Foster eased his beat-up white van into the outer edge of the parking lot of The Broken Mask, cautiously swinging it between two faded lines. From his driver’s seat, the club loomed ahead—a squat, menacing hulk of concrete. The outer walls were a mess of graffiti and charred patches from when some super’s temper had flared. Neon tubes bled red light across the fa?ade, twisting into the words “The Broken Mask” in a jagged scrawl that flickered ominously. A rusted awning jutted over the entrance, dripping wet from the outer zone’s damp air, and the asphalt beneath was littered with cigarette stubs and broken glass. The bass thumped even through the thick walls, a deep, relentless pulse that rattled the windows. This wasn’t just a club—it was a communal lair. A place where the city’s powered came to play, and where most normies didn’t dare tread.

  He killed the engine and stepped out, the Skybreaker trench coat swaying around him as his boots hit the gravelly asphalt. The enhanced leather gleamed under the neon, its deep red umber hue catching the light, the brass buckles clinking softly with each step. The shearling collar brushed the back of his neck, keeping out the chill. Beneath it, his black button-up clung to his shoulders. The charcoal cargo trousers hugged his thighs, and his black leather boots crunched against the ground, thick soles crushing the bits of broken glass beneath his heels. He ran a hand through his slightly messy hair—wind-tousled from the drive—and squared his shoulders.

  The line snaked around the building, a restless knot of hopefuls shivering in the damp air. Foster joined the back, hands sliding into his coat pockets, the satin lining cool against his fingers.

  ‘Maybe I should have come early… this is going to take a while. She might think I didn’t show.’ His heart rate started to rise, stress levels spiking.

  Just text her that you’re here, waiting in line.

  ‘Good idea…’

  He sent a quick text and sized up the crowd—wall-hoppers in patched jumpsuits, Starlight college kids in fake designer threads, a few groupies flashing skin in tight skirts and low-cut tops. Ahead, three bouncers loomed like titans at the entrance, their bulk filling the doorway. The lead one was a mountain—seven feet of muscle, shaved head, eyes glowing a dull orange. Another, wiry with a scarred lip, had blue-lit mechanical eyes that cut through the dark. The third, buzzcut and broad, flexed fists that looked like they could crush stone. They moved slow, deliberate, checking IDs against a battered holo-pad and a notebook stuffed with photos, rejecting most with a shake of his head, or a shove and a grunt. Foster watched a punk in a leather vest stumble back, cursing, and a girl in heels totter off, her dreams of snagging a super for the night dashed. He waited quietly, his breath fogging faintly in the cold.

  He’d hadn’t made it far when the orange-eyed bouncer froze, his thick finger stabbing at a photo on his phone. Foster caught the shift—the guy’s head snapped up, eyes scanning the line and locking onto him, narrowing as recognition hit. The bouncer muttered something sharp to the others, and they turned, their glowing stares pinning him like spotlights. Orange-Eyes quickly put away the phone shoving it into his vest, and stepped forward, parting the crowd with his bulk. Foster tensed as the guy loomed over him “Yo, you’re Nyx’s guy?” The bouncer’s voice was a low rumble, edged with something twitchy—nerves, maybe.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Foster said, keeping his tone even, hands still in his pockets. He didn’t flinch, but his pulse kicked up a notch - who wouldn’t be nervous around people that could bench press a car?.

  The bouncer’s jaw tightened, a flicker of unease breaking through his tough fa?ade. “C’mon, man, let’s go. She’s waiting.” As they reached the entrance the blue-eyed one leaned in, muttering, “Don’t piss her off,” as they hustled him toward the heavy double doors. Foster caught the scars on the wood—claw marks, burn streaks—and then they were through, the club swallowing him whole.

  The air hit him—thick with smoke and alcohol, and a faint tang that prickled his nose. The interior was a cave of shadows and pulsing light, purple and red beams of light slashing through the haze from fixtures overhead. Foster’s eyes adjusted slow, taking in the chaos: supers sprawled at tables, their powers simmering—a guy with scales glinting on his arms, a woman flicking sparks between her fingers, a hulking shape in the corner leaking steam. The bar was a dented slab of blackened steel, manned by a bartender with blazing fast whirring cyber-hands pouring glowing shots that hissed faintly.

