Chapter 115 Drunk.

Chapter 115: 115 Drunk.

I saw the band of Steves on the instruments strike their first chords, the heavy bass echoing through the sealed auditorium.

And then, Psyren’s voice seeped from the massive speaker arrays, washing over the captive crowd like a physical wave of sound.

"I see you there, across the room, A thousand faces but I just see you. Your eyes so deep, like you’re under my spell, Drawn to me, you can’t help yourself."

I sometimes forgot what a genuinely talented singer Psyren was.

Her voice was sweet, laced with a natural, giggly energy that made your chest feel fizzy with excitement.

And fuck, if this was the result of just her vocal cords, I could only imagine the absolute cocktail of dopamine and adrenaline her psychic aura was pumping into the crowd’s brains right now.

That was exactly why I respected the kid. She didn’t depend on her mutant abilities as a crutch.

She was legitimately good at this. She wasn’t satisfied with just hijacking someone’s prefrontal cortex to make them think she had talent; she put in the actual vocal work.

Sure, she still needed a bit of practice on the villainy side of things, but as a performer? She could probably teach me a thing or two about working a room.

The neon-pink smoke peeled back like theatrical curtains, and there she stood in all her glory.

The custom kinetic-weave suit looked stunning, even without the copious amounts of psychic dazzle she was broadcasting.

The butterfly mask shimmered under the sweeping blue lasers, framing her eyes, while the skin-tight fabric outlined her figure flawlessly.

Vibrant highlights of pink and purple pulsed along her seams in time with the music.

She radiated enough pure, weaponized sex appeal to give a eunuch a heart attack, and I could practically feel the oxygen get sucked out of the room as the VIPs let out a collective, breathless gasp.

Psyren smirked, raising her free hand. Her voice swept through the audience, carrying a heavy wave of psychic force that sent a dull, aching throb right against the natural shielding of my skull.

"You speak to me, in a hushed tone, My words like music, I can’t be alone. You’re pulling closer, with every breath, In a trance, forget the rest."

I glanced over the crowd. They were absolutely riveted. Enthralled. I couldn’t help but chuckle. She was a total natural.

Our eyes met from across the arena. I saw her wink, and I offered a single, approving nod.

With a sharp swing of her hips, Psyren strutted to center stage, the spotlights converging on her like she was the only person left on earth. She wrapped both hands around the mic stand, leaning into it.

"Like a hypnotist, my moves so smooth, You’re under my spell, don’t know what to do. I’m in control, you’re just a puppet on a string, Your love is a hypnotic thing."

The music exploded, the Steves behind her really letting loose on the drums and guitars. The sound thrummed through the air, vibrating in my bones like steel girders in an earthquake.

But I couldn’t stay out here playing the proud manager forever. I needed to get backstage and make sure the physical choreography was lined up.

I gave a quick glance around, but nobody was looking my way.

Every single eye in the house was glued to the stunning villainess currently wrapping their minds around her little finger.

I shrank back into the shadows of the exit corridor, fed a pulse of magnetism into my armored bracers, and lifted my boots off the floor.

Skimming silently along the outer curve of the stands, I bypassed the main doors and touched down on the cement near the fencing that housed the primary subwoofers.

A Steve was standing there, arms crossed, dressed in full tactical security gear and mirrored aviators. He gave me a quick, sharp look before recognizing me.

"Eyyy, Miles! Bossman. We got trouble?" he asked, tapping his earpiece.

"Nothing yet. Just doing the rounds," I said.

"Sure thing, man," Steve said, looking back out toward the stage with a dramatic, proud sniffle. "Ain’t my baby sister the absolute best?"

"She sure is," I agreed, ducking under the barricade and working my way around the massive speaker towers. The thudding bass made my teeth vibrate.

I moved deeper backstage, stepping out of the harsh glare of the stage lights and into the cavernous, dimly lit staging area. It was a maze of heavy black road cases, spare lighting rigs, and coiled cables.

Before I even saw him, I smelled him.

It was a cloying, overwhelmingly expensive mix of designer cologne and top-shelf liquor.

"Well, well. If it isn’t the man of the hour."

I stopped, suppressing a massive groan as Golden Boy stepped out from behind a stack of amplifiers.

He was already fully suited up in his custom, form-fitting black and gold-inlaid armor. But instead of looking ready for a high-stakes corporate stunt, his posture was sloppy.

His golden skin seemed flushed, his designer sunglasses were pushed up onto his perfectly styled hair, and he was holding a half-empty bottle of Firefly-sponsored premium vodka by the neck.

"Golden," I said, my voice completely devoid of enthusiasm. I moved a step closer, my eyes narrowing. "Are you fucking drunk?"

"I am perfectly hydrated, my guy," Golden Boy slurred slightly, flashing that million-dollar, utterly punchable grin.

He took another swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his gauntlet. "Gotta loosen the muscles up, you know? Get into the headspace of a mindless, psychic meathead. It’s called method acting, Miles. Look it up."

"It’s called being a douche bag," I snapped, glancing around to make sure none of Lacey’s production assistants were lurking nearby. "This is a multimillion-dollar premiere. We have exactly one shot at this. If you miss your cue or hit one of the Superstars too hard because you’re seeing double, Firefly will bury us both."

"Woah, woah, chill out, Magneto," he laughed, stepping into my personal space. The smell of booze was practically radiating off him. "I never miss a cue. I’m a seasoned professional. I’ve been doing this since before you even bought your first villain starter-kit. Besides, all I have to do is stumble out there, act braindead, and let those three pop-tarts beat me up until I miraculously snap out of it."

He leaned closer, his golden eyes gleaming with an annoying, entitled arrogance. "Honestly? I’m just here doing you a favor, man. Making your little protégé look good."

"You’re here because Firefly is paying you an exorbitant amount of money to get your ass kicked," I corrected him flatly, refusing to back up an inch.

"Ah, always so transactional," Golden Boy sighed dramatically, leaning his back against a road case and crossing his ankles. "You know, that’s your problem, Miles. You don’t appreciate the narrative. The drama! We could have been something great together. The perfect arch-nemeses. The yin to my incredibly handsome yang. But you had to go and play hard to get."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a massive headache building that had absolutely nothing to do with Psyren’s psychic powers.

The fact that the industry’s poster boy was acting like a rejected frat bro in the middle of a live operation was exactly why I hated corporate capes.

"We’ve been over this, Trevor," I said, using his real name just to watch his smug smile twitch. "I don’t do exclusive rivalries, and I sure as hell don’t do them with sloppy drunks who treat a job like a night club. Put the bottle down, fix your posture, and get ready for your cue."

Golden Boy’s grin faded into a sullen, petulant scowl. He stared at me for a long, tense moment, the golden glow of his skin flaring slightly in the dim light.

"You know, you’re a real killjoy, Miles," he muttered, tossing the half-empty vodka bottle into a nearby trash can with a loud clatter. He slid his sunglasses back down over his eyes, masking his expression. "Keep playing the grumpy lone wolf. I’m supposed to go out there, take a dive for the cameras, and make everyone look amazing. Because that’s what heroes do."