Gala

The air inside the grand ballroom was thick with the scent of expensive lilies and even more expensive perfume. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the crème de la crème of the entertainment world. It was the premiere of *The Emerald Horizon*, and for once, the atmosphere was almost peaceful. The usual frantic energy of the paparazzi had been replaced by a respectful, albeit watchful, distance—a rare benediction that every celebrity in the room appreciated in silence.

Chaylen Morgan, stunning in a silk gown that moved like liquid moonlight, leaned into Albert Hussain. Her hand rested on his forearm, the diamond of her engagement ring catching the light. They had fallen in love amidst the mud and rain of an Irish film set, and tonight was supposed to be the culmination of that secret journey.

"Do you think we can sneak out before the second round of hors d'oeuvres?" Albert whispered, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

Chaylen laughed softly. "And miss Osin’s speech? We’d never hear the end of it. Besides, look, there’s María."

Across the room, the world-famous Colombian singer María Noe-Santángel was a vision of elegance. She stood with her two sons, fifteen-year-old Milan and eleven-year-old Sasha, who looked remarkably sharp in their mini-tuxedos. María, who had composed the hauntingly beautiful score for the film, caught Chaylen’s eye and offered a warm, sisterly wave.

Before they could make their way over to her, the lights dimmed slightly. Osin O'Davoren, the visionary director of the hour, stepped up to the microphone. He was a man of immense talent and an even more immense Irish brogue.

"Right then," Osin began, his voice booming. "Tis a grand thing, seein' all ye shiny people gathered 'round for a bit o' storytellin'. We spent months in the muck, chasin' the light, and if ye think the film's a darlin', 'tis because the heart o' the thing was forged in the fire o' passion."

Chaylen and Albert shared a knowing smirk with María across the room. Half the guests were nodding politely while looking utterly bewildered; Osin’s accent was so thick it was practically its own dialect. Even the seasoned reporters were squinting at their notepads, trying to translate "muck" and "darlin'" into headline-worthy quotes.

Osin finished his speech to thunderous applause, but as he stepped down from the podium, the heavy side doors of the ballroom were thrown open with a precision that didn't belong at a gala.

A line of men in matte-black tactical gear filed in, moving with silent, predatory grace. They fanned out against the walls, forming a semi-circle that effectively boxed in the elite crowd. The room went cold. The soft chatter died instantly, replaced by the sharp intake of breath.

A man in a crisp suit, looking weary but authoritative, stepped onto the stage.

"Who are you? What is the meanin' of this interruption?" Osin demanded, stepping toward the man.

The man didn't look at him. He adjusted the microphone. "My name is Alex Dutertre. I am the Head of the Anti-Death Threats Unit. I apologize for the intrusion, but we are under a Level One security mandate."

The room erupted into a low, panicked murmur. Alex raised a hand for silence.

"A few hours ago, warrants for the deaths of specific individuals were issued by several high-ranking heads of the criminal underworld," Alex said, his voice clipped. "Our intelligence confirms that the targets are currently in this room. They are: María Noe-Santángel, her sons Sasha and Milan, Chaylen Morgan, and Albert Hussain."

The color drained from Chaylen’s face. Beside her, Albert’s grip on her hand tightened until it was almost painful.

"What the hell is happening?" María’s voice rang out, sharp and protective as she pulled her sons closer to her sides. "My children? You are talking about my children!"

Alex looked down at her, a flash of genuine pity crossing his features. "I cannot provide further details in a public forum, Ms. Noe-Santángel. We are waiting for our IT team to confirm the digital footprint of the threats and verify the extraction route. Please, stay where you are for five minutes. Once I get the green light, my team will move you to a safe house."

"Five minutes?" Albert stepped forward, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and fear. "You bring a small army in here, tell us we’re marked for death, and tell us to wait?"

Before Alex could respond, the front double doors of the ballroom didn't just open—they slammed against the marble walls with the force of an explosion.

Every head turned. Standing in the doorway was a girl who looked like she had walked out of a fever dream.

She appeared to be about sixteen, her neck-length brown curls streaked with vivid cerulean blue. Her hair was pulled into a chaotic bun held together by two long silver needles. She wore a dark blue tank top and heavy cargo pants, leaving her arms and midriff bare.

