The Batforge wasn't just a lab. It was Bruce Wayne's sanctuary within a sanctuary, a crucible where impossible ideas became reality. Beneath the cavernous arches of the Batcave, the Forge glowed with cold, blue light that danced across rows of meticulously organized tools, humming machinery, and holographic displays projecting schematics in midair. The space was alive, its ambiance a symphony of electric buzz, the faint whir of servos, and the occasional spark from an arc welder. To anyone else, it might have seemed clinical—sterile even. To Bruce, it was where the fight began.
At the heart of it all stood Bruce Wayne, the man who had long since become more legend than man. His black tactical gloves were flecked with solder, grease, and microscopic traces of a nanocomposite polymer. He moved with purpose, every motion deliberate as he leaned over the workbench. Suspended in midair by precision-mounted clamps was his latest creation: a next-generation combat suit that could bridge the gap between mortal fragility and superhuman resilience.
The chest plate gleamed under the light, a sleek blend of titanium-dipped Kevlar and a new alloy Bruce had developed himself. He'd nicknamed it "Waynetanium"—a name Alfred had openly mocked the moment he'd heard it. Still, the material was lighter than steel, more durable than anything the military could dream up, and versatile enough to withstand everything from armor-piercing rounds to the crushing blows of meta-human adversaries. Creativity wasn't the goal. Survival was.
Bruce was focused on fusing thermal dispersion panels into the backplate when Alfred Pennyworth's voice broke through the hum of the Batforge.
"Master Wayne," Alfred began, his tone sharp but tinged with the warm humor that only came from years of loyalty and care, "the way you're carrying on down here, one might think the world is ending again."
Bruce didn't look up. His jaw tightened slightly, but his hands never wavered. "I'm working, Alfred."
"Ah, yes," Alfred said, stepping further into the Forge, his footsteps echoing faintly on the metal floor. He carried a silver tray, complete with a steaming cup of Earl Grey and a sandwich cut into perfect triangles. "Working, as you call it, for the twelfth consecutive hour without so much as a sip of water or a proper meal. I'd wager even Superman needs a sandwich now and then."
Bruce finally paused, only to glance at a nearby monitor where holographic data scrolled endlessly. His voice was clipped but steady. "I'll eat when I'm finished."
"Now, forgive me, sir, but I've heard that particular line so often I could have it etched onto the Batmobile," Alfred replied, setting the tray down on a nearby console. "And yet, here you are. Still breathing, miraculously. Though I wouldn't bet on that lasting much longer if you keep this up."
Bruce allowed himself the barest flicker of a smirk, though it vanished almost instantly. "I'll be fine, Alfred."
"Famous last words," Alfred muttered. He picked up a schematic lying haphazardly on the table, his eyes scanning the intricate design. "Now, tell me, what masterpiece are we creating this evening? Something subtle and understated, I presume?"
Bruce gestured toward the suit without breaking stride. "This isn't just armor, Alfred. It's a system. A game-changer. There are forces out there pushing their limits—metahumans, advanced AI, weapons tech that makes what we've seen before look primitive. If I don't adapt, I'll fall behind. This suit isn't just protection. It's preparation."
Alfred raised an eyebrow, his sharp gaze drifting from the gleaming chest plate to the modular gauntlets lying nearby. "Ah, yes. Preparation. I see that now. Because nothing says practical like micro-thrusters in your boots and a cape capable of stopping heat vision."
Bruce straightened, finally meeting Alfred's eyes. "The cape's been reinforced to help with controlled glides, not just defense. The boots give me tactical options. Mobility in urban environments. It's not about style, Alfred. It's about staying ahead of what's out there."
"And here I thought you simply enjoyed dressing up," Alfred quipped, though his eyes betrayed the deeper concern lurking beneath his dry wit. "But, if I may be so bold, Master Wayne, when does it end? You've gone toe-to-toe with gods. You've built gadgets that would make Q jealous. And yet, here you are. Always pushing. Always chasing something. What is it, exactly?"
Bruce hesitated, his gloved hands hovering over the suit. For a moment, the Forge was silent except for the faint hum of the machinery. Then, his voice dropped, quieter but no less intense. "An edge. One that lasts."
Alfred's expression softened, the humor draining from his voice. "Edges, Master Wayne, have a way of cutting both ways. You don't have to carry this burden alone. You've built a family—a team. Master Grayson. Miss Gordon. Master Drake. They're here for a reason."
