I awoke to Felix shaking my body from above, his small hands gripping my shoulders and bouncing on the bed with enough energy to make the entire frame creak in protest.

His blonde hair was sleep-mussed and falling into his eyes, sheer joy radiating from his face so pure and uncomplicated it made something warm bloom in my chest despite the exhaustion.

I gave him a little giggle—because how could I not when confronted with that level of adorable enthusiasm—then threw off the velvet sheets before immediately wrestling with him, my naked body rolling across the mattress as I tried to pin his equally naked form beneath me.

Felix squeaked and squirmed, his laughter bright and musical as he attempted valiantly to escape my hold. We tumbled across the bed in a tangle of limbs that was more playful than sexual despite the complete lack of clothing involved.

We were still mid-struggle when the door burst open without warning.

Julius stood in the doorway holding a small tray, his mouth already open to announce something, before his eyes went comically wide as he took in the scene before him. Me, completely naked, straddling Felix who was also completely naked, my hand on his throat and his legs wrapped around my waist in what was, admittedly, a very compromising position.

Time seemed to freeze for exactly three seconds before Julius quickly shut the door with a sharp click that echoed through the room.

I scrambled off Felix immediately, my hands waving frantically even though Julius couldn't see me anymore. "Wait—Julius—we were just wrestling! It's not—there's context here that makes this significantly less sexual than it appears!"

There was a long pause on the other side of the door before it slowly creaked open again, revealing Julius's face which had gone through several interesting color changes, settling on something between slightly amused and deeply traumatized.

He extended the tray toward me without fully entering the room, his eyes carefully fixed on a point somewhere above my head.

"I brought breakfast," he said with admirable composure. "Fruits and bread. Very innocent, very non-sexual breakfast foods."

I took the tray with as much dignity as a naked person could muster, which was approximately none. "Thank you. And again, we were just—"

"Wrestling," Julius finished, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. "Yes. Very vigorous wrestling. I'm sure that's exactly what it was." He paused, his expression shifting into something more serious. "This is the last of our stock, by the way. After this, we're officially out of food until the funds from the prison arrive. So savor it."

I nodded, genuinely thankful despite the awkwardness of the situation. "We will. And Julius? Maybe knock next time? Just as a general life policy?"

"According to what I've heard from Brutus, that's pretty ironic coming from you." He paused for a moment before clearing his throat. "And trust me," he said then, already backing away from the door, "that lesson has been permanently seared into my brain along with several images I'll never be able to unsee."

He left, closing the door more carefully this time, and I carried the colorful tray over to the bed where Felix had already tucked himself back against the pillows, looking far too small for the amount of space he was occupying.

The fruit was arranged with surprising care—apples polished to a dull shine, unfamiliar purple berries that stained my fingers when I touched them, pear slices already browning at the edges like they'd been cut with good intentions and poor timing. Alongside those were several pieces of bread, homemade and smelling absolutely divine.

We shared it in comfortable silence, Felix making little pleased sounds with each bite while I chewed more slowly, half savoring the flavors and half running the mental arithmetic of how long we could survive without eating until the funds arrived.

Shortly after we'd finished, another knock sounded at the door. Felix hopped up to answer it with his usual energy before pulling the door open to reveal Brutus standing in the hallway.

I immediately burst into laughter so loud and uncontrolled that I nearly toppled off the bed.

Brutus had—saints preserve us—a set of bunny ears perched on his head—white, floppy, and held in place with what looked like a headband.

His face was covered in makeup that had been applied with more enthusiasm than skill, pink blush on his cheeks and what might have been an attempt at whiskers drawn across his nose in black liner.

He was dressed in a white tutu that was several sizes too small and looked like it might disintegrate if he moved too quickly, the fabric straining across his massive frame in ways that violated several laws of physics.

And surrounding him—perched on his shoulders, nestled in the crook of his arm, sitting on top of his head between the fake ears—were those same murder bunnies from last night, their white fur pristine and their crimson eyes watching us with lazy contentment.

They were being remarkably docile, one of them nibbling lightly on his ear while another groomed itself on his shoulder.

Felix rushed back to the bed and settled down with wide eyes, clearly trying not to laugh at Brutus's expense. His shoulders shook anyway, traitorous little tremors giving him away.

Brutus merely sighed before pulling the chair from the desk over to sit with the kind of resigned dignity that suggested he'd accepted his fate and was making peace with it.

"So," I managed between gasps of laughter, wiping tears from my eyes, "Nara's room, I'm guessing?"

