Night in Virelux did not arrive like a curtain falling, because the city was never that polite. It rose instead, climbing the glass and stone like ivy made of light, creeping into every window and alleyway until even the shadows looked expensive. Signs ignited in layered colors, rune-lamps brightened with a soft hum, and the sky above the towers turned the deep, velvety shade of a bruise that had finally stopped hurting. Somewhere far below the skyline, the lower district still breathed in quiet pockets, but up here the city wore its nightlife like jewelry, flashing it on purpose.
Oscar and Stephanie left the hotel with the kind of momentum that felt borrowed, as if the day had been holding its breath just to exhale them into the street. The sidewalk flowed around them with commuters returning home, tourists heading toward promise, and locals dressed like the night was a contest. Stephanie looked as though she might float if she stopped moving, her shortened golden hair framing her face like a crown she chose for herself. Her hime cut fell in clean lines against her cheeks, and every time she smiled her emerald eyes flashed with the bright, rebellious hunger of a person who had been told "no" so often that "yes" felt like a lightning strike.
Oscar walked beside her with his black dreadlocks loose and untamed, his new bag of holding slung over his shoulder like a harmless accessory rather than a portable vault. The stitches in his shoulder tugged when he shifted wrong, and the pain carried a memory of steel and stairs and smoke, but tonight he refused to give it control. He had promised her a celebration, and he had promised himself that they would not spend every night hiding behind cheap curtains, listening to the city live without them.
They reached the Rune-Tech transit platform and stepped onto polished stone marked by glowing runic lanes. The tram arrived with a whispering hiss, sleek and clean, its panels etched with subtle enchantments that shimmered like frost under streetlight. The doors opened as if the vehicle itself had manners, and inside the seats were dark and plush, lit by a gentle amber glow that softened the angles of every face.
Stephanie sat down and immediately started vibrating again, her excitement refusing to settle. She leaned toward Oscar, eyes bright, and began describing her "bump and grind" technique with the seriousness of a master explaining a sacred art. She talked with her hands, then decided hands were not enough, and she stood just enough to demonstrate with a playful sway of her hips, shoulders rolling, head bobbing as if the bass already lived in her bones.
Oscar laughed hard enough that his shoulder complained, and he winced while still smiling, because the pain was a small tax to pay for watching her look so alive.
"You are going to get us thrown off this tram," he said, voice still thick with laughter.
Stephanie waved him off as she kept dancing in place, a little sway, a little shoulder pop, a dramatic wrist flick like she had just won an invisible competition. "Nobody throws the princess off the tram," she said, then paused, realized what she had said, and grinned wider like the irony was the sweetest part.
A few bystanders glanced over, and one pair of club-goers, already dressed in glitter and confidence, whistled loudly. Stephanie responded with a playful hair flip and a grin that could have started a riot. Oscar's laughter deepened, and the two of them fell into that warm, easy teasing that felt like friendship stitched into the air.
By the time the tram glided into the upper district, the city outside the windows had transformed into a bright fever dream. Towers rose like polished obsidian spears, trimmed with glowing runes that traced their edges in elegant patterns. Street-level storefronts glowed in layered neon, and the sidewalks swelled with nightlife crowds that moved like schools of fish, shiny and purposeful. Music drifted from open doors, mingling with laughter and the faint clink of glasses, and the air smelled like perfume, fried food, and anticipation.
Stephanie stepped off the tram and turned slowly, taking it in like she was afraid the moment might vanish if she blinked too hard. "This is insane," she murmured, and there was reverence in her voice, like she had just walked into a cathedral built for pleasure instead of prayer.
Oscar followed her gaze, pretending he was unimpressed, though he felt the city's pulse too. "Try not to look like a tourist," he said, but his smile betrayed him.
Stephanie bumped his arm gently. "I am a tourist," she said. "I am touring freedom."
They walked toward the first club she had pointed out earlier in the brochures, following the thrum of music that seemed to vibrate through the pavement. When it came into view, Oscar understood immediately why it was popular.
The building was enormous, more entertainment fortress than nightclub, its exterior a layered blend of glass, dark stone, and glowing runic trim that made it look like a piece of the skyline had decided to throw a party. A huge neon sign arched above the entrance, letters flickering like living flame.
Astral Promenade.
The name fit, because the place promised more than dancing. Through the tall glass walls they could see the different attractions stacked and sprawled inside like worlds in a box. A private movie theater sat to one side, its entrance framed by velvet ropes and floating poster-panels that animated silently, scenes shifting like dream fragments. A bowling alley stretched across another wing, lanes glowing faintly under rune-lights, pins resetting themselves with enchanted precision. A pool hall occupied a darker corridor, a lounge of green felt tables and low hanging lamps, where shadows gathered around whispered bets.
