tongue out at the mirror.

Satisfied with the shot, she snapped the picture, the cracked mirror capturing her bold, playful expression perfectly. She typed:
’thought you could handle this’
She hit send and slipped her phone back into her pocket.


Drinking her beer, Casey leaned back against the cool wood of the bar, a slow smile tugging at her lips as the rhythm of the music pulsed through her body. Her eyes scanned the crowd, but she let herself get lost for a moment in the beat, savouring the raw energy in the room.

A familiar face in the corner of her eye drew her attention, pulling her from the music’s hypnotic pull.
She turned slightly, sipping her beer. ‘Vex’ she was the definition of badass and the best tattoo artist in the city. She inked the serpent that slithered from Casey’s right ankle, coiling up around her thigh, then winding up her hip and her back. The serpent’s head, poised to strike, ended just below her collarbone, a permanent mark of power and danger.

Her eyes narrowed at the man who slid behind her. Casey knew Vex could handle herself, but she kept her eyes on them. For the most part, Casey liked to move through public spaces like a shadow, unseen, unnoticed, blending seamlessly into the background until she chose to reveal herself. The ring made her some enemies, whether it was someone nursing a lost bet or someone she’d beaten in the cage.

Casey grinned, seeing Vex’s fist collide with the man’s face, sending him stumbling backwards. With a final chug, she finished her beer, pushed off the bar, and slipped through the sea of gyrating bodies toward the dance floor.

"These guys fucking suck." Alicia said bluntly, leaning in to yell to William as loudly as was (questionably) polite. If anyone there was gonna be a critic, it had to be her after all. "It's the same pop-punk metalcore shit everyone else has done for years - like, 2013 called, y'know?" She laid on, not particularly caring if William understood a single thing she was talking about. "Like, man, your voice doesn't have the grit for those vocals, you're trying too hard. Give us some highs, dude!" She prattled on. "Actually, screw 2013, that was when all these fuckers hopped on the djent bandwagon and they don't even respect us enough to drop some 0s?"

She knocked back the rest of her beer and chucked it into the bin beside William with a clatter. She was in a foul mood after last night, to be sure. "Like c'mon, you guys don't fuck with any breakdowns? No guitar solos? Not even gonna let that bass breathe a bit? The song just comes and goes, just a fuckin' mess of grimy vocals about darkness - no subtlety in the songwriting, no imagination, no metaphor, nothing!" She opened her mouth to talk about the grimy songs about darkness she'd sung, but in a much more respectable way she promises, til she hesitated as the still-sober parts of her mind lit up. She eased up, straightening her back, and shoved her hands in her pockets.

She hadn't dressed up for the show. She was seeing Vein Theory for the first time - cool name, she reckoned, but she wasn't pulling out the full goth ensemble for anything less than... Ugh, why was she blanking on their names? Didn't matter, way cooler bands out there. She massaged her temples. Any regular concertgoer knows to bring earplugs if they don't want to deal with tinnitus - she needed the active noise cancelling on her earbuds dialed up fully, and it wasn't just because the band sucked.

She was visibly still frustrated after last night.

---

Blood Market Row was a fucking bust. Not like she had the first idea where to start - they started off meandering around the block, Alicia's ears pricked up for any sign of hushed conversation - but the trail there was cold. Or someone had been two steps ahead of them. She danced around William's question, but the quiet was growing far too awkward, even for her.

"Nah." She finally chipped in. "I uh... I've only been here a couple years. Y'know, there's scattered packs and communes and stuff outside Halcyon. I'm natural-born and shit, but I did a lot of uh... Touring the country." She said, wincing internally at her choice of words. "But the Fangs've been cool to me, so y'know, not exactly feeling alone out here. Stable, usually pretty easy 'n risk free work. Usually Dom's just sending me out to listen in on some dickhead techbros at Urban Grind or at Ashwell's. Hell, one time he actually gave me a wad of cash to sit next to a couple old rich ladies at Silverstrand, y'know, uptown. Best haircut I've got in my life." She said with a chuckle. "Overpriced as hell still, though."

She gave him a small half-smile, glancing out of the corner of her eye. "Your kind have the hard jobs. We just usually kick back. Good gig - least until it turns into..." She flailed her arms weakly at the sidewalk before them. "This. Wait... Hold that thought." She said, not caring that he hadn't actually said anything yet, as she squinted into the night.

