We made it back to the theater without much complication, which was honestly surprising given that we were basically a walking advertisement for "please rob us, we're carrying absurd amounts of wealth."
The slum folk didn't even bother engaging with us this time around—apparently word had spread with supernatural speed about the murder bunnies incident, or maybe they'd heard about what happened at the casino, or perhaps they just took one look at our procession of a hundred or so people carrying suspicious boxes flanked by two Velvets and collectively decided that no, tonight was not the night to fuck around and find out.
Smart choice, really, very responsible of them to recognize when discretion was the better part of not getting stabbed by homicidal lagomorphs or beaten to death by an angry orc woman.
When we reached the theater, the Velvets and attendants stopped dead at the front doors as if they'd struck some invisible barrier. The movement was so precise it bordered on unsettling—everyone halting in perfect formation, posture snapping into something rigid and disciplined.
I came to stand in front of them, planting my hands on my hips in what I hoped was an authoritative pose rather than "tiny person trying very hard to seem important," and cleared my throat to get their collective attention.
"Right, listen up! I need you to deposit all the money in the theater's basement—carefully, don't just throw it in a pile, actually organize it so we can find things later." I took a breath, then added, "Once that's done, station yourselves around the building's perimeter for security until I give you further orders. Any questions?" Silence greeted me, which I chose to interpret as enthusiastic agreement rather than confused uncertainty. "Excellent! Julius will show you the way."
Julius immediately stepped forward as though he'd been waiting his entire life for this exact cue, sweeping into motion with the theatrical flair he applied to literally everything. He flung the double doors open with both arms extended, posture grand and inviting as he gestured them inside with exaggerated hospitality.
I followed in behind them with the rest of my crew—Brutus looming, Grisha radiating quiet menace, Nara practically vibrating with excitement, Felix darting glances at the surroundings, and Julius rejoining us once he'd completed his door-holding duties—and took in the familiar sight of the lobby now alive with sound and motion.
My hands drifted back to my hips as I surveyed the chaos, a satisfied smile curling at my lips. I was just about to comment—something clever about how we'd managed not to burn the place down—when I stopped dead, the thought evaporating mid-formation.
Because my gaze had snagged on the balcony overlooking the space.
Mavus Grey stood there with a drink in hand, his figure silhouetted against the illusion of the moon hanging behind him, a slight smirk playing across his otherwise sadly painted face. It was a small expression, barely there, but it landed with weight anyway, tightening something in my chest that lived at the uncomfortable intersection between suspicion and curiosity.
I raised my brow at him, a silent question wrapped in skepticism. Mavus didn't nod, didn't gesture, didn't acknowledge my attention beyond that faint uptick of his lips.
He merely turned around with deliberate slowness and stalked away into the corridor beyond the balcony, his movements fluid and purposeful, like a cat that had spotted something interesting and expected you to follow if you knew what was good for you.
I didn't pay him much attention for now—or rather, I couldn't pay him attention because I had more immediately pressing business to attend to, like making sure our newly acquired fortune didn't get stolen and that Oberen ended up somewhere appropriately humiliating.
I turned back around to see the two Velvets still holding Oberen upright with immaculate professionalism—the gambling lord looking moments away from collapse, his knees threatening mutiny, blood still seeping through his bandages as consciousness wavered behind his glassy stare—and addressed them with cheerful authority.
"Throw him in the basement alongside his former wealth. Let him stare at everything he lost while he bleeds on the floor—it'll be character building. Then return to me for specific orders about your new assignments."
They nodded in perfect synchronization and hauled Oberen toward the corridor leading down into the basement. He didn't protest, didn't struggle, merely sagged between them like a discarded banner after a lost war, limp fabric trailing in the dirt long after the army it once represented had already fled.
Just then, the overseer—because apparently he'd followed us all the way back, which I should probably find concerning but had already given up questioning at this point—stepped through the sea of bodies with what appeared to be a scroll in hand, navigating the chaos with that same supernatural grace that seemed to be a job requirement for his position.
He approached me directly, stopping at a respectful distance, and when he spoke his emotionless tone somehow managed to convey that this was important despite the complete lack of inflection.
"I have one final matter requiring your attention before my duties are concluded for the evening." He unfurled the scroll with practiced efficiency, and I watched in growing disbelief as it revealed an impossibly long strip of paper that tumbled to the floor, rolling once before stopping neatly at my feet like some kind of bureaucratic carpet.
My breath hitched in genuine surprise, eyes going wide as I stared at the length of this thing—it had to be at least ten meters, maybe fifteen, covered in neat handwriting that detailed information in columns and rows laid out with ruthless clarity, dense with numbers, annotations, and tidy little marks that screamed accounting in its most weaponized form.
"This documents all additional property that Oberen owned throughout the city," the Overseer explained. "Per the terms of the transfer agreement, all assets are now yours to claim. Twenty-three brothels across various districts, four warehouses, two private gambling halls, and several residential properties currently being rented to various tenants." He paused. "The financial statistics and current operational status are included for each location."
I nearly face-planted right there on the lobby floor because of course—how could I have possibly forgotten that Oberen wasn't just a casino lord but a landlord as well, the kind who'd systematically raised rents and squeezed every possible crown from people who couldn't afford to refuse.
The realization landed like a solid punch to the sternum, a dizzying blend of "oh shit that's a lot of responsibility" and "oh shit that's a lot of power."
I crouched down to examine the scroll more closely, my eyes scanning the list of names and numbers, each entry detailing a different establishment with occupied units, monthly income, current rent rates, and maintenance costs all laid out in meticulous detail.
My mind raced through possibilities, through the sheer scope of what I now controlled, and then an idea crystallized with perfect clarity.
"I want you to send a letter to each one," I said, looking up at the overseer with sudden determination. "Each brothel, each property—lower their rent back to the previous amounts they owed before Oberon started his exploitation spree. Whatever they were paying then, that's what they'll pay now. Make it official, make it immediate, and make sure they know it's permanent."
The Overseer's blank expression didn't change—because of course it didn't—but I thought I detected the faintest hint of approval in the way he inclined his head.
"It will be done. I will draft the correspondence tonight and ensure delivery by morning." He began rolling up the scroll with careful precision, the paper disappearing back into its manageable cylinder. "I remain available should you wish to withdraw additional funds from your accounts, inquire about property management concerns, or address any legal matters requiring official oversight. Simply send word through the casino and I will respond with appropriate haste."
"You're a treasure," I told him with genuine appreciation, then blew him a kiss with exaggerated flair because the moment felt like it deserved some levity.
He didn't react—not even a blink, not the slightest acknowledgment that anything had happened—just turned and walked away with that same measured pace.
Rude. Absolutely rude. But also kind of impressive in its complete commitment to professional detachment.
Brutus lumbered up beside me then, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed most of my considerably smaller one, and when he spoke the familiar rumble of his voice carried something softer beneath the gruffness—genuine curiosity, maybe even concern.
"So," he asked, "what're you going to do now?"
I straightened from my crouch, dusting off my hands even though I hadn't touched anything remotely dirty, and considered the question with theatrical contemplation.
"Well, we've still got a couple days before Lloyd arrives to give his review and help with renovations, and probably another few before Atticus and Dregan finish setting up their operations at the warehouse. In that span of time we'll work on making this place actually functional—fix the structural damage, organize our finances, maybe hire some staff. But for now..."
I paused, glancing toward the balcony where Mavus had disappeared, then gestured toward the main theater entrance with deliberate purpose.
"I have someone to confront."