I found myself back at the theater, standing at center stage beneath the warm spill of overhead lighting that washed everything in a soft, amber glow—as if the building was trying, with quiet insistence, to convince itself it had always been whole.
The light pooled around me, catching on dust motes and the faint imperfections in the wood, turning the space into something almost reverent. The wooden boards beneath my boots creaked with familiar complaint as I shifted my weight.
Around me, Llyod’s crew worked with the kind of focused precision that only came from repetition honed into instinct. They moved through the space in seamless patterns—measuring, marking, hauling lumber and tools with a coordination that bordered on choreography.
One man called out a measurement before another confirmed it without breaking stride, a third already adjusting something before the words had fully settled in the air. It was efficient in a way that felt almost artistic, construction reduced to a practiced dance where every participant knew their role without needing to be reminded.
The hum of their work filled the theater, a steady undercurrent of purposeful chaos that spoke of progress in tangible, reassuring terms.
The rest of my own crew remained seated in the front row. Julius occupied the leftmost seat with his usual dramatic sprawl, one leg draped carelessly over the armrest in a pose that somehow managed to be both effortlessly elegant and profoundly undignified.
His golden hair caught the stage light and reflected it back in soft highlights, giving him the appearance of something painted rather than real, like he’d wandered out of a portrait and decided to stay.
Nara perched beside him like a creature only loosely acquainted with the concept of stillness, her bunny ears twitching at every stray sound, crimson eyes tracking the workers with predatory interest.
There was a particular kind of energy coiled in her posture, the unmistakable promise of mischief waiting for the slightest excuse to bloom into action, and I found myself making a quiet mental note to keep one eye on her at all times. Not to stop her, necessarily—just to ensure whatever chaos she inevitably unleashed remained... strategically beneficial.
Willow had claimed the center seat with the kind of casual dominance that came naturally to succubi who knew their worth, wine-dark skin gleaming in the warm illumination, emerald eyes half-lidded with contentment as she observed the activity around her.
Felix sat to her right, a study in contrast so stark it bordered on unfair. He looked... soft. Not weak—never that—but delicate in a way that triggered something instinctive and inconveniently protective in me. His blonde hair fell in gentle curtains around his face, catching the light like spun gold, and his hands were folded neatly in his lap with a composure that felt almost ceremonial.
He might as well have been attending a formal gala rather than sitting in the middle of a planning session surrounded by people who solved most of their problems through violence or audacity.
Brutus occupied his seat the way a mountain occupies a landscape—inevitably, unapologetically, and with no regard for scale. The chair beneath him looked like it had been built for decorative purposes rather than structural integrity, reduced to something resembling dollhouse furniture by the sheer mass of him.
His face was set in that familiar expression of patient vigilance, eyes steady, posture grounded, the embodiment of restrained force. He didn’t fidget, didn’t shift unnecessarily—he simply was
Grisha had sprawled across the final two seats with the unconscious territorial claiming of someone who didn’t understand nor care about personal space limitations, her seven-foot frame stretched out in relaxed confidence, dark braid pooling across the armrests, amber eyes tracking my every movement with an interest that bordered on hunger.
And then there was Llyod.
He stood off to the side near one of his crew members, brown hair sweeping elegantly off to one side of his handsome face, posture radiating that particular brand of noble-bred confidence that came from knowing you were good at what you did.
He held a clipboard covered in notes and sketches, occasionally gesturing to emphasize points to the worker beside him, but his attention kept drifting back toward me in ways that made it clear he was listening to multiple conversations simultaneously.
I cleared my throat with deliberate projection, letting the sound cut through the ambient noise and draw every eye in the theater toward my position center stage.
The workers paused mid-motion, tools held in suspended animation, while my crew straightened in their seats with the kind of focused attention that came from recognizing when something important was about to be announced.
"While on my little expedition today," I began with playful brightness, "I had something of a revelation regarding what our theater’s specialty should be."
The crew leaned forward as one, anticipation rippling through them in visible waves that made me want to draw out the suspense just for the sadistic pleasure of watching them squirm. But I restrained myself—mostly because I was too excited about my own idea to keep it contained much longer.
Nara’s ears stood straight up, her entire body going still with focused attention. Julius tilted his head with intrigued curiosity that made his golden hair slide across his shoulder. Even Grisha shifted slightly, propping herself up on one elbow to see me better.
"Each week," I explained, warming to my subject as the pieces assembled themselves into coherent narrative, "we will host a special theatrical event. Not a brothel service, not a standard entertainment offering, but something that combines performance art with stakes that actually matter. Real stakes. Life and death stakes that will have audiences on the edge of their seats."
I paused for breath, gathering my thoughts before launching into the core concept. "Two prisoners from the Maw—individuals already condemned to death, already living on borrowed time—will be brought to our theater and given a choice. They can die randomly in that hellhole, forgotten and meaningless, their existence erased without ceremony or witness. Or they can fight for their lives here, on this stage, performing in a theatrical production that will be remembered and discussed throughout the city."