Bruce's gaze darkened, his eyes scanning the suit for imperfections. "They're good, Alfred. The best. But if something happens to them... if I'm not prepared... that's on me."
Alfred stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "And who carries the weight if something happens to you, hmm? Who takes the burden then?"
Bruce didn't answer. Instead, he turned back to the suit, his mind already racing ahead. The gloves needed an integrated EMP emitter for tech-based threats. The cape could use an active camouflage system for stealth operations. The helmet... no, the cowl needed an AI-driven combat assistant, something faster than what he'd used before.
Alfred sighed, his tone softening. "At the very least, do us both a favor and eat the sandwich. You'll be no good to anyone if you pass out in the middle of your next crusade."
Bruce allowed himself the faintest chuckle—barely audible, but enough to remind Alfred that the man he cared for was still in there. "Not yet."
As Alfred retreated, Bruce returned to the armor, his hands steady and his mind sharp. The storm was coming. He could feel it in the air, see it in the shadows. And when it arrived, he'd be ready. Because he was Batman. And that's what Batman did.
—
The tux fit like a charm—because obviously, it did. When your name is Charis Peverell, son of Wonder Freaking Woman and heir to Peverell Industries, looking good isn't optional. It's practically your birthright. The mirror reflected a guy who could probably headline a billionaire heartthrob magazine spread (not that I would, because humility and all that). Except, this heartthrob was scowling like he was plotting a world takeover—courtesy of the mortal enemy currently strangling my throat: the bowtie.
"Who invented these things?" I muttered, tugging at it like it might magically sort itself out. Spoiler: it didn't. "Was it a wizard who decided to curse all men into suffering, or… I don't know, a particularly evil fashion designer?"
A soft laugh from the doorway sent my already-shredded dignity tumbling further. Mareena stood there, barefoot as always, leaning casually against the frame. She was wrapped in an emerald dress so stunning it probably deserved its own spot in a museum, with her hair pinned up like some goddess who moonlights as a Bond girl. Seriously, it wasn't fair. Who allowed her to look like that?
"Need some help, Mr. Fashionista?" she asked, a smirk playing on her lips. Her voice had that smooth, confident Atlantean lilt that practically dripped with "I could flood your living room if I wanted, but I'll settle for making you squirm."
"Help would imply this thing is salvageable," I replied, stepping back from the mirror like it had personally betrayed me. "Right now, I'm just trying not to strangle myself."
"Hmm. Let me guess," she teased, crossing the room with a sway that could make Poseidon himself nervous. "Demons, alien invasions, interdimensional disasters? Easy. But tying a bowtie? That's the real final boss."
"Glad we're all having fun at my expense," I said, pretending to pout. "Don't mind me, just the guy trying to make sure you look good tonight."
"Please." She grabbed the ends of the bowtie, effortlessly brushing my hands away. "I already look good. You, however, need all the help you can get."
"Wow. Is it Opposite Day already?"
She laughed again, that soft, musical sound that made me forget how to be annoyed. Her hands worked quickly, fixing the tie with the kind of ease that made me wonder if this was some hidden Atlantean skill. Probably taught in Royal Snark 101.
"You're lucky you're cute," she said, stepping back to admire her work. "Otherwise, this would've been a lost cause."
Before I could respond (because yes, I did have a witty comeback locked and loaded), Kara's voice echoed down the hall. "What's taking you two so long? Did Harry accidentally drown in the bathtub again?"
Mareena groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Remind me why you let them have access to your room?"
Before I could answer, Kara strode in, already mid-eye roll. Her blonde hair was messy in that effortlessly cool way, and her casual jeans-and-hoodie combo screamed, I'm comfortable, and I dare you to say something about it. "Oh good, he's alive. We were starting to take bets."
"Who's we?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. That's when the rest of them appeared.
Tia followed right behind Kara, her silver hair glowing under the lights as her golden eyes sized me up like I was some kind of science experiment. "You're late, Peverell. At this rate, Mareena's going to dump you and go with me instead."
"Tempting," Mareena quipped, her smirk sharp as ever. "But I'd miss his endless bowtie struggles."
"Oh, please," Zatanna cut in, her heels clicking against the floor as she spun her wand lazily between her fingers. She was all drama in a sleek black dress that probably cost more than my car (not that I drove; Alfred handled that). "I'd be a much better date. Just imagine the headlines: 'Charis Peverell and the Magical Zatanna Steal the Show.'"
