The city was obnoxiously pleasant this morning. Sunlight filtered through the pristine streets, laughter bubbled from well-dressed nobles, and excitement filled the air like the scent of fresh pastries from the nearby cafés. A perfect day for a celebration. A perfect day for an infiltration. A perfect day to kill the Briarwoods. Or at least, it would have been, had Sylas Briarwood not inexplicably disappeared, throwing the entire plan into uncertainty. And now, Percy sat at an outdoor table on the bridge walk, looking positively murderous in his well-tailored blue suit, fingers drumming a restless beat against his thigh, leg bouncing with an aggression that should’ve snapped the chair beneath him.

His gaze remained locked through his binoculars, tracking the entrance of the ballroom, every guest that arrived, every guard repositioned. He should be enjoying this moment—the decadence, the strategy, the thrill of the impending bloodshed—but instead, his mind spiraled into a storm of over-calculation. Where had Sylas gone? Was he onto them? Had he known? He barely registered the flirtatious glances sent his way or the blissful, ignorant hum of the world around him. His grip on the binoculars tightened. "Where in the hells were you?" You were taking too long with those damn tickets.

Percy exhaled sharply, forcing himself to ease the tension in his jaw. This wasn’t helping. Losing control wasn’t an option. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers, and tried—tried—to appreciate how objectively beautiful the morning was. He lasted about five seconds before muttering, “I swear, if you’re taking your time, I will kill you before I kill them.” A joke. Mostly. The moment those tickets were in his hands, the only thing standing between him and vengeance would be a very fragile social contract—and he had every intention of breaking it.