Kyyre was a little dazed, both hands planted on the bar as he stared into the polished wood, thoughts slipping through his mind like water through cupped fingers. Well, not really thoughts—more like white noise, static humming between his ears, an empty sort of disconnect that kept him just far enough removed from the present to feel weightless. His eyes had drifted off, unfocused and glazed over, his mind floating somewhere far from the crowd, from the tournament, from the mess he had willingly walked into.

Leon’s voice pulled him back. The sound of his name, or maybe just the shift in tone, something steady cutting through the fog. Kyyre blinked up at him, slightly disoriented, his expression unreadable save for the flicker of recognition behind his pale pink eyes. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t get the chance to ask what? before his gaze shifted and landed on the bartender, who was watching him expectantly.

Order. Drink.

"Vodka," he said, quick, but too quiet. The words barely made it past his lips, and for a horrible second, he thought she might not have heard him, that she might ask him to repeat himself. He wasn’t sure if he had it in him to say it again. His voice already felt thin in his throat, strained around the edges. But whether she caught it or not, she moved away without a word, leaving Kyyre to exhale in something close to relief.

Honestly? He didn’t even care what she brought him. If it wasn’t vodka, he’d drink it anyway. The thought of correcting her, of speaking up again, felt like too much effort, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with whatever weight came with it. It wasn’t the drink that mattered—it was the distraction, the sharp burn that might help keep him tethered to the moment instead of drifting off again.

Leon spoke, his words smooth and easy, though the flicking of his tail betrayed the sharpness beneath them. Kyyre turned his attention back to him, watching with pale eyes that were still fighting to stay grounded, to pay attention, to be here.

"This is your first tournament, isn’t it?"

It wasn’t a question, not really. It was a statement, an observation, spoken with the kind of certainty that made Kyyre’s stomach twist.

He blinked, slow and deliberate, before finally nodding, dragging his fingers across the bar in a lazy, aimless motion. “Yeah.” His voice came out softer than he intended, but he didn’t bother correcting it. Instead, he let the word settle between them, feeling the weight of it press down against his ribs.

He hesitated before adding, “I was never meant to compete. Not really.” The words felt strange on his tongue, like something he hadn’t meant to say out loud. But it was the truth, wasn’t it?

His gaze flickered toward the crowd, toward the expectant faces that would be watching, waiting, anticipating the moment he either proved himself or broke apart entirely.

Leon wasn’t wrong. They weren’t people here. They were entertainment.

He had never been meant for this.

He exhaled softly, rubbing his temple with one hand, fingers pressing just a little too hard against his skull. “It’s exhausting already,” he muttered, half to himself.

—

Astrid wanted to vomit. Genuinely, violently wanted to let go of Andromeda’s hand, keel over, and retch onto the cold stone floor at just the thought of intimacy with her. It sat in his stomach like spoiled meat, like something curdled and rotting, festering in his gut.

"It was never my intention to put you in a bed," he said, voice clipped but measured, forced into something neutral despite the disgust curling at the back of his throat. He tried to coach his tone into his usual cadence, to mask the way his stomach twisted, but there was something just a little too tight in the way he spoke, an edge just sharp enough to slip through.

Andromeda continued speaking, and he listened—at least, technically. The words reached him, but they barely stuck, the overwhelming nausea clouding his thoughts, making it difficult to focus on anything beyond the simple need to put as much space between himself and this conversation as possible.

"As I said," he hissed, voice cutting through the stagnant air like a knife, "if I find a scratch on him, two people are dying before the tournament even begins."

His words were a warning, but his departure was a promise.

He turned sharply, sweeping down the hall with quick, purposeful strides, his cloak flaring slightly behind him as his pace steadily increased. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into loose fists before flexing open again, as if trying to shake off the lingering sensation of Andromeda’s hand in his. His jaw was locked tight, his teeth grinding against each other, every muscle in his body wound tense with barely restrained revulsion.

By the time he reached the door to his quarters, he could barely keep himself together. He didn’t wait for the guards, didn’t acknowledge their presence—he just grabbed the key himself, wrenching it from its place and jamming it into the lock with a sharp twist of his wrist. The door slammed behind him with enough force to shake the frame, but he barely registered it.

He made it to the bathroom just in time.

The nausea that had been clawing at him since the moment Andromeda had spoken finally reached its breaking point, and he doubled over the toilet, retching violently, his body shuddering with each wave of disgust. His fingers clutched at the cold porcelain, his knuckles white as he coughed, spitting out the last remnants of bile, trying to rid himself of the sheer vileness of it all.

He braced himself against the sink, breathing heavily, eyes squeezed shut.

Disgusting. Utterly vile.