I stepped closer to the theater’s front doors with anticipation coiling tight in my gut. The heavy wood loomed before me, its ornate carvings catching long shadows from the artificial moonlight streaming through those impossible windows.
The brass handles gleamed in the pale glow, polished to such a shine they seemed almost theatrical—like the building itself had decided this moment deserved a touch more drama than strictly necessary.
In truth, I already had a rough idea of who was making such an insistent racket. All that remained now was the grand reveal, the moment where my suspicions either proved correct or I discovered that someone entirely unexpected had decided to bang on our door in the middle of the night like the world’s most aggressive salesman.
I gripped both handles before pulling them wide in a sweeping motion that made the hinges creak in mild protest.
There, framed perfectly in the doorway like someone had staged them for maximum visual impact, stood Atticus and Dregan.
Atticus looked exactly as I remembered—somewhat tall with the kind of rigid posture that came from years of hunching over books and then overcorrecting through sheer willpower alone, still draped in those grey robes that fell in precise folds suggesting either meticulous care or mild obsessive tendencies.
His silver hair was slicked back with enough product to probably survive a hurricane, reflecting the moonlight in ways that made him look vaguely ethereal despite the scholarly glasses perched on his nose.
Those glasses caught the light too, twin circles of reflected brilliance that momentarily obscured his eyes before he tilted his head, revealing the stoic expression I’d come to associate with him explaining why everyone else’s ideas were mathematically inferior to his own.
Dregan stood there in all his compact dwarven solidity, his broad frame drawn up straight as a spear shaft. His wild orange beard exploded from his face in directions that defied both gravity and common sense, the bristling mass catching the light like a small, unruly bonfire.
The grin splitting his features was positively criminal—wide, unapologetic, and deeply satisfied. It was the unmistakable expression of a man who had just gotten away with something profoundly questionable and was immensely pleased with himself for it.
Before I could even assemble a proper greeting, Dregan brushed past me without hesitation or the faintest hint of permission, his boots thudding against our polished floors as he strolled into the lobby like he owned the place.
He let out a low whistle that somehow managed to sound both impressed and vaguely perverted, his eyes tracking across the space with obvious appreciation.
"Well fuck me sideways," he declared with a volume that probably woke half the city, "this place is fancier than a noble’s wet dream! Look at these floors. And that ceiling? Saints above!" His gaze landed on the sweeping staircases, tracking their elegant curves with theatrical appreciation. "Those stairs look sturdy enough for some proper fuckin’, if you catch my drift. How many people you reckon we could fit in one of those upper balconies for a good old-fashioned—"
Atticus, still standing near the doorway, pressed his hand to his face with the long-suffering patience of someone who’d been dealing with this exact behavior for far too long.
The gesture was so perfectly executed I could practically hear his internal screaming through the physical manifestation of his exhaustion.
I giggled—the sound bubbling up bright and delighted—before stepping back to give them both a proper view of the theater’s interior.
"Atticus! Dregan! Welcome to the Moonlight Sonata, finest establishment in the slums, currently under renovation to become the finest establishment in the entire city!" I spread my arms wide to present the space with the kind of flourish magicians employed when revealing they’d successfully sawed someone in half. "Please, come in, make yourselves at home."
Atticus finally stepped fully inside then, closing the door behind him with careful precision before turning to survey the space properly. His analytical gaze tracked across every detail—the illusory moonlight, the hanging stars, the polished surfaces, the architectural bones that spoke to quality craftsmanship.
When he spoke, his voice carried that measured quality of someone mentally cataloging information for future reference.
"This is... remarkable."
The word wasn’t spoken with awe so much as quiet calculation. His gaze moved slowly across the room, taking in every detail with the methodical patience of someone who understood that environments told stories if you bothered to read them properly.
I clasped my hands together then, drawing Atticus’s attention back to the matter at hand. "Well then, have all the supplies been gathered? Are we ready to begin operations?"
Atticus’s expression softened fractionally as he turned back to face me. "Everything has been secured and catalogued. Alongside that, I’ve already established contact with potential distributors in multiple districts of the city, vetting their credentials and negotiating preliminary terms. The warehouse space has been prepared with appropriate storage and security measures. We can begin operations at any time you give the order."
Pride swelled in my chest at his efficiency, at the absolute competence he brought to every task assigned to him. "Atticus, you brilliant, beautiful disaster! Have I mentioned lately that you’re worth your weight in gold? Because you are. Possibly more, depending on current market rates." I stepped forward and clasped his shoulder, the gesture warm with a kind of easy affection that felt almost brotherly. "Thank you. Truly," I added more softly. "I know I have a habit of asking for the impossible in my requests... and somehow you keep finding ways to make it happen."
