I trailed a few feet past the curtains, my boots scuffing against wooden planks that creaked with age and neglect, fumbling in the sudden darkness that swallowed me whole, like I’d stepped into the mouth of something vast and patient.
My hands reached out instinctively, fingers brushing against dusty props and what felt suspiciously like a fake skeleton before finally finding the rough wood of a door frame.
I opened it with caution this time and peered inside to find a backstage area that looked like it had been designed by someone who thought "ambiance" meant "barely visible and vaguely ominous."
A few candles scattered across various surfaces provided the only illumination, their flames guttering and dancing in drafts that came from cracks I couldn’t see, casting shadows that moved with liquid grace across walls covered in peeling paint and old playbills.
Sitting on a stool in front of a cracked mirror—the kind of mirror that looked like it had witnessed decades of performers putting on faces that weren’t their own—was the man himself. Mavus Grey.
His presence filled the small space in a way that had nothing to do with physical size and everything to do with the kind of gravitational pull that dangerous people exerted on the world around them, bending reality slightly just by existing in it.
His face was painted into the shape of a sad clown, white base covering his features in a mask of porcelain perfection, muted red smeared across his lips in a downturned expression of perpetual melancholy, and black diamonds painted beneath each eye like tears that had crystallized and refused to fall.
His hair was slicked back and grey—not the grey of age necessarily, but the kind of deliberate grey that suggested either premature stress or stylistic choice, pulled tight against his skull in a way that emphasized the sharp angles of his face.
He wore dark tailored pants that hugged his frame with the precision of expensive craftsmanship, and a dark grey button-up shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, muscular forearms crossed with scars that told stories I probably didn’t want to hear.
His hands—resting on his knees, fingers interlaced—were covered in calluses and old burn marks, the hands of someone who’d built their empire through physical labor before graduating to the kind of violence that didn’t leave marks on the wielder.
He spoke without bothering to glance at me, his eyes fixed on his own reflection in the cracked mirror, studying the painted face with the detached interest of a surgeon examining a complex wound.
"Tell me something," he said, his voice carrying a quality that was simultaneously smooth and rough, like silk draped over broken glass. "If a man performs tragedy for an audience that finds it comedic, has he failed in his craft, or has the audience failed in their comprehension? Is meaning something we create, or something we discover? And if we create it, who bears responsibility when that meaning causes harm—the artist, or the interpreter?"
I blinked, my brain taking a moment to shift gears from "preparing for potential murder" to "engaging in philosophical discourse with a crime lord dressed as a sad clown," which was honestly not a transition I’d expected to make tonight.
"Well," I said, leaning against the doorframe with deliberate casualness, "I’d argue that meaning is a collaborative hallucination we all agree to participate in until someone decides they don’t like the rules anymore. The artist provides the raw material, the audience provides the context, and somewhere in that messy middle ground something approximating truth emerges. As for responsibility..."
I tilted my head, considering. "That depends entirely on whether you believe intention matters more than outcome. If I tell you a joke and you take it as an insult, am I responsible for your interpretation, or are you responsible for bringing your own baggage to the exchange?"
Mavus’s lips—painted red, permanently sad—quirked slightly at the corners, though whether in approval or amusement I couldn’t tell.
"Interesting. So you believe responsibility is distributed rather than concentrated. That makes you either very wise or very cowardly, depending on perspective." His fingers drummed once against his knee. "What if the artist knows
"Can’t it be both?" I countered, warming to the conversation despite myself because honestly, philosophical sparring was infinitely preferable to violence. "Some of history’s greatest minds were also its most disturbed. Maybe genius and madness aren’t opposites but neighbors who share a fence and occasionally borrow sugar from each other. Besides, if you’re creating art specifically to manipulate audience reaction, you’re not really asking about meaning anymore—you’re conducting a social experiment, which puts you firmly in ’definitely a sociopath’ territory regardless of how brilliant the results are."
"Mm." Mavus finally turned slightly, his painted face catching the candlelight in ways that made the black diamonds under his eyes seem to glisten like tears. "And yet here we are in a theater, surrounded by performers, each one playing a role. Julius with his dramatic flourishes, you with your clever deflections, me with my painted face. Are we artists or sociopaths? Geniuses or cowards? Or are we simply people trying to survive in a world that demands performance as the price of continued existence?"
I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. "We’re all just very attractive disasters doing our best impression of people who have their shit together, and occasionally that impression is convincing enough that we fool ourselves into thinking it’s real. Now."