_{"Yeah, word's that a few of the Fangs' dogs will be there."} A male murmured into his phone. _{"Hold on...} Hey, you fucks keep walking! Fuck're you looking at?!"

Alicia's lips spread. She couldn't resist. She mentally flashed back to her favorite late-90s shounen, All-Seeing Detective Kuro-san, confronting a suspect dramatically, arms crossed, as he called out an interesting line she'd overheard. She always wanted to do this. Alicia struck the same pose, stance wide, crossing her arms.

"Fangs're gonna be where, exa- HEY, WAIT, SHITFUCK HE'S RUNNING-" Alicia shouted, starting in a run, turning her ankle, stumbling against a brick wall, and finally taking off after the retreating man. William and Allie gave chase, the Lycan man being much faster than Alicia, let alone the human they were chasing as they rounded a corner. Allie watched William shoulder check him into an alley wall as he fell against the dumpster. "Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck easy man, I'm just a proxy, dude!"

"Pr- guh, fuck... Proxy?" Alicia echoed as she rounded the corner, already out of breath. Girlrotting in your apartment for months'll do that to 'ya. "Funny you say that, a proxy service's exactly what we've been looking for."

She squatted in front of the terrified, and slightly concussed human. He was younger than she thought. "Christ, Will. This guy's like 16." She observed, punching the kid in the shoulder. "Look, kid, this is NOT the part time gig you want. My buddy here, he could've seriously hurt you. He still might. Look, he's practically foaming at the mouth." She said, thumbing to a completely stoic William. "He's fuckin' unhinged, he's on a hair trigger and I dunno if I can hold him back. Down boy, down!"

The youth wasn't really buying it. Alicia rolled her eyes, before flicking her hand out and snatching his phone, turning on the face unlock, and flipping the camera to his shocked face. "Just fuckin' tell me who you were talking to and where you've been saying we're going and I won't text your mom you're trying to buy weed off us."

"Aw c'mon. Asshole. Look, like I said, I'm just like, a relay or some shit they told me. I don't know any names or nothing, but they said to let the other guy know you guys're going to see some band called Vein Theory or some shit."

"Cool name."

The kid shrugged. "Can I have my phone back now?"

William and Alicia stood back, watching the kid run into the night. "You think that was supposed to be like, a warden in training or something? Should we uh-" Alicia scrunched her face, then clicked her tongue as she skipped her heel across the cement, turning 180 degrees to make her way back home. "We got a lead, I guess. You trying to see a band tomorrow?"

---

"I paid a scalper 80 bucks for this?! That was half a preorder for my new Inumimi Maki-chan figure, dude! Fuck these guys, I haven't heard a single time signature switch up, no harmonies on the vocals - hell, this guy's stuck between cleans and harshes anyway, I'm sure the fuckin' guitarist can do SOME backup vocals with his 4 or 5 chords a track!" She ranted, before holding up a finger. "Also forget that first thing. Hey. Is that Vex?"

She locked onto the sound of her voice immediately as her eyes shot to the bar. Allie clicked her tongue. She definitely looked drunk - not that it mattered to her. She didn't know her well enough. She did, however, elbow William as she tried to subtly point her out. "I guess that little shit was right. We're not the only ones-" She trailed off for a second. "Here."

Her crimson eyes fell on Dominic as he strode purposefully towards the bar, nearly missing Vex laying someone out with a right hook. Nobody really gave that any mind - way more punches being thrown in the mosh pit near center stage. She did, however, watch Dom stride up to that asshole, and practically drive him just out of sight. Alicia swallowed hard, and looked to William helplessly. "H-Hey, that's... Should we like, do something?" She asked hesitantly, as she began to try and push her way through the dense, bouncing crowd.

A few tense moments passed, then she paused mid-shove as she caught sight of the young man hurrying timidly towards the exit as Dom emerged, seemingly fuming but none the worse for wear. He joined Vex at the bar, and Alicia eased back. Something told her interrupting them wouldn't be a good call. And for that matter, Dominic prooobably knew they were there anyway. She backpedaled a few inches - as much as she could manage, into William's chest with a soft thump and gazed up at him, shrugging. "Probably better we just... Keep a little radius. Stay on task."

