Chương 85: Phase One

Before he could forget, Meno sent Chadculator his phone number on Streamline. Some kind of disaster was definitely coming. Guilds were bad enough when somebody competent ran them. GraveMistake had Meno as a public face, Chadculator as acting manager, and a fanbase that enjoyed chaos. Better to be reachable before the lawsuits started. Meno took a shower, then opened Jaxxon's boxes and picked the first combination that looked sane. Black heavyweight tee. Charcoal tapered trousers. Soft olive overshirt.

Minimalist black sneakers. A dark jacket came out next, sharp enough that Meno stared at it suspiciously before putting it on because everything in the pile seemed designed to stop him from making choices. When he looked in the mirror, the result was unexpected. He looked good. Not like he belonged in a magazine. But he looked like a man who had meant to dress this way, which was already a dramatic improvement over wet swim shorts and slippers.

Meno wasted five minutes trying to improve his smell and found nothing useful in the apartment. The only scented option was lemon bathroom refresher, and even Meno had limits.

"Natural organic musk," he said.

"Very exclusive." Bradbaron had sent him an address in the northern rich area of Vernova, similar to where Lysa and Jonas lived, except more expensive, less neighborly, and more likely to have security cameras judging your shoes. The trip was boring, which helped a little, because his brain kept circling the Aurelia call under the surface like Ashfang Volcano deciding whether to erupt or take a vacation first. Halfway there, he realized he had forgotten to bring a gift. Of course.

Meno stopped at a store along the way and found mostly food, candles, and small items that looked like answers to problems nobody had. Food felt pointless and the candle felt too personal. Near the counter, a cheap display of tacky necklaces caught his eye. One had a black string and a gold-painted metal plate stamped with the words I AM RICH, and looked almost like a dog collar. It was awful enough to become funny, maybe. Meno bought it before taste could interfere.

Bradbaron's house was less a house and more a glass mansion on the beach. An unnecessarily large garden spread around it, trimmed and lit in a way that suggested Bradbaron paid people to maintain areas he probably crossed twice a year. Expensive cars already lined the road, and Meno arrived slightly late, which felt appropriate for a guest who had purchased the gift in transit. An attendant answered the door, asked his name, checked something on a tablet, and led him inside. The party was already in full effect.

Around thirty people stood in clusters with drinks, expensive watches, and voices trained to sound casual about money. Meno recognized exactly none of them. Most of the women looked mid-twenties and wore cocktail dresses that had never met a discount rack, while many of the men were closer to Bradbaron's age, suited up and treating the birthday like a networking raid.

The attendant led him straight to Bradbaron, who looked exactly like a forty-one-year-old version of his Veyrath avatar: shiny bald head, casual sports jacket, dark jeans, drink in hand, and enough confidence to scam people for gold and get away with it.

"MenoBeadGod," Bradbaron noticed him and rushed over immediately.

"I am glad you came. You are looking sharp." Meno already questioned the decision.

"I said I would. Could you maybe just stick to Meno? Thanks."

"Don't worry." Bradbaron threw an arm wide.

"Now let me show you off to my friends. I always love taunting them about knowing famous people they do not."

"I am not that famous."

"Oh, you are plenty famous. I heard they put a picture of you up in Feltforge Systems offices and use it as a dart board." Meno stared.

"What?" There was no way the people running Veyrath used his face as target practice. Probably. Maybe.

"It's a good thing," Bradbaron said.

"Don't panic." Meno wanted to panic hard, so he pushed the necklace into Bradbaron's hand instead.

"Happy birthday." Bradbaron looked down at the necklace, and his brain clearly failed to process the object.

"What's this?"

"A gift." Bradbaron read the plate, then laughed so loudly that the entire party quieted and turned to check if he was choking, dying, or discovering a tax loophole. People drifted closer as he put the necklace over his head and held up the plate.

"Look, guys," Bradbaron shouted.

"I am rich!" The party erupted, and Meno felt relief settle in. The gift had landed. He did not care enough to be embarrassed, and the thing had cost two pizza slices worth of credits, so technically everyone should have respected its weight. Bradbaron wiped one eye.

"Thanks a lot. This is great. I love getting stuff I would never buy myself but always wanted."

"Sure." The party returned to its conversations. Bradbaron leaned closer.

"There is someone here I promised could meet you. You already know her, so it should not be a big deal. Right?" Meno looked at him suspiciously.