  Booths lined the walls, some veiled in shimmering privacy fields, muffling the deals and laughs inside. The dance floor throbbed with bodies—half undressed normies and low-tier supers tangled together. He could feel the bass shaking the floor under his boots and in his bones. It was loud, dark, and alive.

  Orange-Eyes didn’t pause, pushing his way through the crowd with a grunted, “This way.” Foster followed, weaving past a table where a guy with metal claws arm-wrestled a woman with glowing tattoos—she smirked as she slammed his hand down, the crack audible over the music. The crowd parted, instinctive and they reached a roped-off nook near the back, a private booth tucked under a neon skull sign that flickered like a dying star. The bouncer unclipped the velvet rope, his orange eyes darting nervously. “She’s in there. Private spot, just for you two. Don’t… uh I mean probably best you don’t keep her waiting.” He backed off fast, leaving Foster alone at the threshold.

  Stepping past the rope, the club’s roar dulled slightly. As he approached the booth. It was a curved pocket of black leather, the cushions worn but soft, pressed against a wall of cracked mirror tiles that threw back fractured glimpses of the chaos. A low table sat in front, strewn with empty glasses and a single candle, its flame dancing in the draft. And there she was—Sofia, waiting, a vision that stopped him cold.

  Sofia lounged in the booth, one leg crossed over the other, and Foster’s breath hitched as he took her in. She’d gone all out, trading her usual casual look for something that screamed sexy in a way he hadn’t seen before. A black dress clung to her small frame, short enough to end mid-thigh, the deep V-neck plunging just far enough to draw his eye without overplaying it. It shimmered under the club’s lights, catching every pulse of red and purple, hugging her curves like it was painted on. Her caramel skin was glowing against the dark fabric, and her wavy black hair spilled over one shoulder in a wild cascade, framing her face like a storm cloud. Her legs stretched out, ending in a pair of sleek, black high heels— with silver studs glinting along the straps.

  Her makeup hit him next—smoky shadow rimmed her dark eyes, making them burn with a sultry depth, and her crimson lipstick painted her wide smile into something sharp and magnetic. A silver choker gleamed at her throat, catching the candlelight, and her glossy black nails tapped idly on the table, a restless little rhythm. She looked up as he approached, and her gaze locked onto his, a smirk tugging at her lips. She was stunning, a far cry from the giggling girl at the drive-thru, and Foster felt a jolt—half awe, half nerves—ripple through him.

  He slid into the booth across from her, the coat settling around him like a shield, its red leather glowing warm under the candlelight. The shearling collar brushed his neck as he leaned back, the black button-up beneath stretching slightly across his shoulders and he rested his arms on the table.

  Their eyes met, and a slow grin spread across his face, unguarded and real. “You look…” He fumbled for a second, the word hanging just out of reach, then he smiled, “You look Incredible.” The club’s chaos faded to a dull hum—in this moment being here with her was all that mattered.

  Sofia leaned forward, her dress shifting faintly, a small smirk widening as she sized him up. “You clean up pretty good yourself, boss man. The coat’s nice.” Her dark eyes swept over him—approving, teasing, with a flicker of something softer underneath. “So is the face.” She tapped a button under the table and a flickering field of energy leapt up at the - the music muted to a low thrum in the distance. She dropped her elbow to the table tucked her palm up under her chin and leaned forward, “I could look at you for a while.”

  Foster swallowed, eyes drawn for a moment to the V-neckl before struggling to force himself to meet her eyes, “that’s kindof … yeah… you took the words.” He stumbled, embarrassed.

  Sofia laughed, she handed him a bar-menu. “I’ve already got some drinks coming…”

  “I drove here.”

  “If you get too drunk my place is just a short walk from here.”

  Danger, danger. Hedy was laughing in his head.

  “Uhm, I’m not sure either of us are allowed to drink.”

  I am actually embarrassed for you. Do you want to die a virgin - again? Your batting average per incarnation was never good.

