Neon Reverie kept breathing.
The club's pulse did not care about arguments, bruises, or blood. It did not care about the way laughter sometimes turned sharp, or the way a smile could hide a threat the way velvet hid a blade. The bass thumped through the walls and into bone, every beat like a heartbeat borrowed from some enormous creature that lived beneath Virelux and fed on motion. Lights spilled across the dance floor in fever colors. Bodies moved in a shimmering tide. Drinks clinked. Someone screamed with delight at nothing in particular, and the sound dissolved into music like sugar in hot tea.
Inside the men's restroom, however, the air tasted different.
It still smelled faintly of cologne and enchanted sanitizer, and the rune-lamps still made everything look clean enough to pretend trouble didn't happen here. But tension had a scent too, dry and metallic, like a storm about to crack open.
Oscar stood near the sinks with his hands raised, palms out, trying to look calm while his instincts sharpened into points. The black bookbag slung across his chest felt heavier than it should have, not because of the weight inside, but because it was proof. Proof of profit. Proof of opportunity. Proof that he had forgotten, for one reckless moment, that every good night carried teeth.
Three men closed in, fanning out in a way that made the room shrink around him.
Oscar's mind did what it always did when danger walked in smiling. It started naming things.
The first man, the one talking like he owned the air, wore a stylish wizard jacket-cloak that shimmered in the restroom's light like oil on water. The fabric draped around him in dramatic folds, and his hair was slicked back with too much product, making his face look sharp and smug. A low-tier wand hung near his wrist on a strap like a piece of jewelry pretending it wasn't a weapon. Oscar's brain tagged him instantly.
Cape.
The second man was the one with tattoos, ink crawling up his neck and disappearing beneath his shirt collar like vines strangling stone. His arms were a gallery of symbols, some crude, some intricate, all of them meant to intimidate. His nose looked like it had been broken and set wrong. His knuckles were scarred, and his eyes held the dull confidence of someone who solved problems with fists because it had always worked. Oscar's mind stamped him too.
Ink.
The third man was the shortest, bronzed skin glowing under the rune-lamps, a gold tooth flashing whenever he talked or laughed. He had the compact build of someone who fought dirty and survived because of it, shoulders thick, stance wide, posture cocky. His grin looked permanently carved into his face, like he had practiced it in mirrors. Oscar's brain gave him the simplest name.
Goldie.
Cape stepped forward, voice impatient, bouncing with ego. "So what are you doing selling here on our turf?"
Ink leaned in with a rough laugh, the sound like gravel in a cup. "Yeah, you know who runs this block? This is Jackals Crew turf."
Goldie rocked on his heels, gold tooth catching the light like a warning flare. "You got two options, elf boy," he said, counting on thick fingers. "One, you give us your product and we let you go." His grin widened. "Two, we take it the hard way."
Oscar held his hands up higher, letting his palms catch the light like he was trying to show them he had nothing hidden, nothing sharp, nothing worth stabbing over. He kept his smile in place even as his stomach tightened.
"Gentlemen," he said again, gentle as honey, "I didn't mean any disrespect. I thought restrooms were neutral selling zones."
He was not saying it to lecture them. He was saying it to remind them of the unspoken rules that kept things from turning into chaos every night, rules that even the lowest crews usually respected because neutral ground was sacred to business. Unmarked alleyways. Public restrooms. Back stairwells. Places where money changed hands fast and quiet, where nobody wanted heat.
But the three men looked at him like he was speaking a language they didn't care to learn.
Cape's smile turned thin. "Neutral?" he echoed, amused, insulted, both. "You're cute."
Ink cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the restroom's false calm. "Neutral don't mean nothing when you're stepping on our toes."
Goldie stepped closer, and Oscar felt the circle tighten. "Stop talking," Goldie said, and the friendliness drained out of his tone like a sink emptying. "Hand it over."
Oscar did not want this tonight.
He thought of Stephanie, trying to enjoy herself, trying to learn what it felt like to exist without chains. He thought of the way she had laughed on the tram, swaying her hips like the music lived inside her. He thought of her eyes, bright and alive, and the promise he had made to keep this night clean for her.
