The champagne tasted like piss-warm disappointment.
I let my skull thunk against the marble wall, watching bubbles die in my glass while my brother Ethan swirled his vintage Bordeaux like he'd been born holding the stem. Around us, crystal chandeliers dripped light onto people who probably had summer homes in dimensions I'd never afford.
"Boredom is a choice, little brother." Ethan didn't look at me. He never did when he was savoring something. "You're choosing to be furniture."
"Next time Claudia invites you to one of these circuses? Leave me home with Bruno. He actually likes me."
I killed the champagne. It didn't help.
The ballroom suffocated—too much perfume, too many teeth, too much old money pressing against my lungs. These people moved differently. They laughed at jokes that weren't funny, touched shoulders they'd paid to access, and every single one of them knew I was the discount version of the Blackwood name.
Ethan? Ethan wore it like bespoke armor. Six feet of temporal manipulation wrapped in a tuxedo, grey hair that made him look distinguished rather than aged, and the kind of face that made trust fund babies forget their prenuptials.
"You know," I said, "I genuinely don't understand what Claudia sees in you. You're overbearing, you time-skip through conversations when people bore you, and you pronounce 'espresso' like it's a spell."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Hurt, maybe. Or calculation. With Ethan, you never knew if you were seeing emotion or a performance of it.
"Your jokes," he said softly, "are why women leave before dessert."
"Low blow."
"I—"
"—are you two talking about Nero's tragic romantic history?"
Claudia materialized like she'd stepped out of a perfume advertisement—all sharp cheekbones and sharper intuition. She kissed Ethan's cheek, leaving a crimson smudge that somehow looked deliberate.
I watched them. The city's wealthiest family merging with its most dangerous Hunter. A political alliance dressed up as love, or maybe the other way around. Claudia caught me staring and smiled with too many teeth.
"Don't look so grim, little Nero. Unless..." She gasped theatrically. "Are you going to cry? Run to your girlfriend?" She paused, savoring it. "Oh. Right."
The walls pressed closer.
"I'm getting air," I said.
"Try not to drown in it—"
I was already moving.
---
The terrace doors felt like escape hatches. I shoved through, gasping, and immediately collided with something solid.
The ground rushed up. My palms scraped marble. When I looked up, I found darkness staring back.
Not metaphorically. The man wore black wool, black silk, black leather gloves that creaked when he extended one toward me. A scar bisected his lip—a pale zipper running to his chin that moved when he spoke.
"Walking with your head in the clouds," he said. His voice carried weight. History. "Dangerous habit."
I took his hand. Cold. Calloused. Strong enough to crush bone, gentle enough to simply pull me upright.
"Sorry. Wasn't watching—"
He was six-foot-five. I knew because I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and I'm six-two. The top hat cast his face in shadow, but not enough. I saw the blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean. Something that predated both—vast and indifferent and ancient.
Then he bowed. Actually bowed, hat sweeping low, and walked away without another word.
I stood there, lungs forgetting their purpose, while rain began to fall.
"How beautiful," I whispered.
To no one. To the storm. To the space where he'd been.
---
Inside, the party had turned predatory. I found Ethan near the coat check, Claudia's hand possessive on his arm.
"You're soaked," he observed.
"Perceptive."
"We're staying. Claudia's father wants to discuss the merger."
"Of course he does."
Ethan's eyes flickered—gold threading through black as he accessed his ability. Seeing my future, probably. Or my past. Or five hundred alternate versions of this conversation where I said something he'd regret.
"Nero." Rare. He used my name. "Be careful going home. Something's—" He stopped. Reset. "The rain's getting worse. Take the car."
"I'll manage."
I didn't. By midnight, I was drenched, shivering, and walking through Elyria's industrial district because the tram had flooded and my account had frozen—some administrative error that felt personal.
The house waited at the street's end. Our inheritance. Our cage.
The door stood open.
---