Brutus nodded solemnly, his eyes conveying depths of suffering that words could never capture. "Crashed there for the night," he confirmed in his gravelly voice. "She insisted on the ears. And the makeup. And the tutu. Said I looked 'absolutely precious' and if I didn't wear them she'd sic the bunnies on me. Except not in their murder mode—in their 'aggressively cuddle you until you suffocate' mode."

"I can tell," I said, still giggling as I took in the full spectacle. "You look like you've had quite the evening. How was it? Rate it on a scale of 'mildly uncomfortable' to 'I have seen things that cannot be unseen.'"

Brutus was quiet for a moment, clearly weighing his response. "Somewhere between 'I now understand why people fear rabbits' and 'I may never look at carrots the same way again.'" He paused, then added with surprising gentleness, "Though I'm more surprised you survived Grisha's onslaught. When I left, she looked like she was preparing to destroy you."

I waved my hand dismissively, settling back against the pillows with Felix curled against my side. "I have a long and storied history of dealing with people like that," I explained, my tone light despite the very real exhaustion still clinging to my bones. "Or more accurately, tolerating them long enough for my dignity to come running back to me like a lost puppy. It's a skill I've perfected over years of making highly questionable choices and surviving through my stubborn refusal to die."

Brutus chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that made the bunny on his shoulder's ears twitch—before leaning forward slightly, the chair creaking under his weight. "What are your plans for the day?" he asked, genuine curiosity coloring his voice. "Because if you're planning more chaos, I'd like to know so I can prepare myself emotionally."

I stretched my arms above my head, feeling various joints pop and protest. "We've got time to kill before the warehouse meeting tonight," I said thoughtfully. "So I figure I might as well confront Mavus. Get some answers about his magic, his motivations. You know, standard interrogation stuff."

Brutus raised an eyebrow—well, the area where his eyebrow would've be if half his face wasn't scarred beyond recognition. "What for specifically?" he asked.

I waved off the question with a vague gesture. "I'll tell you later. Too many details to get into right now, and my brain is still recovering from last night's activities. For now, just let Felix take care of you. He's been bouncing with energy since he woke up and I think he needs something to focus on that isn't trying to cuddle me to death."

Felix immediately bubbled up with renewed energy at the mention of his name, practically launching himself off the bed and skipping to the desk where he began showing off his drawings to Brutus with enthusiastic pointing and the occasional whispered word.

I watched them for a moment—Brutus leaning in with genuine interest despite his ridiculous outfit, Felix beaming with pride—and felt something settle in my chest that might have been contentment if I was willing to acknowledge such vulnerable emotions.

I slipped out of the room quietly, not wanting to disturb their moment.

Then I flexed my fingers, a smirk spreading across my face as I realized what I'd managed to take from Grisha during last night's... extensive activities.

Not only had I stolen a bit of her raw physical strength—I could feel it in my muscles, a new layer of power that made even standing feel different, more grounded, more solid—but I'd also acquired that strange ability of hers, that unsettling capacity to exude a force of primal instinct from my body and exert it upon others.

I wasn't quite sure how to use it yet, couldn't consciously trigger whatever mechanism made it work, but I could feel it resting dormant somewhere deep in my core, like a muscle I'd never flexed before waiting to be discovered and trained.

The sensation was oddly thrilling, knowing I carried that same overwhelming presence that had reduced me to a whimpering mess, except now it was mine to wield.

It was then that another thought crossed my mind.

I was still completely naked.

My clothes had been absolutely destroyed by Grisha last night—torn to shreds and scattered across her floor like the casualties of war. I had, quite literally, nothing to wear except my own skin and the lingering scent of orc musk that probably needed several baths to fully eliminate.

I sighed—long, heavy, the kind of sigh that carried the weight of my poor choices—and without a second thought turned and strolled to Julius's room.

Privacy and shame were luxuries I couldn't afford when facing the prospect of walking around a theater full of overtly horney individuals completely nude. I knocked lightly at the door, my knuckles rapping against the wood in a gentle pattern.

Julius opened the door moments later with a questioning gaze, his golden hair slightly disheveled, hazelnut eyes locked on my naked form. "Let me guess," he said dryly. "You need clothes."

"I need clothes," I confirmed, spreading my arms to showcase my complete lack of garments. "Grisha destroyed my outfit in what can only be described as an aggressive disrobing that prioritized speed over preservation. So unless you want me wandering around traumatizing people with my nudity, I'm going to need to borrow something."