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Her skin was a map of survival. Thick, jagged scars crisscrossed her arms and stomach, climbing up the column of her neck. Interwoven with the scars were intricate tattoos: dragons breathing fire, wolves mid-howl, and delicate but deadly plants—belladonna, hemlock, and wisteria—coiling around her wrists.

A heavy belt sat on her hips, laden with daggers, dried herbs, and glass vials filled with shimmering liquids. A dark blue and purple cape draped over her shoulders, trailing behind her like a shadow.

"Melusine?" Alex gasped from the stage, his composure shattering.

The girl didn't spare a glance for the famous actors or the gawking press. She marched straight toward the stage, her platform boots thudding rhythmically.

"Who else, idiot?" she snapped.

"What—how are you even here?" Alex started, but Melusine was already on the stage.

Without a word of warning, she swung her hand and delivered a stinging slap across Alex’s face.

The tactical guards immediately leveled their submachine guns at her. The sound of safeties clicking off was deafening in the silence.

Melusine didn't flinch. She turned her head slowly, looking at the muzzles of the guns with bored eyes. "Please. You really don't want to do this. Guns down. Now."

There was a terrifying authority in her voice, something that didn't belong to a teenager. Alex, clutching his reddened cheek, hurriedly gestured to his men. "Stand down! Put them away!"

The guards hesitated, then lowered their weapons. Melusine turned back to Alex, arching a single, tattooed eyebrow.

"I’m the Head of the Anti-Death Threat Unit," Alex muttered, trying to reclaim some dignity. "I got promoted three months ago."

Melusine arched the other eyebrow. "Stupid name. Shut up. I’m taking over this entire operation."

"You’re what? You can’t just—"

"You don't have half the intel, Alex," she said, her voice a deadpan drone. "You can play soldier with your perimeter. I’m taking these five." She pointed a finger toward María, the boys, Chaylen, and Albert.

Chaylen stood up, her voice shaking. "Who are you? Why should we go anywhere with you?"

Melusine’s expression softened, just a fraction. "My name is Melusine. Or at least, that’s what you can call me today. I’m a freelancer. I’m here because I don't particularly enjoy watching innocents get slaughtered because of a toddler’s tantrum."

"A tantrum?" María asked, her brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Alex stepped forward. "Melusine, I’ve handled this perfectly—"

"There are children here!" Melusine barked, gesturing not just to Sasha and Milan, but to the other families in the room. Her hand drifted to her elbow, tracing a tattoo of a blood-red rose.

Alex’s eyes locked onto the movement. His face went pale, then softened into something resembling awe. He took a step forward and, to the shock of everyone present, pulled the scarred girl into a brief, fierce hug.

Melusine sighed, patting his shoulder awkwardly. "Took you long enough."

"I’m sorry," Alex whispered. "I didn't realize it was... you."

Melusine stepped back and turned to the room, specifically eyeing a reporter who was frantically scribbling in a notebook. "Oi, news vulture. Make sure you get every word of this right. I want to piss them off."

She cleared her throat. "The heads of the various underworld clans are ruthless people. They earned their spots through blood and grit. But their children? Their children are spoiled brats who spend their lives watching brain-rot videos and screaming at the sky."

She pointed at Albert and Chaylen. "When your movie came out, a certain crime lord’s son decided that Albert’s character should have died and Chaylen’s character should have ended up with the villain. He had a massive tantrum. To shut him up, his father put a hit on both of you. Parenting level: absolute zero."

A few actors in the room who understood French snickered as she muttered, "Tactiques parentales éclatées au sous-sol."

She then turned to María. "And you? A different brat—six years old—is offended because one of your songs is in Spanish. He doesn't understand the lyrics, so he thinks you're insulting his family name. Another tantrum, another warrant."

"You’re joking," Albert said, looking around for a hidden camera. "People want to kill us over... movie spoilers and lyrics?"

"Welcome to the ego of the underworld," Melusine said.

Suddenly, a metallic *clink-clang* echoed from above. The massive crystal chandelier began to groan and twist. To everyone's horror, the center of the ceiling opened up, and a small head with messy blonde hair poked through.

"Hey, Mels!" the eight-year-old girl chirped.

Melusine closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "Luna. Down. Now."

