The first of July was... indecent. That’s the only word for it. An invitation-only Halo concert in one of the city’s floating crystal atriums, suspended over Marina Bay. Just a hundred of the richest, most perfectly groomed monsters on the planet. They drank imported firewater from spirit-tempered crystal and watched Halo give them a glimpse of divinity—not that any of them had the decency to understand what they were witnessing.
No recording, no streaming. That's the point of these things. Exclusivity is the new immortality.
JJ made his first appearance in public as his new self. The tail, the scales, the eyes. The bespoke suit cost more than most people make in a year, but he wore it like it had grown onto him. Say what you will about corporate culture—no one tailors like Singapore’s finest.
I think he'll be fine. I didn’t say anything, but I'm sure.
We left on the 2nd. No delays, no debriefs. The Bangkok concert was officially canceled—security “concerns”—and Samarkand had graciously offered to step in. Whether Vivek did it for PR or curiosity, I couldn’t say. But it meant moving fast.
Samarkand is a city that remembers it used to be the center of the world. Silk roads paved in credsticks now. Beneath the neon and glass, you can feel the bones of empires. The dragon built over the old without burying it. That’s what real power looks like.
We hit the bazars, wandered the winding alleys, soaked in the heat and incense. Bought too many things. Ate too much street food. Vanya got into an argument with a knife-seller that somehow turned into a dance battle—with a bit of bloodshed added.
We ended the night in a tavern built into a sunken ruin, three stories underground. Thick carpets, hookahs with things I don’t want to know the names of, music that curled like smoke through the air. No prohibition here. The dragon tolerates indulgence—probably encourages it. Makes it easier to watch what people do when they think they’re safe.
We drank. A lot. Fuzzy and Tag had a contest. No clear winner. Slag started lecturing about the insanity of Japanese culture. JJ tried to show someone how to do a tail flip and crashed into a tapestry. It was... good.
And then she arrived.
Ayesha Vivekzai. One of the daughters of the dragon himself. They say he has a hundred—maybe a thousand—but Ayesha isn’t just any of them. She has presence. Magic, yes. Beauty, obviously. But also that quiet arrogance that only comes from being raised by something ancient and vast.
She sat across from me, sipping something cold and blue, eyes like a desert storm. Said she’d come to “see what kind of man tames a storm goddess.” I told her I didn’t tame anything. She smiled and said that was even more impressive.
The rest of the team? One by one, they slipped away. Some passed out. Some were politely escorted. Vanya was mid-rant about carpets when her eyes rolled back and she slumped sideways. I’d like to think it was the alcohol.
Ayesha and I were alone. She asked me if I would refuse her. Said that if I did, her father would kill her for the insult. Said it with a smile and a tilt of her head, like it was a line from a play. I didn’t ask if it was true.
She kissed me. I kissed her back.
What else was I going to do? I’ve done worse for less noble reasons.
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