She and William edged towards the back of the crowd uncomfortably, shoving and being shoved through a tidal wave of dancing, moshing, and jumping bodies. They stumbled against the railing fencing off some speaker equipment, and Alicia growled. "Dude, how in the fuck are people this hyped for some 4/4 baby's-first-hardcore-band slop like this? Seriously, the vocals are like me at thirteen TRYING to growl and just fucking up my throat. Dude, you bring it from your chest! Come on!" She ranted again, glancing at William momentarily. "N-Not that I would know- But more importantly!" She punched him on the shoulder. "How the fuck do you think we're supposed to sniff out anything sus in here? Like, it's obvious we're expected here somehow, but who the fuck have we got to keep tabs on, and when, and for what? There's like, a dozen youngbloods in here even aside from the proverbial fuckin' execs!"

Kessler’s phone buzzed. He had stopped to get some food ...his incisors itched, and his blood hummed in his ears. He even turned his eyes to the moon for a moment. The feeling was similar to the exhilaration of a full moon, but of course he was far more in tune with the cycles of mother nature than to simply forget when the next moon was. No… he was craving something else. Blood, maybe. Danger, certainly. He stood in front of the food truck for a full minute before realizing it wasn’t food he craved, either. No, he was craving the trouble that could only accompany a woman. The phone buzzed again, and he checked it. Two unread messages. Both from that same unfamiliar number. 'thought you could handle this' appeared first, then the picture followed. The big man stopped in his tracks as the picture appeared in his feed. Her. That ball of fire with the appetite for destruction. The hips, the proportions on display. The hunger in her eyes. Had it been six months? A year? Vague images of a carnal nature flashed in his mind. He responded right away.

---

‘Vein Theory’ was no Delta Blues. Not even British Invasion, revved-up Blues. They weren’t garage rock or hardcore punk. Hell, they weren’t even Ministry. He could get behind all of that, and a whole lot more. These pups weren’t exactly his thing. A couple of them could passably play their instruments, and that deserved a modicum of respect. But he wasn’t really here for fun, though that was certainly on the table too, if she arrived. And he hoped she would. No, for the moment, he was here for business. The scents in here, beyond the simple sweat, drugs, spilled booze, adrenaline… smells of Vamp, of Lycan, of blood and sex… it all made Kessler’s mouth dry, and senses keen.

A quick look around and he spotted at least half a dozen people of interest, and several members of the pack, likely doing what they were all tasked with. Allie, Will, Dom (standing protectively near a blonde who looked like Vex…) but there were ‘suckers here too. He could taste it.

…his phone buzzed again. He checked it. Erik. Finally. Kessler took the moment to respond right away. ‘Good work. Want that name. And a rap sheet to go with it, as well as known associates. Dig, Erik. Dig.’ Before he put his phone away, Kessler composed a message to Dom, keeping him informed about his progress. He sent that – that was the easy part. Then thought for a moment before composing and sending another message, about his meeting later that night with the Warden, Wulde.

Kess hit 'send' and smiled at the thought of letting the Warden commander know that the Iron Fangs weren't just some dirtball MC from the gutter. Well... they were that, but they were so much more. And he almost wished he could be there to tear new holes in all the Wardens dumb enough to try and rub them out. But there was the actual meeting with Wulde to think about. He didn't know for certain how Dom would respond. He'd lay odds that his Alpha wouldn't poke that particular bear too much... but Kessler hoped he would. It wasn't time to roll over. And if the Wardens were happy to have killed him under a flag of truce and meeting in good faith, then Kessler figured an eye for an eye. However, he felt very differently about the proposed meeting with Wulde, and found it very easy to compartmentalize the two. Kill those Wardens for setting him up, but meet with Wulde and act respectfully. Both could coexist in Kessler's mind.

He put his phone away, and scanned the crowd once more for the girl, the wolf in him simmering under the surface, but poised to ruin something beautiful...

The music thumped through the floor, the crowd pulsing in a wild rhythm around her. She’d come here to forget. She’d come here to lose herself, but the sight of a familiar face in the sea of strangers soured the taste of freedom on her tongue. A bitter Lycan, nursing the sting of a lost bet, his eyes cutting across the room like a blade. One look was enough to drag all the whispers back from the dark, clinging like claws.

