The 2 hours rafter the conversation i
returned to Sin Rouge, the club felt less like a ruin and more like a sleeping beast waiting to be woken.
Dust still covered every surface.
The neon still flickered.
The ceiling still looked like it wanted to collapse violently and kill someone.
But the air was different.
Something had changed.
No something had arrived.
Crates.
Dozens of them.
Stacked neatly near the left wall, stamped with fake logos from Lust Ring construction companies. Some small, some massive, some humming quietly with concealed machinery.
Quill stood in the middle of the room with both hands raised.
"…THE FUCK is all this?"
He spun around and stared at me.
"You were gone for maybe two hours! How did a shipment like this even get delivered? I didn't hear any trucks!" He tapped his goggles, annoyed. "My scanners didn't pick up anything!"
Alastor's voice purred inside my mind.
"That's because I handled it, boy."
Out loud, I only said:
I have… connections.
Quill stared harder.
"That is the most suspicious thing you've said since I met you."
I stepped toward the nearest crate.
The markings were perfect official, bureaucratic, boring.
Exactly the kind of boring no demon ever questions.
Alastor whispered smugly:
"I forged the documents myself. Flawlessly, I might add."
Inside the crate:
metal beams, wiring, neon tubes, stage boards everything labeled, sorted, almost obsessively organized.
Quill crouched next to one of the boxes and opened it with a crowbar he probably stole.
"What the hell?"
He touched the neon rods with a trembling hand.
"These are top-grade Lust Lumens. You could power ten clubs with this."
He looked up at me slowly.
"…Malerion. Who the HELL is helping you?"
I kept a straight face.
No one.
"You're a terrible liar."
Alastor laughed delightedly.
Quill sighed and closed the crate.
"Fine. Whatever. If you have a secret sugar daddy, I won't complain."
I don't.
"Congratulations, you've upgraded from terrible liar to pathological liar."
As Quill inspected the equipment, I felt the faint presence of… someone else.
Not near us.
Not watching.
Just… passing through the edges of awareness.
Workers.
I knew Alastor's style:
People who didn't talk.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't linger.
They would unload crates, fix structural beams, leave, and then forget they were ever here.
No one in Lust Ring would notice.
Alastor spoke calmly:
"I have chosen individuals whose silence is guaranteed.
Some owed me favors.
Some were paid.
Some were persuaded."
What kind of persuasion? I asked mentally.
"Oh, the fun kind."
I ignored the implication.
Alastor continued:
"Remember you cannot appear to grow too quickly. This reconstruction must seem… plausible.
Slow.
Natural.
Unremarkable."
Understood.
Quill climbed onto the stage.
"Alright. First things first we fix the beams, reconnect the neon, and reinforce the sound system. If this place collapses on my head I'm haunting you."
You already promised that, I reminded him.
"It's still valid."
The process began slowly.
We opened crates.
Sorted materials.
Pulled out old wires.
Refitted stage boards.
The work was repetitive, exhausting, dirty but satisfying.
At one point, while adjusting a neon frame, Quill paused.
"Malerion… you ever done this before?"
No.
"You're unnaturally calm for someone rebuilding a deathtrap."
Alastor whispered:
"That's because he has me."
I simply said:
I learn fast.
"You fucking do," Quill muttered.
Hours passed.
The club began to show a faint pulse of life:
Neon rods flickered to life.
The stage lights glowed softly.
Dust rose in clouds as we cleaned.
Old wiring was torn out and replaced.
Quill worked nonstop, muttering obscenities, accusing the universe of personal crimes, and occasionally praising the quality of the materials.
About halfway through, he finally asked:
"Okay. Real talk. Who delivered these crates?"
It doesn't matter.
"It matters to me!"
Alastor murmured quietly in my thoughts:
"We have him. Let him wonder."
I said nothing.
Quill groaned.
"Whatever. Just don't get us killed."
An hour later, I heard footsteps outside.
Quill tensed.
"Someone's coming."
The door creaked.
Two demons entered workers, dressed in dull gray uniforms. No emotions, no fear, no curiosity. They moved like machines.
They carried:
a welding rig
a structural stabilizer
a gravity frame
and a toolbox of Lust-grade equipment
Quill whispered sharply:
"WHY are they helping us?"
They're part of the shipment, I lied.
"No shipment comes with living beings!"
These do.
Quill stared, whispered:
"…I hate this. I really do."
The workers didn't speak.
Didn't even look at us.
They approached the ceiling and began reinforcing the beams.
Alastor purred:
"They will leave once the work is done.
They will not remember your face.
They will not speak of this."
This was perfect.
Untraceable support.
Invisible help.
Exactly what Malerion needed.
Hours later, when the last worker left and Quill finally sat down on a broken chair, exhausted and dusty, the club hummed with new life.
The neon lights glowed softly overhead.
The stage was reinforced.
The wiring was clean.
Dust still clung to everything, but the bones of the place were stronger.
Quill exhaled, too tired to be sarcastic.
"Well… shit. It's actually starting to look like a club."
I stepped onto the stage.
The Rings reacted again
a low, steady pulse from within my chest.
This place was becoming alive.
Alastor whispered softly:
"Good.
Good.
Lay your foundation slowly.
Quietly.
Without attention."
I looked out at the empty, glowing hall.
This is just the beginning.
Quill groaned.
"Just warn me before you do anything else insane, okay?"
No promises.
"Gods above," he muttered, "we're going to die."
No, I said quietly.
"We're going to build something."