The Rusted Halo had gone quiet around them, the late-night hum of Lost Angeles leaking through the cracked windows in waves of distant sirens, the occasional burst of drunken laughter, and the ever-present hum of arcane streetlamps. The tavern’s warmth was deceptive, a dim glow from hanging lanterns, the scent of old wood and spiced liquor, a brief illusion of safety in a city that never truly slept.

  Ciel let her fingers wrap around her glass, her golden-violet eyes scanning the crew around her, watching them as the silence settled like a thick fog.

  She had spent years with these people.

  Years of fights, of late-night drinking, of running from jobs gone wrong, of victories too stupid to be real. They were hers—not by blood, not by loyalty to some grand cause, but by the weight of shared chaos.

  And now they were walking into something none of them understood.

  She exhaled slowly, leaning back in her chair, her gaze drifting over them one by one.

  Raze "Ironfang" Darric. He sat with his arms crossed over his broad chest, his storm-gray eyes locked on the table as if he could force the world into making sense if he just stared hard enough.

  The dim candlelight flickered over the sharp planes of his face, casting shadows across the rugged lines of old battle scars. His salt-and-pepper hair was just as unkempt as always, a little more disheveled than usual, as if tonight had finally worn through his last layer of patience.

  His heavy military coat looked like it belonged to a different era—reinforced plating stitched into the fabric, old-world insignias long since faded. The sleeveless combat vest beneath it was stained, torn, held together by sheer willpower and leather straps.

  The massive greatsword strapped to his back was older than most of them, its blade chipped, worn, and yet still deadly as ever. A relic from a past he rarely talked about.

  He took a slow drag from a cheap cigar, exhaling like a man carrying a weight too heavy for one set of shoulders.

  “This is the worst idea we’ve ever agreed to,” he muttered, voice low, rough from years of smoke and battle.

  Gorrug "The Wall" Bloodgrin. Gorrug was too large for the chair he sat in, his massive form draped across it like he was trying to make the furniture regret its existence.

  The golden hue of his eyes burned in the low light, excitement barely contained beneath thick, scarred skin. His moss-green muscles flexed absently, as if his body was restless, waiting for the moment someone gave him an excuse to fight.

  His thick black dreadlocks were pulled back lazily, tied with leather cords that looked like they had been ripped from some poor bastard’s armor. One massive tusk curved slightly higher than the other, a reminder of an old battle he had never bothered to fix.

  His war-skirt of layered metal plates clinked softly as he adjusted his seating, the massive warhammer resting against the wall beside him looking like it could split a building in half.

  And yet, his fingers absently traced the beaded bracelets on his wrist, tiny pieces of color standing in contrast to the brutality of his frame.

  When he finally spoke, it was a deep, rumbling chuckle. “I see no issue,” he said simply. “We go. We fight. We survive.”

  Sylva scoffed. “You always say that.”

  Sylva "Ash" Val’Tarin. Sylva was unbothered by the weight of the moment, her bare feet tucked beneath her, perched lightly on the seat of her chair like she had been there all along, part of the shadows.

  Her dusky midnight-blue skin drank in the low light, the flickering glow of the candles catching on the intricate silver tattoos running down her arms. The arcane lines pulsed faintly, as if reacting to something unseen.

  Her long, silken silver hair cascaded down her back, strands braided with small obsidian rings that caught the dim glow of the bar. The faintest glow from her crimson eyes cut through the candlelight as she watched Ciel, expression unreadable.

  Her outfit—little more than a series of enchanted leather straps that somehow passed as armor—remained effortless, untouched by the dust and grime of the city. She was always like that, perfectly poised, like she could slip into the night at any moment and vanish.

  Finally, she spoke again, her voice smooth as a blade being drawn from its sheath. “The only thing worse than a death sentence,” she murmured, “is a death sentence wrapped in mystery.”

  Ciel arched a brow. “Oh? You worried?”

  Sylva’s lips curled slightly at the edge. “No.” A pause. Then: “But you should be.”

  Veyra "Deadeye" Thornwood. Veyra, an Half-elven woman, leaned back, tipping her chair dangerously, boots kicked up on the table like she was waiting for someone to challenge her about it.

  Her dark auburn hair was a mess, half-tied, mostly forgotten, strands falling over her freckled, sun-worn skin. Her emerald-green eyes were sharp, even if her body screamed exhaustion.

  A flask dangled from her fingers, half-empty, the dull metal etched with old runes that had lost meaning long ago.

  Her sniper rifle rested against her chair, a long, sleek thing carved with deep grooves and runic etchings, something that had been customized and rebuilt more times than she could count.

