Chapter 217: The Fat Orange Cat Tariff Incident

[System: Bloody hell, she’s gone full bimbo, mate. Broke a screw somewhere in that pretty head of hers.]

I can’t help the grin pulling at my mouth, fangs catching on my bottom lip. An assassin sent to kill me, and she’s out here confessing she wants to join the harem instead. This is genuinely the funniest thing that’s happened to me all week.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Hansen says, already sounding bored, like she asked to borrow a stapler. "After the opening, once we take over, you can be his chick. Shouldn’t be hard, not like he’ll be in a position to say no."

"Omg, really? Thank you thank you thank you!"

"Just do your job first," Harden grunts. "Try poisoning people correctly this time?"

There’s more shuffling, footsteps, a door somewhere groaning shut. Then quiet. My uncles must be heading out the back, off to whatever evil little planning session they’ve got next on the calendar.

Patience is a skill nobody gives snakes enough credit for.

Then Channel’s voice again, except now it’s just her, talking to absolutely nobody, which is always the best kind of eavesdropping.

"He’s so hot," she whispers, and there’s this dreamy little sigh under it. "Like, genuinely unfair. I bet he doesn’t even realise how insane it is that he just floats around being terrifying and gorgeous at the same time. I wonder if he’d just, like, take me, right there. I wouldn’t even fight it."

[System: Mate, she’s plotting your murder and her exit strategy in the same breath. That’s not a woman, that’s a walking Pinterest board with a body count.]

She’s a little unhinged.

[System: Reckon that’s the nicest way to put it, yeah. You’ve collected some proper weird ones, mate. Bloody oath.]

I float there a little longer, smoke curling off my tail, thinking about how I’ve got an assassin fantasising about me while planning my death, and somehow that’s just normal for me now.

The warehouse walls are thin enough that I can hear my own uncles laughing about how badly their assassin failed to kill Lyra.

I stay outside in the dark, wings of smoke curling off my scales, just floating there and listening. Nobody knows I’m here, and that’s kind of the fun part.

"She poisoned his girl and he didn’t even notice," Hansen says, and he’s laughing so hard it turns into a wheeze. "Not one symptom, nothing."

"Yeah, well, he’s built different now, isn’t he?" Harden says, and I can hear him slap something, probably a table, probably Hansen’s shoulder, hard to tell from out here. "Kid’s basically a walking hazmat situation. Probably didn’t even notice his girl got poisoned, just licked it off her and asked for seconds."

[System: Deadset, mate, they’re not wrong. Reckon you could rub that toxin on your scales and just get a bit tingly.]

My tail gives a slow, lazy curl in the air. Poison. They poisoned Lyra. The thought doesn’t spike my heart rate; it just sits there, a cold little stone in my gut. They went after my girl and think I didn’t even fucking notice. How pathetic do they think I am?

I drift above the crowd, tail curled lazily behind me, watching the surface elite mingle like they own the place. Which, financially, some of them probably do, or at least they think they do. Ami’s finest are all here tonight, dripping in jewellery that costs more than most people’s houses, laughing too loud at jokes that aren’t funny, sipping drinks that glow different colours depending on how many coins you’re willing to burn.

And right in the middle of it, loud as a beacon, is the fat orange cat here. President Marmalade, or whatever her actual name is, nobody remembers because everyone just calls her the Fat Orange Cat behind his back. He’s built like a beach ball with a suit stretched over it, whiskers twitching every time she yells about tariffs to anyone unlucky enough to make eye contact.

"Tariffs, I’m telling you, tariffs on the Undercity imports, that’s where the real money’s hiding!" she bellows at some poor city councilwoman who’s clearly trying to escape but can’t find an exit that doesn’t involve walking past him again.

[System: Reckon she’s gonna choke on a shrimp before midnight, mate. Put money on it.]

Would not be mad about that outcome, honestly.

Bunny girl dancers weave through the crowd, trays balanced on their palms, ears bobbing in time with the music pumping from the stage. The stage itself is almost ready, techs scrambling underneath it with cables and swearing, lights testing in slow sweeping colors across the ceiling. Photo walls on either side of the entrance are getting absolutely hammered, flashes going off every three seconds as surface celebrities pose in front of the Crimson Coin logo like it’s the hottest backdrop in the city.

Which, tonight, it is.

Raymond Coil’s near the bar, drink in hand, not drinking it, just holding it like a prop while he watches the room. He’s got that look on his face, quiet and satisfied, the kind of look a man gets when his kid actually pulled something off instead of burning it to the ground. I catch his eye across the room, and he gives me the smallest nod, like he’s proud but doesn’t want to make a whole thing of it.

Good enough for me, then there’s my Lyra and Cherry, standing near the high-roller tables, and I swear to god my brain explodes a little every time I look at them.

Matching dresses. Red, with this koi and snake pattern woven through the fabric that catches the light just right, scales shimmering like they’re actually moving when they walk.

Lyra’s got that dark elf confidence radiating off her like heat, green eyes scanning the room like she’s already counting how much money the house is about to make.

Cherry’s standing next to her, horn stumps twitching every few seconds, looking like she still can’t quite believe she’s allowed to be this dressed up, but owning it anyway.