The Velvet Room was the kind of place that never saw daylight. Red lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a moody, drunken glow. Smoke curled from a dozen ashtrays, mixing with the cheap perfume and the sticky sweet smell of spilled liquor. A few men hunched over the bar, nursing their drinks, not saying much. A dancer swayed on the stage, half-hearted, her eyes glazed over.

Behind the bar, Y/n wiped down the same glass for the third time, counting the hours left in their shift. Rent was due in five days. They were still short.

The door opened behind them. A draft rolled in, cold and sharp, cutting through the fog of smoke and heat. A few heads turned. Most didn't. This city taught people not to look too long at anything.

The man who walked in was tall, blonde, with scars on his face and wings folded tight against his back—black as ink, barely visible in the dim light. He moved like he owned the room. Because he did. Everyone in this city knew that silhouette.

The music kept playing. The dancer kept moving. But the air changed. The Fat Man went quiet. The bartender's hands stilled on the counter.