Humans roared her name from the stands, their cheers crashing like thunder. Down in the cage, Casey wiped crimson from her knuckles, her breath steady, her pulse still humming with the fight. Her latest opponent, a vampire twice her size, lay broken on the mat, groaning, the crowd still chanting
“Viper! Viper! Viper!”

Lycans watched in stony silence. Golden eyes glimmered sharply with judgment.
“She should’ve torn his throat out,”one muttered. “Instead, she plays games for coin.”

Another snorted. “One hit, and the leech didn’t even see it coming. That’s no game.”

“She’s forgotten what she is,” a third growled. “Bleeding for humans’ amusement. Letting them chant her name like she’s theirs.”

The first smirked. “Don’t forget the others she’s fought. Not just vampires, but Fae. Even Lycan. She’ll throw down with anyone if the cage is locked. Doesn’t matter if they’re kin or not.”

“Which makes her worse” the third Lycan spat. “No honor. No loyalty, Just venom”

Her chest burned with the weight of it, and for a breath, the urge to disappear nearly won. But then the bass rolled heavier, pulsing through her bones, and something inside her snapped.
She swayed once, then again, hips catching the rhythm. A stranger’s hands slid around her waist, anchoring her. Dancing on a stranger in the center of the chaos, Casey let the music devour her, each beat tearing away another piece of the weight she carried. For once, there were no shadows chasing her, no doubts whispering in her head, only rhythm, heat, and the electric crush of bodies. She surrendered to it completely, tilting her head back, laughter spilling into the lights as her hips rolled with the beat. Sweat traced a path down her spine, her skin gilded in flashes of gold and shadow, until the world blurred into sound and sensation. Nothing else existed until she felt it. That look… it was hunger barely leashed, the wolf beneath his calm gaze simmered just beneath the surface, a quiet danger that made her pulse race. A slow, daring smile curved her lips as she moved harder, pressing against the stranger behind her like an unspoken challenge. If Kessler wanted her, he’d have to come take her.

---

Vex’s mouth curled, not quite a smile but more like a dare. The water stayed where it was, her fingers resting on the rim but not lifting it. She let the bass thrum through her, let the neon soak her skin.

“Cute?” she echoed, voice low, thick with the kind of laughter that didn’t reach her eyes. “Dom, if I wanted cute, I’d wear a bow in my hair and wait for you to tell me when to cross the street.”

She took the water then, but only because she wanted to, dragging a slow sip before setting it down again. The smear of blood on her knuckles caught her eye, and she rubbed it idly against her skirt like it was nothing.

Her gaze slid up to him, lazy but sharp, catching the way he was still scanning the room. “If you’re going to play bodyguard,” she said, leaning in close enough for her words to brush his ear, “at least admit you like it.”

For a heartbeat, she didn’t look away, letting the noise and the heat and the smell of him wrap tight around the moment. Then she tipped her head, almost sweet.

“And as for what I’m proving…” Her smirk deepened, wicked at the edges. “Guess you’ll have to keep watching.”

Her hand moved to her lips, popping a colorful little pill into her mouth before swallowing. “ Thanks for the water, really helps wash things down.” She reached once again for the glass, chasing the pill with a sip.

He watched the pill go down, watched her throat work, watched the light change in her eyes. He did not snatch her or yell at her…he just caught her chin with two fingers and turned her face into the neon, thumb settling on the pulse at her neck so he could count it slow. He pulled the cigarette from her lips and brought it to his own mouth as he took a drag. As he exhaled, he grabbed the water and brought the cold rim of the glass to her mouth.

“Look at me…” he said, quiet but heavy, “Eyes here.” Clouded by the drugs, her gaze drifted to his eyes as she stumbled slightly against the bar.

He tipped the glass, watched one swallow, then another, then he set it back in her hand and did not let go until he felt her grip it right. He crowded her space a little, not touching anything but the back of her knuckles…his voice close enough to vibrate through her.

“You want to make dumb choices, that’s your business…” He murmured, “but you put one more pill in your mouth and I am carrying you out of here, and I will not set you down until you are home…” he said, not angry, just certain…“I am not asking, Vex.”

He leaned in again, mouth near her ear, breath warm with smoke and whiskey.

“Logan’s dead…” The words came out cold. “This isn’t the time for your games and your self-destruction.”