Julius squealed, the sound high-pitched and filled with excitement that seemed disproportionate to the situation—before dashing into his room and flinging open what sounded like several drawers at once.

I stepped inside and immediately sighed at the theater-like theme of his space. Costumes hung on racks along one wall, props scattered across surfaces, masks displayed on shelves like trophies.

The whole room vibrated with that rare, delicate balance of organized chaos—the sort of artistry where genius and utter contempt for traditional storage conventions danced a very public tango.

Julius spun around with a pile of fabric in his arms and thrust it toward me with barely contained glee. "Try these! I think they'll fit perfectly! And they're much nicer quality than what you were wearing before—no offense, but your previous outfit looked like it had survived several wars and lost most of them!"

I sorted through the pile—finding a new set of lingerie that was far more delicate than anything I'd owned before, all black lace and silk that felt impossibly soft against my fingers.

Beneath that was a dark, scandalous dress that looked like it had been designed by someone who understood exactly how to toe the line between elegant and sinful.

Alongside the dress came a set of black opera gloves that stretched all the way up to my elbows and some new boots—sleeker than my previous pair, with a subtle heel that added height without sacrificing stability, still perfectly fit for combat but looking significantly more expensive.

Moments later I was redressed, the clothing settling against my skin with the kind of comfort that came from quality craftsmanship and someone who actually understood my body type.

The lingerie felt like a whisper, the dress moved like liquid shadow with each small shift of my weight, and the gloves added an element of sophistication I hadn't known I was missing.

Julius pulled me in front of a full-length mirror propped against the wall, practically vibrating with excitement as he waited for my reaction.

I stared at my reflection and barely recognized myself. The dress traced my silhouette with unapologetic precision, hugging my curves before splitting along either side, leaving a narrow column of fabric down the center that turned every step into a quiet provocation. It bared my legs in a way that felt paradoxical—refined at a glance, scandalous the moment you looked twice.

The opera gloves elongated my arms into something almost unreal, smoothing every line until I looked sculpted rather than dressed, while the boots added just enough height to shift my balance and force a new posture. I stood straighter without meaning to, chin lifted, shoulders back—less like someone wearing an outfit, and more like someone stepping into a role they were always meant to play.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't look like a scrappy survivor held together by spite and poor decisions—I looked like someone who belonged in the Velvet Chambers, someone dangerous, beautiful, and in control.

"Holy shit," I breathed, turning slightly to watch the fabric catch the light. "This is incredible."

Julius beamed, clearly pleased with himself, before clapping his hands together in satisfaction. "I knew it! You have the perfect build for this style—feminine but still ready to kick someone's ass at a moment's notice. Very 'deadly courtesan' energy."

"That's exactly the aesthetic I didn't know I needed," I said with genuine gratitude, doing a small spin to test the movement of the dress. The fabric flared slightly before settling back between my thighs. I could feel how easy it would be to move, to fight, to run if necessary. "Thank you, Julius. Seriously. I feel like an actual person again instead of a disaster held together by spite."

Julius beamed brighter, if that was even possible, and I left him to his theatrical domain before stalking straight down to the main theater on the first floor, my new boots clicking against the wood with a soft, satisfying rhythm.

Moments later, the space opened up before me—rows of seats rising toward the back, the stage dominating the far end, curtains drawn back to reveal the full expanse of wooden planks worn smooth by countless performances.

And there he was. Mavus Grey.

Center stage, holding a foil sword that gleamed in the dim light filtering through the high windows, working up an obvious sweat as he moved through what I initially thought were practiced forms.

His movements were fluid and precise—thrust, parry, riposte, retreat—each motion flowing seamlessly into the next as his painted clown face caught the light in strange ways, making his expressions difficult to read.

But as I watched more carefully, I realized he wasn't just running through a series of motions. He was dodging attacks as well, his body twisting, ducking, and weaving around invisible strikes that I couldn't see.

Curiosity overwhelmed caution before, without hesitation, I stepped up onto the stage. I began glancing around the scattered props—fake swords, shields, helmets, all the theatrical detritus of past performances—searching for something I could use.

"Catch," a voice called out behind me.

I whipped around to see an extra foil soaring through the air in a spinning arc. I caught it with one hand, my fingers wrapping around the grip with instinctive precision. The weight was perfect—balanced, responsive, the kind of weapon that felt like an extension of my arm rather than a tool I was holding.

Then, without so much as a warning, Mavus's face split into a grin beneath the painted sadness as he lunged straight for my throat with his blade leading the charge.

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