I straightened slightly, because we’d danced around the actual questions long enough and I was getting impatient. "Speaking of performances and roles—what exactly is someone of your caliber doing here, in the slums, working with Julius in his half-collapsed theater? Because I have to say, the narrative doesn’t quite add up. You’re a legend. You run operations that span multiple layers of the city. You have resources that would make nobles weep with envy. And yet here you are, backstage in the theatrical equivalent of a structural failure, painting your face like a sad clown. So either Julius is the most persuasive person in existence, or there’s something else going on that I’m not seeing."
Mavus was quiet for a long moment, his painted face turning back to the mirror, fingers reaching for a small brush to touch up the black diamonds beneath his eyes with careful precision.
"Julius is family," he said finally, his tone taking on a quality that was almost humble, almost sincere. "Blood matters in our world. When family needs help, you provide it. The location doesn’t matter, the prestige doesn’t matter—what matters is loyalty, connection, the bonds that hold us together when everything else falls apart. I’m here because I found him, and because I have the resources to make his dream viable. It’s that simple."
I stared at him for exactly three seconds before letting out a sharp laugh. "That’s a beautiful lie," I said bluntly, watching his reflection in the mirror for any reaction. "Genuinely well-crafted, hits all the emotional beats, tugs at the heartstrings. But it’s still a lie. So let me ask again, with more directness this time. What are your actual motivations for being here?"
His brush paused mid-stroke, hovering above his cheek, and when he spoke again his voice carried an edge that hadn’t been there before. "Let’s just say I have... business with the Director," he murmured, each word measured and deliberate. "Business that requires certain... strategic positioning. Proximity without visibility. Presence without detection. This theater serves purposes beyond entertainment, and Julius’s enthusiasm for the arts makes him a useful ally in matters that don’t concern you."
He set the brush down with terminal finality then turned to face me fully, his painted face somehow more menacing than any scowl could have been.
"Now. I believe Julius has planned a tour for you. I suggest you don’t keep him waiting. He gets pouty when people ignore his carefully crafted itineraries."
I recognized a dismissal when I heard one, even when it was wrapped in polite suggestion. I sighed with resignation.
"Fine, fine. Keep your mysterious criminal machinations to yourself. But just so you know, vague ominous warnings only make me more curious, not less. It’s a character flaw I’m working on. Very slowly. With minimal success." I pushed off the doorframe and gave him a mocking little salute. "Enjoy your makeup. The sad clown look really brings out your eyes."
I stalked out of the room before he could respond, feeling slightly unsettled by the entire encounter in ways I couldn’t quite articulate.
There was something about that man—the way he moved, the way he spoke, the carefully controlled performance of everything he did—that suggested depths I didn’t want to explore without proper equipment and maybe a safety harness.
When I emerged back onto the stage, brushing past the curtains with perhaps more force than necessary, I wasn’t even remotely surprised to see Brutus being actively assaulted by Willow and Nara.
The bunny girl had somehow climbed onto his shoulders and was nibbling on his ear with enthusiastic dedication while Willow was pressed against his front, running her hands across his chest and whispering things that made even Brutus’s scarred face flush with color.
Julius stood in front of them in a pose of theatrical despair, hands raised in supplication, trying desperately to get them to calm down with zero success.
"Ladies, please—we have guests—this is highly unprofessional—Nara get down from there, that’s not appropriate—Willow I swear to every deity—"
Felix chose that exact moment to jump up from where he’d apparently been hiding beside the curtain, giving me a tiny "rawr" that was probably meant to be threatening but came out so adorable I nearly died on the spot.
I caught him mid-pounce and put him in a gentle headlock, nuzzling the top of his head while he squirmed and giggled.
"Got you, you little menace. What are you doing, trying to scare me? I’ve faced murder bunnies tonight, Felix. You’re going to have to try harder than that."
Julius eventually gave up on trying to separate Willow and Nara from Brutus, his shoulders sagging with defeat as they began chasing each other around his bulk like he was some kind of large, grumpy tree.
He turned on his heel to face me instead, clapping his hands together with renewed enthusiasm. "Well! Now that you’ve met our resident crime lord and been properly traumatized, I believe it’s time for the official tour! Come along, come along!"
He led us through the first floor with the energy of an excited puppy showing off his favorite spots, gesturing grandly at each new room we encountered.
The storage room was exactly what it sounded like—dusty shelves lined with props and costumes that had seen better decades, fake swords, crowns, and an alarming number of skulls that I really hoped were fake.
The bar and lounge area was more impressive, done up in dark wood and red velvet that matched the rest of the theater’s aesthetic, with bottles lining shelves behind a counter that looked like it could serve drinks or host philosophical debates about the nature of existence depending on how drunk everyone got.
And then there was the basement, accessed through a stone staircase that descended into darkness lit only by a few strategically placed torches.