Pulling back, Vex looked at him with her large, bright eyes. He was an alpha through and through. The room continued to spin around them, but her eyes stayed heavily focused on Dom’s, as if his gaze grounded her.

Eyes still locked, she stole back her cigarette from his lips, her gaze unbreaking as she tilted her head ever so slightly as she dragged in her breath. The cherry of her cigarette was illuminating its bright red hue before dying slowly. She couldn’t hold his gaze long; the drugs in her system couldn’t make the pain she felt from those two simple words. Her head dropped as she stared down at her cigarette, watching the smoke twist and coil out of the amber.

Logan…

Her head hung near his chest as if shielding this private moment for her from the rest of the world. In that moment, her chest tightened so fast it stole her breath, grief rising like a tide she couldn’t push back. The only way to keep it from drowning her was to turn it into rage. Her fist hit his chest, knowing it would do little to him.

“You don’t get to throw that at me like it’s just another piece of bad news, Dom.” Her voice cut sharply, a blade to hide the shaking underneath. Her golden eyes flicked up to look at him.

“You think this is about games? This—” she jabbed the cigarette between them, ash scattering like sparks, “—is how I keep breathing when the world won’t stop taking from me. It’s survival.”

She staggered slightly, the drugs pulling at her balance, but before he could steady her she stepped in again, chest brushing his. Her chin tipped up, defiant, though her eyes shone too bright.

“I’m not leaving,” she ground out, each word shaking. “Not until I can’t remember my fucking name… not until I’m empty enough that I don’t see his face every time I blink.” The sound of a glass clinking beside her, the tall amber ale she had purchased earlier finally arrived, much to the bartender's ignorance. She looked over at the drink, reaching for it while the other put her cigarette back between her lips as it hung lazily between them. Holding the drink up to Dom, she didn’t need to say a word. Both their eyes said plenty as they looked at each other.

He let her hit his chest, listened to each and every word with respect, but he didn’t move an inch. His eyes stayed on hers, steady, constant.

“I didn’t want to tell you like this.” His voice came low, gravel running rough. “I tried to do it right, but you ignored me. So here it is, plain…we’ve lost too many of ours already. I’m not gonna stand here and watch you throw yourself in a grave right next to them.”
He leaned in, chin dipped, jaw set like stone.

“I get it, Vex. That hole in your chest…the kind that never fills no matter what you pour in it. I know what it is to want the noise, the fire, anything to drown it out. But I can’t let you be your own worst enemy. Not here. Not now.”

He shifted, eyes softening, his thumb brushing over her bloodied knuckles again, rough but careful.

“You might not wear my kutte, but I need you…The pack needs you. I need your head sharp. You drowning in this shit isn’t gonna help any of us…least of all you, Vex. You understand me?” Pinching her two fingers against the stem of her cigarette, she inhaled, looked at him, before slightly turned her head and exhaled the smoke slowly.

His gaze was still on her, but the softness didn’t last long.

“We are being hunted. This is not the time to pop pills and give the fuck up. We don’t have that luxury.”
Finally, his gaze fell from her eyes to her mouth, a subtle thing…one that almost carried a kind of shame. But those eyes rose once more, and they held more conviction than ever.

“I’m not asking, Vex.”

Dom had always been the one wolf she had respected outside of Bear. Everything he did for his pack and everything he had done for her created an understanding. Considering his words, the distance between them grew practically non-existent.

She looked up into his eyes with her golden stare. ” You are not my Alpha.” she said coldly. Vex pulled her cigarette back to her lips, pulling back another breath of smoke. Her eyes darkened slightly with a deep amber, but it didn’t last long and seemed to soften.

” One night…Give me one night, Dom. I need this. You do whatever it is you do, watch me, dance with me, or drag my ass home. Just give me the night and I will help in memory of Logan … and” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, one that only he would hear before taking a large sip of the beer still in her hand. ”...and Bear.” She managed to say.

Vex was wrong.

Just because she wasn’t a member of the Iron Wolves didn’t mean that Dominic wasn’t her Alpha. Just because she didn’t understand that little secret didn’t make it any less true. The other packs, the loners, all of them… He is the only real Alpha in Halcyon city. There are always going to be pretenders to the throne, but there is only ever going to be one king.

