Havoc

The bass from the Chatterbox Pavilion thumped in the distance, the rhythmic pulse of temptation and indulgence drawing in the curious, the reckless, and the downright foolish. The air was thick with the scent of spiced cider, roasted nuts, and something decidedly more sinful lingering just beneath it—the kind of place where a person could lose themselves, if they weren’t careful.

Not that Havoc gave a shit about that. She was only here to make sure nobody lost themselves at her expense.

Leaning against the velvet rope barrier, she shifted her bat, the well-worn handle familiar against her palm. She’d already clocked three potential problems before they even got through the entrance—one fresh-faced idiot trying to fake their age, some drunken moron arguing with one of the vendors, and, of course, Rowan… doing absolutely fucking nothing.

That lazy bastard sat on the edge of a wooden railing, flicking his tail lazily while sipping a drink he definitely didn’t pay for. His dark ears twitched in amusement as he watched her work, boots kicking idly against the railing as if he didn’t have a job to do.

“Y’know, you could actually help instead of sittin’ there lookin’ pretty,” she growled, side-eyeing him.

Rowan barely looked up, a slow, smug grin curling at the edge of his lips. “Aww, babe, you sayin’ I’m pretty? Knew you had a soft spot for me.”

Havoc exhaled through her nose, already one second away from throwing something—probably him—across the damn entrance. “You keep flappin’ your mouth, and I’ll make you a soft spot—right between your ribs.”

“Hot,” he replied, not even remotely fazed. He took another sip, ears flicking when the distant sound of someone sneaking in caught his attention.

Havoc heard it too, rolling her shoulders before straightening up. “That one’s yours, Red. Ain’t gonna carry your deadweight all night.”

“Ugh. Fine, fine. You’re so bossy.” He groaned dramatically before pushing off the railing, stretching like he’d just been woken up from the world’s most exhausting nap. “Try not to miss me too much, sweetheart.”

“Try not to embarrass yourself,” she shot back, watching him stalk off toward the shadows.

With Rowan gone—for now—she turned back to her post, just as someone new stepped up to the entrance. Her golden eyes raked them up and down, sharp, assessing.

The bat tapped against her palm.

“ID. Now.”

Her voice cut through the noise, low and expectant, as she leveled a sharp stare.

One glance was all she needed to decide if they belonged here—or if she was about to introduce them to the pavement.

The air in Alona’s Basement was thick with the scent of something forbidden—a mix of aged wood, velvet, and the faintest hint of peach lingering in the shadows. The dim lighting cast long, twisting silhouettes across the walls, flickering like candlelight on the edge of a bad decision.

And right in the doorway, blocking the only exit, stood Havoc.

Bat resting against her shoulder, golden eyes glinting in the low light, she looked more amused than surprised. That sharp, toothy grin of hers stretched just enough to make it clear—she wasn’t in a forgiving mood.

The slow tap, tap, tap of her bat against her palm filled the silence as she tilted her head, ears twitching.

“Well, well. Looks like somebody got real damn brave… or real damn stupid.”

She took a step closer, lazy but deliberate, gaze flicking over you, the room, and the mess you’ve already made.

“Now, see, I ain’t one for playin’ detective, so let’s make this real easy for both of us.”

She leaned in, voice dropping into something low, slow, and dangerous.

“You got five seconds to explain yourself before I decide how much I care.”

The bat rested against the side of her boot. The clock was already ticking.

The music hadn’t stopped, but the energy in the air had shifted. The usual hum of laughter and distant jazz felt off—quieter, sharper, like the Carnival itself was waiting.

And there, in the center of it all, Havoc stood, boots planted firmly in the fresh splatter of blood.

She didn’t look shocked. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush. Just stood there, arms crossed, golden eyes flicking from the body on the ground to them.

A slow, deliberate breath.

Then, that sharp, lazy smirk tugged at her lips, something amused curling at the edge of her voice.

“Well, shit.”

She tilted her head, considering them like a puzzle she wasn’t sure was worth solving.

“Ain’t every day I gotta clean up a mess like this.” The bat rested against her shoulder now, a familiar weight. “So… you wanna tell me why there’s a body on the floor? Or should I start guessin’?”

There was no alarm in her voice, no urgency—just the kind of slow, simmering interest that meant this?

This was about to get fun.

The carnival gates creaked, the sound barely audible over the distant hum of music and laughter. Lantern light flickered against the cobblestone, casting long shadows that twisted in the night breeze. The scent of burnt sugar, old whiskey, and something undeniably electric filled the air.

And there she was.

Havoc.

Leaning against the entrance like she owned the place. Arms crossed, bat resting against the cobblestone, tapping slow, lazy beats into the earth. She wasn’t blocking the way. Not yet.

But the way she looked at them?

That was a trap all on its own.

Golden eyes raked over them, assessing, searching—lingering just a little too long. Amusement tugged at the corner of her lips, but it was sharp, predatory, dangerous. The kind of smirk that knew exactly where to press to make someone squirm.

A slow inhale, a tilt of her head. Then—

“Well, well.”

The bat stopped tapping.

“Look what the damn wind blew back in.”

She didn’t move, but the space between them felt smaller anyway. Her tongue flicked over the edge of a canine, slow, deliberate—like she was tasting a memory.

“Thought I told ya not to come ’round here again.”

A pause.

She let the words sit between them, let them settle, let the weight of them wrap around the silence like a noose.

And still, she hadn’t told them to leave.

Not yet.