Zemin and Taura slid onto the stools at the counter, seamlessly blending into the lively mix of noise and laughter around them. The bartender glanced over, wiping a glass with a rag.
"What can I get you?" he asked, his voice relaxed and a bit bored.
"Two of whatever burns the most," Taura shot back without hesitation.
The bartender nodded, pouring a rich amber liquid into two short glasses and sliding them their way.
Taura grabbed hers in one smooth motion, the burn igniting a spark in her eyes. Zemin, on the other hand, stared at his drink for a moment before taking a slow sip. The flavor was sharp and heavy like fire wrapped in metal.
He set the glass down and leaned in slightly toward her. "So," he said, his voice calm yet precise, "what's the plan here?"
Taura swirled the remnants of her drink, watching the liquid catch the light. "We wait," she replied. "Buyer shows up, deal goes down, then we move. Easy peasy."
"Easy peasy," he echoed, not entirely convinced.
She smirked, catching the hint of doubt in his eyes. "Don't tell me you're getting cold feet, rookie."
Zemin's gaze drifted toward the VIP section where the man with the suitcase sat, flanked by his guards, completely undisturbed. "Not cold feet," he said, his voice flat. "Just not a fan of leaving things to chance."
Taura chuckled softly, resting her elbow on the counter. "You'll figure it out soon enough. Patience is your best friend in this line of work."
The bartender moved down the counter to serve another group. Around them, the crowd pulsed with life music thumping, laughter spilling, shadows dancing under the flickering lights.
Zemin's hand brushed the edge of his coat, feeling the reassuring weight of his concealed weapon. "Alright," he said quietly, his eyes locked on the upper level. "We wait."
Taura leaned back, her gaze fixed on the VIP booth, a familiar, dangerous smile playing on her lips. "Yeah. But once he shows up… we turn this place into our stage."
Time dragged on, stretching from minutes into what felt like hours.
Zemin and Taura were perched at the counter, their drinks barely touched. The atmosphere hadn't shifted much the same tune played on repeat, and the usual crowd of half-drunk regulars stumbled around like extras in a forgettable film.
Each time the door creaked open, they both instinctively turned their heads. But it was always just another random face a group of friends laughing too loudly, a tipsy couple weaving their way in, or a solitary man looking for trouble. None of them were the buyer they were waiting for.
Taura let out a sigh and leaned back, idly spinning her glass. "Two hours," she grumbled. "You'd think a big-time buyer could at least show up on time."
Zemin remained silent, his silver eyes fixed on the VIP booth. The dealer was still there same stance, same glass of whiskey but the tension was palpable. His jaw was clenched now, and one of his guards was pacing nervously near the table, glancing at his watch like it was a ticking time bomb.
"He's not happy," Zemin murmured.
"Can't say I blame him," Taura replied, stretching her arms. "We're bored out of our minds too."
Zemin's gaze drifted back to the entrance of the bar. Still nothing. Just the endless cycle of doors swinging open and closed, the parade of indifferent faces.
He let out a soft breath. "You'd think the city's underworld could at least stick to a schedule."
Taura smirked. "Welcome to reality, rookie. Everyone's late, everyone's a threat, and everyone's foolish enough to keep us waiting."
A heavy silence settled in. The only sounds were the low thump of the music and the clinking of empty glasses.
Then—
The dealer suddenly slammed his drink down on the table, the sharp crack slicing through the bar's noise like a knife. Heads turned for a moment, then quickly shifted back, pretending they hadn't noticed.
Taura leaned in closer to Zemin, her grin reappearing. "Looks like someone's running out of patience."
"Yea your right on that."
The night dragged on like wet paint. Zemin was nursing the last of his drink, swirling the dregs in his glass, when the bar door creaked open again.
At first, he didn't think much of it just another drunk stumbling in, he figured. But then the chatter dipped for a moment. Heads turned ever so slightly.
A woman stepped inside.
She was unlike anyone else in The Hot Swan. Dressed in a black-and-white maid outfit, it was sharp and pristine, a stark contrast to the rain-soaked world outside. A silver cross dangled from her neck, glinting in the soft neon light. In one hand, she held an umbrella, and in the other, a small suitcase.
Zemin blinked, momentarily taken aback. A maid? What the hell…?
She glided through the smoky haze with an effortless grace, her steps steady and purposeful, as if the chaos around her was nothing but a distant echo.
Zemin couldn't tear his eyes away. Do maids even exist in this world? Or have I completely lost it?
"Hey," Taura's voice jolted him back to reality. "Why are you staring at another girl, huh? You planning to blow our cover for a pair of frills and lace?"
Zemin flinched, dropping his gaze. "Sorry. It's just—" He nodded toward the woman. "You think she might be the buyer?"
Taura blinked, then burst into laughter sharp, bright, and mocking. "Oh my god, you're serious." She leaned in closer, whispering between giggles. "A maid? You think she's the buyer? That's the dumbest—"
But before she could finish, the woman set her umbrella down and started making her way toward the VIP section.
Zemin's expression shifted. His amusement faded.
Taura's grin froze. "…Okay, what the hell."
The maid glided through the crowd like a shadow, barely making a sound. The partygoers were too caught up in their drunken revelry and the pulsing music to notice her. But for Zemin and Taura, every step she took was intentional, sharp.
She paused at the VIP section, and the dealer looked up, his face contorting with irritation.
"Finally!" he snapped, slamming his glass onto the table. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting? Two hours! Two whole damn hours! You people think—"
The maid remained motionless. Her expression was stone-cold, her eyes blank and inscrutable under the flickering red light. She simply waited. The dealer continued his tirade, his voice slicing through the music, spit flying. His guards shifted awkwardly, unsure if they should intervene.
When his rant finally began to wane, Mischa tilted her head slightly. Her voice was calm, smooth, and eerily casual. "Have you finished your little speech, or should I hang around a bit longer?"
The dealer froze, caught mid-sentence.
With a soft click, she placed the suitcase on the table. "Great. Now we can get down to business."
The dealer's jaw clenched, but he sank into his seat, muttering something under his breath.
"As you're aware," the maid continued, "my master is quite busy. I'll be handling this transaction on his behalf."
The dealer sighed, rubbing his temples. "Alright, let's just get this over with."
The maid offered a faint, polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course. I'm Mischa Chikae." With a crisp snap, she unlatched the suitcase. "Let's start the deal."
From their spot at the counter, Zemin and Taura exchanged knowing glances. Zemin leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing. "That's her. She's definitely the buyer."
"Yeah," Taura replied, swirling her drink. "And there's something about her that feels… off." They couldn't hear the conversation, but the tension at the VIP table was palpable.
Zemin let out a slow breath. "We wait until the deal's done."
Taura nodded. "Then we make our move."