Her words didn’t bother Dom. In fact, he understood her claim. He wished it were true, even. But he knew otherwise. Pack or not, it was his job to look out for those with Lycan blood running through their veins, even those that would be his enemy. It was his job to take care of her. It would always be that way as long as he was breathing.

Her plea for one night was a different story. The way the names Logan and Bear sounded coming from her in that moment rattled him in ways he didn’t understand.

Dom’s gaze broke and he looked past her to the crowd beyond them lost in the music without cares in the world. He breathed in deep, then released it in kind.

“One night?” It was a statement as much as it was a question. He didn’t expect a literal answer, instead…he turned to the bartender and ordered a shot.

Dom’s eyes found hers again, still frustrated, but softer than before. “If we’re gonna dance, I’m gonna need a drink.”

“One night,” she murmured, tilting the rim of her beer glass to her lips, forcing a mischievous grin that trembled at the edges. She lifted her glass toward him as the bartender set down his shot.

“To Logan,” she toasted, voice teasing, flirtatious even—but her eyes betrayed her. Glossy and wet, they flickered with the hurt she tried so desperately to hide. The smile she wore was almost convincing, but it couldn’t quite cover the ache beneath.“He raised hell here, and now he rides free where no one can chain him. May he and Bear tear up the heavens the way they tore through this city. One day, we’ll join them… and God help whatever stands in our way.” Her voice cracked slightly.

Kessler took it all in, the revellers bouncing like messy, elastic band rag dolls to the incessant bass, the dope fiends nodding out to the hypnotic synth lines and pounding beat, the scent of sweat thick in the air, nearly as heady a scent as the blood of the unsuspecting, the sweet, tangy aroma of sex and intoxication tugged at him, urging him. The broad-shouldered man took another look at Dom and Vee taking at the bar, looked for Dom’s shadows, seeing two close by, making themselves fade into the crowd. Whatever Dom and Vex were discussing, it was serious, based on their closeness, and the shared look of something akin to anguish, or was it mischief, or challenge, or a tense combination of all three. In any case, should something blow up, he wasn’t far off. One quick reflex move, and he’d be at his Alpha’s side. Besides, Dom could take care of himself. He was a big boy. Vex, on the other hand… Kess wasn’t sure even Dom could handle Vex in the state she appeared to be in.

He checked his watch. Hours till the meeting with the Warden, Wulde. He moved in time with the music, letting himself be carried by the crowd, waiting for a hint of her scent. His shirt was soaked with a combination of the night rain, and sweat as he danced and moved through the crowd, hands moving over his shoulders, his abs, his chest, bodies pressing from all sides, until finally he found the scent he had sought all night. No longer lost to the beat thundering in his chest, Kessler moved like he was stalking prey. He didn’t avoid the hands and the bodies that gyrated and moved against him, but now he moved with purpose, until she was in sight. Viper. Another woman, younger, human, barely contained in her slashed and cropped ‘Vein Theory’ tee and short leather skirt, bounced and groped against Casey, the two of them, moving as one in the midst of the maelstrom. His blood boiled to see them together, the thought of the two of them toying with this human girl was intoxicating. Moving to Casey, his hands found the place where her hips flared, and he moved over her form, letting the human girl’s hands meet his own, her tiny form dwarfed by his, and the sleek musculature of Viper stood in stark contrast to the human’s waifish, goth-pale slenderness. They were both beautiful, though they stood in stark contrast to each-other, and Kessler drew them in so that they would both be able to move against him, with him.

They swayed that way for awhile, hands moving over bodies, body temperatures and shapes mingling, combining. Flesh pressed against flesh, and all of the responses that incurs. Kessler lifted the goth girl’s mouth to his. Then brought Casey’s lips to the black-lipstick-pout of the goth girl. There was no hesitation. No coercion. Only rabid, intoxicated heat. It was time to find a slightly more secluded spot where the crushing rhythm and pulse of the music could still be felt. Kess knew just the place. Close. Dark. Hot... where they wouldn't be disturbed.

Color code 766359
Location: Mainly The Underground, but some nondescript locations before that
Speaking with: Person on the other side of the phone
Interacting with: Concert goers and venue workers generally

^{__________________________________________________________}

THUD

Lucian pulled the door to his purposely nondescript, slightly worn, 2005 Toyota Camry, painted black with slightly tinted windows. The rain continued to patter against the vehicle. Even though the exterior is showing it's age, the interior was kept spotless, even without the scent of burnt cigarettes as Lucian brought one to his lips. With the cigarette unlit, he reached inside his kutte, brought out the old flip phone and began to dial...