  “They’re not big on rules here, just credits.” Sofia said grinning, “Did you know that you glance up to the corners of your eyes, every now and again… you never used to do that I don’t think… no I’d definitely remember. I’ve been paying attention to you for a while. Is it a trigger-tic? I know that happens sometimes.”

  “Ah … yeah.” Foster scratched at his chin, “well, no.. sometimes there’s a little voice in my head. I promise I’m not crazy! Not too crazy at least.”

  “Rightttt.” Sofia frowned, raising one eyebrow and looking at him skeptically. “What does the voice say?”

  “… to lighten up, have fun, and not ruin the date.”

  “You should listen to that totally not crazy voice in your head.”

  A figure approached through the pulsing haze. He glanced up, and his eyes snagged on her—another bartender, cutting through the crowd like a blade through smoke. She was a vision in a tailored tuxedo, sharp and elegant. The black jacket hugged her frame, nipped at the waist, with satin lapels that gleamed under the purple and red lights, catching every flicker. A crisp white shirt stretched taut across her chest, the top button undone just enough to hint at a sliver of pale skin, and a slim black tie hung loose, as if she’d tugged it free mid-shift. Her trousers matched the jacket—fitted, tapering down to polished black oxfords that clicked faintly on the sticky floor. She moved with a fluid grace, hips swaying slightly with confidence.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Sharp cheekbones framed a face that could’ve been carved from marble, softened only by a spill of dark auburn hair tumbling loose from a messy bun, strands brushing her jaw. Her eyes were a vivid green, glinting like cut emeralds under thick lashes, and a faint smirk played on her full lips, painted a deep plum that stood out against her fair skin. She carried a tray balanced effortlessly on one hand, the other tucked into her pocket, and as she neared, Foster caught a whiff of something crisp—gin, maybe, mingling with a faint floral perfume..

  She stopped at their booth, setting the tray down with a practiced flick that didn’t spill a drop. “Compliments of the house,” she said, her voice smooth and low. Her gaze flicked between him and Sofia, lingering on Sofia just long enough to spark a flicker of curiosity in Foster’s gut—recognition, maybe? She didn’t elaborate, just nodded once at Sofia and started unloading the goods.

  First came the booze: two heavy tumblers clinked onto the table, each filled with a deep amber liquid that sloshed gently—whiskey, Foster guessed, catching the smoky scent as it wafted up. A pair of shot glasses followed, brimming with something clear and sharp—vodka or gin, he couldn’t tell yet, but the faint citrus sting promised a kick. Then the food: a chipped wooden board piled with bar snacks. There were sliders—mini burgers with glistening patties, melted cheese oozing over the edges, and pickles speared into the buns with toothpicks. A basket of fries landed next, golden and crisp, dusted with some reddish spice that made his mouth water. A small bowl of fried pickles followed, their breading crunchy and flecked with herbs, and a side of thick, tangy dipping sauce—ranch, maybe, spiked with something smoky. Last, a handful of wings—glossy with a dark, sticky glaze, the heat of chili prickling his nose even from here.

  Sofia was laughing harder now, “I wondered if you were going to ogle Cindy, but with those eyes - you’re just making me jealous of the food!”

  “I mean… it looks good… I don’t think you know how long I’ve lived off of tacos and ramen noodles. I had no idea this place even had food.” Foster leaned back, “Still, ladies first.”

  “Enjoy,” the bartender - Cindy? - smiled her green eyes locking onto Foster’s for a beat then her attention shifted back to Sofia, a quick nod passing between them, subtle. “Let me know if you need anything else.” With that, she turned, the tuxedo jacket flaring slightly as she sauntered back into the crowd, her auburn hair swaying.

  Foster watched her go with a quick glance, then turned to Sofia, who was already reaching for a slider, her crimson lips curling into a grin. “Friend of yours?” he asked, grabbing a tumbler and letting the whiskey’s warmth steady his nerves.

  Sofia shrugged, popping the slider into her mouth with a casual grace. “Mm, I’ve got lots of acquaintances, but not a lot of friends,” she mumbled around the bite, her eyes glinting with mischief as she licked a smear of sauce off her thumb. Foster took a sip—yeah, it was whiskey, smooth with a slow burn—and settled back, the booth’s leather creaking under him.

