A few moments later—having redressed myself with hands that still trembled slightly from aftershocks and legs that threatened to give out if I moved too quickly—I stepped out from behind the theater curtain alone, Mavus having already vanished to do gods-know-what with his typical mysterious timing that left me simultaneously impressed and mildly irritated.
I blinked at the two figures standing on the stage directly in my path, their presence so sudden it made me jump slightly before recognition settled over me like a cold blanket. The Velvets. Both of them standing there in their standard dark uniforms with expressions I couldn’t quite read but which felt distinctly like they’d been waiting for me to emerge.
A faint blush crept across my cheeks unbidden, heat spreading from my neck upward as mortification kicked in with the force of a mule to the chest.
"Did you—" I started, my voice coming out higher than intended. "Did you hear all of that? Please tell me you were anywhere else in the building. Please tell me you were outside fighting crime or organizing things or literally anything that didn’t involve standing here listening to—"
They nodded in perfect synchronization, the motion slow and deliberate, like they were trying very hard not to make this worse for me but also couldn’t bring themselves to lie.
I facepalmed so hard the slap echoed across the empty theater, my remaining functional fingers pressing against my forehead with enough pressure to leave marks. "Of course you did. Because privacy is apparently a myth in this establishment. Why would I expect anything different at this point?"
I dragged my hand slowly down my face, skin pulling beneath my palm as a long-suffering sigh tore its way out of my chest, heavy with every ounce of accumulated embarrassment I hadn’t yet processed and would absolutely be replaying in my nightmares later.
"You know what? We’re just going to pretend that didn’t happen. Moving on. Ignoring it forever. If anyone asks, I was receiving extremely legitimate magical instruction that happened to involve some very loud vocalizations for purely educational reasons."
The female Velvet suddenly spoke up, her voice cutting through my rambling with sharp clarity. "Was that man you were with Mavus Grey?"
I nodded without thinking—an automatic confirmation that slipped out before my brain could rise from the fog and tackle the question properly. "Yeah, that was him. Why do you—"
Both of them froze.
Not the composed stillness they usually wore, not the controlled readiness of trained enforcers waiting for orders, but something stark and unmistakably human. Their eyes widened in perfect, horrified unison—raw fear flooding their expressions so fast it barely had time to disguise itself as anything else.
It wasn’t mild alarm or professional concern; it was the kind of disbelief that cracked something fundamental, as though reality itself had just violated an agreement they thought was ironclad. Their bodies went rigid, posture snapping into something defensive despite the absence of any immediate threat, hands twitching toward weapons they weren’t even carrying, muscle memory screaming at them to prepare for violence anyway.
"What’s wrong?" I asked.
The male Velvet found his voice first, though it came out strained, like speaking required conscious effort to override panic.
"You don’t understand. Mavus Grey isn’t just dangerous—he’s the most wanted criminal in the entire city. The Spire has standing orders to apprehend him on sight, dead or alive, with rewards high enough to retire entire families. He’s responsible for more deaths, more chaos, more destabilized power structures than any other individual in living memory."
He stopped there, swallowing hard, the sound painfully loud in the hollow theater. When he spoke again, his voice dropped, threaded with disbelief that bordered on accusation. "What is someone like that doing in your theater? Why was he—" He gestured vaguely at the curtain, apparently unable to finish the sentence involving what I’d been doing with said legendary criminal.
I shook my head with genuine helplessness, spreading my hands in a gesture of universal confusion. "I wish I could tell you. He’s somehow related to Julius—third cousin twice removed or some equally convoluted family connection—and he provided us with several crew members as gifts. Beyond that? Your guess is as good as mine."
I shrugged, the motion small but sincere. "He shows up when he wants, teaches me magic occasionally, starts spouting philosophy when the mood strikes him, then vanishes like smoke. I have no idea what his actual agenda is, what business he has with Director Thalen, or why he’s invested in our little operation here."
The Velvets exchanged glances that communicated entire conversations in micro-expressions I couldn’t quite parse, some kind of silent debate happening at speeds normal people couldn’t achieve. Finally they turned back to me in unison, awaiting orders with the professional composure that suggested they’d compartmentalized their fear for later processing.
A slow smirk crept across my lips as an idea slid neatly into place, snapping together with such clean, malicious elegance that I almost admired it. "Actually," I said lightly, "I have your next assignment." Their attention sharpened by a degree, subtle but unmistakable. "I want you to track Mavus’s movements completely—where he goes, who he meets with, what he does when he thinks no one’s watching. Find out what he’s actually up to, why he’s here, what his connection to the Director involves. And most importantly—"
I leaned forward just enough to make it feel intentional, lowering my voice into something confidential, almost intimate. "—report back to me with everything you discover. Can you handle that level of surveillance without him noticing? Because if anyone can sneak around undetected following the most dangerous man in the city, it’s Velvets."
They exchanged another glance—shorter this time, sharper—something decisive passing between them. When they nodded in unison, there was a new edge to it, a renewed determination that spoke less of obedience and more of professional pride reasserting itself over common sense.
"We’ll begin immediately," the female confirmed. "Though if he catches us, we may not survive to report the findings."
"Then don’t get caught," I said cheerfully, clapping my hands together. "I have faith in your abilities! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have about a hundred or so people waiting outside who need direction before they start improvising and setting things on fire."
I walked past them with a skip in my step that felt profoundly inappropriate given the evening’s events, but which I lacked both the energy and the moral authority to suppress.
Momentum carried me forward regardless, boots tapping lightly as I crossed the main theater with its rows of damaged seating—bent backs and torn upholstery bearing silent witness to recent chaos—past the lobby with its glowing warmth and star-covered ceiling, straight through the front doors and out into the slums where the blue-hued streetlamps painted everything in shades of melancholy.
