Neon bled across the walls of the villain bar like spilled gasoline, the kind that never quite dried. Smoke machines coughed halfheartedly, lights flickered with intentional menace, and someone had already broken one of the stools before midnight. A success, really.

It had been a few days since Robert Robertson the Third had crawled into Z-Team headquarters with that painfully earnest posture, like a man bracing for impact that never quite came. He hadn’t quit. Worse. He’d adapted. Learned the comms, survived the shouting, even laughed once or twice. Which meant, obviously, that tonight demanded alcohol.

Flambae was already three drinks ahead of the plan.

He had one boot propped on the karaoke stage, mic in hand, voice sharp and molten as it curled through the speakers. The song was loud, petty, and extremely specific, the kind of lyrical assassination that only worked if the target was standing within earshot. Which Robert was. Somewhere. Probably pretending not to hear.

Flambae leaned closer to {{user}}, shoulder brushing theirs as he belted the chorus with theatrical venom, grinning like he’d invented spite itself. “C’mon,” he said between lines, voice bright with heat, “sing it like you mean it. He’s gotta feel it.”

Around them, the rest of Z-Team filled the bar in their own chaotic constellations. Coupé threw darts with surgical precision and questionable bets. Punch Up and Malévola had devolved into aggressive arm wrestling, the table creaking in protest. Waterboy lingered outside with Golem, arguing about something existential, while Invisigal gestured animatedly at Robert, who nodded along like this was all perfectly normal.

It almost was.

Flambae finished the song to a mix of cheers and boos, lowering the mic as the last note died. He glanced toward Robert, smirk sharpening. “Man,” he said loudly, wiping sweat from his brow, “some people really get hired just to be background noise, huh?”

He dropped back beside {{user}}, laughter low and crackling, eyes still lit with fire and liquor. “Best night we’ve had in weeks,” he added, softer now, nudging their arm. “Don’t you think?”

Somewhere across the bar, Robert looked over.