After redressing myself—because apparently walking around naked all night was starting to lose its novelty, who knew—and giving Julius an extraordinarily long explanation about my time in the prison that included extensive details about how I’d started a drug empire through my combination of charm, wit, and sheer refusal to die quietly, we hauled the radio up from the basement into the lounge and bar area on the first floor.
The space was lit by a sparse scattering of lanterns that bathed everything in a wash of crimson and shadow, their glow sinking into walls draped with faded red wallpaper—once opulent, no doubt, but now worn thin with age and neglect, like a grand performance long past its final curtain.
Torn couches lined the perimeter, their stuffing spilling from split seams like half-confessed sins, while mismatched chairs and overturned seats sat at odd angles, as though someone had attempted to impose order while catastrophically drunk and abandoned the effort the moment gravity—or conscience—won.
Small, broken tables dotted the space with no discernible logic, their warped surfaces etched with water rings and scars that looked uncomfortably like knife marks, and in the corner squatted a bar whose shelves sagged under the weight of dusty bottles—most of them empty, the rest filled with liquids so ancient they’d likely developed opinions and a strong sense of grievance.
Nara and Willow were already there when we arrived, sprawled across one of the couches in a tangle of limbs and arguing about something I couldn’t quite make out.
Standing ominously in the shadows near the far wall was Mavus Grey, his painted clown face catching the dim light in ways that made him look like some kind of theatrical specter.
Julius and I set the radio down on a small oval table in the center of the room with significantly more effort than I’d expected—the thing was heavy, all brass and internal components that probably weighed more than I did.
Julius immediately wiped his brow with a breathless pant, his chest heaving. "So," he said between gasps, "just to reaffirm your plan—we’re going to use this ancient radio to somehow get in contact with your crew in the prison, who are currently running your drug empire, so you can coordinate... what exactly?"
I nodded enthusiastically, my hands already hovering over the radio’s controls with barely restrained excitement. "All we have to do is find the specific frequency to the radio they carry. From then we can coordinate supply lines, distribution networks, saints above, we can expand operations to include the Velvet Chambers now that I’m able to move freely. It’s brilliant!"
Julius tilted his head, his expression skeptical but intrigued. "And how exactly are we supposed to find this specific frequency in a network that has hundreds of channels?"
"Ah," I said, raising my finger, "that’s the clever part. We get in contact with the Spire first—someone who has access to the frequency records—and ask them to look it up for us." I paused for a moment before continuing. "Tell me, is it possible to get in contact with them from here?"
"I know the signal to connect to one of their operatives," Julius confirmed, his fingers already adjusting the settings of the device with practiced precision. "Just give me a moment to get this thing warmed up—it’s temperamental when it’s been sitting idle for too long."
As Julius worked, I felt hands on me again—naturally—because Nara and Willow had apparently reached a silent consensus that any moment I wasn’t actively bleeding, scheming, or sprinting for my life counted as open season on my personal space.
Nara was sniffing at my neck while Willow ran her fingers through my hair, both of them making soft, satisfied noises that suggested this was less affection and more territorial marking. And yet my focus remained locked on Mavus standing in the shadows.
Such an odd man, with even odder motives that didn’t quite add up no matter how I turned them over in my mind. He insisted he was helping Julius out of family loyalty, yet he refused to offer to pay for his basic expenses—things that would be pocket change for someone running a criminal empire across multiple layers of the city.
Either that, or it was possible Mavus didn’t actually have any finances in the first place, that his reputation was larger than his actual resources, that he was playing a long game I couldn’t see the shape of yet.
And then there was what he’d said about having business with the Director, whatever that meant—because you didn’t casually drop hints about dealing with someone like Director Thalen unless you either had an absurdly oversized pair of cojones, a stack of leverage tall enough to reach the ceiling, or a very explicit death wish.
I pushed those thoughts aside for now—filed under "problems for future Loona"—as Julius perked up and the radio began to crackle.
Static filled the room, loud and harsh, before Julius turned the complicated knobs with surgical precision, his tongue poking out slightly between his lips in concentration. The static shifted, modulated, and then suddenly resolved into a clear channel as a voice came through the speakers.
"This is Spire communications, Operative Seven speaking. Identify yourself and state your business." The voice was female, clipped and professional, carrying the kind of bored efficiency that suggested she’d answered this call a thousand times and wasn’t particularly thrilled about having to do it again.
I leaned toward the radio, pushing Nara and Willow aside gently but firmly. "This is Loona. I need to speak with Iskanda immediately. It’s urgent."
There was a pause on the other end—long enough to be awkward—before the operative spoke again, her tone shifting from professional to confused and slightly rude. "Loona? Never heard of you. And I’m not authorized to just patch random people through to our seniors without proper clearance. If you want to leave a message, I can—"
"My name," I interrupted with deliberate emphasis, "is Loona
The operative paused dead silent. I could practically hear her brain recalibrating through the radio speakers. "Wait—you’re—oh gods, you’re that one. The—the match—everyone’s still talking about—" She stammered over her words, professional composure completely abandoned. "Right away! I’ll get her right away! Please hold!"
The line went silent save for its faint static. Several long moments passed in awkward silence, broken only by the crackle of the radio and Willow humming some tune I didn’t recognize.
