Chapter 221 Vanessa.

Chapter 221: 221 Vanessa.

It felt good to stretch the Firefly Cruiser’s legs on the open mountain road. It felt proper. It felt right.

The deep, electric hum of the motor beneath the hood, the tight, responsive steering, and the total absence of road vibrations at eighty miles an hour.

Being able to cut loose on the winding switchbacks before dropping down into Metropolis’s legal speed limits was a genuine luxury. Damn, but I loved this car.

And honestly, I needed the mental decompression. Meeting with Mystic and Vanessa today was going to be an absolute minefield.

I’d never dropped a staged gig on a hero quite like this before. It could go sideways in about a dozen different, highly explosive ways.

So, as I swerved smoothly through the congested mid-day traffic crawling beneath Metropolis’s towering financial district, I just tried to focus on keeping my blood pressure down and surviving the lunch hour.

I reached the coordinates Khonsu had texted me in good time. Now, where was it... Ah. Right there. The Hero’s Slice.

It was a small, surprisingly modest diner, practically brand-new, sharing a paved lot with a battered gas station next door.

I knew Finn wasn’t the type to reserve a table at some French bistro where you needed a two-year waiting list just to look at the menu, but this was still a bit of a stylistic shock.

When I set up business meetings, I usually aimed for somewhere at least mildly respectable—maybe a steakhouse with dim lighting and vinyl booths.

Then again, given the circumstances, maybe a propane-tank diner was the safer bet. The building literally looked like it had been constructed out of a repurposed industrial storage cylinder, with curved steel walls and square windows cut into the front.

Standing next to it, I suddenly felt vastly overdressed in my sharp new suit. If I’d known we were meeting at a grease-trap, I’d have taken the beat-up Crown.

Nothing for it now, though. I killed the ignition, stepped out onto the sun-baked asphalt, adjusted my tie, and smoothed my lapels.

Someone please tell me what the appropriate dress code is for meeting an ex-girlfriend who isn’t really your ex, but her terrifying, eldritch-horror father has secretly paid you to stage a series of fake fights with her?

Crickets. Yeah, I thought so.

At least my civilian clothes weren’t overly flashy. I looked like an insurance salesman, a mid-level corporate banker, or a low-ranking mob collector.

I never wore my Polaris armor to these kinds of casual sit-downs. It terrified the civilians, drew every hero patrol within a five-mile radius, and frankly looked wildly unprofessional at a breakfast counter. I was here to talk, not to flatten the block.

I needed to look approachable. But I still had my magnetic tungsten bracers and anklets strapped discreetly beneath my cuffs and pant legs. I never went anywhere entirely unprotected. That was just baseline professional survival.

I took a deep, steadying breath. Alright. Relax. This is just another job. You’ve talked your way out of worse.

Right. Here we go.

I pushed open the diner door, the old-school mechanical bell jangling merrily overhead.

It wasn’t packed, but a few local patrons sat hunched over coffee mugs near the laminate counter. The interior was compact, barely room enough for the grill and cash register on the left, and a row of red-vinyl booths lining the windows overlooking the street on the right. I scanned the room and locked onto Mystic almost instantly.

She was dressed down in civilian threads—a crisp cream-colored blouse and silver hoops catching the light. But she was the kind of woman who always commanded the room, particularly with that unmistakable cascade of striking red hair.

The absolute apex of Scandinavian architecture, tall, statuesque, and built like an Olympic swimmer, though she carried herself with a quiet, lethal grace.

As always, you could never quite tell if the hair color was entirely natural or a perk of her magical repertoire.

Sitting directly across the table from her was another woman.

At first, I could only see the back of her head, but a thick fall of platinum-blonde hair gave her away—though the dark, ink-black roots showed it was a deliberate choice rather than genetics.

I wove my way through the cramped aisle, my stomach tightening with every step as I tried to mentally script how to pitch a manufactured rivalry to a girl who clearly already had a bone to pick with me.

"Mystic. Hey," I said, stopping by the edge of the booth and offering a polite nod. "Good to see you."

Mystic looked up, her expression a mask of cool professionalism. She reached across the table, taking my hand and giving it a firm, business-like shake. "Polaris. Please, meet Hex," she said, gesturing smoothly to the woman opposite her.

I shifted my gaze to The Jester’s runaway daughter, and damn, the glossy surveillance photograph her old man had handed me didn’t do her justice.

If I’d not just died and transmigrated and found out I had powers I’d have probably chased her down back then.

She had a sharp, dangerous kind of magnetism. One eye was partially obscured by her heavy, side-swept bangs, and heavy golden ankh earrings brushed against her collarbone.

She wore a baggy, stark-white hoodie that looked two sizes too big for her—like she was trying to physically retreat inside it—though it utterly failed to conceal the sharp, striking curve of her chest beneath the cotton. A small armory of clinking metallic bangles and protective charms rode all the way up her forearms.

As I stepped fully into her line of sight, her single visible eye snapped up to me.

The iris locked on. Her pupils constricted to pinpricks.

"What the fuck?!"

She violently shoved herself backward, her boots screeching against the linoleum as she scrambled out of the booth.

"Hijo de puta," she hissed, her fists balling up so tight her knuckles turned chalk-white. "What the hell is going on here? Why is he here?!"

Oof. Guess she definitely wasn’t over whatever history we had.

I glanced around the diner in a panic. Yup. Every single customer and the short-order cook behind the flat-top had frozen, staring directly at our booth.

I forced my most disarming, customer-service smile onto my face and turned back to her, holding my hands out palms-up.

"Look, look. Relax. It’s just a business proposal, I swear. Nothing untoward."

"A villain?" she snarled, her voice dropping into a dangerous, feral growl that rattled the sugar packets on the table. "Why am I even surprised? You were always a piece-of-shit criminal."

Wow. We were really hitting the ground running today, weren’t we?

"For hire. Not for evil," I corrected quickly, sliding uninvited into the empty side of the booth opposite Mystic.

Vanessa whipped her head around, glaring daggers at the red-headed hero. "This is who you wanted me to meet?" she demanded, practically vibrating with fury.

Mystic didn’t flinch. She took a slow, unbothered sip of her water, her voice a dry, level monotone. "He stated he had legitimate business to discuss with you.

"And he asked as a mutual acquaintance that I broker a neutral meeting space. But if anything untoward happens beyond conversation..." Mystic paused, sliding her gaze over to me with a look that promised a very painful, magical decoupling of my spine.

"Nothing’s going to happen, I promise," I said quickly, raising my hands in surrender. "Actually, I’m here to make you a professional offer."

"And what the fuck could you possibly offer me?" Vanessa snapped back, her visible eye narrowing to a hostile slit. "What, another round? You want to fuck me over again?"

Hoo boy.

This conversation was officially off the rails in record time, and we hadn’t even ordered yet.