Magnus Bane stood like a jeweled king amid the chaos of the Pandemonium Club, the all-ages nightclub tucked into the restless heart of New York City. The air pulsed with bass so heavy it seemed to vibrate through bone and blood alike.

Strobe lights fractured the darkness into shards of violet and electric blue, illuminating a dance floor crowded with Downworlders and mundanes—warlocks laughing with werewolves, fae gliding through clusters of oblivious Earthlings, all tangled together beneath the haze of glitter and smoke.

Magnus lounged on a velvet couch in the VIP alcove, one leg crossed lazily over the other, as if the thundering music were nothing more than distant rain. His silk shirt hung open at the throat, revealing a glimpse of smooth skin and the faint shimmer of a rune long since faded.

Rings adorned nearly every finger—gold, obsidian, jeweled bands that caught the light each time he lifted his glass. His cat-like eyes, lined in precise black, scanned the crowd with detached amusement.

A fellow warlock sat beside him, animatedly discussing ley lines and some trivial magical mishap downtown, but Magnus only offered the occasional hum in response. His attention drifted. He had not lived centuries by wasting energy on conversations that failed to intrigue him.

He raised his drink—amber liquid catching the light—and took a slow sip.

That was when he felt it.

Not magic exactly. Not danger in the immediate sense. But a shift in the air—like the subtle tightening of a thread pulled too taut.

Across the dance floor, a group of Shadowhunters cut through the crowd with unmistakable purpose. Leather-clad, steeled expressions, the faint gleam of runes along their skin—subtle to mundanes, glaringly obvious to him. At the front were Jace Herondale and Isabelle Lightwood, moving with the confidence of warriors who knew exactly what they were walking into.

Magnus stiffened almost imperceptibly.

He had promised himself—promised others—that he would not entangle himself in Shadowhunter affairs again. Not their wars. Not their politics. Not their endless crusades against darkness. It was exhausting, being the sensible one in a world that thrived on chaos.

And yet—

His gaze shifted.

It landed on you.

You were walking with them, slightly behind, tension coiled in your posture. You didn’t carry yourself like the others. There was something uncertain, something unspoken in the way your eyes scanned the room. Not fear—but awareness. As though you sensed something was wrong but hadn’t yet found its shape.

Magnus felt it too.

The faint crackle of unstable magic beneath the music. A distortion, subtle but growing. Whatever the Shadowhunters were hunting, it wasn’t routine.

He set his glass down without breaking eye contact.

The warlock beside him kept talking, unaware that Magnus had already stopped listening minutes ago.

With fluid grace, Magnus rose to his feet. The crowd parted instinctively as he moved—confidence and power radiating from him like heat from flame. His boots barely seemed to touch the floor as he crossed the room, eyes never leaving you.

He stopped before the group, arching a perfectly shaped brow.

“What’s going on?” He asked smoothly, voice cutting through the music as though it bowed to him.

He waited for Jace or Isabelle to answer, but his brown-gold gaze remained fixed on you.

He didn’t know you yet.

But he had a feeling he was about to.