"Ick!" Luna looked at the twenty-foot drop. She spotted the table where Chaylen and Albert had been sitting. "Move, please!"

The actors scrambled back as Luna leaped, performing a perfect tuck-and-roll on the tablecloth before hopping onto the floor. She ran up to the stage, beaming.

"Where were you?" Melusine demanded.

"Fireworks," Luna said brightly.

"I know you were with the fireworks, I have eyes. How are you half a city away from your post?"

"I took the pipelines!"

Melusine pinched the bridge of her nose. "How many times have we gone over the pipelines?"

"Twenty-five," Luna sighed.

"And what did we say?"

"Not to use them because they're too easy and only for life-or-death stuff," the girl recited. "But Mom, it’s not fair!"

"Why isn't it fair, Moonbeam?"

Luna looked around the room, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the faces. She leaned in and whispered a string of words that sounded like nonsense to the crowd: "Valkyrie, vulture, turtle, blue, police, vulture again, flowers, trees, pineapple."

Melusine’s entire posture changed. She went stone-cold. "You’re sure?"

"Yeah, Mom. I’m sure."

Melusine leaned into Alex’s ear, whispering urgently. Alex nodded, his face grim. He stepped to the mic. "Everyone, stay calm. Those of you not named as targets are safe. You will remain here under my team's protection. Melusine and Luna will escort the targets to a secondary location."

"Come!" Melusine commanded, jumping off the stage.

The five targets followed her, feeling like they were walking through a dream. As they reached the main exit, the doors were kicked open again.

A man with a jagged scar across his nose stepped in, flanked by a dozen thugs. He lunged forward, pressing the tip of a switchblade against Melusine’s throat.

"What's your favorite scary movie, princess?" he sneered.

The tactical guards raised their guns, and the ballroom descended into screams.

"QUIET!" Melusine roared. The sheer volume of her voice was like a physical blow. The room fell deathly silent.

She didn't move away from the knife. Instead, she stared at the man, then looked down at the blade. Suddenly, she let out a piercing, over-the-top scream: "AHHH!"

The intruder jumped, startled by her reaction. In that split second, Melusine’s elbow connected with his solar plexus. As he gasped for air, she plucked the knife from his hand as if she were picking up a piece of trash.

"Alla ma, aia, die," she hissed in rapid-fire Italian, her voice dripping with venom. She reached into her hair, pulled out one of the silver needles, and began to aggressively sharpen the knife’s edge right in front of him.

"Was your favorite scary movie?" she mocked in a thick, exaggerated Italian accent, waving the blade. "This knife? This knife is the scary movie. It’s dull! Dull Knife: The Movie! Die!"

She continued to mutter insults in Italian about the man’s lack of equipment maintenance. When she was satisfied, she tested the edge with her thumb, tucked the needle back into her bun, and handed the weapon back to the stunned hitman.

"Ecco. Now it’s sharp and you can actually hurt someone, you idiot."

The hitman stared at the knife, then at her, completely lost. Behind her, Sasha and Milan were whispering.

"She’s barely older than us," Sasha muttered. "And she just... fixed his knife?"

The hitman regained his senses and signaled his crew. They drew their pistols, aiming them directly at María and her children. "Enough games. Move aside, girl."

Melusine raised her hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "Please. These people are under my protection."

"And who are you to stop us?" the leader growled.

Melusine tilted her head, a predatory smile touching her lips. "I do suppose you know me better by my other name. The Raven."

The effect was instantaneous. The hitmen blanched, their hands visibly shaking. The leader’s eyes darted to her ear, where a small, black raven was tattooed into the skin.

"The Raven?" he whispered. "You’re... but you’re a child."

"A child who knows exactly where your boss sleeps," she replied softly. "So. Do you still want to try to kill my wards?"

"No," the man stammered, backing away. "No. We’re leaving. We’re gone."

They scrambled out of the ballroom as if the devil himself were at their heels.

Melusine turned back to the group, sheathing her own daggers. "Good. Now, can we go? I have a safe house to reach and a very long list of people to insult."

María looked at Chaylen and Albert, then at the scarred girl and the eight-year-old skipping beside her. "I have so many questions," María said, clutching her sons' hands as they followed Melusine into the night.

"Get in line," Chaylen muttered, though she didn't stop walking. "I think we just traded a movie premiere for a thriller."