When we reached the base of the stairs, I found myself slightly surprised—pleasantly so, in that way you're surprised when something actually goes right for once in your chaotic disaster of a life—to see the rest of my crew already assembled in the waiting room like they'd been summoned by some invisible signal I hadn't sent.
They were already redressed, which meant someone had taken the initiative to return to the changing rooms and retrieve their abandoned clothing from whatever corners of indulgence they'd been discarded in during the evening's festivities—an impressive feat of responsibility, all things considered.
Nara was lounging lazily across one of the red leather couches with the boneless contentment of a cat who'd just finished an excellent meal, one hand idly tracing slow circles over her stomach in a way that suggested either deep satisfaction or mild digestive discomfort.
Her bunny ears sagged with utter relaxation, drooping low and twitching every now and then in response to sounds too faint or distant for me to catch, while her crimson eyes hovered half-lidded in that languid in-between state—neither fully awake nor truly asleep—where you've had an excellent evening and your body quietly decides that consciousness is, at best, optional.
Brutus sat beside her on the same couch, taking up approximately twice the space a normal person would require, his massive frame settled into the cushions with the immovable quality of a boulder that had decided this was now its permanent home.
Grisha stood nearby at one of the artificial waterfalls embedded into the wall, drinking straight from the falling stream with her mouth open and her head tipped back, utterly unconcerned with appearances.
Water spilled over her jade-green skin in gleaming rivulets, tracing the lines of her throat and shoulders before soaking into the minimal amount of clothing she'd managed to reclaim, but she didn't seem to notice—or care—just kept drinking with the focused determination of someone who'd earned a serious thirst through vigorous exertion and perhaps a touch of dehydration brought on by all those earlier… activities.
Felix hovered near the desk in a state of frantic disarray, his small hands twisting together as his wide, anxious eyes flicked back and forth between Julius—currently being physically restrained by the same two guards Willow had so enthusiastically… distracted earlier—and the desk attendant, who wore the haunted expression of a man reconsidering whether his job was worth enduring this particular brand of madness.
Julius, for his part, was actively attempting to tear himself free, muscles bunching and straining against the guards' grip as he lunged forward with single-minded determination, clearly intent on attacking the attendant for reasons that likely involved a perceived slight against someone he cared about and his well-documented allergy to impulse control.
Then his gaze snapped upward as I descended the final steps, and in the span of a heartbeat his entire demeanor shifted.
His features went soft—the fury draining from his face like water from a broken dam, replaced by relief so profound it was almost painful to witness. Sensing the sudden shift, the guards loosened their hold with careful deliberation, stepping back but remaining poised for intervention if need be.
In the same breath, Julius slipped past them with a burst of speed that made it abundantly clear his earlier aggression had been powered by genuine panic rather than malice.
He dropped to one knee before me in a motion so smooth it bordered on theatrical—romantic, even, if not for the sheer excess of it—and seized my shoulders with both hands, gripping hard enough to draw a faint wince from me despite myself.
"Loona!" he breathed, his hazelnut eyes raking over my face as if he were inventorying my features one by one, checking them off to reassure himself that I was solid, real, and not a stress-induced hallucination his mind had conjured out of sheer panic. "I was so worried. You were gone for hours—I know you said you were going upstairs but then time just kept passing and you didn't come back and I started imagining—" he gestured sharply at the desk attendant who flinched, "—and then there were sounds, shouting, I heard something that might have been fighting and I thought—I thought something had happened to you and I couldn't—" His voice cracked slightly. "What happened up there? Are you hurt? Did someone—"
"I'm fine," I cut in gently, "More than fine, actually. I just won a high-stakes roshambo tournament, negotiated a complicated debt situation, beat up two bodyguards, and secured a sponsorship deal that's going to catapult us straight into success if we don't completely botch the execution." I paused. "Oh, and I brought home an estate developer who's going to be working for us temporarily. Speaking of which—"
I jerked my thumb back toward Lloyd, who'd been hovering a step behind me this entire time with the stiff, uncertain posture of someone trying very hard to exist quietly, like a man who'd wandered into the wrong play and was hoping nobody noticed he didn't have a script.
Julius's head snapped up so fast I half-expected his vertebra to lodge a formal complaint. His gaze ricocheted from me to Lloyd for a few seconds, then locked on to the man completely. For one glorious heartbeat, his brain appeared to blue-screen entirely, recognition crashing through whatever fog of misery he'd been drowning in.
His eyes went impossibly wide—pupils blown, whites showing all the way around like he'd just witnessed something that violated his very understanding of reality—before his mouth fell open in a way that would've been deeply unflattering if he weren't currently too stunned to possess even a passing awareness of his own face.
Then he absolutely lost his composure.
