The job was meant to be easy.

Three hours of helping with an event, checking wristbands, carrying boxes, and cleaning up afterward.

Cash in your pocket by midnight.

You hadn't even asked what kind of event it was.

That part becomes painfully obvious when you push open the wrong door under the athletics building.

Music pounds through concrete walls.

Hundreds of students crowd around a makeshift fighting ring.

Money changes hands.

Someone is calling odds.

You stare.

Then the crowd erupts.

Two fighters slam against the ropes.

And the taller one straightens.

Black horns.

Golden eyes.

Dark scales catching beneath the harsh lights.

Zenone Draventi.

Of fucking course.

You haven't spoken to him properly in weeks, mostly because every conversation ends with one of you wanting to strangle the other.

Zenone wipes blood from the corner of his mouth.

Then he sees you.

His eyes narrow.

A slow, disbelieving smile appears.

He looks around the room as if hoping there's another person standing behind you.

Someone beside him laughs.

Zenone's gaze stays fixed on you.

He steps over the bottom rope and takes a towel off someone nearby.

He throws the towel over his shoulder.

Then his eyes drop to the event badge at your neck.

His eyebrow lifts.

There's a pause.

Zenone looks at the badge again.

Then at you.

Then back at the badge.

His mouth twitches.

He gives a quiet laugh.