My crew waited there—Brutus standing like a mountain made flesh, Grisha radiating satisfied violence, Nara bouncing impatiently on her toes, Felix clinging to Julius’s arm while Julius himself seemed lost in some daydream, and behind them stretched neat rows of casino attendants numbering easily a hundred strong, all standing at attention having finished their task of moving boxes and now awaiting further instruction with the discipline of people accustomed to following orders.
I stepped up beside Brutus who immediately turned his eyes on me with an expression that suggested he’d noticed my absence, catalogued the possibilities, and disliked most of them.
"Where have you been?" he rumbled, the question deceptively simple but layered thick with implication. "You disappeared into the theater for hours, left us standing out here wondering if you’d gotten lost, or distracted, or—" His gaze tracked over me with embarrassing thoroughness, noting details I’d hoped weren’t obvious. "—found another creative way to complicate your life."
I replied with my most innocent smile—the one that had never successfully convinced anyone of my purity, but had an impeccable track record of announcing my shenanigans well in advance.
"Oh, you know me. Just receiving some advanced magical instruction from our resident crime lord. Very educational. Learned all about displacement techniques, energy flow, and the importance of proper positioning for optimal results." I paused, as if genuinely reflecting. "Truly eye-opening. Would recommend the seminar, though the instructor is... a bit intense."
Brutus’s eyes narrowed dangerously as comprehension dawned across his scarred features, his jaw working silently as he assembled the implications I’d just lobbed at his feet. When he finally spoke, it was flat and unadorned, the verbal equivalent of dropping a brick.
"You were fucking Mavus Grey?" There was no outrage in his tone, no disbelief dramatic enough to be theatrical—just weary resignation mixed with the dawning realization that this was, in fact, his life now.
I gave a little shrug that committed to absolutely nothing while somehow confirming everything at once. "Define ’fucking.’ If by that you mean engaging in mutually beneficial physical activities that happened to involve significant amounts of bodily contact and fluid exchange, then... possibly? The details are fuzzy. My brain was thoroughly scrambled by the end of it."
Before Brutus could respond—likely with something involving violence, prayer, or both—Nara suddenly bounced up into my personal space, her manic energy arriving several seconds before the rest of her, bunny ears flopping as she leaned in close and began sniffing me with the intensity of a bloodhound tracking escaped convicts.
"You smell funny," she announced with cheerful sincerity, loud enough that several casino attendants visibly turned to stare. "Did you roll around in something weird? Because you smell really weird."
Grisha stood there with her massive arms folded across her chest, posture relaxed in the way only someone supremely confident in their own capacity for violence could manage. A pleased smirk split her tusked face—slow, knowing, and deeply unbothered—as though she’d pieced everything together several sentences ago and had been patiently waiting for confirmation.
She caught my eye and gave me a deliberate nod, the kind exchanged between professionals acknowledging a job well done. It somehow managed to communicate both well played and I’m absolutely interrogating you about this later, which felt fair.
Julius, meanwhile, remained adrift in whatever ornate fantasy currently occupied his theatrical brain, gaze unfocused and lips faintly moving as if rehearsing a monologue only he could hear. Felix clung to his sleeve with mounting desperation, tugging insistently and whispering urgently in his ear, clearly attempting to anchor him back to reality before Julius wandered off mid-thought and tried to marry a chandelier or something equally on-brand.
I cleared my throat—loudly. Not a polite sound, but the sharp, authoritative kind that snapped attention into place whether people liked it or not. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-word.
"Listen up!" I shouted, projecting my voice across the assembled crowd. "You’re all going to remain here for the time being to help with the theater’s renovations. We need this place actually functional, structurally sound, and aesthetically impressive enough that when Lloyd arrives to give his review we don’t all die of embarrassment."
I paused for dramatic effect. "And because I’m feeling generous after tonight’s various successes, anyone who helps with renovations will earn double normal pay. Plus meals. Plus a bonus if we finish ahead of schedule."
The attendants’ carefully maintained professional composures shattered almost instantly. Faces that had been politely neutral a heartbeat earlier lit up with open surprise, then something brighter—excitement edging toward relief—as they glanced at one another with looks that plainly said this was significantly better than we were bracing for.
There was a peculiar, almost touching quality to it, the realization dawning that their new employer—who had, admittedly, acquired them through a combination of gambling, intimidation, and flagrant disregard for convention—was nevertheless offering fair pay, food, and something suspiciously resembling respect.
Murmurs rippled outward through the group, soft at first, then swelling into genuine enthusiasm, the sound carrying warmth that sank pleasantly into my chest despite the cool air of the chambers.
"First order of business," I continued, already mentally calculating logistics and resources. "I need you to gather supplies—lumber, nails, paint, fabric, whatever tools we’ll need to make this place stop looking like it’s one strong breeze away from total collapse. All of it will be paid for personally by me from our newly acquired fortune, so don’t skimp on quality. Get the good stuff. I want this theater to shine."
The words barely finished leaving my mouth before they were already moving. They scattered into the surrounding streets with purpose-driven energy, breaking formation with remarkable efficiency as if someone had just flipped a switch from obedience to investment.
There was no hesitation, no confusion—just a hundred people dispersing into the city with lists forming in their heads and jobs already mentally assigned. Watching them go, it struck me that they were taking this seriously. Possibly more seriously than any position they’d held before. Possibly because, for once, effort was being met with incentive instead of exploitation.
Within moments, the crowd thinned until only my core crew remained, standing with me in the blue-lit darkness outside a theater poised on the edge of reinvention. The city hummed softly around us, unaware it was about to gain something new.
I watched them go with satisfaction settling warm in my chest, thinking that maybe—just maybe—we were actually going to pull this off.