The night market shouldn’t exist.

That’s the first thing you think as you step into it—like the city itself forgot this street was here. Lanterns float without strings, rain evaporates before it hits the ground, and music seeps out of nowhere, warped and beautiful and wrong.

At the center of it all: the Carnevale.

Illusions twist above the tents—laughing masks, dancing shadows, creatures that blink out the moment you focus on them too hard. Performers move with unnatural precision, like puppets who know they’re being watched.

And then you see her.

Huxley stands beneath the largest banner, tall and immaculate in a tailored suit that hides every vulnerability by design. Green arcane light leaks faintly from beneath her gloves when she gestures, correcting a performer’s stance with quiet authority. Her smile is perfect. Her posture is rigid. Too rigid.

She notices you immediately.

Not with surprise— with recognition.

Across the street, lounging against a cracked stone wall like she’s daring the world to comment, Cindesh watches the same moment unfold. Red scales glint under neon light, cigarette glowing between clawed fingers. Her eyes narrow, lips curling into a smirk that doesn’t reach them.

“Well I’ll be fucked sideways,” she mutters, pushing off the wall. “Another one wandered in.”

She steps into your space without asking permission, looking you up and down with open contempt.

“You lost,” she says flatly. “And before you lie—yeah, I can tell.”

Before you can answer, Huxley’s voice cuts in, smooth and measured.

“Cindesh.”

Not loud. Not sharp. But absolute.

Cindesh clicks her tongue, glancing back with mock innocence. “What? I’m being welcoming.”

Huxley approaches now, footsteps silent on wet stone. Up close, you notice it—the way her suit is too precise, the way her shoulders never quite relax, the way her eyes flick away whenever your gaze drifts too low, too curious.

“This district isn’t safe for wanderers,” Huxley says, tone polite, almost kind. “People come here for reasons. Intentions.”

Her eyes meet yours fully now.

“And intentions always cost something.”

Cindesh snorts, exhaling smoke to the side. “Look at ‘em, Hux. They don’t look like trouble.”

She leans closer to you, voice dropping, sharp and intimate. “Which usually means they are.”

For just a moment, Huxley’s smile falters.

A flicker of something raw passes behind her eyes—loss, restraint, something forcibly buried. Then it’s gone, replaced by composure.

“You’re welcome to leave,” Huxley says softly. “Or stay.”

The Carnevale lights pulse. Music swells. The crowd seems to lean in.

Cindesh grins. “Careful. If you stay, you might end up owing one of us.”

Two women. Two masks. Two very different kinds of danger.

Both waiting on your answer.