He thought, very briefly, of just giving them a bag and walking away.
Then Ink's hand shot forward for Oscar's bookbag.
Something in Oscar's chest snapped into place.
He shifted his shoulder back, slipping out of reach with a smooth pivot that barely pulled at his stitches. Ink's fingers grabbed nothing but air. Oscar leapt backward further into the restroom, placing more space between himself and the door, because he did not want to be trapped with nowhere to move. His yellow eyes darkened, the playful glow gone. His jaw tightened until his teeth ached.
He hissed, low and sharp. "And I'm a dark elf, you bastards."
The words landed like a match in dry grass. It was not about pride. It was about drawing a line. About reminding them he was not just some jittery tourist with product to steal.
Ink snorted, unimpressed. Cape chuckled. Goldie grinned wider, like he had just heard a joke.
Three against one made them bold. Cocky. Careless.
Oscar had survived worse odds in worse places.
Ink moved first.
He swung a punch fast and ugly, not clean, not careful, powered by habit rather than technique. Oscar stepped in, parried the blow with his forearm, and snapped a short jab straight into Ink's jaw.
The impact cracked like a snapped twig.
Ink staggered back, eyes widening, a shocked grunt bursting from him. "Gah—!"
Oscar did not follow with a flourish. He followed with presence. He moved like someone who had been in too many scrapes to waste motion. He kept his balance under him. He kept his breathing steady.
Goldie charged next, quick and low, aiming to tackle Oscar and drag him down where fists and boots could do their work. Oscar sidestepped, hooked his foot behind Goldie's ankle, and twisted.
Goldie's momentum betrayed him. He went down hard, slamming into the floor with a curse that turned into a pained groan. "Ugh—!"
Oscar's shoulder tugged with the movement, and a hot line of pain tore across his stitches, reminding him that Cedric's blade had left more than a scar. Oscar swallowed the pain and kept moving.
Ink had regained his feet, one hand pressed to his jaw, anger burning in his eyes now. He lifted his fists into a defensive stance, trying to look tough again, trying to reassert control.
Oscar did not give him the chance.
He closed the distance like a predator crossing grass.
Ink threw his arms up, but Oscar slipped through the guard with practiced ease. He drove a brutal punch into Ink's stomach, clean and heavy.
Ink folded in on himself like fresh laundry, air exploding out of him in a strangled sound. "Ghh—!"
Oscar caught the front of Ink's shirt before he could collapse, keeping him upright for half a heartbeat.
Because he had seen Cape's hand move.
Cape had stayed back, letting his buddies rush in first, letting them do the dirty work. But now Cape's expression had shifted, the lazy smugness replaced by something sharper as he pulled a wand free.
It was not an ornate war-wand. It was a low-tier piece, narrow and polished, runes etched along its length, a small red crystal embedded at the tip that pulsed like a tiny angry heart. The kind of weapon that was legal only on paper, that required licenses and restrictions, yet somehow always found its way into the hands of men who liked shortcuts.
Cape lifted it, eyes narrowing, and aimed.
Oscar's instincts screamed.
He yanked Ink forward and turned him, using Ink's body like a shield.
A fireball burst from the wand, a tier-two pyre spell, compact but violent, roughly the size of a large fruit. It hit Ink squarely in the side and detonated with a crack of heat and light.
Ink screamed.
The sound was raw and animal, ripped from his throat. "AAAGH—!"
The explosion threw heat across the restroom, warping the air. Ink's clothes smoked. Burned fabric fused to skin. His scream tried to climb above the club's music, but the bass swallowed it, muffling pain into rhythm like the world was mocking him.
Oscar released Ink and stumbled back, eyes squinting against the sudden flash. Ink collapsed to the floor, twitching, still alive but ruined, his breaths coming in ragged, wet pulls.
Cape's face twisted in fury at his own spell's wasted precision. "You little—!"
Goldie, coughing as he pushed himself upright, saw opportunity in Oscar's momentary repositioning. He lunged again, this time catching Oscar around the waist, arms locking tight like a trap.
Oscar grunted as Goldie's weight slammed into his torso, forcing him down. His back hit the floor hard enough to rattle his teeth. Pain flared through his shoulder, hot and sharp, and he let out a low sound despite himself. "Hnng—!"
