By midday, the Tooth smelled less of stale smoke and more of polish and cloves. Elara checked the wards again, her chalk pressing clean into soot-worn grooves. The city hummed beyond the walls, restless, alive.

A knock rattled the back door. Jonah stood there, cheeks red, another crate balanced in his arms.

"Afternoon, Miss Keene," he said, voice stumbling just a little. "Got your bitters."

Elara signed the slip, thanked him, and carried the bottles in. Malachi leaned in the doorway, smirk curling. "Careful, lamb—you'll trip over your tongue if you keep looking at her that way."

Jonah flushed scarlet. "I—I wasn't—"

"Mm," Malachi hummed, grin sharp. "Of course not."

Elara shooed the boy out before Malachi could needle him further, then rounded on the demon. "Again?"

"Always," he said, his grin wicked and soft all at once.

Saturday afternoons bled straight into night without pause. By the time the sun slid behind Ashgrave's spires, the Tooth was already thrumming.

Lanterns burned brighter than usual, their glow reflecting off glass and smoke. The air was thick with the scent of clove cigarettes, spilled gin, and something sweeter—fae dust drifting from a gambler's pocket.

Elara barely had time to set her ledger down before the first wave crashed through the doors. Wolves from the Docklands, heavy with salt and swagger. Witches in their shawls, trading hexes for coins over their drinks. Mortals brave and stupid enough to slip in, wide-eyed at the crowds. Even a Cabal man, pale and sharp in his suit, had claimed a shadowed corner.

By six, every table was filled. Dice clattered, laughter rose, curses snapped like sparks in the rafters.

Elara moved like a storm's eye through it all—steady, controlled, carrying trays balanced with impossible precision. Her wards hummed strong under her skin, straining to contain the press of so many tempers.

Behind the bar, Malachi was in his element. Bottles spun through his hands, glasses filled before anyone could shout, his grin flashing sharp as steel. "Neutral ground," he reminded a snarling wolf and a smirking witch, his voice velvet but edged. "Break it, and I break you." Neither pushed him further.

Elara returned with another tray, sliding it onto the counter. "You enjoy this too much."

"It's Saturday," Malachi said, pouring three shots at once. "The city plays rougher when it thinks it's survived the week."

Elara cast a glance across the room—at the wolves, the witches, the pale Cabal shadow watching her too closely. "Or when it knows tomorrow's worse."

Malachi chuckled low, leaning closer. "Spoken like someone who's lived through too many tomorrows."

The bar roared again—dice thrown, laughter sharp, a glass shattering somewhere in the back. Elara turned to deal with it, but not before catching the glint of his grin, dark and certain, like he knew the night would demand more of them both.

As the roar inside the Tooth climbed higher as the night deepened. Dice hit wood like gunshots, laughter rose sharp as glass breaking, and the smell of sweat and smoke clung to everything.

At first it was only noise. Then a wolf slammed his hand on a table hard enough to rattle glasses. "Loaded!" he barked, pointing at the witch across from him. "She's hexing the dice!"

The witch hissed back, shawl slipping from her shoulders, eyes sparking faint green. "Maybe your luck's just rotten, dog."

The wolf surged to his feet, chair clattering. A couple of his packmates bristled in chorus. The witch's sisters straightened, charms glowing faint at their throats.

The room shifted, silence rolling in like a tide. Mortals shrank back. Even the Cabal shadow in the corner raised his glass, smiling too wide as if to say, go on—tear each other apart.

Elara stepped forward. She didn't raise her voice, but the wards in the Tooth hummed sharp as blades under her skin.

"Sit. Down."

The wolf froze, eyes flashing gold. The witch's fingers twitched on her charm. But neither moved.

Malachi leaned across the bar, grin curling like smoke. "She asked nicely once. Trust me, you don't want to see how she asks twice."

The standoff hung thick a moment longer, the wolf's growl low in his throat, the witch's fingers twitching toward her charm.

"Settle your shit outside my bar," Elara said evenly. "You want to rip each other apart, do it in the street. You do it here, you're paying for every splinter and stain. And blood," her eyes cut across both tables, "is real hard to get out of these floors."

The wards hummed under her skin like a warning.

The wolf's jaw flexed, but he sank back into his chair with a grunt. The witch smirked faintly, but her sisters tugged her down before sparks could catch again.

The room exhaled as noise crept back in—dice rolling, laughter bubbling, conversations resuming, though quieter now.

Malachi leaned an elbow on the bar, grin lazy and sharp all at once. "Told you," he drawled, eyes flicking to the wolf, then to the witch. "She only asks nicely once."

Elara turned away, but she could feel his grin following her, humming in the air like smoke.

The Tooth steadied after that. Wolves muttered over their whiskey, the witches bent close to their charms. The room had shaken but hadn't broken.

Elara wiped down the counter, the rag moving in practiced circles, her eyes skimming the crowd for the next spark. Malachi poured a drink with theatrical grace, sliding it down the bar with a grin that caught more stares than the liquor did.

Then the door opened, and the noise dipped like the whole room drew breath.

V swept in first, laughter bright, pearls flashing at her wrist. She looked every bit the Lantern Walk star she liked to pretend she was, coat slipping from her shoulders as she waved to the room.

But the man behind her cut the glow in half.

Tall, broad, his coat too fine for the district but worn at the cuffs. His rings gleamed as sharp as the line of his jaw, and his eyes held the flat gleam of someone who'd broken too many promises. He lingered just behind her, hand heavy on her arm as though he owned her.