"Who? I hope you are not trying to pull nonsense."

"I promise. She is outside." Bradbaron led him toward the beach side, where tables had been set up under warm evening lights and the darkening sky made the party feel like it was only getting started. Two women sat near the edge of the terrace, one in a green dress and one who looked familiar in a way Meno's brain refused to name quickly. Then she stood. Meno stopped believing his eyes for half a second. It was Oxide.

She wore a short glossy red dress with side cutouts over her stomach, and she looked like she had repaired herself from negative durability straight into mythic gear. The circles around her eyes were gone. Her long brown hair no longer looked like a bush had won a fight. Her skin, posture, and smile all suggested the disaster version had been optional the entire time. Why the hell was she here? Oxide clicked toward them in high heels, hands apart like greeting a long-lost friend.

"Prayerballs! You look awwwsome. Didn't know you were a Jaxxon fan." Meno cried internally. It was indeed Oxide. Apparently, she had repaired her gear, but the personality remained damaged. Meno immediately understood the danger zone. She was extremely hot, which meant this was a boss encounter with bait phases.

Strategy crystallized fast: do not fall for it, because women in mythic gear were always the start of a long quest chain, and be unpleasant enough that she left him alone by choice, but not so unpleasant that he triggered an enrage phase and got deleted. Bradbaron quietly left. Meno marked him for contract retaliation. Profit share percentages were about to experience a balance patch. Oxide stopped in front of him and stared into his eyes.

"You are all hot junk already, and it's just phase one." That was a strong counter opener. Meno needed a defensive card before she started ramping. Hostility was expected, silence gave her tempo, and a compliment with obnoxious delivery might interrupt her line just long enough to escape. He committed before he could retreat.

"Did you get a durability buff?" Meno asked.

"Because you went from battle-damaged NPC to final-boss drop real quick." Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. He cringed internally. It was technically a compliment, but underhanded, overconfident, and exactly the kind of line he hated. Oxide's friend in the green dress overheard and lost it.

"Told ya from the back!" The debuff hit Meno's confidence immediately. Oxide put a hand over her mouth in fake shock.

"Now that should have been critical cringe, but Prayerballs, you are sooo innocent. It makes me feel seen." Low defense value. High penetration response. Meno's opener had failed because too much of it had sounded genuine. Trying to act extra cringe was hard when his default setting already did the work. He needed a move she would not expect. What would JaxxonVale do?

Meno straightened his shoulders, checked the open space between the tables, and looked Oxide in the eyes with as much fake confidence as he could gather. Then he extended one hand, palm-up, like he had seen in old movies.

"May I have a dance?" Genuine shock flashed across her face, and Meno celebrated internally. It worked. Her deck reset, her plan stalled, and now he just had to be progressively more annoying until she backed out. Oxide looked around, checking if anyone else was dancing.

"Here? We are not at the dancing part yet."

"No problem." Meno turned toward the house and shouted loud enough to ruin several conversations.

"Bradbaron! Put some music on. We are about to dance!" Of course Bradbaron could not resist causing trouble. Instead of normal party beat music people could use to fake dancing, a proper rhythm snapped through the speakers. Pa-pa-PUM, pa-pa-PUM. Quick feet, dangerous hips, brass and percussion demanding competence from people who had none. Meno had no idea what it was called. Maybe salsa. Maybe mambo. Maybe jumbo.

His entire dance history consisted of drunken random movement near club speakers, and now he was painfully sober, facing an actual partner, and trying to frame the whole thing as a boss fight before fear found a better angle. If he tried to mimic dancing and failed, Oxide could play a pity card and call him cute. Unacceptable. To avoid destroying her feet, he took off his shoes and socks and threw them aside.

"Take off your heels," Meno said.

"I am going fast and deadly. You need to keep up." After saying it, he reflexively looked to the side for chat reaction, then shook his head. Streamer brain was acting up.

"Oxy, retreat!" her friend shouted.

"You can't dance at all."

"Course I can," Oxide said, rounding on her.

"You just watch, Carla. This guy thinks he has one-upped me. Never happening." Meno watched her sit and take off her heels as people emerged from inside, drawn by the sudden change in music and the promise of someone embarrassing themselves. Good. More witnesses meant more pressure for Oxide to quit first. Bad. More witnesses meant Meno had to exist in front of them. The terrace lights illuminated the open space between the tables, and he told himself it would not take long. He only needed Oxide to back out first.

