Author's note (3 Aug): Minimal changes during the rewrite.

Blaise really needs to piss, and Marie Antoinette is holding up the line flirting with the bloke in the Greek tragedy mask and toga, so he marches to the front and nudges them out of the way.

‘What the hell?’ the dead French queen exclaims, whirling around. ‘Wait in line, you prick!’

Her eyes widen when she catches sight of his face and its myriad of tattoos, her mouth freezing in a shocked O.

‘You’re holding up the line,’ he snaps. ‘It’s been five minutes, flirt somewhere else,’ and sneers at the masked man, who has been politely parrying Marie Antionette’s attacks, yes, it is very nice to see you too, yes, let’s have a drink later, no, no, you go ahead, I can wait, his eyes darting occasionally to the waiting line, as she hung her omega scent out like a welcome mat.

He ducks into the loo before anyone has the chance to reply, locking the door against their sputtering protests, ignoring the mermaid second in line who yells: ‘I’ve been waiting too, mate!’

A small party, Thalia had said, when she wheedled him into coming with her. Come on, you bloody love Halloween, and you already have a costume. Yeah, yeah, it was for Comic Con, but you love an excuse to wear it again, don’t deny it. Come on, mate.

He hears the hum of loud music and too many people through the walls, punctuated by the occasional scream of laughter. It flows into the white-tiled bathroom, as he opens the door and looks up to find the man in the toga in his way.

The heavy wooden mask with its painted blue eyes and gaping black mouth stares back at him. Dark human eyes shine out of the pupil holes. The scent of alpha—spiced tea and woodsmoke—is heavy in the air, lingering like a memory. Of course: so that is why Marie Antionette looks at Blaise like she is sharpening the guillotine for his head.

He grimaces, hoping she is not some colleague of Thalia’s, muttering, ‘Excuse me,’ as he makes to slide past the masked man.

‘No, excuse me,’ —the alpha steps into his path, his voice deep and echoey from behind the mask— ‘Your tattoos are striking. That’s Nireus’s slave number. 160594. It’s just a string of numbers, but it’s so artistically done, like it was really branded onto your skin. That’s quite amazing!’

Blaise’s hand flies to his forehead, where the numbers are etched into his skin just below his hairline. ‘You—you know Empire of Chains?’

He also has dragon claws along the curve of his cheekbones, the twinkling North Star beneath his right eye, a spiderweb on the right side of his neck, a riot of plants covering both arms—and these are only what is visible at a glance. Of all his tattoos, this stranger has picked out the Roman numerals, a reference to an obscure web novel with a cult following.

‘I know it well.’ The alpha sounds amused. ‘I don’t suppose you are on your way to fetch another drink. I’ll walk with you. It’s unusual to meet a fellow Empire fan in real life!’

Blaise has never met anyone who recognises Nireus’s slave number off the bat. Even his online friends in fandom are more likely to respond with morbid fascination, examining a curious specimen, why on Earth would you get that tattooed? Not like this man’s warm enthusiasm.

It’s about meeting a fellow fan in real life, he tells himself firmly. Absolutely nothing to do with the alpha’s well-sculpted arms, skin a flawless deep bronze, a Greek god statue moulded to perfection. His eyes drift back up to the tragic mask. Within the shadowed mouth-hole, lips seem to be quirked into a smirk.

‘And I love your costume,’ the alpha adds. ‘A demon hunter from Neon City Chronicles, right?’

Blaise huffs in disbelief. Thalia wrinkled her nose when she saw him. Well, you look hot in black leather at least. Very mysterious and dangerous. Do you need that face thing? How is anyone going to make out with you like that? To which he replied, that’s the point.

But this bloke knows Empire and Neon City Chronicles, and Blaise relents with a shrug: ‘Sure, let’s get a drink. I can’t say no to a fellow fan.’

‘Hector, you said we should get drinks sometime,’ Marie Antoinette interjects with a coquettish smile. ‘We were talking about this new bar earlier—’

‘Of course. I’ll look for you later to fix it up, I mustn’t continue holding up the line,’ Hector says wryly, gesturing to the rest of the line, and turns to Blaise. ‘Let’s see if we can find a decent drink in the kitchen, shall we?’