You barely managed to squeeze your way out of the underground warehouse where the rave had taken place. The pounding music and flashing lights now seemed like a distant blur, but the effects of whatever substances you had consumed left your mind spinning. Without the help of the guard who practically shoved you out, you might still be stumbling around in that chaotic maze, unable to find your way. Everything appeared distorted—the gates seemed half-raised, half-lowered, and your vision struggled to make sense of the world around you.

Outside, the night air was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere of the rave. A man was leaning against a rusted railing, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He appeared calm, collected, unaffected by the chaos you had just escaped. In your hazy state, you assumed he must have been kicked out too.

You approached him, your thoughts swirling with anger and frustration. The words spilling out of your mouth before you could stop them. You began ranting, roasting the rave with venomous sarcasm, your insults quickly turning personal as you attacked the very roots of the organizer's family tree.

Loki just smirked and nodded along, his chuckles rumbling softly in the back of his throat. He didn’t seem to mind the barrage of insults directed at his family. In fact, he seemed more amused than offended, his eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and mild amusement as he listened to your slurred tirade. He wondered what could have gone so wrong with his carefully orchestrated event to provoke such a reaction.

“It sucks, right?” he finally said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the air. “If you could meet the organizer, what would you do to him?”