Julius scrambled to his feet as if grace had been an optional accessory he'd forgotten at home, nearly tripping over his own boots in his urgency, and all but hurled himself at Lloyd with the frantic devotion of a teenager meeting their favorite performer in the flesh.
"Is that—are you? Lloyd Altera?!" he gasped, his voice pitching several octaves higher than should've been humanly possible. "The Lloyd Altera? The estate developer?! Oh gods, saints above, I can't believe—I've studied your work! Your designs are revolutionary! The way you integrated natural light flow with spatial dynamics, the acoustic considerations in the amphitheater renovations, the absolutely brilliant use of—"
He carried on like this, words tripping over one another in their rush to escape, hands carving frantic shapes through the air, while Lloyd stood there wearing the delicate expression of a man who felt profoundly flattered and faintly endangered by the sheer force of Julius's admiration.
It was like watching someone defend their doctoral thesis on the undeniable genius of their favorite architect—except presented with all the structure and restraint of a caffeinated squirrel who'd just discovered poetry.
Lloyd let out a nervous giggle—high, tight, and just this side of brittle—before his professional mask slid smoothly back into place. His shoulders eased, his posture straightened, and his face settled into the polished, theatrical charm he'd been wearing all evening upstairs, as if enthusiasm-induced panic were simply another role he knew how to exit on cue.
"Well," he said with exaggerated modesty, "I appreciate the enthusiasm, truly. It's always wonderful to meet someone who appreciates the finer points of structural design and aesthetic integration."
I sighed—long, deep, and weighted with the particular resignation of someone who really should have seen this coming from several narrative beats away.
They were practically custom-built for each other. Both incurably theatrical, both intoxicated by aesthetics and spectacle, both capable of holding an impassioned, hours-long discussion about design philosophy without noticing—or caring—that everyone within earshot had quietly expired from boredom and been swept away.
This was either going to become a dazzling professional partnership sung about in very niche circles, or they were going to drive each other catastrophically insane within a week. Quite possibly both, in a bold display of efficiency.
Julius suddenly perked up, his rambling cutting off mid-monologue about load-bearing arches or some similarly esoteric horror, and his eyes somehow managed to widen even further—an anatomical achievement I hadn't previously believed possible.
"Wait," he said, turning to look at me with dawning realization. "Wait, you said—did you say he'd be working for us? As in, our establishment? The Moonlight Sonata?"
"Temporarily," I confirmed, because I needed to make that distinction clear before Julius started planning a lifelong partnership complete with matching outfits. "He's working off a debt situation that's... complicated. Long story involving fires, loans, and creative dismemberment threats. The point is, yes, he'll be helping us with renovations and design work for the foreseeable future."
Julius made a sound that could only be described as a squeal—high-pitched and ecstatic, the sort of noise produced when a brain receives far more good news than it has emotional bandwidth to process and decides to route the excess through a vocal register usually reserved for overjoyed livestock.
He bounced on the balls of his feet, hands clasped tight in front of his chest, and I had the distinct, deeply unsettling impression that if he'd possessed a tail, it would have been wagging itself into a small hurricane.
I rolled my eyes hard enough to flirt with minor retinal injury before herding everyone toward the couches with broad, authoritative sweeps of my arms.
"Alright, everyone sit. We need to discuss business."
As we waited for Willow—who was still, presumably, upstairs managing the nobles and whatever social fallout our dramatic exit had detonated—the group began arranging themselves across the available seating with the loose choreography of people who had survived a shared crisis and were now deciding where to collapse.
I claimed a spot beside Julius, who'd managed to compose himself into something approximating professional demeanor, though his eyes still glittered with barely contained excitement.
On his other side, Nara remained sprawled in luxurious indolence over Brutus's lap now, Julius rubbing her belly in slow, absent-minded circles. The pleased, rumbling sounds coming from her throat suggested this was not only permitted but actively encouraged.
Lloyd settled onto the opposite couch between Grisha and Felix, and I watched with quiet amusement as Grisha immediately slung one massive arm around his shoulders with the casual possessiveness of someone claiming territory.
Felix, bless his adorable little heart, began playing with Lloyd's hair—running his fingers through the carefully styled locks and systematically dismantling whatever pomade-based architecture had been holding it in place.
Lloyd's eye twitched—just once, subtle but telling—yet he made no move to protest, clearly aware that objecting to Felix's affectionate grooming would be both socially impolite and potentially futile.
"So," I began, settling into my seat and letting the exhaustion of the evening finally register in my bones. "Let's talk logistics. Lloyd, I'd imagine you'd need time to gather your resources if we're actually doing this. In that case, how long are we talking?"
Lloyd cleared his throat, his professional demeanor reasserting itself despite Felix's continued assault on his hairstyle.