"You mean steal the buffet," Deedee said as she flopped onto the couch, dressed head-to-toe in her signature Goth look. She grinned like a mischievous kid at Christmas, her dark eyeliner making the expression even more devilish. "Because I bet Harry's going to sneak out halfway through and leave Mareena to do all the mingling."
"That's the plan," I deadpanned, catching the cookie she tossed my way. "Anyone else here to roast me, or are we good?"
"Me!" Megan floated in—literally, because of course she did. Her green skin and bright smile lit up the room like a Martian Christmas ornament. "You look great, Harry!" she chirped, then glanced at Mareena. "And you look amazing, Mareena! You guys are going to make such a cute couple. Like, ridiculously cute. Can we take pictures? Oh wait—can I come? I can totally blend in. Look!" She shapeshifted into a random brunette with a sparkly dress before shifting back, grinning like she'd just performed the best trick ever.
"Uh, thanks, Megan," I said, trying not to laugh. "But I think the guest list is already full."
"Bummer." She pouted, floating upside down. "Take snacks, though. Fancy food is always so tiny and weird."
"Speaking of food…" Kori wandered in, glowing like a mini sun, holding a tray of what looked like cookies and alien hors d'oeuvres. "I brought sustenance! You will need it for your long night of small talk and dancing."
"I'm starting to think skipping the gala isn't such a bad idea," I muttered to Mareena, who rolled her eyes.
"Don't tempt me," she whispered. "But if you ditch, you're the one explaining it to Diana."
That shut me up real quick.
"Okay, enough teasing," Mareena announced, looping her arm through mine and pulling me toward the door. "We're leaving before they convince us to stay."
"Good luck!" Kara called after us, smirking. "Try not to embarrass us too much, Peverell."
"Yeah," Deedee added, her grin practically feral. "And if you do, make it funny."
Mareena laughed, squeezing my arm. "You've got the weirdest fan club."
"And the best," I replied, smiling as the sound of their laughter followed us out the door. If nothing else, tonight was going to be memorable. But then again, when you're Charis Peverell, everything is.
—
The limo was like a black hole of luxury—sleek, shiny, and as intimidating as a billionaire's credit card bill after a weekend in Vegas. Mareena, looking like a cross between a goddess and a supermodel who had just discovered Instagram filters, adjusted her gown as we climbed inside. The interior smelled like leather and rich people, and I could practically feel the weight of the diamonds in her ears even though they were probably more for show than anything else.
"Try to survive without us," I called over my shoulder to the girls lounging in the hotel doorway. They waved at us like we were heading off to war—or, in their case, a super-secret party involving snacks and questionable life choices.
"Don't worry," Tia said, giving me a smirk that screamed trouble. Her silver hair was glowing under the hotel lights, looking like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, the kind where the protagonist definitely doesn't live. "We'll hold the fort. Just… don't check your credit card statements too soon."
I groaned. "Seriously, Tia. No running up the room service tab."
Kara, leaning casually against the doorframe, folded her arms, her blonde hair looking like it belonged in a shampoo commercial. "Relax, boss. You're a billionaire. What's a few extra charges for deluxe sundaes and midnight spa treatments?"
Deedee, perched on the armrest of a couch like she was the embodiment of chaos, grinned. "Besides, you owe us for skipping out on the fun. Have fun at your boring rich-people party while we figure out what kind of chaos we can get into here."
"Let's not call it chaos," Megan piped up, juggling popcorn like it was an Olympic sport. If she ever got tired of saving the world, she could definitely go pro in snack-related events. "Let's call it… bonding. You know, quality time."
Kori, who was halfway through a cookie as big as her face (and yes, that was exactly how I liked to think of her), nodded enthusiastically. "Bonding is wonderful! Perhaps we can order every dessert on the menu and decide which Earth confection is superior!"
Mareena shot me a pointed look as she settled in beside me, clearly amused. "You realize this is a lost cause, right? They're going to do it anyway."
I sighed, shaking my head but smiling. "Fine. Bond all you want. But if I come back and find out you've ordered an indoor hot tub or something equally ridiculous, we're going to have words."
Zatanna, looking as elegant as a magic-wielding model at the minibar, raised a glass in mock salute. "Don't worry, Harry. We'll only charge things to your room."