Three clothing stores were built right into the lower level like temptations laid deliberately in the path of anyone entering. One was sleek and modern, all black fabric and sharp silhouettes. One was bright and trendy, packed with bold colors and glittering accessories. The third screamed luxury, mannequins draped in shimmering fabric that looked like it cost more than Oscar's entire current plan to survive in Eboren Concord.
Stephanie stared at it like a child staring at a carnival. "Oscar," she breathed, "this place has everything."
Oscar's eyes widened despite himself. "This place has the kind of prices that would make my wallet cry," he muttered.
They approached the entrance, and the sound hit them first, bass heavy enough to shake ribs. Then they saw the line.
It stretched down the block in a slow-moving serpent of glitter and impatience, people dressed in their best outfits and their worst patience. The crowd buzzed with laughter and frustration, the occasional argument about who had cut who, the occasional squeal when someone spotted a friend.
Stephanie's smile faltered like a candle caught by wind. "No," she said, voice suddenly wounded. "No way."
Oscar leaned to the side to confirm what he already knew, then sighed. "At this rate," he said, "it'll be tomorrow before we get inside, and I'm not spending another night standing in a line like we're begging to be entertained."
Stephanie's shoulders dropped in disappointment, and for a moment she looked like the little girl inside her had been promised something and then had it taken away. She forced herself to inhale, forced herself to remember that tonight was still hers, even if the first option had been stolen by a crowd.
"Fine," she said, her tone trying for brave but still sounding like a pout. "We'll find another one."
Oscar nudged her gently with his good arm. "Virelux is basically made of clubs," he said. "If we walk far enough, we'll trip over another entrance."
Stephanie exhaled and nodded. "Okay," she said. "But I'm still mad at this line."
They walked away from Astral Promenade, leaving its glittering promise behind, and the city shifted around them as they moved deeper into the nightlife district. The streetlights changed, becoming more neon than gold. The crowds grew denser, people laughing louder, music leaking from doorways like spilled drinks. Vendors sold late-night snacks that steamed in the cold air, and the smell of grilled meat and sweet pastries mixed with cigarette smoke and the faint, familiar herbal tang that Oscar always noticed.
After a few blocks they rounded a corner and found something smaller, less grand, but still vibrant, still proud.
The building's exterior was painted dark, almost black, and outlined with neon strips that pulsed softly in rhythm with the music inside. The sign above the door glowed in dreamy shifting letters.
Neon Reverie.
The line here was shorter, moving steadily, filled with people who looked like they cared more about the beat than the bragging rights of being seen in the biggest venue in town.
Stephanie's eyes lit up again. "This one," she said, and the way she said it sounded like claiming a destiny.
Oscar nodded. "This one," he agreed.
They approached the entrance, and a security guard stood there like a wall with eyes. He was tall and broad, shaved head reflecting the neon, a scar cutting through one eyebrow like a permanent warning. His uniform was black and fitted, runes stitched subtly along the seams, likely wards against knives and spellwork. His gaze swept over them with practiced boredom that could sharpen into threat at the slightest excuse.
When Oscar and Stephanie reached him, the guard's eyes flicked down to Stephanie's dress, then to Oscar's face, then to Oscar's bag. Oscar felt that familiar pressure in his chest, the instinctive fear of being recognized as an outsider, as trouble, as someone who did not belong.
Then the guard stepped aside and nodded them through.
Neon Reverie swallowed them whole.
The club interior was a cathedral built for sound and light. Neon strips crisscrossed the walls in geometric patterns, shifting colors like moods. The ceiling was high, draped with hanging rune-lamps that pulsed gently to the beat, casting the entire space in a dreamlike glow. The dance floor sat at the center, a mass of bodies moving together like a single creature, hands in the air, hips rolling, sweat shining under flashing lights. The bass made the air feel thick, like you could taste it if you opened your mouth.
To one side, the bar stretched long and gleaming, bottles arranged like jewels, glassware sparkling under rune-light. The bartender moved with quick efficiency, pouring drinks that smoked, glittered, or glowed depending on what enchantments were stirred in.
Stephanie stopped just inside the entrance, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, and Oscar watched her look at the club like she had walked into a place she had dreamed about but never believed she would reach.
"This is…" Stephanie began, then lost the words, because awe was sometimes bigger than language.
Oscar grinned. "Yeah," he said. "It's something."
