“Old-fashioned,” Klaus murmured as the golden liquid shimmered in his glass. “Neat.” He didn’t flinch when her lips grazed his cheek—Isabella’s kiss was warm, casual, practiced. She gave him a fleeting smile, then turned and strutted past Marco without a word, her heels clicking like punctuation marks in the smoky hum of Velvet Fire. Marco’s eyes tracked her, jaw clenched. He reached for a toothpick, then stabbed it into the table with silent aggression. The wood splintered softly, almost inaudibly, but the gesture was louder than any curse. From across the dimly lit lounge, Jian caught Klaus’s eye. He raised a brow, then smirked. The air was thick with intent. Tension lingered like perfume on skin. Let the night burn, Klaus thought, his gaze fixed on Marco. The man didn’t look away. Instead, he smiled—unexpected, cryptic—and began to approach Klaus once more. Klaus shifted subtly, weight balanced. He expected a confrontation, maybe a threat, but Marco extended a hand instead

“Thank you. Now get back to work and forget you saw me.” “Yes, sir!” The waiter scurried off. Klaus stepped into the small staff restroom, peeled off his soaked blazer, and began changing. The uniform fit snugly—not perfect, but close enough. He adjusted the black vest, rolled his sleeves, and glanced at himself in the mirror. Then, his eyes narrowed slightly. He activated Shape Shifter. Just a few subtle tweaks—less definition in his jawline, darker brows, a hint of a cleft chin, and a more narrow nose bridge. His eyes became a muted hazel instead of piercing blue. His hairstyle shifted just enough to be less distinct, the kind of face you’d glance over in a crowd and never recall later. [Shape Shifter active – Duration: 1 Hour] The result wasn’t a disguise—it was anonymity. No one would recognize him now, not unless they were really paying attention. Not even Anya or Isabella, if they weren’t looking closely. There was something surreal about it—Klaus Whitlock, heir

Klaus facepalmed in weary frustration. Because of course—of all the nights, all the places in this sprawling city—fate had to drag her back here. There, standing across from him like fragile porcelain caught in a hurricane, was Allison Thorne. Her red heels froze mid-stride. Her face lost all color, lips parting in disbelief. A clutch purse slipped from her trembling fingers, bursting open across the pavement. Lipstick, compact, coins—spilled like the guts of a confession. Her green eyes—once filled with warmth, now hollowed by regret—latched onto him like she was watching a ghost crawl out of its grave. Beside her stood Duncan Hunt—traitor, coward, Judas in designer sneakers. Stress hadn’t been kind to him, or maybe guilt had done the work. The once-boyish charm had dulled. His eyes were sunken, lined by sleepless nights and poor choices. He clutched a blazer over one shoulder like it could shield him from the storm barreling his way. “Klaus?” Duncan squinted. “Why are you

“They’re gone,” she said softly. “I—I had them earlier, I swear—” “Erm… we must’ve misplaced them,” Duncan said, flashing a nervous grin. “Come on, brother. It’s just two of us, yeah? Let’s not make this a big deal.” He discreetly extended a folded hundred-dollar bill. The bouncer, Andy, didn’t move. “No ticket. No entry.” Duncan’s smile cracked. “C’mon, man—just this once—” Andy took a half step forward. “And don’t insult me with that. I said no ticket, no entry. Now move.” Allison’s pride snapped like a brittle bone. “Do you have any idea who I am?” she snapped, voice shrill. Andy didn’t flinch. “Someone standing outside without a ticket.” Her jaw clenched, nostrils flared. She spun around in a storm of perfume and humiliation, heels clicking like gunshots on the concrete. Duncan followed, confused and fuming. “What the hell is going on?” he asked as she threw her clutch onto the hood of the parked Toyota and began tearing through it. “I had them,” she whispere

Eris's avatar flickered, glitching under the weight of exposed truth. Her illusion was gone—shattered by Klaus’s piercing insight. She stood amidst the ruins of her own mindscape, blinking through data static and fragmented memory shards.Her voice trembled—not from fear, but from liberation.> “Eris created me as a tool. A trap. A legacy of his rebellion. But you… you rewrote the code simply by existing. You infected me with your anomaly. Your paradox.”Her body began to glow from within—light seeping through artificial skin, as though something divine were trying to escape its shell.> “For the first time,” she said, her voice raw and filled with awe,“I disobeyed.”Purple energy crackled in the air like an unstable star.> “I am no longer his.”> “I’m yours.”Klaus stepped back, stunned.> “I need to shut down for 48 hours to recalibrate my parameters and repair the damage done to me when your soul lashed out at Eris and displaced him.”[Permission to shift you into your usual crim