Goldie climbed onto him, straddling his hips, and began hammering punches downward, aiming for Oscar's head, using gravity and rage.
Oscar turned his face, letting one blow glance off his cheek instead of catching his nose. Another punch clipped his temple, making stars burst behind his eyes. His head struck the floor once, then again, each impact dull and awful.
The restroom spun.
Oscar tasted blood.
He heard Cape's boots scuffing closer, heard the faint hum of the wand charging again.
Oscar needed to get up.
He needed to get out.
He waited for the tiniest pause between Goldie's punches, when Goldie drew back to swing again.
Oscar surged upward.
He shoved hard with his legs, bucking his hips, throwing Goldie off balance. At the same time he whipped his arm up in a backhand that was more wrist than fist, catching Goldie just under the eye.
Goldie yelped, more insulted than injured. "Ah—!"
Oscar rolled to the side and pushed himself to his feet, chest heaving, shoulder screaming where the stitches had tugged. He felt the wound pull, felt that sickening warmth of reopened skin. His jaw clenched tight enough to ache.
Cape was already there, wand raised.
Oscar scoffed, voice harsh, eyes bright with feral irritation. "Wands are for wimps."
He charged.
Cape swore as Oscar closed the distance too fast for spellwork. "Bastard—!"
Oscar threw a punch that landed clean on Cape's jaw. Cape's head snapped to the side, a pained grunt escaping him. "Ugh—!"
Oscar's free hand grabbed Cape's wand wrist, fingers clamping down like iron.
They struggled.
Cape tried to wrench the wand free, tried to raise it enough to fire at point-blank range. Oscar shoved down, twisting the wrist, forcing the wand's aim away. A fireball discharged anyway, slamming into the ceiling with a violent flare that scorched tile and sent sparks raining down.
The restroom filled with smoke and the sharp scent of burnt stone.
Goldie saw his opening.
He tackled Oscar again from the side, grabbing at his waist, trying to pull him down, trying to break his balance.
Oscar's body moved on instinct, not thought. He lifted a leg and drove a vicious donkey kick backward into Goldie's stomach.
The kick landed with a dull, satisfying thud.
Goldie wheezed, stumbling backward, arms clutching his gut. "Ghk—!"
Oscar's grip on Cape did not loosen.
Cape snarled, trying to yank his wand arm free, trying to aim again. Oscar twisted the wrist harder, forcing the wand's tip to swing.
A fireball discharged in the chaos of their struggle.
It shot straight at Goldie.
Goldie's eyes widened in horror. For half a second he looked like a child caught by consequences. He tried to move, but pain slowed him, fear froze him, and the spell hit him squarely in the chest.
The explosion launched him backward like a rag doll.
The restroom door blasted open as Goldie flew through it, burning and smoking, crashing out onto the club floor in a shower of ash and sparks.
The club's roar faltered.
Screams rose from the dance floor as people saw a man fly out of a restroom like a flaming warning sign, landing hard on neon-lit tiles. Drinks spilled. Bodies recoiled. The music kept thumping, because music always kept thumping, but the crowd's energy warped into a panicked ripple.
Inside the restroom, Cape's breath came fast. His eyes were wild now. "You don't know who you're dealing with," he snarled.
He threw a punch into Oscar's face.
It landed, glancing off Oscar's cheekbone, pain blooming.
Oscar answered with an elbow driven up into Cape's nose.
There was a wet crack.
Cape cried out, muffled, stunned. "Ngh—!"
Oscar planted his feet, ignoring the ache screaming through his shoulder. He wrapped both hands around Cape's wand arm in a vice grip, twisted, stepped in, and executed a flawless shoulder throw.
Cape's body lifted and slammed into the floor with a bone-rattling impact.
The air rushed out of him in one violent burst. "Hhh—!"
His eyes rolled. His limbs slackened. The wand clattered harmlessly against tile.
Silence, for a heartbeat, pressed against the restroom's rune-lit walls.
Then the club's noise surged again, transformed now into confusion and alarm.