Elara's rag stilled.

"Darling!" V called, as if nothing were wrong, her smile brighter than the lanterns. "Tell me you've saved my seat!"

Malachi's grin curved slow, dangerous. "Always. Though I didn't realize you'd brought company."

The man's smile was thin as wire. "She works for me. I like to keep an eye on what's mine."

A hush pressed at the edges of the bar. Wolves leaned forward, witches went still, even the Cabal watched with interest.

Elara's voice cut clean through the quiet. "Everyone in here belongs to themselves. That's the rule. If you don't like it, you can wait outside."

V slipped onto her stool quickly, tugging her pearls down over her wrist. "He's fine, darling. Just thirsty." Her laugh bubbled too high. "Aren't we all?"

The pimp's smile didn't reach his eyes. "One whiskey. Neat."

Malachi poured it with deliberate slowness, his grin never faltering, though the gleam in his eyes was anything but friendly.

Elara set her rag down harder than she meant to. The wards hummed faint at her fingertips, the Tooth alive and watching.

The pimp didn't leave, he lingered at her elbow, hand heavy on her shoulder whenever she leaned too far into the bar, thumb brushing against her pearls like he was counting them. V laughed too brightly, tossed her hair, called for another round—but every time she shifted, his grip reminded the room who he thought he owned.

Malachi set down the whiskey neat with a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "On the house," he said smoothly, though his eyes glowed faint amber when the man's hand tightened. "But touch her again like property, and you'll be paying in blood."

The pimp smirked, slow and ugly. "She is mine."

Elara's rag stilled. Her voice carried over the crowded room, clear and even. "Not in here. Everyone in this bar answers to themselves alone. Break that rule, and I'll show you the door."

For a moment, the pimp looked ready to test her. But then V laughed, sliding her arm free and looping it around his instead. "Don't mind him, darling. He's just jealous the bar loves me more."

The tension broke into uneasy chuckles. The pimp drank his whiskey in one swallow, slammed the glass on the counter hard enough to crack it, and stalked to the far end of the bar.

V exhaled, shoulders loosening as she tipped her glass toward Elara. "See? Safe."

Malachi leaned across the counter, his grin coiled tight. "Mmm... For now."

But then a boy slipped in through the door, weaving through the crowd to his side. A few whispered words, urgent, and the man's scowl darkened. "Business," he muttered, tossing a coin onto the counter as if paying off the silence of the room. He leaned close to V, voice low but sharp enough to carry. "Stay where I can find you."

And then he was gone, coat sweeping through the lantern-glow, the boy trailing at his heels.

The Tooth seemed to exhale all at once. Conversations picked back up, dice rolled again, and the wolves laughed too loudly at nothing.

V sagged into her stool, draining her glass in one go. "Saints above, I thought he'd never leave."

Elara refilled her water, sliding it across without a word.

Malachi's grin curled slow, wicked. "Funny thing about chains. They only hold if you let them."

V's laugh was softer now, real this time. She leaned her chin on her hand, looking between the two of them. "Sometimes I wonder if you're both trying to save me, or just staking a claim."

Elara set the rag down harder than she meant to. "No one claims anyone in this bar."

Malachi's grin gleamed. "Except her," he said smoothly, tilting his head toward Elara. "She claims us all, whether she admits it or not."

With the pimp gone, the Tooth felt lighter. V stretched, pearls sliding down her wrist, and let out a laugh that was almost real. "He's worse these days," she admitted, twirling the beads absently. "All because I opened my mouth about one client. Just one."

Elara's brow furrowed. "What kind of client?"

V leaned closer, dropping her voice like it was gossip instead of danger. "The pale one. Eyes like twilight, smile like he's already dreaming. He says we're fated. That he's waited for me through lifetimes." She rolled her eyes, but the smile on her lips didn't reach her eyes. "Romantic, isn't it?"

Elara felt her wards prickle, the faint hum of warning. "Or dangerous."

Malachi's grin sharpened, but his voice was velvet. "Ghosts wear many faces, little pearl. Some of them only want to see if you'll follow them into the dark."

V tipped her glass toward him, laughter bubbling up again. "Then I'll drink to ghosts. If they come calling, maybe they'll buy the next round." She tossed the drink back, bright again, as if her words hadn't just iced the air around them.

The Tooth softened as the night bled toward last call. The dice games dwindled, the wolves too drunk to argue, the witches pulling their shawls close as they slipped into the lantern-glow. Even the Cabal man left without incident, his glass empty but his smile still sharp.

V stayed behind, pearls glinting faint under the low lamps. She laughed brighter than she had all night, teasing Malachi for his heavy pour, nudging Elara when she frowned at the sticky tables.

When the last patron stumbled out and the bolts slid into place, Malachi reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle he never shared with strangers. Its amber glow caught the lamplight as he set down three shot glasses.

"Tradition," he said with a grin, filling them to the brim. "For survival."

Elara raised a brow but didn't protest. She slid a glass toward V, who accepted it with a gleam in her eye.

They clinked glasses—wood against wood, a sound that felt older than the city itself.

"To tomorrow," V said, her voice soft but sure.

Elara hesitated, then echoed. "To tomorrow."

Malachi's grin curled dark and certain. "If fate lets you."

The liquor burned sharp and sweet, laughter following as V slammed her glass down and called for another she knew she wouldn't get.

And then she was gone—pearls swinging, coat thrown over her shoulder, her laughter trailing into the Ashgrave night like smoke.