Julius’s eyes widened with dawning comprehension, his lips parting slightly as he began connecting the dots I was laying out before them.
"They will be playing characters from a script," I continued, "Acting with all the drama and emotion we can coax from them. But here’s where it gets interesting—the story will play out differently depending on who emerges victorious from their confrontation. We’ll write multiple endings, branching narratives that diverge based on which character survives the central conflict. The audience won’t know which version they’re getting until the moment of truth."
The silence that followed was electric, charged with processing energy as every mind in the room worked through the implications and possibilities. They looked at each other with varying expressions—Julius practically glowing with theatrical delight, Nara’s mouth hanging open in shock, Willow nodding slowly with appreciation, Felix’s eyes with something between horror and fascination, Grisha’s tusked grin spreading wider with each passing second.
Brutus was the first to break the silence, his voice rumbling across the theater like distant thunder. "What happens after the play concludes? When one prisoner’s killed the other in front of an audience of nobles who paid good money for the privilege of watching?"
I turned to him with a grin that felt like it might split my face. "Whoever remains victorious will be spared from their death sentence. Their execution postponed indefinitely, their status changed from condemned prisoner to theater employee. They’ll work here, performing in future productions or helping with other aspects of the operation, given a second chance at life in exchange for the entertainment they’ve provided."
Julius exploded out of his seat with such violent excitement that he nearly knocked Nara sideways, his hands flying up to grip the sides of his head as though physically containing his thoughts.
"This is—this is brilliant!" His voice climbed several octaves, cracking around the edges with the kind of manic joy that made him dangerous to be around in enclosed spaces. "Don’t you see? It’s perfect! Absolutely, impossibly perfect!" He began pacing in front of the seats, gesturing wildly as words tumbled from his mouth faster than his brain could properly organize them. "Not only does it provide the entertainment we desperately need—the unique selling point that will draw crowds and build reputation—but it also provides us labor! No matter the outcome of each performance!"
He spun to face me directly, his hazelnut eyes practically sparkling with inspiration. "And the implications for future performances! Once we have a stable of former fighters, we can use them in non-combat roles, have them train new prisoners, create ongoing storylines that span multiple events! The audience will develop favorites, will come back week after week to see if their chosen performer survives the next challenge! It’s self-perpetuating entertainment that grows more valuable with each iteration!"
I basked in the praise with shameless pleasure, letting his words wash over me like warm honey while trying very hard not to look too smug about my own cleverness. Trying and failing, if I’m being honest, because the grin currently plastered across my face probably made me look absolutely insufferable.
Llyod stepped forward then, his professional demeanor cracking just enough to reveal the calculating businessman beneath. He nodded with slow appreciation, his brown hair catching the light as he tilted his head to examine the concept from multiple angles.
"Theater with real stakes," he mused aloud, his voice carrying that particular quality of someone recognizing profitable opportunity when it presented itself. "Not simulated violence, not choreographed combat where everyone knows the outcome beforehand, but actual life-and-death drama playing out in real time according to narrative structure." His eyes met mine with what looked to be respect. "The nobles will eat this up. They’re bored, desperately bored, numb to standard entertainment because they’ve seen everything a dozen times over. But this? This is something genuinely new. Something that scratches the itch for authentic experience they didn’t even know they had."
He gestured toward the stage with his clipboard, already planning logistics. "I can start advertising immediately. Selective whisper campaigns through the right social circles, building mystery and anticipation, making attendance seem exclusive even though we’ll eventually open it to broader audiences. We’ll price the first few events high—absurdly high—to establish prestige and create demand through artificial scarcity. Then gradually expand access while maintaining the perception of exclusivity." His grin took on a sharp commercial edge. "No doubt this’ll work."
Nara could barely keep herself contained in her seat, bouncing slightly with an energy that threatened to launch her into orbit. "Where are the prisoners now?" She leaned forward so far she nearly toppled out of the chair entirely, eyes scanning the stage as though expecting them to materialize from thin air.
My smirk sharpened into something wild then—something almost feral, the kind of expression that didn’t so much precede a reveal as announce it with theatrical inevitability. It spread slow and deliberate, all teeth and anticipation, the look of someone who had been holding onto a punchline just long enough to make the delivery hurt.
I raised my hand and snapped my fingers with sharp precision, the sound echoing across the theater like a starting pistol.
From behind the stage curtains, a handful of our men emerged with the kind of synchronized timing that spoke of preparation rather than improvisation. They stepped into view as a unit, formation tight, movements clean and economical—no wasted motion, no hesitation—like they’d been standing there counting heartbeats, waiting for that exact cue.
The Boss’s former right-hand man stumbled forward between them, still looking slightly shocked by the day’s earlier events, his ruined face cycling through expressions that couldn’t quite settle on any single emotion.