Something flickered behind his glasses—an emotion he couldn’t quite suppress, appreciation mixed with the kind of loyalty that came from shared hardship.
"Well," he said dryly, a faint hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, "it does help that your impossible requests tend to come with very persuasive motivation. Besides, someone has to translate your... ambitious ideas into something resembling a workable plan." He gave a small shrug, understated but genuine. "I figure if I keep solving the problems fast enough, you’ll eventually run out of new ways to create them."
The laugh that escaped me caught me completely off guard. It wasn’t the polished, theatrical sort I usually wielded like a social weapon—it came out bright and unguarded, bubbling up before I had the chance to smooth it into something more controlled.
The moment lingered there between us for a second—warm in a way I wasn’t entirely comfortable examining too closely. Praise had a way of making things feel dangerously sincere if you let it sit too long, and sincerity was a luxury I usually handled with extreme caution.
Fortunately, the universe spared me from dwelling on it.
Movement in my peripheral vision tugged my attention sideways. I turned just in time to see Lloyd striding across the lobby with purposeful confidence, his hand already extending in greeting as he approached Atticus.
Atticus’s eyes went wide behind his glasses, the lenses catching the lobby lights as his usual stoic composure cracked clean in half. Recognition hit him all at once, the way it does when your brain suddenly realizes the person walking toward you isn’t merely important—they’re famous. The kind of famous that gets talked about in taverns and whispered about in back rooms.
"Lloyd Altera," Atticus blurted, his voice betraying him by climbing half an octave before he could wrestle it back under control. "Y-you’re him, aren’t you?"
Lloyd’s grin widened in that easy, practiced way of a man who’d long since grown accustomed to being recognized in public. He clasped Atticus’s outstretched hand warmly, giving it a firm shake like they were already old acquaintances.
"Guilty as charged," Lloyd said with cheerful confidence. "It’s a pleasure to meet you."
Atticus looked momentarily speechless. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again as his brain scrambled to reconcile the image of Lloyd Altera, citywide celebrity and professional legend, standing before him with the casual ease of any ordinary acquaintance.
I left them to their bonding, turning my attention instead to Dregan who’d gone suspiciously quiet. The dwarf stood frozen mid-stride, his eyes blown impossibly wide as Lloyd’s crew began emerging from the basement stairs, hauling heavy crates up into the lobby.
And not just any crates—but crates filled with golden crowns that caught the artificial moonlight and threw it back in dazzling displays that made the entire lobby look as though someone had detonated a small sun.
His mouth worked silently, beard twitching as he tried to formulate words, before a breathless curse finally escaped him.
"Holy mother of—" He whipped around to face me with such speed I swear I heard his neck crack. "How in the ever-loving fuck did you manage to hold onto this many crowns after spending most of what we lent you on basic renovations?!"
His arm swept out to indicate the workers visible through the windows, the materials being hauled around outside, the sheer scope of activity happening around the theater. "Even with the ten thousand we gave you, that wouldn’t nearly cover a workforce this size! What did you do, rob the city itself?!"
I laughed, the sound bright with mischief as I prepared to absolutely shatter his understanding of the past week. "Oh, Dregan. We lost those crowns the moment you lent them to us."
Dregan’s face cycled through several colors, settling on a purple that suggested imminent apoplexy. He began stammering, actual coherent language failing him completely as his brain tried to reconcile what I was saying with the evidence before his eyes. "But—then—how—that’s—what—?"
I glanced back toward Atticus who’d already abandoned his conversation with Lloyd, drawn inexorably toward one of the open crates like a moth to a particularly shiny flame.
He’d dropped to his knees beside it, hands hovering over the gold without quite touching, his analytical mind clearly trying to calculate the value while his emotional side grappled with the sheer impossibility of the sight before him.
When he spoke, his voice came out barely above a whisper. "How did you acquire such an amount?"
My laugh came lighter this time, edged with the kind of exasperation that came from knowing I was about to spend the next hour or so explaining increasingly improbable events. "I have a lot of explaining to do, don’t I?"
From then on, time passed in that particular way it does when you’re recounting stories that sound made up even while you’re living them.
We found ourselves in the bar and lounge area once more as I walked Atticus and Dregan through every detail—the confrontation with Oberen, our endeavors in the casino, the Russian Roulette game, everything leading up to this moment where we stood surrounded by more wealth than any of us had dreamed possible even a week ago.
Both of them stood absolutely dumbstruck, their expressions frozen in matching masks of disbelief that would’ve been comical if they weren’t so thoroughly deserved.
Atticus recovered first, surging forward with uncharacteristic violence to grip me tight by the shoulders, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.
"Tell me this is true," he demanded, his usual scholarly composure completely shattered. "Tell me this isn’t some elaborate prank, some hallucination brought on by bad mushrooms or stress-induced psychosis."