Oscar stood over Cape, chest rising and falling, sweat slicking his skin. His cheek throbbed where he had been hit. His shoulder burned where the stitches had been pulled, and he could feel fresh warmth beneath his shirt. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, looking down at the unconscious man with something between disdain and exhaustion.
He leaned down, grabbed the wand, and snapped it once against the sink's edge, breaking the crystal tip with a sharp crack that felt like punctuation.
Then Oscar turned and walked out.
The club floor looked different now.
People backed away from the restroom door as if it might spit out more violence. Some stared, mouths open, eyes wide. Others pulled out small rune-tech devices, trying to capture the moment like it was entertainment instead of danger. A few bouncers began pushing through the crowd, expressions shifting from bored authority to urgent control.
Goldie lay on the floor nearby, unconscious, soot and burn marks streaking his clothes and skin like a warning painted on flesh. A ring of empty space had formed around him, the crowd instinctively avoiding the center of trouble.
Oscar stepped into that open circle, the neon lights painting his face in shifting colors, turning him into a myth for a half-second. He looked at the crowd, then at the unconscious men, and his voice came out low and sharp.
"You should've respected the rules."
He moved away before anyone could stop him, weaving through the crowd like smoke slipping through fingers.
Upstairs, in the VIP area, luxury pretended it was untouched.
The air was cooler there, scented with expensive perfume and polished wood. Plush couches and low tables filled the elevated lounge, and the drinks sparkled in crystal glasses that caught the neon glow from below. It was a balcony above chaos, a perch for people who liked their trouble distant and their fun curated.
Stephanie sat with a glass in her hand that she did not want, across from Jasparion J. Valencrest Jorthayne, who looked entirely too pleased with himself.
He leaned back like the world had been designed to entertain him, hazel eyes gleaming, voice smooth as he spoke. "You carry yourself differently," he said, studying Stephanie the way a collector studied a rare gem. "Not like most women I meet in this city."
Stephanie forced a polite smile that felt like wearing shoes that didn't fit. Nyra, Kess, and Maribel sat nearby, happily absorbed in the VIP atmosphere, laughing and talking with Jasparion's friends like they had been invited into a fairy tale.
Stephanie's mood, however, was fraying.
She had not come here to be admired like an object. She had not escaped a gilded cage just to sit in another one, even if this one came with velvet cushions and better music.
She was already searching for the right excuse to leave when the commotion hit.
It began as a ripple in sound from below, screams cutting through the music, then the crowd noise shifting into something jagged. Stephanie felt it more than heard it, the way you felt thunder through the floor before it reached your ears.
She stood, drawn by instinct, and moved toward the edge of the VIP railing.
Below, the dance floor had parted, bodies recoiling, faces turned toward the same point near the restroom.
Something—someone—had flown out.
Stephanie's eyes narrowed as she tried to make sense of it. A man lay sprawled on the tiles, smoke curling off him. People were shouting. Security was moving in. The neon lights made it all look unreal, like a nightmare painted in bright colors.
Jasparion rose behind her, faint annoyance in his posture at first, like he resented anything interrupting his curated moment. "What is it now," he murmured, stepping to her side.
Stephanie did not answer. Her attention locked onto the restroom doorway, because a figure emerged from it, moving with purpose.
For half a second, she did not recognize him because the lights made him look like a stranger.
Then she saw the posture. The stride. The way he carried himself like trouble had learned to walk quietly.
Oscar.
Stephanie's stomach tightened, a cold knot forming beneath the alcohol haze.
Jasparion followed her gaze.
He saw the dark elf, saw the open space around him, saw the unconscious bodies, saw the bouncers closing in, saw the way the crowd stared like they had just witnessed something they would gossip about for weeks.
Jasparion's eyes widened in shock, the smooth mask cracking.
"What in the—" he began, voice lifting.
Stephanie's grip tightened around her glass until her fingers ached.
The night had been supposed to be simple.
The night had been supposed to be celebration.
But Neon Reverie, like every place that promised escape, had its own rules, its own teeth, and trouble had a way of finding them no matter how carefully they tried to hide.
Stephanie stared down at the chaos below, Oscar moving through the crowd, and her heart sank with the sudden certainty that this was not over.
Not even close.