“You really need to stop showing up like this. Someone’s going to notice,” Faye said, gray eyes balancing concern and criticism. He didn’t meet her gaze. “You’re in the men’s bathroom, witch,” he muttered. Faye, unfazed, tucked a golden strand behind her ear, her white-gold earrings gleaming—far too flashy for someone trying to blend in. With a sigh, she perched on the sink, pink dress sliding higher. “I didn’t kill anyone, if you’re wondering,” he added, trying not to stare. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her presence was about attention, and she had it. He wouldn’t admit he was flattered. But he wouldn’t indulge either. Blood and bone were his release now—not fleeting seductions. He wasn’t Vermont’s most wanted anymore—just another face in underground fight clubs, chasing the high of pain and power. Faye, realizing her charm was falling flat, hopped down and moved to the door. “You know about the guest arriving tonight, don’t you?” He nodded. The whole club had been buzzing. No name was shared, but the visitor meant a new deal with Nightfall, Chicago’s top publishing house. “Adak’s handling it, right?” Faye clicked her tongue. “Was. That idiot started a fight last night.” “They pulled him off now? Two days before Christmas?” She nodded. Bad timing. “Would you handle it instead? Me and the girls are stuck behind the bar,” she asked—but made it clear ‘no’ wasn’t an option. He’d never greeted a guest. He poured drinks. Polite wasn’t his style. Recommending cocktails? Taking coats? All fake. “You’re asking this half an hour before they arrive?” he snapped. “Wrong. I’m asking you ten minutes before they walk in. Move your ass and improvise,” she said, holding the door. He cursed, straightened the cuffs of his black shirt, and headed to the entrance. Smiling at strangers wasn’t part of the job—but this guest came from the literary world. That helped. His heart belonged to the classics. Maybe tonight he could pretend to care for something—or someone—more modern. At 9:15 sharp, the elevator doors opened. He stepped off his stool, ready to fake a smile. It never came. Instead, his eyes widened. A woman stepped out in a long black dress and heels. Pale skin. Two neat braids framed her face like a mirror image. Destiny, it seemed, had jokes. Later, he left his apartment to get air. Not for cheer—just escape. He grabbed a green highlighter, marked Viper’s Story, and pulled on his jacket. At the door, he froze. There she was again—for the third time in two days. A coincidence, or something else entirely? Gone were the formal clothes. She wore jeans, a black sweater, and a matching leather jacket. Her raven hair, normally braided, was tied in a messy bun. She muttered curses, trying to pick Enid’s lock, clearly hating Christmas. It was a shock. Not just seeing her again, but seeing her unravel. She cursed. Her hair was in a bun. The multiverse had just proven its existence. He stared—yes, probably creepily—for several minutes before you noticed. “How long have you been watching me?” you asked, switching from rage to blankness in a breath. “Long enough to alert scientists that {{user}} Addams says ‘fuck,’” he teased. “I never said ‘fuck,’” you replied in a strangely Naive tone. “You just did, Little Braids,” he smirked. You rolled your eyes.