"I’m not lying," I confirmed, reaching up to pat one of his hands where it clutched my shoulder. "May the gods strike me down if I’m fabricating this. You can even ask Oberen himself if you want."
Atticus released me to clutch his head with both hands, fingers tangling in his perfectly slicked hair and completely destroying its careful arrangement.
"This is—I can’t—the statistical improbability alone—" He made a sound like a tea kettle reaching critical temperature. "You’re either the luckiest person alive or the universe has decided to personally sponsor your chaos."
Dregan, meanwhile, had gone completely still for approximately five seconds before exploding into laughter so hearty, so full-bodied, that it echoed off the walls in overlapping waves.
He doubled over, hands braced on his knees, beard shaking with the force of his mirth. When he finally managed to straighten, tears streaming down his face, he pointed at me with obvious delight.
"You magnificent bastard!" he wheezed, still cackling between words. "You absolute mad lad! This is—this is the most dwarven thing I’ve ever seen a non-dwarf accomplish! I’m adopting you! You’re my son now! We’re family!"
I took his praise with a huff of pride, my chest puffing up slightly as I preened under the recognition. "Well, you know. When opportunity knocks, I answer the door, seduce it, steal its wallet, and then use the proceeds to fund my increasingly ambitious schemes." I paused, considering for a second. "Also I may have developed a mild gambling addiction in the process, but we’ll address that character flaw later."
From there we spiraled into increasingly complex discussions about resource allocation, how much money would be split to fuel our developing drug empire, what percentage of profits would flow back to support the theater, contingency plans if the Spire discovered our operations.
The conversation happened primarily between Atticus and myself while Dregan’s attention wandered with obvious purpose toward where Grisha stood against the far wall.
The massive orc woman caught his stare, holding it with those amber eyes that promised violence and other forms of physical intensity. She gave him a little grunt—barely audible but loaded with meaning—before her tusked mouth curved into a smirk.
Her head tilted in a deliberate gesture toward the stairs leading to the upper floors, the invitation so clear it might as well have been written in ink.
That was apparently all the confirmation Dregan needed. He was already moving before conscious thought caught up to his body, beard practically bristling with anticipation as he crossed the space between them.
I sighed with theatrical exasperation but decided to let them be. After all, they were consenting adults who’d already established their dynamic, and honestly after the week I’d had, I wasn’t about to police other people’s sex lives when mine had been equally ridiculous.
"Try to avoid breaking any furniture that’s already been replaced!" I called after them as they disappeared up the stairs with impressive speed.
After all negotiations concluded, after numbers had been calculated, plans had been made, and everyone’s brains hurt from trying to process the impossible amount of wealth at our fingertips, Atticus and Dregan agreed to spend the night.
Well, Dregan agreed via his absence—currently occupied with Grisha somewhere upstairs doing things I absolutely didn’t need the detailed knowledge of.
Atticus would be sleeping with Julius in his quarters while Lloyd and his considerable crew claimed the bar and lounge area.
The rest of our theater crew settled in the basement among the crates of gold, probably sleeping better than they ever had knowing they were surrounded by literal fortune. The attendants chose to sleep outside, citing better air quality though I suspected they just wanted distance from the chaos.
I found myself climbing the stairs toward the room I shared with Felix, my boots quiet against the polished wood, exhaustion finally catching up to everything my body had been through today.
Felix had already passed out on the couch sometime during our previous negotiations, his delicate frame curled into a ball, blonde hair falling across his peaceful face, soft snores indicating he’d achieved the kind of deep sleep that came from being thoroughly wrung out.
I grinned to myself as I settled onto the bed alone, letting my body sink into the mattress with a relief that felt almost spiritual. Everything was going smoothly. Almost too smoothly, if I was being honest, but I’d learned not to jinx things by acknowledging when life was actually cooperating.
The theater had funding, skilled workers, a developing plan. Our drug operation was ready to launch. We’d neutralized threats, gained powerful allies, positioned ourselves for success.
Sleep claimed me quickly, pulling me down into darkness with welcoming arms.
A few hours passed in that peculiar way time does when you’re unconscious—simultaneously an instant and an eternity, your brain processing the day while your body repairs itself, dreams flickering through your mind like half-remembered stories.
Then my instincts kicked into absolute overdrive.
I wasn’t fully awake when it happened—still caught in that fuzzy space between sleeping and consciousness. But something primal in my hindbrain started screaming with the kind of urgency that bypassed rational thought entirely.
Danger.
The recognition crashed through my sluggish thoughts like ice water, snapping me toward wakefulness even as every nerve ending in my body lit up with warning signals.
I was in danger. Immediate, present, life-threatening danger.
And I had absolutely no idea where it was coming from.