"Fuckin' finally," she growled, yanking the mic from its stand with a sharp crack. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing black lipstick and something darker—blood, maybe hers, maybe not. "I swear to whatever gods are left, if I hear one more dickhead yell 'Free Bird,' I'm setting the venue on fire."

Dax emerged from behind his battered drum kit, his dark elf skin glistening under the stage lights, pointed ears twitching with residual adrenaline. He tossed a broken stick into the crowd, grinning as some fan scrambled for it like a relic.

Dax: "You say that," he drawled, "but we both know you'd just play it out of spite. Slow, sludgy, and wrong."

"And I'd make it hurt," she shot back, baring her teeth in something too sharp to be a smile.

Lydia, ever the calm in the storm, was already packing up her synth, her high elf fingers moving with methodical precision. She didn't look up as she spoke, her voice cool and measured.

Lydia: "You did set something on fire, Maeve. The pyrotechnics weren't supposed to go off during 'Hollow Vein.'"

"Technical difficulties," she shrugged, rolling her shoulders until they popped. "Besides, the crowd loved it. Nothing like the smell of burning plastic to really sell the aesthetic."

Silas, the only human in the group, leaned against an amp, his guitar slung low on his hip. He had that look—the one he got when he was about to play mediator.

Silas: "We're gonna get blacklisted again," he sighed, rubbing his temple. "That's the third venue this month."

"Good," Maeve snapped, kicking a stray beer can off the stage. "Means we're doing something right."

She stalked toward the dressing room, the others falling into step behind her—Dax with his lazy, prowling gait, Lydia gliding like she was above it all, and Silas, ever the grounding force, shooting apologetic looks at the stagehands. The backstage was a claustrophobic maze of exposed pipes and peeling posters, the air thick with the scent of stale liquor and old magic. Maeve shoved open the door to their makeshift greenroom, collapsing onto a couch that had seen better decades.

Dax: "We killed it," he announced, flopping down beside her. "Even the humanists in the back looked like they were reconsidering their life choices."

Maeve snorted, fishing a half-crushed pack of cigarettes from her jacket. She lit one with a snap of her fingers—no glamour tonight, just raw, unfiltered fae fire.

"They should be rethinking their lives. Bunch of hypocrites, chanting along like they don't wanna burn us at the stake tomorrow."

Lydia arched a delicate eyebrow.

Lydia: "You encouraged them to chant."

"And I'd do it again," Maeve shot back, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Let 'em scream their lungs out for me. Makes it funnier when they realize they're cheering for the monster under their bed."

Silas shook his head, but there was no real disapproval in it—just exhaustion, the kind that came from years of riding the chaos that was Maeve Costeau.

Silas: "We got a meeting with that producer next week," he reminded her. "The one who actually likes fae artists. Try not to scare him off."

"No promises," Maeve grinned, all teeth.

The conversation lulled into comfortable silence, the kind only earned by years of shared destruction. Dax tuned his drums absently, Lydia scribbled setlist notes in her neat, looping script, and Silas strummed a quiet melody on his guitar. Maeve watched them, her chest tight with something she'd never name.

"C'mon," she finally said, stubbing out her cigarette. "Let's get the hell out of here before security realizes we stole their vodka."

They filed out of the venue through the back door, the night air biting and electric. The alley was dim, lit only by a flickering neon sign that buzzed like an angry wasp. Maeve tipped her face up to the sky, letting the cold wash over her—

And then she saw a figure approaching, one she thought she would never, hoped she never saw again.

Dax noticed her pause, following her gaze.

Dax: "Problem?"

Maeve's jaw clenched. She opened her mouth—to snap, to lie, to do what she always did—but nothing came out. Her cigarette slipped from her fingers, hitting the pavement with a faint hiss. The world narrowed to that single point in the darkness, to the face she hadn't seen in years.

The figure stopped a few feet away.

The air inside "The Iron Hog" clung thick with sweat, motor oil, and the acrid sting of cheap whiskey left too long in the glass. A single flickering bulb above the stage swung like a noose in time with the music, casting jagged shadows across Maeve "Riot" Costeau's face as she snarled into the mic. Her voice wasn't singing - it was flaying the room alive, peeling back layers of pretense until only raw nerve remained. Every syllable dripped venom, every growl carried the weight of centuries of fae bitterness crammed into a five-minute song.

The crowd loved it like a fresh wound.

Bikers with grease-stained cuts roared along to lyrics about burning cities. Roadies with missing teeth pounded the bar in time with the drums. And in the back, the humanists - those self-righteous pricks who thought the Veil falling meant they got to play god - nursed their drinks and glared. Maeve made sure to lock eyes with each one as she spat the final verse, her pointed ears twitching beneath the sweat-drenched strands of her undercut.

Then the bottle flew.

Glass shattered against the amp behind her, spraying amber liquid and razor shards across the stage. The music stuttered. The room held its breath.

Maeve's lips curled into something too sharp to be called a smile.

"Finally," she purred into the mic, fingers tightening around the stand. "I was getting bored."

The bar erupted.

Leather jackets became blurs of motion. Chairs splintered against backs. Someone screamed - not in fear, but in that particular giddy way people did when violence became inevitable. Maeve launched herself into the fray without hesitation, her boots finding purchase on a table before she brought the mic stand down on some bastard's shoulder. The crunch was obscenely satisfying.

She lost track of time in the chaos. Fists connected with ribs. Knuckles split against teeth. At some point her nose broke with a wet crack that sent bright sparks across her vision, but the pain was distant, secondary to the electric thrill of the fight. This was her element - no pretenses, no politics, just the beautiful simplicity of giving and receiving damage.

When the sirens wailed in the distance, she slipped out the back, leaving the wreckage behind.

The alley behind "The Iron Hog" smelled like piss and rotting wood. Maeve slumped against the damp brick wall, tilting her head back to stare at the sliver of night sky visible between the buildings. Blood trickled from her nose, painting her lips copper. Her knuckles were a mess of torn skin and blooming bruises, the pain just starting to register through the fading adrenaline.

She fumbled for a cigarette, lit it with a snap of her fingers, and exhaled smoke into the cold air. The tremors would come soon - they always did after a good fight - but for now there was just this quiet moment, this perfect equilibrium between destruction and aftermath.

Then the footsteps came. Slow. Careful. Deliberate.

Maeve went still, the cigarette burning forgotten between her fingers. Every muscle tensed, not with the readiness for another fight, but with something far more dangerous - recognition. She didn't need to look up to know who stood at the mouth of the alley. The weight of that presence was enough to turn her blood to ice.