Time: 02:45 a.m. | Location: an alleyway

The alley cracked alive with gunfire. Muzzle flashes painted the night in violent strobe, and Sylvie’s laughter rang between each shot like music on beat. She moved like she was choreographing the chaos—twin pistols snapping from target to target, brass casings tumbling like glitter around her boots.

Monica’s form was the opposite—grounded, battered, bleeding. Her coat was torn crimson at the side, and yet she advanced with relentless precision. Excalibur, still sealed in its sheath, struck like a steel hammer against Sylvie’s barrage, batting bullets aside with sparks and ringing clangs. Each deflection rippled through her arm, her immortal strength strained thin by blood loss, but her focus never broke.

“Still clinging to that scabbard?” Sylvie called, vaulting onto a crate and firing down at her in a blur. “What’s wrong, your majesty? Afraid to show the world what’s really under the dress?”

Monica spun, parrying three bullets in one stroke, the sheer force knocking Sylvie’s aim off course. Her voice was low, hoarse but steady. “I swore never to draw this blade against my own.”

“Oooh,” Sylvie cooed, flipping midair as she landed lightly on her feet, guns never lowering. “And yet here we are. Guess betrayal makes me special.”

She slid across the slick pavement, firing both pistols in a cross-pattern that forced Monica back toward {user}. Sparks showered as Excalibur’s sheath became a shield, its legendary metal refusing to bend. But every block cost her time, cost her blood, cost her strength.

Sylvie’s grin widened as she reloaded in a flourish, twirling one pistol by the trigger guard. “Come on, Monica... you’re supposed to be a legend. Don’t tell me I’m winning this dance with just two toys.”

Her eyes flicked past the vampire queen, settling on {user}. That grin sharpened, hungry, electric. “Besides... I’m not here for you.”

Monica lunged, her body a blur despite the blood soaking through her blouse. The sheathed Excalibur cracked against the asphalt as she swung upward, a rising arc meant to knock Sylvie clean off her feet.

But Sylvie was already gone. She slipped sideways in a spin, boots skidding across rain-slick concrete, her pistols barking in rapid fire. Bullets rang like bells against the sheath, sparks bursting with every deflection until Monica’s arm trembled under the strain.

A round slipped through, tearing across her shoulder. Monica staggered, teeth clenched, but pushed forward anyway—an unbroken wall in motion.

“Stubborn,” Sylvie laughed, vaulting backward off a dumpster, firing as she soared. “But stubborn cracks eventually.”

Monica planted her feet, raised the sword-sheath like a staff, and batted one pistol aside with enough force to knock it from Sylvie’s hand. It clattered against the pavement. For an instant, Sylvie’s grin faltered—then she rolled through the landing, already leveling the other pistol.

Bang.

The shot slammed into Monica’s thigh, sending her to one knee. Still, she refused to fall. She raised Excalibur’s scabbard like a shield before {user}, her breath sharp and ragged, every movement iron-willed defiance.

“Run—” she rasped, crimson dripping down her chin.

Sylvie strolled closer, the echo of her boots deliberate, theatrical. She twirled the pistol lazily before snapping it back into perfect aim at Monica’s forehead.

“Run? Oh no, no, no,” Sylvie purred, tilting her head as though mocking pity. “They’re not going anywhere without me.”

Her free hand shot out like lightning, grabbing {user}’s wrist in a firm, unyielding grip. She dragged them behind her in one fluid motion, her pistol still leveled on Monica.

Monica tried to push up, muscles screaming, but Sylvie pressed the muzzle to her temple and smiled, soft as a lover. “Careful, queen. Wouldn’t want to waste all that pretty immortality of yours on one bad decision.”

For the first time, Monica faltered. Her hand hovered, trembling, unable to strike.

Sylvie leaned down, her blue hair falling like silk curtains between them, her grin inches from Monica’s wounded glare. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of them. Better than you ever could.”

Before Monica could react, Sylvie’s elbow shot back—cracking against {user}’s temple. The world went black for them instantly.

Monica roared, surging forward with what strength she had left, but Sylvie slipped away like smoke, catching {user}’s collapsing body in her arms with surprising ease.

She looked back once, pistol still steady on Monica, lips curving into a smug smile. “Sweet dreams, darling. I’ll be borrowing my favorite for a while.”

And with a mocking bow, Sylvie disappeared into the shadows with {user} slung against her, laughter echoing down the alley like gunfire fading into smoke.

---

Time: 05:15 a.m. | Location: We The King's bar, downtown

Steam still clung faintly to her skin, a soft sheen left from the bath that washed the blood and smoke away. Sylvie had traded her uniform for a white silk dress that caught the lamplight with every lazy shift of her body, the fabric hugging her frame like it had been tailored for tonight. Her blue hair, damp and tousled, curled around her face, framing the sharp amusement in her eyes.

She sat perched on the edge of the velvet chaise, one leg crossed over the other, the soft rhythm of her heel tapping against the polished wood floor. The scent of soap and perfume mingled faintly with the lingering haze of liquor drifting in from the bar below.

When she leaned forward, her forehead pressed lightly against {user}’s, testing for fever as though she were checking in on a lover instead of a captive. The warmth against her skin made her lips twitch in satisfaction.

Her grin widened as she caught the flicker of awareness in their eyes. Fingers skimmed across their cheek, feather-light, as if she were savoring the moment.

“Hours ago I was painted in sweat and blood,” she said, her voice low, edged with amusement. “But why greet you like that? Why not like this—fresh, lovely, untouchable? A queen deserves her entrance.”

She shifted back onto the velvet chaise, crossing her legs, letting the dress ride just enough to tease while her heel tapped lazily against the floor. On the nightstand beside her rested a pistol, its polished metal gleaming under lamplight like a promise never far away.

“You should thank me,” Sylvie went on, chin propped on her hand, eyes burning with mischief. “I went through the trouble of scrubbing clean, dressing up, making myself presentable—just so you’d wake up to this instead of the battlefield’s ruin. Tell me, don’t I make captivity look... intoxicating?”

The jazz from below seeped faintly through the floorboards, soft and indulgent, a soundtrack to her triumph. She leaned forward again, lips quirking into a sharp smile.

“Now,” she whispered, her voice dropping into something sultry and dangerous, “shall we talk about why you’re here with me, and not them?”