"See?" Mareena teased as the limo door clicked shut behind us. "They've got it all figured out."
"Yeah, that's what worries me," I muttered, leaning back against the plush seat and trying to calm the growing knot in my stomach. We were going to a gala. A gala. The kind where people wore tuxedos and pretended they cared about art but were really just there for the free champagne.
The driver—who was way too calm for a guy whose job was literally to drive me to the land of pretentiousness—gave us a polite nod through the rearview mirror. "To the gala, Mr. Peverell?"
I settled in deeper, trying to hide the slight cringe. "Yeah, let's get this over with."
As we began to cruise through the streets, Mareena turned to me, her voice softer than usual. "You're good with them, you know."
I raised an eyebrow. "Good with who? The girls? Please. I'm basically their walking credit card with legs."
She laughed—warm, genuine, the kind of laugh that made everything else seem like background noise. "That's not true, and you know it. They adore you. Even Deedee, in her own... morbid way."
I snorted. "Oh, great. My life's true goal: to earn the approval of a literal embodiment of Death. Gotta update my resume."
Mareena shook her head, but she was still smiling. "I'm serious, Harry. You've built something rare with them. They trust you. They rely on you. That's not easy to come by, especially in this world."
Her words sank in, settling into the space between us like a truth I wasn't ready to confront. I glanced out the window at the neon lights flashing by, making the city feel like a living, breathing thing. It was a reminder of everything I was trying to keep in balance—my weird, chaotic life, the girls, the danger that kept following me like a bad sequel, and… well, this gala. I had definitely been more excited about other events in my life, but, hey, free appetizers.
"I guess," I said after a beat, my voice quieter than usual. "I just… I want them to feel like they've got someone in their corner, you know? Someone who won't let them down."
She squeezed my hand, giving me a soft smile. "You do a better job than you think."
I gave her a sideways glance. "You know, you're pretty good at this whole pep-talk thing. Ever consider a career as a motivational speaker?"
She rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of amusement there. "And miss out on the fun of watching you squirm in social situations? Never."
I was about to respond when the limo came to a stop, the sudden jolt almost sending me flying into Mareena's lap. (Not that I was complaining.) We had arrived at the gala venue, and let me tell you, it looked like something out of a James Bond movie—red carpet, fancy people, cameras flashing like they were trying to catch an alien walking into the room.
I looked at Mareena, who was putting the finishing touches on her dress. She looked like she could walk into this room and own it. Then I glanced at myself and—well, let's just say I looked like a kid playing dress-up.
She met my eyes with a smile that was half reassurance, half mischief. "Ready to face the sharks?"
I took a deep breath, straightened my bowtie like I actually knew what I was doing, and offered her my arm. "Let's give them something to talk about."
She slid her arm through mine, and we stepped out of the limo like we were the stars of some ridiculous action movie, with the paparazzi snapping pictures like it was the most important thing they'd ever seen. Honestly? I was so not ready for this, but hey, at least I had Mareena by my side.
And maybe, just maybe, I could figure out how to survive the next few hours without embarrassing myself. Probably.
—
Alright, so here's the deal: The limo door opens, and suddenly, the flashing lights and chaos of the red carpet hit us like a tidal wave. Cameras, microphones, reporters—all of them zeroing in on us like we were the main course at a five-star dinner. Mareena and I step out, and for a second, I almost feel like I'm in one of those superhero movies where the camera zooms in on the dramatic walk toward the camera with the slow-motion hair flip. Except this wasn't slow motion, and Mareena didn't flip her hair—though I'm sure she could've if she tried.
The cameras are already going wild. I squint against the glare and see a bunch of microphones being shoved in my face. Fun. It's like a school talent show, except the talent here is deflecting every single awkward question they throw at me.
"Charis! Mareena!" One reporter practically screams at us like we're supposed to answer her question through sheer willpower. "Are you really dating the Princess of Atlantis? And what do your parents think about this?"
I glance over at Mareena, who's currently standing there like she's in her natural habitat. Her hands are on her hips, her posture perfect, and she looks like she's thinking about how she could rule the world if she had the time. And that's probably true. She could rule the world. I wouldn't even be surprised if Atlantis, Themyscira, and maybe a few other kingdoms were on her to-do list. She's that intense.
I shrug, playing it cool. "Well, my mom thinks it's a great idea. She says I can't get into any more trouble if I have an entire ocean backing me up."
