I gazed upon the figure that had just shattered our collective eardrums with the force of their displeasure, before I nearly spat out my tea—which, okay, I didn't actually have any tea, but metaphorically speaking my brain performed the exact motion of violently expelling liquid in shock, so let's just say my mental beverage went flying and call it close enough for narrative purposes.

Standing above us in the upper tier, one hand resting on the railing with fingers tapping out an impatient rhythm that echoed across the theater like a countdown to violence, was an orc.

But not just any orc—no, that would be far too simple and my life had clearly decided simple was for people with functioning survival instincts.

This was a female orc, towering at what had to be at least seven feet of pure, concentrated "I could snap you like a twig and use the pieces as toothpicks," with a messy spill of dark hair bundled into a thick braid that pooled at her shoulders like a sleeping serpent.

Her skin was a deep green that caught the artificial moonlight and threw it back in shades of jade and emerald. Her face—angular, sharp, with prominent tusks jutting from her lower jaw—was set in an expression of irritation so profound it probably qualified as performance art.

I felt myself stiffen even harder in my panties—which was becoming a recurring problem tonight and honestly someone should look into that—my cock twitching and leaking a small betraying spot of pre-cum as I took in the fact that she was completely naked.

Not wearing a robe loosely, not strategically covered by shadows, but genuinely, comprehensively, spectacularly nude in a way that made my brain short-circuit and restart several times in rapid succession.

Her body was a masterpiece of violence rendered in flesh, more muscular than Iskanda's—which I hadn't thought possible until this exact moment—with defined abs that looked like they'd been carved by a sculptor who specialized in "intimidating and also deeply erotic," thick thighs that could probably crush a watermelon, or my head, without effort, and arms corded with muscle that flexed with each small movement.

Scars crisscrossed her skin in patterns that told stories of battles won and pain endured, pale lines against green canvas, some thin and precise like blade cuts while others were thick and ragged like claw marks from something large and deeply upset about being alive.

Her breasts were substantial without being impractical, firm and high despite their size, moving slightly with each panting breath she took, and gods above she was panting—streams of hot air escaping her parted lips, her entire body heaving with exertion, soaked in sweat that made her skin glisten like she'd been dipped in oil and buffed to a shine by someone with very specific tastes.

I was mesmerized, utterly and completely, my eyes tracking the way sweat dripped down the valley between her breasts, pooled in her navel, trailed down her stomach to disappear into the dark patch of hair between her legs, and then—

I paused. Dead stopped. My brain made a sound like a record scratch as recognition slammed into me with the force of a physical blow.

"Wait," I said slowly, pointing at her with dawning realization, my voice rising with each word. "Wait, wait, wait—you were in Section Twelve! Back in the prison! The one who always masturbated during our shifts!" The memory crystallized with perfect clarity—the dark corners of that mining cavern, the sound of slick friction and low grunts, the way everyone had just... well... accepted it as a natural part of the background. "Holy shit, you made it out too!"

The orc's eyes—deep wells of black—found mine across the distance, and her expression shifted from irritation to something approaching amusement as a grin split her face, tusks gleaming.

"Small fucking world," she rumbled, rough but somehow not unpleasant. "Didn't expect to see the pretty little succubus who kept distracting me with that fat ass of yours."

I sputtered, heat flooding my cheeks. "I—excuse me—my ass had nothing to do with—you know what, not the point!" I waved my hands frantically. "How did you even get here? And more importantly, why can you speak now? You only grunted back then! I thought you were, like, non-verbal by choice or something!"

She snorted—an actual snort that sent a spray of condensation into the air—and waved off my questions with one massive hand like I'd just asked her to explain quantum physics in interpretive dance.

"None of your business," she said flatly, her eyes tracking over me with the kind of lazy interest that suggested she was already bored of this conversation. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to sleep."

We both knew that was a lie. The sweat, the panting, the way her pupils were still dilated—she'd been doing something up there, and sleep was absolutely not it.

"You're rude," I called out with mock offense. "I offer friendly conversation and you dismiss me like I'm some kind of door-to-door salesman! The audacity! The disrespect!"

She just grinned wider and disappeared back into the shadows of the upper seating. I heard what sounded suspiciously like a low moan echo down before being cut off by the sharp slam of a door.

Julius stepped up beside me, his hand landing on my shoulder with gentle weight. "That's Grisha," he explained, his tone carrying the patient quality of someone who'd had this conversation before. "Best not to mind her too much. She likes to keep to herself most of the time, and it's often hard to get her to cooperate without offering something in return." He paused, then added with a knowing smile, "Usually that something involves either violence or sex, and she's not particularly picky about which."

I sighed, long and theatrical, because of course Julius had collected a cast of chaos gremlins to populate his theater. "I'm sensing a pattern here with your recruitment strategy."