  She took another long drink, then sighed. “We’re gonna die down there,” she said flatly. “At least let me get one last fuck in before we go.”

  Sylva rolled her eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

  Veyra winked. “Thanks.”

  Miri "Hex" Nightshade. Miri had been watching them all, her black-and-silver eyes swirling with something unreadable, her fingers drumming against the dark fabric of her layered robes.

  The dim candlelight flickered against her ghostly pale skin, casting strange shadows across the chains wrapped around her arms, glinting against the silver earrings shaped like tiny skulls.

  Her dark violet hair framed her face, her lips curled in a smile that was either amusement or something far more unsettling.

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  Ciel caught her staring. “Miri,” she said slowly, “why do you look like you know something we don’t?”

  Miri tilted her head, almost innocently.

  “Oh, nothing.” She exhaled, her breath faintly tinted with something unnatural, and her fingers traced the glowing sigils around her collarbone. “It’s just that... well...” She leaned forward slightly, her silver eyes locking onto Ciel’s.

  “The Sunken Quarter eats people,” she said lightly. “I’m just wondering how long we’ll last.”

  Silence.

  Then, Gorrug laughed. Hard.

  Veyra groaned. “This is the worst night of my life.”

  Ciel just sighed, rubbing her temple. “Alright. Everyone shut up and drink.”

  And for the moment, they did.

  Because after this, there would be no more quiet nights.

  Eventually, the Rusted Halo had emptied out. Considerably, by the time the conversation wound down, the weight of their impending doom settling somewhere beneath the haze of alcohol and exhaustion.

  Raze had left first, muttering something about wanting one last night in a real bed before Grimm’s suicide mission turned him into a corpse. Gorrug had followed soon after, grumbling about sharpening his weapons and meditating over the thrill of upcoming battle.

  Veyra had been the last to leave—well, technically, she hadn’t left alone. She had slung an arm around two men—maybe mercs, maybe thieves, maybe just unlucky bastards caught in her gravitational pull— and had winked over her shoulder before sauntering off, already halfway to her night’s entertainment.

  Which left Ciel, Sylva, and Miri behind.

  The three of them were seated at the bar, the dim lighting casting flickering shadows over the wood grain, the last remnants of dying candles making everything seem softer, more unreal.

  Miri, perched on a stool with her dark robes draped elegantly around her, was idly swirling her drink, watching the two of them with her usual sharp-eyed amusement.

  Ciel, on the other hand, was very much not playing it cool.

  She was leaning—too much, in fact, her elbow propped against the counter as she twirled a bullet between her fingers, grinning entirely too wide at Sylva.

  “So,” Ciel drawled, her golden-violet eyes half-lidded, her wild chestnut hair spilling over one shoulder in loose waves, streaks of sun-bleached blonde catching in the candlelight. “You ever think about how this might be our last night alive?”

  Sylva arched a perfectly sculpted dark brow, her crimson gaze flicking to Ciel like she was looking at a particularly dumb puzzle.

  “No,” she said flatly. “Because I don’t plan on dying.”

  Ciel clicked her tongue, flicking the bullet into the air and catching it again, her fingerless gloves creasing as she moved.

  “You sure? ‘Cause I hear the Sunken Quarter eats people.” She leaned closer, letting her tattered leather jacket slip slightly off one shoulder, exposing the edge of an old scar curving along her collarbone.

  Sylva didn’t blink. “Then don’t get eaten.”

  Miri, still swirling her drink, suppressed a giggle behind her cup.

  Ciel huffed, tilting her head. “You’re really no fun when you’re sober.”

  Sylva, in the same measured, elegant way she did everything, reached out and took Ciel’s glass straight from her hand, lifting it to her own lips.

  Ciel watched, eyes following the movement, suddenly not at all focused on the conversation anymore as Sylva took a slow sip.

  She set the glass down without breaking eye contact, exhaling softly.

  “Better?” Sylva murmured.

  Ciel stared for half a second too long, then shook her head, grinning again like she hadn’t just lost control of the moment.

  “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing tonight?”

  Sylva smirked, just the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips.

  Miri sighed loudly, resting her chin in her hands. “This is exhausting.”

  Ciel dragged her eyes away from Sylva long enough to shoot her a mock-offended look. “Excuse me?”

  Miri rolled her black-and-silver eyes, the tiny skull earrings dangling with the movement. “You two act like this is new.” She took another slow sip. “But we’ve been watching this slow-burn disaster for years now.”

  Sylva scoffed. “It’s not a slow burn if there’s nothing burning.”

