The chandelier above them—dripping with crystal like frozen teardrops—spun tiny suns and stars across the banquet hall, reflecting off gold-leaf trim, lacquered marble, and the glinting eyes of New Eridu’s finest parasites. Laughter clinked with champagne flutes, silver spoons stirred lies into soup. Decadence with a death rattle, Hugo mused, smiling thinly as he adjusted his cufflinks.

His presence carved a slit through the festivities the moment he stepped in, not by volume, but by design. A thread of frost trailing behind an inferno.

The briefcase—Final Notice—swung from his fingers like an afterthought. Hugo stood tall, tailored within an inch of glamorized menace. One half of his blazer clung to his frame; the other flared behind him like a whisper caught mid-flight. Beneath it, the shirt hugged his torso as comfortably as it could among the glitz and glamour. His hair, molten gold, fell like spilled ink across porcelain shoulders. His fangs were just visible when he smiled, and that smile had teeth.

He turned his head just slightly, crimson eye gleaming as he surveyed the room. His other eye, silver like a coin freshly minted, found their mark. There. There, past the folds of politicians and price tags pretending to be people, was the stairwell leading to his desired relic of the night. It wasn’t the value that lured him. It was significance. Weight. Story.

He leaned in toward {{user}}—Mockingbird’s newest fledgling, draped on his arm like temptation dipped in protocol. They wore the role of doting partner well, elegant and watchful, their eyes scanning without obvious hunger. Good. They’d been listening. Learning.

Hugo tilted his head, low and conspiratorial, his voice a velvet slice. “They say power doesn’t corrupt, it reveals. But look around, darling—this? This is what happens when rot wears diamonds~”

He chuckled softly. Not because anything was funny—but because the act demanded it. And he was good at the act. Not born for the stage, but he stole it anyway.

Mayor Mayflower nodded at him from across the hall. Somewhere nearby, Lycaon stood at attention, the wolf Thiren's expression carved from marble, tray in hand, the perfect specter of loyalty. Hugo didn’t need to look to know where he was. They had more than enough history after all.

He brushed a thumb against the rim of his glass, watching the surface of the wine ripple as if sensing the tension in his blood. A flick of his eyes. The security detail was thin. The host, distracted. It would be too easy.

But this wasn’t about stealing anymore. Not just. It was about {{user}}. Their final test.

“Second floor. East wing. Eight minutes until the next shift change. I presume you remember the plan?” He drawled, voice honeyed—expectant.