Before Julius could respond, I heard giggles again—multiple giggles, actually, belonging to the succubus and bunny girl who'd somehow managed to join forces in the thirty seconds I'd been distracted.

They were gripping each other's hands in perfect harmony, their expressions matched in intensity, practically salivating as they stared at me with the focus of predators who'd just spotted their favorite meal.

"So," Julius said with exaggerated cheer, gesturing to each in turn, "allow me to properly introduce them. This lovely lady with the wine-dark skin is Willow, succubus extraordinaire and our resident expert in manipulation. And this bundle of manic energy in the bunny suit is Nara, who handles security—well, when she's not stealing people's underwear."

They converged on me in that instant like sharks sensing blood in the water, words tumbling over each other in a torrent of increasingly obscene questions. "Have you fed recently?" "What's your favorite feeding method?" "Do you prefer dreams or direct contact?" "Can you do the thing with your tail?" "Do you have a tail?" "Have you ever tried—"

Nara leaned in close, her crimson eyes boring into mine with an almost unsettling focus, and asked in a voice pitched low and breathy, "Can you get me pregnant?"

"Okay!" I said loudly, shoving both their faces aside with my palms—Willow to the left, Nara to the right—and stalking toward Julius with a pronounced twitch in my brow that suggested my patience was reaching its operational limits. "Okay, that's enough. Julius." I fixed him with a look that I hoped conveyed both affection and the threat of imminent violence. "Would you mind telling me how exactly you acquired this collection of absolute disasters? Because I'm getting the distinct impression there's a story here involving highly questionable decisions and some form of second-rate bribery."

Julius gave a nervous giggle—which was deeply concerning coming from a grown man—and scratched the back of his head with the sheepish energy of someone who knew they were about to drop information that would cause problems.

"Well, you see, they were a gift. Of sorts. From my..." He paused, cleared his throat, and began listing off what had to be the most convoluted family tree I'd ever heard. "Third cousin twice removed on my mother's side, who married into the Grey family through his second wife's brother's daughter, which technically makes him my... let's just call him family. His name is Mavus Grey."

I paused. Blinked. Processed those two words—Mavus Grey—and felt my entire understanding of reality tilt slightly sideways.

Everyone had heard that name. You couldn't exist in this city for more than five minutes without hearing whispered stories about Mavus Grey, the criminal mastermind who ran the largest human trafficking operation spanning multiple layers of the Undernet.

He wasn't just infamous; he was, by all accounts, the most wanted man in the Velvet Chambers, let alone the rest of Prismillya. A legend, spoken about in the same breath as natural disasters and divine intervention—the kind of person whose existence shaped criminal ecosystem's through sheer force of will and strategic brutality.

He'd allegedly killed seventeen people in a single night over a shipment dispute, had an entire district of the upper city under his direct control, and once reportedly told a noble to their face that he'd burn their estate down with them inside if they didn't pay their debts, then actually did it even after they had.

And Julius was claiming this man—this myth—was related to him?

I burst out laughing. Couldn't help it, the sound erupting from my chest with genuine, unrestrained mirth that echoed across the theater in rolling waves. "Oh that's—that's good!" I wheezed, actually bending over slightly because the laughter was making my injured side protest. "Julius, I love you, but there is absolutely no way that Mavus Grey—the legendary crime lord, the most wanted man in the city, is related to you, let alone helping you with your ridiculous theater venture! That's like saying you're cousins with a hurricane and it's helping you with interior design."

Julius crossed his arms with a pout that would have been adorable if he wasn't a grown man who'd just claimed familial connection to the one of the nation's most dangerous criminals.

"If you don't believe me," he said with wounded dignity, "you can just see for yourself." He gestured dramatically toward the stage curtains, his expression shifting into something challenging. "He's right behind those curtains. Has been this whole time, actually, probably listening to this entire conversation and judging us all silently."

I whipped around so fast I nearly broke my neck, my eyes locking onto the burgundy fabric that suddenly seemed far more ominous than it had moments ago. "He's—you're saying—right now?"

"Right now," Julius confirmed, his smirk returning with vindictive satisfaction.

Taking on the challenge with the reckless confidence of someone who'd survived this long on spite and terrible decisions, I began skipping toward the stage—actually skipping, because if I was going to potentially meet my death at the hands of a legendary crime lord, I was going to do it with style.

I hopped up onto the stage with enhanced agility, my boots landing on the wooden boards with soft thuds, and approached the curtains with theatrical flair. My fingers brushed the heavy fabric, feeling its weight, its age, and I took a breath that was half anticipation and half "what the fuck am I doing."

Then, with a flourish that would have made Julius proud, I brushed past them and stepped into whatever fresh chaos awaited me on the other side.

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