They moved deeper into the crowd, Stephanie gripping Oscar's hand like she was afraid the night might steal him away. She turned her head constantly, taking in everything, the outfits, the lights, the way people moved like they were unburdened by titles.
When they reached the dance floor edge, Stephanie turned to Oscar with an expression that allowed no argument. "Dance," she demanded.
Oscar shook his head immediately. "No," he said. "I can't dance. I have two left feet and an injured shoulder, and I refuse to die of embarrassment tonight."
Stephanie smiled wickedly. "Good," she said. "Then you'll match me."
Before Oscar could protest again, she tugged him into the crowd.
The music hit harder in the center, the bass vibrating through Oscar's bones. Stephanie pressed her body close to his, moving with the beat like she had been waiting her whole life for it. Her hips rolled with confident rhythm, her shoulders swayed, and she laughed in a way that sounded like freedom given a voice.
Oscar's first instinct was stiffness, awkwardness, the ghost of self-consciousness. Then Stephanie bumped her hip against his in a playful challenge, and Oscar found himself laughing and loosening, placing a hand on her waist to steady her in the crush of bodies.
Stephanie began to grind against him, shameless and bold, moving like she owned herself completely. The memory of gala dancing flickered through her mind, stiff music, polite distance, hands that touched only with permission. This was the opposite of that. This was messy and loud and real, and it belonged to her.
Oscar leaned close to her ear, voice raised over the music. "You're dangerous," he said, half laughing, half warning.
Stephanie laughed back. "You have no idea," she replied, and she meant it in more ways than one.
They danced through several songs, Oscar stumbling into rhythm by accident, Stephanie guiding him with body language instead of instruction. Oscar's shoulder ached, but he ignored it, because tonight was not about pain, it was about pretending pain did not get to win.
Eventually, breathless and flushed, they made their way to the bar.
Stephanie ordered juice, bright and sweet, something that looked like it belonged in a sunrise rather than a nightclub. Oscar ordered an energy drink because both of them knew, without saying it aloud, that alcohol would turn this night into a disaster. They leaned close to talk, voices raised, bodies still buzzing from the dance floor.
Stephanie sipped her drink and grinned. "This is already better than the gala," she said.
Oscar smirked. "Low bar," he replied, then softened. "But yeah, I get it."
They talked about the club, about the lights, about how everyone here looked like they had never been told to bow. Stephanie's eyes kept drifting, hunger and joy mingling in her expression.
Then three women approached.
They were beautiful in that effortless nightlife way, the kind of beauty sharpened by confidence rather than perfection. They moved together like a practiced trio, friends who knew how to take space without asking permission.
The first woman smiled brightly and leaned in, eyes scanning Stephanie's outfit with obvious approval. "Okay," she said, voice loud over the music, "you look amazing."
The second nodded, her expression sharp and playful. "Seriously," she added, "that dress was made for you."
The third laughed, warm and easy. "Where did you even get it," she asked, "because I need to steal your taste."
Stephanie blinked, caught off guard, then smiled in genuine warmth because compliments from strangers hit differently when you were no longer trapped behind etiquette. "Thank you," she said. "I just… picked it."
The first woman grinned. "Well, your picking skills are flawless."
They introduced themselves quickly, names shouted over the music.
The first was Nyra, deep brown skin glowing under neon, long black curls piled high like a crown of its own, her dress a shimmering silver piece that caught every flash of light. Her smile was mischievous, her eyes bright.
The second was Kess, pale with short auburn hair cut in a choppy bob, eyeliner sharp as a blade, wearing a cropped jacket over a fitted top with chains draped at her waist. She looked like she could either kiss you or fight you depending on the mood.
The third was Maribel, warm tan skin, glossy dark hair falling in waves down her back, wearing a deep red dress with a high slit and a neckline that dared anyone to look away. Her laugh came easy, like music.
Stephanie introduced herself carefully, keeping her voice casual, keeping her identity buried beneath the name she was already using in her head like armor. Oscar stayed beside her, half smiling, mostly invisible, which was fine.
Because Oscar's attention snagged on something else.
Across the bar, two young men caught his eye, and one of them made a subtle gesture, thumb and pointer finger forming a circle, bringing it to his lips in a practiced motion.
The universal question.
Do you smoke, or do you sell?
Oscar nodded once, small, discreet, then leaned toward Stephanie. "I'll be right back," he said.
Stephanie glanced at him, then at Nyra, Kess, and Maribel, then nodded, trusting him in the way she had learned to do over the past days.
Oscar moved away, weaving through the crowd toward the two young men. They met him with quick daps and quiet words, then guided him toward the men's restroom where deals happened under the cover of loud music and crowded chaos.