Nara had taken it upon herself to braid a chunk of my hair—entirely without my consent—and I let it slide, because honestly, choosing your battles is a survival skill, and hair braiding doesn’t exactly qualify as life-or-death.
Then the radio crackled again, louder this time, and Iskanda’s voice came through with a groan that suggested I’d just interrupted something she considered significantly more important than whatever I wanted.
"Why," she said with exaggerated patience, "are you calling me at this hour? And more importantly, how did you even get access to our communication system in the first place? You’ve been out of the tower for less than a day, Loona. A single day. How have you already caused enough chaos to require radio contact?"
I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. "I’m efficient like that. It’s a gift. But listen—I need a favor, and before you say no, remember that I’m adorable and you like me."
"I tolerate you," Iskanda corrected, but I could hear the amusement in her voice despite her attempt at sternness. "What do you need?"
"The frequency to contact the conductor’s radio in the prison," I said, getting straight to the point because I knew Iskanda appreciated directness. "I need to get in touch with my people down there, coordinate some business, maybe arrange a supply line or two. Standard criminal enterprise stuff. Very normal, very reasonable."
Iskanda sighed—long, heavy, the kind of sigh that suggested she was questioning every decision that had led up to this moment. "You’re trying to do what? Run a drug operation from a brothel in the slums?"
"I prefer to think of it as trying to ’diversify my portfolio,’" I said cheerfully. "But yes, essentially. So can you help me or do I need to figure this out the hard way? Which, mind you, will probably involve significantly more property damage."
"Hold on," she muttered, and I heard rustling on her end—papers being shuffled, something being opened. "The frequency is... 847.3. But Loona? Be careful. If anyone traces this connection back to our communication system, there will be consequences. For both of us."
"You’re the best," I said with genuine warmth. "Seriously. You’re like the terrifying, violent big sister I never knew I needed. I appreciate you."
"Just don’t die doing something stupid," Iskanda replied, though there was something almost fond in her tone. "Goodbye, Loona."
The connection cut out with a sharp click before I immediately began tuning the radio, my fingers dancing across the knobs as I searched for the frequency she mentioned.
The static shifted and modulated, cycling through channels that picked up fragments of other conversations—someone arguing about shipments, a woman laughing, music that sounded like it was being played on instruments made from trash—before finally settling on the right frequency. The static cleared, leaving behind a steady hum that suggested the channel was active but currently empty.
We lingered in that silence for what felt like an eternity, all of us staring at the radio as if sheer willpower could make it spit out something useful. Willow and Nara, bored out of their minds, started spinning increasingly absurd theories about what might have happened to my prison crew, their imaginations getting increasingly wild with each suggestion.
"Maybe they got caught," Willow mused, tapping one finger against her chin. "Arrested and executed in some elaborate public display."
"Or they could have been eaten by sewer monsters," Nara added helpfully. "I heard the prison has sewer monsters. Big ones with teeth."
"There are no sewer monsters," I said with exaggerated patience. "That’s just—"
A voice crackled through the radio, cutting off my response. "Identify yourself and state your purpose for accessing this frequency." The voice was male, measured and calm, carrying the particular quality of someone who spoke with precision because he’d learned that clarity prevented problems.
I jumped forward so fast I nearly knocked the radio off the table, my heart leaping into my throat with recognition. "Atticus?" I said, my voice pitching higher with excitement. "Atticus, is that you? Holy shit, it actually worked!"
There was a pause on the other end—brief but weighted—before the voice came back, and this time I could hear the shock coloring every syllable. "Loona?! Saints above, how are you—why are you—where are you even broadcasting from?"
"Long story!" I said, practically bouncing in my seat. "It’s not important right now. The only thing important right now is that I’m alive! I’m fine! Well, mostly fine. There’ve been complications but I’m managing them with my usual grace and competence."
"Your usual grace and competence," Atticus repeated dryly, "which historically has resulted in around seventeen near-death experiences and countless property damage incidents."
"Exactly!" I agreed cheerfully. "See, you get it. Now—is Dregan there? I need to talk to both of you about coordinating operations between the prison and the Velvet Chambers. We’ve got an opportunity here and I want to make sure we’re maximizing our potential."
"Hold on," Atticus said. I heard him moving away from the radio, his voice becoming distant as he called out. "Dregan! Get over here! You’re not going to believe this!"
A moment later, the radio crackled to life and a new voice burst through the speakers—rough and gravel‑dragged, the kind of sound that felt like it had been steeped in cheap whiskey and bad decisions.
"What do you want, Atticus? I’m in the middle of—wait, is that the radio? Who the hell is—" There was a pause, then an explosive laugh nearly blew out the speakers. "Lad! Is that you, you beautiful disaster? Saints preserve us, we thought you were dead!"
"Dregan!" I laughed, warmth flooding through my chest at hearing his familiar voice. "I’m very much alive! Though I have to say, your lack of faith in my survival skills wounds me deeply."
"Your survival skills," Dregan shot back, "consist of sucking cock faster than most men can draw steel and riding anything with a pulse until it forgets its own name. But by all the gods, lad, it’s good to hear your voice. Now tell us—what the hell have you been doing up there?"