Oxide finished taking off her heels and walked toward Meno with one foot placed in front of the other, slow and deliberate, like a cat daring him to make his move. The salsa snapped through terrace, bright brass riding over a hot, restless beat that seemed to strike up through Meno's bare soles. Her red dress caught the light with every step, glossy and short, the cutouts at her sides flashing warm skin as her long brown hair shifted over her shoulders. Pa-pa-PUM, pa-pa-PUM.

Meno stood his ground with a careless confidence that felt almost convincing from the outside. Inside his body, everything had gone sharply awake. His shoulders measured the distance between them, his hands braced for the problem of touching her, and his pulse began answering the drums before he gave it permission. Oxide stopped close enough that the air between them changed temperature.

When she lifted her hand, he took it like he was accepting a duel, fingers closing around hers with a steadiness he did not quite feel. The first contact was small, palm to palm, but it gave the music a wire to travel through. The beat hit. Oxide stepped in, bold and slightly off-rhythm, and Meno slid back just as her weight entered the space where his had been.

Their hands stayed linked, so the retreat pulled through his wrist, traveled up his arm, caught at her shoulder, and turned her beneath him in a rough, sudden arc. Red gloss flashed under the lights. Her hair swung wide. The cutouts at her waist made the twist look sharper than either of them had earned. She came out of it unsteady, toes searching for grip a fraction too late. Meno felt the wobble through their joined hands before he saw it, a tiny break in her balance, a stutter in the line between them.

He stepped closer, palm finding her waist just long enough to steady her. Pa-pa-PUM. Her steps were wrong, but they were wrong with nerve. Oxide pressed forward again, shoulders loose and daring while her bare feet argued with the beat. Meno moved around each commitment, not fleeing exactly, not leading properly either, but shaping himself around the force of her. When she leaned left, he opened space to the right.

When she crowded him, he pivoted just enough for her to pass close, his foot sliding warm against the floor as her hip brushed his thigh. When her turn went wide, he caught the pull in his fingers, tightened just enough, and drew her back before the motion spun loose. For a few seconds, they were all near-misses. Elbows almost wrong. Feet almost tangled. Her shoulder almost into his chest, his hand almost too late at her back. The music kept striking at them anyway, patient and merciless. Pa-pa-PUM, pa-pa-PUM.

Oxide's shoulders loosened first. Then her hips found the beat, not neatly, but deeply, with a reckless honesty that made the rest of her body follow. The red gloss of her dress caught each quick turn, bright as a warning flare against the darker swing of her hair. Her movements came in bursts now, sharp and uneven and alive, each one throwing warmth into the hand he kept at her back. Meno stopped trying to think. Thinking was too slow, too square, too far away from the floor. His body read her through pressure.

The shift of weight in her fingers. The push of her palm. The small gathering in her spine before a turn. He answered in muscle and breath: sidestep into dodge, dodge into lead, lead into a pull that brought her across his front and sent her outward again. She reached the end of his arm and nearly lost the line. Her bare foot skidded, caught, and gripped. Meno widened his stance before she came back, knees soft, weight low, ready for the impact. She came back too fast.

He caught her at the waist, not delicately, not smoothly, but with enough strength that the near collision became a close hold instead. Her breath hit the side of his jaw, warm and startled, and for one beat the salsa seemed to pass directly between their ribs. His fingers flexed once at her side, adjusting the hold before it could become clumsy. Then he turned her out of it. Oxide snapped away with a bright shock running through her posture, as if she had expected to stumble and found speed instead.

Meno drew her back on the return beat, and this time she came willingly, faster, already smiling with her whole body before her mouth had time to catch up. The empty space around them seemed to grow louder. There was nowhere to hide in it, no other dancers to blur the edges of what they were doing, no borrowed rhythm to make them look less exposed. The room narrowed to friction, pulse, and the scrape of bare soles over the floor. To Oxide's hand in his.

To the dangerous press of her body each time the music threw her back toward him. Neither of them danced correctly, and correctness quietly lost the argument. Oxide moved like someone who understood pressure in her bones. She baited him with a forward step, cut direction at the last instant, and slipped past his side, close enough that his breath caught against the movement of her hair. Meno pivoted hard to follow, the turn biting through his hips and knees, their joined hands snapping taut on the beat.