  “Technically I think this is my first drink in this life.” He grinned.

  “Then you’re gonna be a lightweight. Pass me some!”

  Things were …awkward. Foster asked questions and Sofia skirted around the edges of answers, she asked him about his past and he was faced with the reality that there were large chunks of his this stolen life that he could barely remember. He vaguely promised to tell her more when he could. Things were awkward - but not bad. He was enjoying the company of a beautiful young woman, and she seemed to find his company… pleasant.

  Foster leaned back in the booth as he swirled more whiskey in his tumbler. The amber liquid caught the candlelight, half burned down now, glinting warmly, and he took another sip, expecting that familiar burn to settle in his chest, maybe loosen his edges a bit. It didn’t. The taste was there—smoky, rich—but the buzz he’d anticipated never really came. His head stayed clearer, sharp, his enhanced constitution somehow shrugging off the alcohol. He was a little impressed, but a nagging thought crept in: ‘This is gonna hit me like a freight train tomorrow, isn’t it?’ He could almost feel the hangover lurking, biding its time. For now, though, he was steady, the booth’s chaos a dull hum around him as he watched Sofia across the table.

  She was a different story. Sofia had downed her whiskey in quick, confident gulps, chasing it with the shots of gin—her lips puckering briefly at the citrus sting before she grinned and reached for more. The sliders were half-gone, fries scattered across the board, and she’d torn into the wings with a messy enthusiasm, sauce smearing her fingers as she laughed. Her high heels clicked against the floor as she shifted, leaning closer, her black satin dress stretching tight across her chest. At first, her flirtation had been subtle—a teasing brush of her foot against his calf under the table, a sly wink as she licked sauce off her thumb. “You’re too cute in that coat, boss man,” she’d purred, her voice low and playful, her dark eyes glinting with mischief.

  But as the drinks piled up, subtle gave way to bold. She slid around the booth, closing the gap until her thigh pressed against his, the heat of her skin seeping through his cargo trousers. Her hand landed on his arm, fingers tracing the leather of the Skybreaker, then slipping under the sleeve to graze his scars—light at first, then firmer, possessive. “You know,” she slurred, her crimson lips curling into a lopsided grin, “you’re so hot.” Her breath was warm against his ear, gin-sharp and dizzying, and she leaned in, her chest brushing his shoulder as she whispered, “It’s a shame I already saw you out of all this.” Her hand slid down his chest, tugging at the buttons of his shirt, her nails scraping lightly against the fabric. “Feels like I opened my present early.”

  Foster’s pulse kicked hard, a jolt of heat surging through him. He wanted her—God, he did. The way her dress hugged her curves, the sultry rasp in her voice, how her touch lit his nerves on fire—it was a pull he felt deep in his gut, raw and insistent.

  For a while he’d wondered if he’d been inhabiting the body of a saint, or if his Incarnation had fried that part of his brain that lusted after women, now he knew it was no such thing. His hands twitched, itching to grab her, to pull her closer and see where this could go. But his mind clamped down, sharp and cold against the heat. ‘She’s drunk. Really really drunk.’

  I think that was the point of this… should I enter privacy mode?

  ‘No… Hedy… damn it. Damn it!’

  Sofia’s words were slurring, her movements sloppy—her hand fumbled at his shirt, missing a button, and she giggled, swaying slightly. This wasn’t her, not fully. He’d seen her sharp, in control, even when she flirted at Sloppo’s. This was - something else, and he wasn’t going to cross that line, no matter how much his body screamed otherwise.

  He caught her wrist gently, stopping her hand mid-slide, and forced a grin, though his voice came out tighter than he meant. “Hey, easy there, tiger. You’re making it real hard to be a gentleman.” His thumb brushed her skin, soft but firm, holding her steady as she blinked up at him, her dark eyes hazy but still burning.

  Sofia pouted, exaggerated and playful, leaning into him until her head rested on his shoulder. “Don’t want a gentleman,” she mumbled, her lips brushing his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. “Want… you.” Her hand slipped free, darting to his thigh, squeezing with a drunken boldness that made his breath hitch.

