The mask stayed on.
That was the rule.
No armor, no cloak, no weapons—just the obsidian mask with its faintly glowing sigils and a long dark coat that made Malachai look like a problem that had learned how to blend in.
He stood just inside the doorway of a hero-controlled entertainment district, watching his people spill out onto the street like they owned it.
Because tonight?
They kind of did.
---
"Okay," Kyle said, already three drinks in, "just so we're clear—this is *not* a work function."
Malachai inclined his head. "Correct."
"And you're not observing morale."
"Incorrect."
Kyle groaned. "Of course."
Mara laughed, linking arms with two other henchwomen. "You said no agendas!"
"I said no *assignments*," Malachai replied calmly.
They moved as a group—laughing, jostling, loud in a way that would've been unthinkable a year ago. No formation. No watch rotations. Just people on a night out, with the most dangerous man alive walking among them like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Civilians noticed.
They always did.
But no one screamed.
---
The first bar was loud, crowded, and aggressively normal.
Music thumped. Lights flickered. Someone was already dancing badly.
Malachai took a seat at the bar.
The bartender froze.
"…What can I get you?" she asked carefully.
"Whiskey," Malachai said. "Neat."
Kyle leaned over. "Sir, you don't have to—"
Malachai took the glass when it arrived, lifted it slightly, and drank.
Once.
Slow.
No flinch. No grimace. No comment.
The bartender blinked. "Huh."
Mara smirked. "Told you he could hold his drink."
Malachai set the glass down. "This is… acceptable."
They did not let him live that down.
---
By the second bar, the volume was higher.
By the third, people were tipsy.
By the fourth, someone—Jalen, probably—was loudly explaining why Malachai technically qualified as "a great plus one."
"That's not a category," Brenda said.
"It *should* be."
Malachai watched them fondly.
Not smiling.
But close.
---
It happened at the karaoke bar.
It always happened at karaoke.
A neon sign buzzed overhead. Someone butchered a power ballad onstage. Cheers erupted anyway.
Kyle leaned across the table, eyes bright with bad ideas.
"Sir."
"No."
"We haven't asked yet."
"No."
"You *cannot* tell me you've never—"
"No."
Mara raised her hand. "I vote yes."
Others joined in.
Someone started chanting.
Malachai waited until the noise died down.
"I will not sing," he said evenly.
A pause.
"…However," he continued, "I will correct errors."
They stared.
Kyle's grin was feral. "Ladies and gentlemen. We have him."
---
The song selection was… questionable.
Old. Dramatic. Overly intense.
Perfect.
When Malachai stepped onto the stage—mask gleaming under cheap lights—the room went quiet.
Someone whispered, "Is that—"
The music started.
And Malachai sang.
Not loudly.
Not showily.
But *perfectly*.
Controlled breath. Precise timing. A voice trained to command, to persuade, to *end arguments*—now carrying melody with unsettling ease.
The crowd didn't cheer at first.
They listened.
Then the chorus hit.
And the place *lost its mind*.
---
Kyle wiped a tear. "He's been holding out on us."
Mara stared. "That's not fair."
The bartender crossed herself.
Malachai finished the song, nodded once to the stunned host, and stepped down.
Someone tried to high-five him.
He accepted it.
Carefully.
---
Later—much later—things blurred.
Laughing. Dancing. Someone crying over a breakup that ended years ago. Someone else asleep in a booth.
Malachai remained steady throughout.
When two henchwomen swayed a little too hard, he signaled a cab.
"Address confirmed," he said into his comm. "Ensure safe arrival. Text when home."
They hugged him.
The mask did not protect him from that.
When Kyle tried to argue he was "absolutely fine," Malachai calmly took his keys.
"You are not," he said. "Cab."
Kyle saluted him poorly. "Best boss ever."
"Yes," Malachai agreed.
---
The night ended quietly.
People dispersed in groups, laughter echoing down streets that had once been hostile territory.
Malachai stood alone for a moment, mask reflecting neon light, watching his people go home safe.
A hero patrol passed at the corner.
They slowed.
Looked.
Saw him standing there, hands in his coat pockets, waiting for the last cab confirmation.
They did not approach.
They did not speak.
They kept walking.
---
Back at the fortress, Kyle slumped into a chair.
"…Did the Dark Lord just do karaoke."
"Yes," Malachai said.
"And call us cabs."
"Yes."
"And out-drink half the district."
"Yes."
Kyle stared at him.
"Sir."
"Yes."
"…You're terrifying."
Malachai paused.
"Good," he said calmly. "That means I am still doing my job."
Somewhere in the city, videos were already spreading.
A masked figure singing flawlessly.
Standing watch while others laughed.
Calling cabs instead of calling strikes.
---