The air outside Millie's parents' house hit like a furnace when Max stepped back through the doorway. Heat rolled across the yard in visible waves, the dry Wrath wind carrying sparks from distant bonfires and the smell of grilled meat thick enough to taste. Somewhere nearby, a group of imps erupted into laughter so loud it rattled the wooden fence posts.
The festival was in full swing now.
Lanterns swayed overhead in tangled lines, casting orange light over packed dirt and stomping boots. Music thumped from a makeshift stage — fast, twangy, aggressive — the kind of rhythm meant for dancing, fighting, or both. Children chased each other between tables. Adults arm-wrestled on overturned barrels. Someone was already yelling about cheating.
Max stepped off the porch and let the noise swallow him.
Loona was leaning against the side of the house where he'd left her, cigarette burned halfway down, eyes scanning the crowd with a predator's boredom. When she saw him, her ears twitched.
"You took your time," she said. "Striker flirt with you too?"
Max snorted. "Something like that."
Her gaze dropped to his shoulder, narrowing.
"You smell like holy metal."
He paused.
Of course she noticed.
Hellhound senses.
"Cheap blessed round," he said quietly. "Didn't stick."
Loona's cigarette snapped in half between her fingers.
"…He shot you?"
Max shrugged like it was nothing.
"Relax. I handled it."
Her tail went rigid. For a split second, something ugly flashed in her eyes — the kind of rage that belonged to an animal cornered too many times.
"You should've killed him," she muttered.
"I know," Max said.
That was the problem.
He should have.
But the moment he'd pinned Striker to the wall, he'd seen it — the branching futures, the consequences rippling outward. Striker dead tonight meant a dozen things shifting too early. Stolas caught in the crossfire. Millie's family dragged into politics they didn't understand. Wrath turning hostile toward Pride overnight.
Not yet.
He hated that answer.
Loona flicked the broken cigarette away and stepped closer, close enough that her voice didn't have to compete with the music.
"If he points that thing at you again," she said, jaw tight, "I'm eating his face."
Max huffed a quiet laugh.
"Noted."
She didn't laugh back.
Before the moment could stretch, Blitzø's voice exploded across the yard.
"MAX! WOLF BOY! GET YOUR TALL ASS OVER HERE!"
Max groaned. "Saved by the idiot."
They walked toward the main pit where Blitzø had somehow gathered a crowd. He stood on a crate, shirt half-unbuttoned, explaining a story that was clearly a lie and somehow getting louder every sentence.
"—AND THEN I TOLD THE ROYAL GUARD, 'LISTEN BITCH, I WORK CUSTOMER SERVICE, YOU THINK I'M AFRAID OF YOU?'"
The imps roared with laughter.
Millie stood nearby, red-faced and delighted. Moxxie stood beside her looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
Joe spotted Max and jerked his chin toward an empty seat.
"Overlord!" he barked. "Sit. Eat. You look like you need meat."
Max sat. A plate slammed into his hands before he could refuse — roasted hellhog, charred vegetables, bread dripping grease. He didn't realize how hungry he was until the first bite hit his tongue.
Wrath food was brutal and honest.
No elegance. No garnish. Just flavor and fire.
Joe leaned over the table.
"So," he said, chewing loudly. "You protect my girl's crew?"
Max swallowed.
"I try."
Joe studied him for a long second. Not suspicious. Measuring.
Then he nodded.
"Good enough."
That was approval, Wrath-style.
Across the firelight, Striker reappeared at the edge of the crowd. Hat low. Smile back in place. He met Max's eyes for exactly half a second.
No fear.
Just calculation.
Max stared back, expression empty.
A promise passed between them without words.
Later.
The music swelled. Someone dragged Blitzø into a dance circle. Millie joined instantly. Moxxie protested for three seconds before getting pulled in anyway. Loona stayed beside Max, shoulder brushing his.
"You're thinking too loud," she muttered.
"Am I?"
"Yeah."
He looked at the fire.
"I hate unfinished problems."
She followed his gaze to Striker.
"That one's gonna come back," she said flatly.
"I know."
Loona leaned her head briefly against his arm.
"Good," she said. "I want another shot at him."
Max smirked faintly.
The festival raged around them — shouting, dancing, sparks climbing into the endless orange sky. For a moment, it almost felt normal. Just noise. Just heat. Just people being alive in a place built for violence and celebration in equal measure.
Max let himself sit in it.
The timer on his back ticked down.
The missing arm ached faintly.
Angels were moving pieces somewhere above the clouds.
Roo was watching from the roots of Hell.
God wanted grandchildren.
And Striker was sharpening a knife in the dark.
But for right now?
There was firelight.
There was food.
There was Loona pressed against his side, warm and solid and real.
Max exhaled slowly and let the noise drown everything else out.
Not peace.
But close enough to pretend.