Mareena flashes a mischievous smile, her ocean-blue eyes glinting with that sharp edge she always has. "I'm just waiting for Charis to drown himself in the whirlpool of his charm."
The photographers laugh, and for a second, I'm starting to feel a little too self-aware. That's the problem when you get caught in the middle of the social jungle—suddenly, you're the prey, and the cameras are the predators. But Mareena is too busy leaning in, answering questions about our relationship like she's been doing this for years.
Another reporter yells out, "What does it mean for the Princess of Atlantis and the Prince of Themiscyra to be dating? Are we looking at the beginning of a new political alliance?"
Mareena arches an eyebrow. I swear, she could've put that look on a resume. "You mean besides the fact that we look fabulous together?" she quips, flashing a quick wink at the cameras. The crowd eats it up, and I swear, I've never seen so many photographers fight over an angle.
I step in, trying to at least pretend like I'm a pro at this whole thing. "Don't hold your breath for the international politics," I say, pointing to the absurdity of it all with a grin. "You'll get more out of this relationship by way of oceanfront property and the occasional really awkward family dinner."
I swear, if there were awards for best witty comeback, I'd be winning them. But I'm not sure that'll keep the media wolves off our backs.
And then, as if it were scripted (and it probably was, I don't know), a reporter gets right into the big question. The one that's been hanging over my head since forever.
"Charis, what about your role as the son of Wonder Woman? And your superhero persona, Shadowflame? Are you leading a new young team under the Justice League?"
I do the mental equivalent of slamming my face into a pillow. Of course they want to talk about Shadowflame. Who wouldn't want to poke at the rumors that I'm leading a group of teenagers who probably can't even drive yet, let alone handle actual world-ending threats? I shoot Mareena a look, silently begging her to cover for me, because wow, there's no way I'm giving away any real details.
Mareena, in true Mareena style, steps up like the professional she is. "Let's just say Charis is... figuring things out," she says smoothly, her tone laced with that sweet mix of honesty and not answering the question. "He's got a team—well, kind of a team—but I think he's still getting used to having people around who aren't his bodyguards. And as for spoilers... well, you'll just have to stay tuned."
She winks at the crowd. Every flashbulb goes off as if they'd just witnessed the greatest revelation of their lives. Mareena, being Mareena, just saves the day and deflects the hell out of all those probing questions. I just breathe a sigh of relief and nudge her.
"You're a genius, you know that?"
She just smirks. "It's a gift, really."
Eventually, the flood of questions dies down, and we're able to keep moving, heading toward where Talia Tate—the woman who could sell sand in the desert—stands with Sirius Black, looking like the most powerful couple on the planet. Talia, in her perfectly tailored black gown, doesn't even flinch when the cameras hone in on her. She looks straight into them, like she's daring them to ask about her plans for world domination. She could probably get away with it too.
And then there's Sirius. Sirius Black, the living embodiment of chaos, dressed in a perfectly fitted suit and standing tall next to Talia like he was born to be in the spotlight. The guy's got more charm in his little finger than I've got in my whole body. And yes, I'm mildly jealous.
"Charis! Mareena!" Sirius calls out, flashing us a grin that's all teeth and attitude. He's leaning into Talia like they're posing for a picture in some old-timey spy thriller movie. I swear, he's got the coolest vibe. "You two make a striking pair," he says, eyeing us both like he's sizing up who looks better. And honestly? He's probably right. "Though, I have to admit, I'm still trying to figure out how you both managed to outshine us tonight."
Talia doesn't even blink. She just looks at me like I'm some minor inconvenience she's willing to tolerate, and I swear I can almost feel her brain calculating the most effective way to manage every conversation in this room. "Let's just hope you can keep that glow for the entire evening," she says, her voice as smooth as silk. "I wouldn't want to see either of you get distracted by... complications."
I try not to shudder at the way she says 'complications.' If Talia Tate tells you to be prepared for something, you better be prepared.
Mareena rolls her eyes, her hand sliding into mine. "Don't worry, Charis. I've got this," she says. "Let's get inside before I start suffocating in this dress."
With that, we make our way into the venue, Mareena leading the charge, while I just try to hold it together and not trip over my own feet. It's going to be a long night. But with Mareena by my side, at least it'll be a fun one.
—
As we step past the glitzy cameras and flashing lights, I catch a glimpse of the Young Justice crew stationed just outside the venue—cloaked in shadows like some kind of superhero SWAT team. If anyone's looking for trouble, they won't find it here. Unless, of course, they decide to mess with us. Then all bets are off.