I paused at the bottom, my eyes tracking across the space and landing on details that made my brow raise slowly toward my hairline. "Julius," I said slowly, pointing at the shackles bolted to the walls, the strange leather contraptions hanging from hooks, the table with restraints at each corner. "Why exactly does your theater have what appears to be a fully functional dungeon?"
Julius gave me a grin that was all teeth and mischief. "Every good theater needs a place for method acting! Really getting into character! Exploring the depths of human experience through controlled experimentation!" He paused. "Also sometimes people need to be tied up. For reasons. Consensual reasons. Mostly consensual. The basement has excellent acoustics."
My eyes caught on something else then—a heavy metal door at the far end of the basement, barely visible in the torch light, and from behind it came muffled sounds that might have been crying or might have been something else entirely. "And that?" I asked, pointing. "What’s behind door number incredibly ominous?"
Julius’s grin widened impossibly further. "That, my dear Loona, is a surprise for later! All will be revealed in due time! But for now—" He grabbed my wrist and tugged me back toward the stairs. "—we have more rooms to see and I refuse to let you get distracted by every mysterious detail! Come along!"
I was already turning back toward the stairs because honestly I’d hit my quota for disturbing revelations tonight.
The second floor awaited us past the balcony where Julius had performed his death-defying leap, and we found ourselves in a hallway lined with various doors, each one labeled with a different name in varying handwriting styles.
Willow’s door hummed with a deep, resonant energy that made my teeth ache slightly when I got too close, the kind of demonic vibration that hinted at something old and dangerous.
Nara’s gave off a faint sweet smell—carrots maybe? or honey?—that was oddly soothing. One door remained unlabeled, and I could only assume that was Julius’s based on the general chaos principle.
I paused at Grisha’s door, because from inside came the unmistakable sounds of grunting and the wet, rhythmic squelching of flesh on flesh that could really only mean one thing. I gave a nervous giggle, my face heating slightly. "She’s... remarkably committed to her hobbies."
"Indeed," Julius said with a knowing smile, already motioning us along.
We stopped at Felix’s room, and I felt something in my chest constrict painfully at the sight of the label. It had been crossed out with paint—messily, enthusiastically—and beneath it someone had written "Felix and Loona" in barely legible letters that suggested the writer had either been extremely excited or extremely bad at spelling. Probably both.
Felix gripped my arm with both hands, jumping up and down with such vigorous excitement that he nearly pulled me off balance, and the pure, uncomplicated joy radiating from him touched something deep in my chest that I’d thought I’d successfully walled off years ago.
He’d prepared this. Had crossed out his own name and added mine. Had made space for me in his world without even knowing if I’d survive to see it.
Brutus raised a brow, glancing between Felix’s enthusiasm and my suspiciously shiny eyes. "You okay there?"
"Shut up, I have allergies," I muttered, reaching up to wipe at my face.
Julius turned to Brutus then with an apologetic bow that somehow managed to be both genuine and theatrical. "I’m terribly sorry, but we don’t have any spare rooms left over. You’ll have to choose one of theirs to bunk in. I know it’s not ideal—"
"I’ll take him!" Willow and Nara shouted simultaneously, then turned to glare at each other with competitive fury.
"He needs a proper roommate," Willow insisted, puffing out her chest. "Someone mature and responsible—"
"He needs someone fun!" Nara countered, her bunny ears twitching with agitation. "Not some stuffy—"
Grisha’s door slammed open with violent force, cutting off their argument. The orc emerged in all her naked, sweat-drenched glory, her face flushed and her breathing heavy.
She pushed past both of them without ceremony, her wet fingers closing around Brutus’s wrist in a grip that looked genuinely painful, and when she spoke her voice carried the kind of authority that brooked absolutely no argument.
"He’s coming with me."
Brutus’s eye went wide. "Wait, I don’t think—I mean, I haven’t even—can we discuss this like reasonable—"
But Grisha was far too powerful even for him, her muscles flexing as she simply dragged him toward her room like he weighed nothing at all. I watched with mounting horror and delight as my friend was hauled off to what was either going to be the best or worst night of his life.
I spat out a laugh, the sound echoing down the hallway. "Good luck, Brutus! May your survival instincts be strong and your stamina be stronger!"
"Loona!" Brutus’s desperate plea cut through the air, his hand reaching toward me like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. "Don’t leave me! She’s going to kill me! Loona, I’m serious—"
The door slammed shut with the sound of finality, cutting off whatever else he was going to say, and the hallway fell silent save for my continued snickering.
Felix tugged on my arm insistently, practically vibrating with excitement, and pushed open the door to his—our—room with both hands.
We collectively stepped inside, and I prepared myself for whatever fresh chaos awaited me as a theatrical brothel worker.
Because apparently that was my life now, and I was just going to have to roll with it.