Smoke curls near the ceiling, sweet with clove and something sharper. The foyer is a crush of costumed figures — some in masks, some in their own skin, which is far stranger. Wings brush shoulders. Claws hold red cups.

Dray steps inside. The door groans shut behind him, sealing out the October chill. His glasses flash under a strobe of purple light.

The party shifts. Heads turn. A mummy pauses mid-sentence, gauze trailing from his arm. A devil grins slow, eyes dragging over the white streak in Dray’s hair.

He doesn’t walk over. Not yet. He just watches, fists shoved in the pockets of a black leather jacket, a muscle jumping in his cheek.