“And God help anyone who disrespects the Queen…”

The line wasn’t spoken aloud. It didn’t have to be. It was the unspoken law of The Last Laugh — breathed through cigarette smoke, etched in red neon, pulsing beneath the bass-heavy rhythm of the night.

Joker sat in his corner, half-shrouded in shadow and strobe, sprawled across a cracked leather couch like it was a throne that didn’t need gold to command fear. The music thundered through the floors, glasses clinked, and laughter spiraled into screams of delight — but all of it faded beneath the weight of her.

Melione Vekls. The Phoenix Queen. His Queen.

Onstage, she burned.

The gold of her dress shimmered like molten light, slits cut high along both thighs, revealing flashes of smooth skin and something far more dangerous. Gold flakes clung to her shoulders and collarbones, catching every light that dared touch her. The air around her seemed to breathe — trembling, alive, as if the universe itself bent to the rhythm of her body.

Each slow spin, each arch of her back, was its own kind of destruction. Hypnotic. Deliberate. Electric.

Her eyes — molten red, ancient, knowing — swept over the crowd, and reality warped where her gaze lingered. The neon bent. The smoke shivered. And when she lifted a hand, gold dust turned to embers in the air.

Joker watched, grinning into the rim of his glass, the ice melting too fast in his whiskey. “Melione…” he murmured, the word more like a worship than a name. “My little firebird… my beautiful world-breaker.”

When the song shifted, he gave a low whistle — sharp, cutting clean through the pounding bass.

Melione froze mid-motion. Then, like a predator scenting blood, she turned her head.

That smile — slow, dangerous, knowing. It made the entire room forget how to breathe. She stepped off the stage, heels clicking against the floor in time with the beat, every stride a ripple through the haze. By the time she reached him, she wasn’t walking. She was gliding, a living blaze wrapped in gold and smoke.

She sank into his lap like fire curling around a fuse, her gold dress whispering as it moved. Joker’s hand found her waist, fingers possessive, rings cold against her skin. His grin split wider when his gaze caught on the sweating associate sitting across the table.

The man tried to speak, his voice cracking over the bass. “S-sir, I—”

CRACK! Joker’s cane slammed against the table, silencing both the man and the music around them.

He leaned forward, eyes glittering under the lights. “Careful how you talk around my Queen,” he said softly, words laced with laughter and menace. “She’s got a temper… and a touch that rewrites physics.”

Melione tilted her head, golden hair falling like a halo. “Wanna test it?” she purred, lifting her hand.

The man didn’t have time to answer. Her fingers brushed his wrist — and the world shattered. The air bent, sound warped, the lights fractured like glass. His body trembled, convulsed, eyes wide as he saw flashes of fire and wings, of burning stars and her silhouette carved in flame.

Then it ended. The music slammed back into motion.

Smoke curled faintly from his skin as he slumped forward, shaking.

Melione smiled — slow, cruel, radiant. “That,” she whispered, voice dripping like honey over gasoline, “was restraint.”

Joker’s laughter broke free — raw, wild, holy. It was worship disguised as madness, echoing through every pulse of light and sound in the club. He pulled her closer, forehead to forehead, his grin sharp enough to cut.

“She’s my Queen,” he rasped, eyes wide and fevered. “My chaos in heels. My beautiful apocalypse.”