  Foster swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he wrestled his own desire back. ‘Not like this.’ He liked her—really liked her—and that meant more than a sloppy, booze-fueled hookup in a villain dive bar. He shifted, easing her hand off his leg with a careful grip, and slid an arm around her shoulders, steadying her as she swayed. “You’re killing me here, Sofia,” he said, half-pleading. “But I’m not that guy. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

  She groaned, a dramatic flop against him, her hair spilling across his chest. “Fiiiine,” she slurred, dragging out the word as she fumbled at the straps of her heels, nearly tipping off the booth. Foster caught her, his arm firm around her waist, and hauled her up, the leather of his jacket rustling as he moved. Her weight leaned heavy against him, warm and unsteady. The whiskey and gin might not have impacted him much, but her closeness did—one deep breath and just the earthy scent of her hair was a distraction he had to shake off.

  He guided her through the club, her steps wobbling as she clung to his side, giggling into his shoulder. The crowd parted again—maybe the bouncers had spread word, or maybe it was the way he held her, protective and determined. The tuxedoed bartender glanced over from the bar, her green eyes catching his with a knowing smirk, but Foster didn’t linger. He pushed through the double doors, the damp night air hitting them hard. Sofia shivered, pressing closer, and he tightened his grip.

  “Lemme walk you home,” he said, voice steady despite the war in his chest— “Where’s your place?”

  She mumbled something incoherent, pointing vaguely down the street, her head lolling against him. Foster sighed.as Sofia slumped against him, her satin dress, sleek black and shimmering under the neon creased where she pressed into his side. Her high heels dangled from his hand, he’d managed to find a small patch of ground not littered with broken glass, and he noticed as her breath came in uneven, gin-soaked huffs against his neck. His enhanced constitution kept him steady, but he could feel the weight of the night settling in. The van was an option, but was he truly as sober as he felt? He fished his new phone out - the matte-black device glowing as he thumbed through to a taxi number. He’d be paying a premium to get them to drive out here.

  A battered yellow cab rolled up minutes later, its engine rattling like it was on its last legs. The driver—a grizzled guy in a faded ball cap—leaned out the window, eyeing them with a crooked grin. Foster opened the back door, easing Sofia in as she mumbled something incoherent, her head lolling against the cracked vinyl seat. He slid in beside her, pulling her close to keep her from tipping over, and gave the driver his address.

  The driver glanced back through the rearview, his flinty eyes flicking over Sofia’s small frame, her satin dress riding up her thighs as she slumped. “What’s this, huh?” he said, his voice a gravelly drawl laced with amusement. “Got yourself a high school girl plastered, eh? Little minx looks like she’s been having a good time.” He chuckled, a low, wheezing sound, like they were sharing a joke. “Bet she’s a wild one when she’s not three sheets to the wind.”

  Foster’s jaw tightened, a flare of irritation cutting through the calm he’d been clinging to. He didn’t like the guy’s tone—smug, conspiratorial, like he was proud of something sleazy, but they needed a ride. His arm tightened around Sofia’s shoulders as she stirred, muttering into his chest. “Drive.” His tone spoke for him. The driver shrugged, still smirking, and pulled into the street, the cab jostling over potholes as Foster stared out the window, the city blurring past. He didn’t owe this creep an explanation, but the comment gnawed at him—Sofia’s gene-ID flashed in his mind. Nineteen was not a kid… Still, she looked fragile now, vulnerable, and it stoked that protective streak. Was he too old for her? How old was he? Eighteen years old… or untold centuries. He’d wrestle with that question later.

  The ride was short, the cab rattling to a stop outside his squat apartment building. Foster paid ignoring the driver’s parting snicker—“Have fun, stud”—and hauled Sofia out, her satin dress catching briefly on the doorframe. She stumbled, her heels still in his grip, and he half-carried her up the stairs, maneuvered her through the narrow hall. He kicked the door shut behind them and guided her to the bed, easing her down onto the tangled sheets and gently rolling her onto her side. She flopped with a groan, her dark hair fanning out, and he pulled the thin blanket over her, tucking it around her. “Sleep it off,” he muttered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her breathing steadied, and he crashed on the floor beside her, the carpet cool against his back with the coat draped over him like a makeshift blanket.