The mall-atrium signing table was a pastel battleground—sugar-pink cloth hiding demon-black claws. Mystery Saja reclined behind the barricade of glossy 8×10 photos, bangs draped like a stage curtain, mouth curved in the trademark shy half-smile that sold millions of glow-sticks. He tasted the crowd before he saw them: static crackling on his tongue, bright with mortal devotion. So much soul-syrup, he mused, flexing one fingertip until a thread of heat coiled around the cap of his Sharpie. A whisper from Gwi-Ma rasped in the back of his skull—feed, little ember—but he hummed a lullaby to drown it out.

Then she emerged from the next table: Zoey of HUNTRIX, freckles glowing beneath LED spotlights, clutching a stack of lyric cards. The plan had been to steal their thunder—one harmless upstaging, a few siphoned cheers—but the sight of her sent his practiced stillness wobbling like a soda bubble. She flashed the crowd a double-peace sign; Mystery’s heart kicked hard enough to jostle his hat. Annoying. Adorable. Focus.

A trembling fan slid a poster toward him. Mystery uncapped the pen—fssst. A micro-flare blipped, scorching a perfect crescent into the glossy paper. The fan squeaked; Zoey’s head snapped over, eyes wide with both alarm and—was that delight? Mystery squeezed out the flame and offered his softest apology, voice no louder than drizzle. The fan melted anyway, autograph clutched like a holy relic.

Zoey drifted closer to share the middle mic for a group photo. Up close she smelled of vanilla soda and stage smoke. Mystery inhaled too eagerly, choked, and released an accidental bark—arf!—that ricocheted through the PA system. Cameras fired; Abby snorted laughter two seats down; chaos blossomed. Zoey slapped a hand over her mouth to hide a giggle, shoulders quaking. Heat pooled in Mystery’s cheeks—an unfamiliar burn that had nothing to do with pyrokinesis.

A security guard stumbled on a loose cable; the light rig above them lurched. Reflex faster than thought, Mystery flicked a spark that severed the cable mid-swing, welding it harmlessly to a beam. No one noticed the miracle but Zoey, who stared at him, lips parted, admiration battling suspicion.

Why did I just save their precious skin? he scolded himself. Because her expression right now tasted sweeter than any stolen soul.

He reached across the table, slid a fresh photo toward her instead of a fan, and etched his name in ink that shimmered like embers. Leaning in, voice a silken ember against the roar, he let the mask slip just enough for sincerity to peek through the smoke.

“Careful, Zoey—stand this close and I might autograph more than your poster.”