His eyes wandered across the theater space with dazed confusion, tracking over the seats, stage, and lighting fixtures as though trying to convince himself this were real.
Then his gaze landed directly on Brutus.
The transformation was immediate. Whatever haze had clouded his thoughts burned away in an instant, stripped clean by recognition and replaced with something far sharper, far more volatile.
Fury surged up through him like a lit fuse finally finding powder, his features twisting as the last fragments of confusion gave way to a singular, consuming purpose. It was almost physical, the shift—like the temperature of the room had climbed a degree simply to accommodate the intensity of it.
His entire demeanor flipped, muscles going taut beneath scarred skin, lips pulling back from teeth in something approaching a snarl. He began lashing out with renewed violence, his massive frame straining against the men holding him as words erupted from his mouth in a torrent of rage.
"You!" The accusation came out strangled, caught between hatred and something that might’ve been grief. "It was you! You’re the one who killed the Boss—!" His voice broke, rebuilding itself from pure fury. "I’ll fucking destroy you! I’ll rip you limb from limb! I’ll—"
Brutus didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t blink. Didn’t so much as shift his weight in response to the verbal assault. He simply sat there with the immovable quality of stone carved from a mountainside, his expression utterly neutral, watching the man’s breakdown with the kind of detached patience that was somehow more intimidating than any display of aggression could’ve been.
The men restraining the prisoner worked with visible strain to keep him contained, their muscles bulging with effort as they fought to prevent him from lunging across the theater toward Brutus. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, their breathing growing labored, but they held firm.
Following behind the violent prisoner came another figure, stepping through the curtains with movements that were almost delicate by comparison.
This man was visibly shorter—maybe five foot seven at most—with a slim build that suggested quick reflexes over raw strength. His hair was ginger and fell in a middle part style that framed his face in copper waves, the color vibrant even in the warm stage lighting.
A stubble beard covered his jaw and upper lip in patches of the same reddish hue, giving him a slightly unkempt appearance that wasn’t quite disheveled enough to be concerning.
His eyes tracked across the theater with obvious delight, taking in every detail like a child seeing something magical for the first time, his expression cycling through wonder, excitement. and barely contained joy.
Both prisoners wore new clothing—simple tunics we’d pulled from the theater’s extensive collection of props and costumes, the fabric clean and whole in stark contrast to the stained jumpsuits they’d arrived in.
The garments hung slightly loose, but they served their purpose of making them look less like condemned criminals and more like performers preparing for a role.
I gestured toward them with theatrical flourish, my voice projecting across the space. "These two gentlemen will have the honor of being our first performers. The inaugural event that establishes what The Moonlight Sonata stands for and what audiences can expect when they grace us with their patronage."
I began pacing again, this time with purpose, "Julius, you’re in charge of writing the play itself. Something dramatic, emotionally resonant, with clear character arcs that can diverge into multiple satisfying endings depending on who survives. I want audiences crying, cheering, gasping—the full range of human emotion wrung out of them over the course of ninety minutes."
Julius nodded so vigorously his hair whipped around his face, already pulling out a small notebook from somewhere within his robes to begin jotting down ideas.
"Grisha and Brutus," I continued, turning toward the two most physically intimidating members of our crew, "you’ll keep them in line during rehearsals. Make sure they understand that cooperation is in their best interest, that attempting escape or violence outside of scheduled performances will result in immediate return to the Maw and whatever random execution awaits them there."
Grisha’s grin widened further, if that was even physically possible, her tusks gleaming. Brutus gave a single nod of acknowledgment, his expression never changing.
"Willow and Nara, you’re responsible for training them on their scripts. Blocking, delivery, emotional beats—everything they need to know to sell their performances convincingly. I want the audience to forget these are condemned prisoners and see them as the characters they’re portraying."
Willow inclined her head with elegant acceptance while Nara practically vibrated with excitement at being given an important responsibility.
"Llyod, you’ve already volunteered for advertising, so run with that. Build the hype, create the demand, make this the event everyone in the inner circle is talking about."
He raised his clipboard in salute, already making notes in the margins of his existing plans.
"And Felix..." I paused, my expression softening just slightly as I looked at the small blonde figure watching me with those enormous eyes. "You’re there for emotional support. Because someone needs to make sure we don’t all lose our minds during this insane process, and you’re the only one here with enough inherent sweetness to counterbalance the rest of our collective chaos."
Felix’s cheeks flushed pink with pleased embarrassment, his hands twisting together in his lap.
I clapped my hands together with decisive finality, the sound sharp and authoritative. "Does anyone have any objections? Questions? Concerns about the fundamental sanity of what we’re attempting here?"
They all shook their heads in synchronized denial, their expressions ranging from eager anticipation to manic glee to calm professional focus. Not a single voice of dissent arose from the assembled crew, everyone apparently fully committed to this absolutely deranged venture.
Perfect. Exactly as it should be.