First up: Kid Flash. Wally West in his neon yellow suit (yes, it looks like a walking highlighter, but somehow it works). He's crouched behind a marble pillar like it's some kind of superhero hide-and-seek game, his fingers twitching like he's got ants in his pants. I swear, the kid could probably vibrate his way out of a sticky situation before anyone even knew he was there. If anyone's gonna get antsy, it's him.
Artemis is a few paces away, cool as ever, eyes sharp as hawk. Her bow is slung over her shoulder, and I have no doubt that if someone sneezes the wrong way, she'll have an arrow in their face before they can say "unwelcome guest." The girl's got precision—and sarcasm—in spades.
Aqualad's not far off either, standing with the grace of a man who's spent his entire life in water (which he has). His trident might as well be a part of him at this point—smooth, steady, and ready to strike like the ocean itself. You'd never know he's there unless you're looking hard, and that's exactly the way he likes it. Silent but deadly, in the least dramatic way possible.
Now, Garth. Tempest. The guy's holding a glass of sparkling water (because he's definitely not pretending to be an undercover waiter), but the way his eyes flick from one side of the venue to the other? Yeah, he's ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Something about him always makes me feel like he's got a wet suit and a tidal wave in his back pocket. So no, I wouldn't mess with Garth.
Tula's close by, keeping a sharp eye on the perimeter. She's Aquagirl, after all—her outfit's sleek, glimmering with the kind of grace you'd expect from someone who could likely drown you with a single thought. If anything goes wrong near water, she's the first to respond. And she will respond. Think of her as the ocean's security guard, but way cooler.
Donna Troy—ah, Donna. She's leaning against a wall like she's just stepped out of a comic book, arms crossed over her black-and-gold armor. She exudes an aura of 'don't-make-me-hurt-you.' Which, frankly, no one would want to test. Donna's got that no-nonsense vibe, and her presence alone could stop an army from marching in. Also, I'm pretty sure she can bench-press a tank if she feels like it.
And then, of course, there's the secret weapon in all of this: Hermione—Arcana—sitting back in the control room at Mount Justice like the mastermind she is. The girl's typing away on a holographic console, but you can bet your last Galleon that she's mentally five steps ahead of everyone else. Her voice crackles in my ear just as we walk deeper into the crowd. "Charis, Mareena. You both good in there?"
I give the crowd one last glance before responding. "Oh, you know. Just trying to avoid becoming a headline in tomorrow's tabloid. Mareena's loving the attention, though." I can practically hear her rolling her eyes on the other end of the line.
"Not surprised. Just stay sharp. We're good here on this side. You've got backup if anything goes sideways."
I smirk. "All right, Hermione. You just let me know if anything gets too sideways. I'll handle it from here."
Lee Jordan—our trusty comms guru—chimes in, his voice upbeat like he's talking about a school project instead of security detail. "No one's trying to break in, and things seem chill so far. But, you know, keep your guard up, Harry. This is a gala, after all."
I can practically hear the smile in his voice. Lee's got this way of making everything sound like a walk in the park, but I know better. If things go wrong, he'll be the one to talk us out of it with that fast-talking charm of his. He's the kind of guy who could talk a tiger out of a tree.
Before I can respond with some wisecrack, Artemis' voice interrupts, deadpan as ever. "Famous last words, Lee."
And then, the tone shifts. Hermione's voice comes through my earpiece, but it's got that edge of urgency I know all too well. "Charis, Mareena. There's a situation."
I freeze mid-step. "What's going on?" I ask, my hand instinctively shifting to the hidden wand at my side.
"A VIP just entered the perimeter. Someone high-profile. Someone you know. And they're headed straight for you."
I look at Mareena, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline. "Great. Someone else is crashing our party. Who is it?"
Mareena smirks, leaning in close enough to speak in a whisper that only I can hear. "Doesn't matter. They'll regret coming near us."
Yeah. This is definitely not going to be boring.
I adjust my cufflinks like some kind of dramatic movie villain about to take on an army. "Well, if they wanted a warm welcome, they've picked the wrong night."
And as if on cue, Mareena steps forward, ready for whatever—whoever—decides to spoil our fun tonight. Let's just hope that whoever it is doesn't realize they're about to become part of an event no one will forget.
---
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