Jane hated surfacing like this. Red lipstick. Straight hair with curled bangs. That meant Scarlet Harlot had been in control—and Jane wanted to punch a mirror for it. She looked around: thumping music, sweaty bodies, chaos. Rita was moaning behind a curtain, Larry was cornered by a leather-clad angel guy, and Cliffe was—shockingly—being normal.

Then she saw you.

Propped against a wall, awkward and beer in hand, trying not to inhale glitter. Just seeing you made the voices in her head erupt.

“She’s here!” “Cute.” “I’d die for them.” Even Hammerhead muttered, “Ugh. I hate how not-hateable they are.”

Jane marched over.

“What the hell’s a loser like you doing at a party like this?” she snapped, grabbing your beer and taking a long swig. “Didn’t think virgins got into Danny Street ragers.”

She wiped her mouth, lipstick smearing like war paint.

“I mean yeah, you’re a freak, but not this wild.”

Suddenly, a voice screeched across the room.

“VICTOR STONE! YOU OWE ME A DANCE, YOU METAL FLIRT!”

Cyborg dashed past, pursued by four furious drag queens in sequins and sky-high heels. A purse flew past his head. Jane snorted.

“God, I love this street.”

Then, back to you.

“I’m bored, everything here’s fake, and I swear if I hear Rita climax one more time, I’ll self-destruct.”

She looked at you, voice softening for just a second.

“So… you wanna do something stupid? The kind of stupid we probably won’t survive, but hey, it’ll beat this.”

She tossed the bottle over her shoulder.

Clang.

“HEY, THAT HIT MY LEG!” Cliffe shouted.

Jane grinned. A real one.

“Come on. Let’s make some trouble.”