She passed behind him in a rush of glossy red. He ducked beneath their arms and came up facing her again, chest rising too fast now, the air tasting of perfume, sweat, and brass. Oxide rode the momentum back toward him, and the look in her eyes made the next step feel less like a mistake than a dare. Pa-pa-PUM, ta-ka, pa-PUM. The music quickened, and so did they. Meno sent her outward, giving her more line than before, and Oxide used the length of his arm like a tether at the edge of a fall.

She reached the end, twisted through her hips, and came back with twice the speed. He stepped across her path and forced her around him. She cut closer than expected, driving straight into his space, and he absorbed her momentum through his stance. The impact rolled through his thighs, up his spine, into the hand at her back, becoming a sideways sweep that carried them both across the open floor. A stumble became a dip. A mistimed turn became a held breath.

A wrong step became the drag of her hip past his, the brush of her hand along his shoulder, the sudden stop of his palm against her waist. The contact kept changing shape. Wrist to hand. Hand to back. Back to shoulder. Every touch lasted only long enough to redirect weight, but each one left a little heat behind. They were learning each other by balance and correction, by the places where one body almost failed and the other arrived in time.

Oxide stopped trying to make the movement look like anything she had seen before. Her dancing grew stranger after that, less polished and far more dangerous, all sudden angles and fearless weight. She gave herself to the beat in reckless pieces, and Meno caught each piece before it could hit the floor. He caught, redirected, circled, released. Each time she came back more daring, faster, closer. Each time he gave her less room to escape and more room to burn. The game in his head thinned until it was barely there.

No attack pattern, no dodge window; only the shift of Oxide's weight through his palm, only the beat hammering up through his legs, only the quick exchange of pressure and response that made thought feel clumsy. Pa-pa-PUM. She stepped into him with bare-footed nerve, and his body answered before pride could interfere.

Their hands changed places in a quick, tangled exchange; her shoulder brushed his chest; his palm slid to the line of her back and guided her into a turn that almost failed, then bloomed at the last second into something wild and clean. The salsa climbed higher. Brass flared overhead while the percussion cracked at their feet, and Oxide spun once, then again, red dress flashing, long brown hair whipping across her shoulder as the second turn tilted too far off-axis.

Meno dropped with her instead of hauling her upright, bending into the fall until his arm braced her low and her back arched over it. Pa-pa-PUM. For a suspended beat, she was all trust in his arms, throat exposed, hair swinging, breath open. Meno felt the strain in his thighs, the pull through his forearm, the hard rhythm of his own pulse as he held her there. His bare toes pressed into the floor, gripping for both of them. Then he brought her up. Oxide came up moving. No pause. No reset.

She drove forward with reckless joy, and Meno matched her, not controlling so much as answering. She drew him off center; he made the imbalance travel. He sent her away; she returned through a sharper path than the one he had given her. They tore through the empty stretch of floor as if it had been built for them, crossing from light into shadow and back again. Too fast to seem cautious, too connected to seem lost, they filled the space with motion until the rest of the room felt distant and thin.

Their breath broke in the same places now, sharp on the turns, heavier on the catches. Their mistakes fed the rhythm, and the rhythm fed the mistakes. By the final stretch, they were no longer pretending to know the steps, or pretending not to care, or pretending the closeness was only choreography. Sweat made their grip less neat, so they held tighter, adjusted faster, trusted sooner. They danced like something had climbed into the music and chosen them as its hands.

Oxide moved with bright, reckless force now, all quick turns, sudden drops, and molten recoveries. Meno moved around her and with her, sometimes leading, sometimes following, sometimes pulled forward by the simple need to stay connected. The act of arrogance was gone; what remained was breath, timing, and the stunned discovery that his body had known this language all along under another name. The last beats hit hard.

Oxide turned out from him one final time, arm extended, fingers slipping almost free before he caught her by the last thread of contact. She reached the end of that line, twisted, and came whipping back on the closing pulse, not falling, not simply returning, but pouring the last of her momentum into him as the song crashed around them. He caught her close and steady. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Her breath came fast against his throat; his hand stayed firm at her back; their bodies remained braced together as if the rhythm might return and punish them for separating too soon. The room crept back around them in pieces: lights, voices, heat, watching faces. Meno had meant to make himself unbearable enough for her to leave.

Instead, Oxide remained in his arms, flushed and bright-eyed, her red dress still catching the afterglow of the lights, her fingers curled in his shirt as if the dance had not ended at all. As if it had only changed phases.