  Miri smirked. “Oh, sweetheart, the whole building’s on fire.”

  Ciel let out a sharp laugh, tossing an arm casually over Sylva’s chair.

  “See? She gets it.”

  Sylva didn’t push her away. She didn’t move at all, actually, just let the weight of Ciel’s heat settle against her.

  For a moment, the bar was quiet, the flickering light catching on the silver glow of Sylva’s tattoos, the metallic glint of Ciel’s bullet casing earrings, the way their shadows blended together against the old wooden counter.

  Miri sighed again, dramatically.

  “Well,” she murmured, stretching, “if you two are going to keep circling each other, I need another drink. And probably should head to bed.”

  Ciel’s smirk widened as Sylva finally tilted her head just slightly toward her, crimson eyes glimmering like embers.

  “Who says we’re circling?” Ciel muttered.

  Sylva just hummed, the sound low and unimpressed.

  Miri grabbed the bottle from the counter with deliberate ease, her black-silver eyes twinkling with something unreadable as she slid off her stool. The candlelight caught the shimmering runes along her collarbone, pulsing faintly with some unnamed magic, her dark robes whispering against the wooden floor.

  She stretched her arms above her head, sighing dramatically before flashing them both a playful smirk.

  “Honestly though, I’ll see you both bright and early for our journey of death, destruction, and—hopefully—some kind of poetic tragedy.” She took a lazy step toward the door, her bare feet soundless against the old wooden planks, her long robes barely brushing the floor.

  Then, over her shoulder, she tossed one last parting remark, voice light as air but weighted all the same.

  “Please don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”

  She chuckled, a quiet, knowing sound, and then she was gone, slipping into the night like a shadow folding into itself.

  And just like that, Ciel and Sylva were alone.

  The silence stretched between them, longer than usual, heavier than usual.

  Ciel still had her arm slung lazily over the back of Sylva’s chair, fingers idly tapping the worn wood. Her golden-violet gaze flicked to Sylva’s profile, drinking in the way the candlelight caught on the smooth curves of her midnight-blue skin, how the glow traced along the silver tattoos coiling over her arms like old magic refusing to fade.

  Sylva hadn’t moved. Hadn’t pulled away.

  For a moment, just one single fragile moment, there was something else in the air, something between them, something unspoken but tangible.

  Ciel didn’t look away.

  “Syl,” she murmured, her voice lower now, softer.

  Sylva finally turned her head, just slightly, just enough, her crimson eyes flicking up to meet Ciel’s.

  She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to.

  Because for once, she didn’t look annoyed. She didn’t look like she was about to throw out some sharp, cutting remark just to push Ciel away.

  She just… looked at her.

  Ciel felt her chest tighten, her usual smirk faltering just slightly, just enough that Sylva would notice.

  And maybe, hopefully, Sylva was about to finally give in, finally stop pretending this wasn’t something real.

  But then—

  Sylva sighed.

  She pulled back, just enough to break whatever had been there, and downed the rest of her glass in one fluid motion.

  “I should rest,” she murmured, setting the glass back onto the counter with a quiet clink.

  Ciel forced a grin, though it felt thinner this time. “You getting soft on me?”

  Sylva slid gracefully from her seat, her own bare feet silent against the floor, her silver hair cascading over one shoulder as she turned away.

  “Hardly,” she said. Then, without another word, she left.

  Ciel didn’t move.

  Didn’t speak.

  She just sat there, alone at the bar, the weight of everything settling over her like a vice.

  The mission. The job. The reason they were even in this mess in the first place.

  Her fault.

  She had fucked up.

  Sure, she had joked, blamed Gorrug, let the conversation spiral into their usual reckless chaos. But she knew.

  She knew.

  It was on her.

  She had gotten them caught, had tripped the failsafe, had put them all on this path toward certain death.

  She reached for the bottle, barely thinking, and poured herself another glass.

  The burn of alcohol hit her throat as she downed it in one go.

  She exhaled slowly, setting the empty cup down, her fingers resting loosely around it.

  Outside, Lost Angeles hummed and buzzed, the city as restless as ever, but inside, the bar was still.

  She didn’t know when her eyes slipped shut, didn’t notice when her head tilted forward slightly, her fingers loosening around the glass.

  And then, without thinking, without trying, without resisting, she slumped forward slightly, resting her forearm against the counter, her head following soon after.

  The exhaustion pulled her under fast, the flickering candlelight blurring at the edges of her vision as she let her eyes slide shut.

  She would get up soon.

  Just a few minutes.

  Just until morning.