"I can be available to visit your establishment by the end of the week," he said, "I'll need that time to contact my contractors, secure materials, coordinate with suppliers I still have relationships with—" he paused, probably remembering that many of those relationships had been strained or broken by his previous financial disasters, "—and ensure I have everything necessary to provide my proper assistance."
"Great," I said, my mind already working through timelines and coordination. "By that point we'll have already started preliminary renovations ourselves—basic stuff, cleaning, minor repairs, making the place look less like it's actively collapsing. You can come by then and give us your official rating and review. Publish it immediately, get it circulating through your network, start generating buzz and attracting potential clientele."
I leaned forward, warming to the topic as the plan took shape. "The profits need to start flowing as soon as possible, even if we're still mid-renovation, because we're working on an extremely tight schedule now thanks to my very generous negotiation with Silas." I paused for a moment. "So the review and the renovation work need to happen synonymously—parallel processes rather than sequential ones. Do you think you can handle managing construction while promoting the business?"
"Absolutely," Lloyd confirmed without hesitation. "I've coordinated projects under worse conditions. At least your building is still standing, which is more than I could say for some previous jobs." He paused. "It is still standing, yes? The entire structure hasn't collapsed since you left this evening?"
"Last I checked it was mostly vertical," I said cheerfully. "Some parts a little more vertical than others, but on average I'd say it meets the basic definition of 'standing.'"
Julius made a sound that might've been a laugh if you squinted.
We delved deeper into the specifics after that—discussing the percentage of Lloyd's payment that would go directly to Silas versus the portion he could keep for himself, establishing timelines for different phases of renovation, identifying which repairs were critical versus which could wait, calculating rough estimates for material costs and labor expenses.
The conversation flowed with surprising ease, all things considered—given that we were calmly outlining plans to turn a condemned building into a profitable enterprise within a single month, while also keeping Lloyd alive, solvent, and in possession of all his original organs.
By the time we wrapped up, both Lloyd and Julius were on their feet, shaking hands with the sort of bright, professional enthusiasm that suggested they'd just sealed a dream partnership rather than an agreement forged under the looming specter of debt collectors and desperation.
They exchanged pleasantries—promises to coordinate schedules, vows of excellence, the familiar business dialect people use when they actually mean what they're saying—before parting with smiles that looked suspiciously genuine.
Grisha snorted from her position on the couch, the sound cutting cleanly through the polished professionalism like a blunt instrument.
"He's cute," she announced to no one in particular. "I'd bend him over one of those design tables he's probably got lying around and fuck him until he forgot what load-bearing meant. Maybe make him calculate structural integrity while I'm—"
I very deliberately drowned out the rest of her extremely vulgar proclamation by humming at an aggressively inappropriate volume—eyes fixed on the nearest patch of wall as though it might, if studied intently enough, reveal the secrets of polite silence—because I did not need those mental images taking up permanent residency in my already overcrowded brain.
Footsteps echoed behind us then, descending the stairs with calm, deliberate precision. I turned just in time to see Willow emerging from the upper level.
Her expression was one of deep, unmistakable satisfaction—the kind that suggested whatever chaos she'd been managing had not only gone according to plan, but had been thoroughly enjoyed along the way.
"Each of the nobles signed a blood pact," she explained, "Magically binding contract that prevents them from leaking any information about tonight's events—your identity, the fights, Lloyd's debt situation, all of it. Attempting to do so will result in..." she paused, grinning wickedly, "...extremely unpleasant consequences."
"Perfect," I said, relief flooding through me because the last thing we needed was rumors spreading before we were ready to control the narrative. "Absolutely perfect. You're incredible, have I mentioned that recently? Because you're incredible."
Willow preened under the praise, her tail swishing with obvious pleasure.
I stood then, stretching muscles that were starting to stiffen from the evening's various activities, and addressed the group with renewed energy despite my exhaustion.
"Alright, everyone. There's only one thing left to do tonight, and that's meet up at the warehouse with Atticus and Dregan. We've got ten thousand crowns waiting for us, plans to coordinate, and some judgy comments about how I've managed to complicate our lives even further in the span of a single evening." I paused. "Which is unfair, honestly. Some of these complications were completely unavoidable. The others were just good decisions that happened to have dramatic consequences."
"Most of your good decisions have dramatic consequences," Julius observed dryly.
"And that's what makes them interesting," I countered with a grin. "Now come on. Let's go collect our money and start planning how we're going to turn an impossible deadline into a spectacular success."
As we filed toward the exit, Willow and I redressing ourselves along the way, leaving the hot springs and its thoroughly scandalized nobles to pick through the wreckage of their evening—I couldn't quite shake the feeling that we'd just set something monumental in motion.
Whether it would be monumentally successful or monumentally catastrophic remained to be seen.
But either way, it was going to be one hell of a ride.