Inside, the restroom was clean and spacious, rune-lights keeping the air fresh, mirrors glowing faintly with warding symbols. Oscar pulled out prepackaged bags from his black bookbag, laying them out quickly, discreetly. He asked how much they wanted, and the two young men decided on a shared bag, splitting the cost like friends splitting a secret.
One of them sniffed the weed and let out a low sound of pleased surprise. "Damn," he murmured. "That stinks so good."
The other nodded, eyes widening. "Yeah," he said. "That's loud. Way louder than what people been pushing."
They paid, took the bag, and left satisfied, disappearing back into the club's pulsing heart.
Oscar exhaled, relieved, already turning toward the door.
Then a voice from the back corner called out, sharp as a hook.
"Hey, elf boy."
Oscar paused.
A group of men stood there, stylish and confident, smoke curling around them like a warning. One of them stepped forward, eyes narrowing, and his voice cut through the restroom's false calm.
"What do you think you're doing selling on our turf?"
Oscar lifted his hands slowly, surrender gesture ready, his smile returning like a mask he could put on in emergencies. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he began, voice light, "we're all entrepreneurs here. Can't we all just get along?"
Their answer came back like a slammed door.
"No!"
Back at the bar, Nyra, Kess, and Maribel had already convinced Stephanie that shots were a normal part of nightlife bonding, and when the glasses clinked together and they shouted cheer, Stephanie threw hers back like she had something to prove.
The burn hit her throat like fire, and she coughed hard, eyes watering, face scrunching in shock. "Oh my gods," she rasped, voice hoarse, "that tastes like regret and poison had a baby."
Nyra laughed so hard she almost spilled her drink. "You get used to it," she promised.
Kess smirked. "Or you just keep suffering like the rest of us," she said.
Maribel patted Stephanie's back. "You did great," she teased. "You look cute suffering."
Stephanie blinked, still coughing, then laughed despite herself, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and alcohol heat.
As she set the empty glass down, something prickled at the back of her neck, the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
She turned.
Across the room, in a VIP booth elevated above the dance floor, a man sat like he belonged on a throne more than a couch. Slick dark hair, hazel eyes catching the light, beard neat and sharp, luxury suit fitting him like a second skin. Jewelry glinted at his wrist and throat, shoes polished enough to reflect neon.
He stared at her without flinching.
Stephanie's stomach tightened, instinctively, because a lifetime of being observed had trained her to distrust attention that felt too focused.
She looked away quickly and leaned toward Nyra, trying to keep her voice casual. "Is that guy staring at us?"
Nyra glanced, then smirked. Kess looked too, her expression shifting into mild annoyance. Maribel followed their gaze and hummed softly.
Nyra leaned in, voice amused. "Not us," she said. "He's looking at you."
Stephanie's jaw tightened. "I'm not interested," she said, even though nobody had asked yet, because she had escaped one cage and refused to step into another.
Kess gave her a sympathetic look edged with jealousy. "You might not be," she said, "but he definitely is."
Stephanie looked back despite herself.
The man's gaze met hers instantly, like he had been waiting for it.
Then he stood.
His height drew attention immediately, at least seven and a half feet, and he moved with an easy elegance, stepping out of the VIP booth and weaving through the dance floor like he was part of the music rather than someone walking through it. Bodies shifted aside without realizing they were doing it, the crowd parting around him like water around a blade.
He approached Stephanie's group with a charming smile, eyes warm, voice smooth as he spoke over the bass.
"Ladies," he said, his gaze lingering on Stephanie, "you look like you're having a fine night."
Stephanie's polite smile appeared by habit, but her eyes stayed guarded.
The man placed a hand lightly against his chest in a gesture of introduction, confident as a prince in a storybook.
"My name is Jasparion J. Valencrest Jorthayne, and I would be honored," he said, the words almost musical, "if you would join me upstairs in the VIP lounge for a drink and a better view of the night."
Nyra's eyes widened. Maribel looked thrilled. Kess looked amused and slightly offended on Stephanie's behalf.
Stephanie held Jasparion's gaze, feeling the weight of it, feeling the city's noise blur for half a heartbeat, because something about him felt familiar in the way danger sometimes did, polished and smiling, dressed like a promise.
She opened her mouth to answer, unsure whether she would say yes or no or something sharper.
And somewhere else in the club, the men's restroom became a pressure cooker, Oscar's hands still raised, his smile still worn like armor, while three voices decided whether to treat him like a nuisance or a target.
Neon Reverie kept thumping, kept pulsing, because the club did not care what kind of trouble walked through its doors, as long as the music never stopped.