"Yes. It's me. I need to call a cab for two. Midnight Express, if you know what I mean. "
"Yes, I'm still..."
"Now why would you ask that, Charlie?"
"Yes, I'll have..."
"See you, Charlie."


The phone call ends. Lucian inspects his clothing, making sure there were no bloodstains on him. He pulls his shirt up and takes a long, hard, sniff, trying to pick up any stray scents that didn't belong on him. He needed his hands clean of what he just did. A slip up like that cannot go unpunished. They knew better. Checking his watch, it was still early enough for him to head home and change before going to the concert, as long as his 'friend' got here fast enough. The rain was threatening to wash out all the blood from the asphalt and carry it to unwanted places. Lucian tried his best to keep the scene...tidy. The act was not necessarily quick, nor painless. But it was deemed efficient enough for Lucian's standards...

About 20 minutes after the call, a white, unmarked, refrigerated Sprinter van pulled up. Lucian checked his rear-view mirror and noticed a familiar figure wearing a black trilby. The man was followed up two very large individuals wearing full-bodied lab suits with neoprene gloves and boots, carrying various cleaning implements.

"Charlie."
"Mr. Shelby."

Lucian reached into his kutte, pulling out two poker cards with a golden border and handed them to the man wearing the trilby.

"Does this mean you're back doing the handy work yourself, Mr. Shelby?"
"I never stopped. Be seeing you, Charlie."

The man tipped his trilby softly as Lucian stepped back in his car and drove off. During his drive, he called into The Underground, the sound of music, crowd and revelry filled his speaker.

"Who have you seen?"
"Just about everyone. Even the loners. Dom. Kessler, Luther, Vex, Casey..."
"Backdoor. I need a booth in the upper area."
"Ooo...They're tak-"
"Clear one out. Quietly.
"It's gonna cos-"

Lucian hung up before the man at the venue finished his words. Moments later, he arrived, just as he said he would. He made eye contact with the man standing by the backdoor and with that small acknowledgement, the man opened the door and allowed Lucian in. Reflexively, he slid his hand into the inner pocket of his kutte, making sure the flip phone is silenced and secure before walking through a heavy metal door, the dull thudding of bass drums bumping just beyond where Luican stood.

As soon as the door opened, Lucian was flooded with a mix of various senses. Sounds, colors, sights, scents, everything hit him at once. He softly closed his eyes, allowing his brain to process all the information. The speakers belting out sounds, the performers on stage doing their thing. The crowd in the pit shambling like mindless puppets to the music. Sweat, alcohol, perfume, pheromones. An intoxicating mix that tugged at Lucian's based desires. He grinned to himself slightly, one canine fang showing slightly. As calm as he wanted to remain, his body reacted naturally to the chemical mixture that presented itself to him. In the midst of deciphering all the information and walking towards a recently emptied booth, Lucian made mental notes of where people are. Dom and Vex are near the dance floor. Kessler and Casey are firmly in the mix. Luther is near the bar. Very good.

"Mr. Shelby. Welcome. Enjoying your evening?
"Murphy."

Lucian said coldly as he slid a poker card with the shimming gold border to the man. The man giddily pocketed the card and scuttled off. Lucian made eye contact with a bottle service girl, porcelain skin shimmering with the faintest hint of sweat and make up.

"What are we drinkin, honey?
"Gin. Hendricks"
"Certainly."

Voice dipped in honey and coated with gunpowder. This one would be fun to break, Lucian thought. He reached into his kutte once again, taking out a small stack of cash. He slipped the bills between his thumb and index finger, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the girl.

"Keep the rest, you've had a long night, I'm sure."

Lucian said as he nonchalantly placed no less than five bills into the girl's palm, pressing in with some force before allowing his fingers to trail off.

"It's Yelena."

The girl said as she stood with a sultry smile and sauntered away. Lucian leaned back in his booth, allowing the atmosphere of the venue provide him with an imperfect camouflage. Lighting a cigarette, he took a long drag and observed the scene from his perch, plotting his next move...