The dark elvish woman in the previously empty frame winked at Mitch and continued her sensual dance to the beat of the gothic house music. The bass reverberated through the floor. She gyrated into the neighboring frame, where a man covered in featureless black armor silently stared out at the wild crowd. Most frames held someone or something, he wasn’t sure what all of them were. They either partied behind thin glass or engaged in other adult physical activities.

Mitch watched them curiously as he cleared the back table. The scent of spiced incense barely masked the stench of sweat and leather. He made sure to prick his finger with a broken glass, sending a small jolt of power through him.

There must be a few hundred frames, and they all contain someone…Was she stabbed in the chest? Did I see that?

“Glasses! Need glasses! Mitch, grab a Nightswart Absinthe bottle from the cellar, now! The good one in the back!” Robin’s high pitched voice screamed into his earpiece.

Crae’s Agency proved tough to push through. All members carried sinister weapons openly, and few were the polite type. Giant orcs wore bulky armor and drank dark liquor from the bottle. Elven members sported black leathers and knowing eyes. Mitch even spotted a shirtless zombie with a giant greatsword strapped to his back. The gray man’s nod was the friendliest he received as Mitch salmoned his big body through the crowd.

The tray of glasses he balanced above the crowd teetered as people drunkenly danced and partied around him. Working the busy buyout helped keep Mitch’s mind off of everything, and he was happy to feel semi-normal while working his shift, even if the crowd was different.

Pretty normal, minus the different races and friendly monsters. Too busy to think about the Souls and Flesh I’m…uh…holding.

“Oy! Leave me damn bloody nipples alone, ye’ stinking animal,” Hathgar’s voice cut through the mayhem. Looking over, he spotted his short friend holding two giant ice blocks above his head while an aged cat-featured beastkin woman held his nipple between clawed fingers.

“Oh, Hathy, you know me, just playing,” the woman said while laughing, giving him a twist before releasing him. “Here, have this.”

“Gah! Don’t transfer me twenty Credits,” Hathgar turned and shuffled away, deeper into the crowd towards a table that held the requested ‘food’.

Disgusting.

Above the crowd, Mitch spotted a platter piled high with Boneclaw Slurry, a gelatinous stew that quivered unsettlingly from the bass. Bits of indeterminate meat floated alongside mushy bones. Round the slop were potato chips covered in green slime.

A sour, metallic tang filled the air from the food, mingling with the pervasive scent of body odor, smoke, and alcohol. Mitch’s stomach turned looking at it. Nixie had explained that it was meant to ‘challenge’ the senses.

Or punish them…

Thankfully, Hathgar had stowed simple grilled meat for them at their barback station in the back. Fighting and killing Grimlace addicts had made him surprisingly ravenous.

“That was a long time ago, Larya! Leave it!” Mitch grinned at Hathgar’s insulted tone as he rounded the bar. Finally, he was able to drop his tray off with the barmaids.

“Thanks,” Nixie shot Mitch a smile as she began to help him load glasses into the washer. “Need these. Fucking Crae’s drink like fish, specially that bitch,” she grumbled as she focussed on the task.

Mitch was still in shock about her. He knew people like her existed from his body's memories, but his mind was still playing catch up.

He stole looks at the thick stitches that held her together. She was a thick bodied Patchling, knitted together from various human body parts, reanimated, and given a fresh life. All of Club Mythos’s barmaidens were Robin’s creations. For the most part, the girls loved him for it and were viciously loyal.

He only makes women though. Bit creepy.

“Can’t believe she would even show face here after screwing us over. She’s a Scrapling alright. Something ain’t right with all of them, I’ll tell you that.” The slur cut sharply out of Nixie’s threaded-on lips.

“Who? And you shouldn’t use that word, Nix.” Mitch glanced from the bar, scanning the crowd for another Patchling. They were hard to pick out unless you could spot their stitches.

“One yellow eye. There,” Nixie nodded towards the cellar, where a small woman danced alone. Drink in hand, she swayed to the music in the small circle that surrounded her. “Sable’s off. Always was. It’s what happens when too many different bodies are used.”

“Sable? Isn’t she high up in Crae’s? She’s a Patchling?” He pretended to know. How a stitched together body managed to descend into the Depths to fight and loot was beyond him. He assumed they were fragile.

“Ditched us, and never looked back. Her own sisters,” she spat on the bar floor, shaking her head. “Still need that Nightswart Absinthe, can you go grab it? They want it for their ‘game’.”

Mitch pushed his way through the rough crowd to get to the cellar. He had yet to see Crae, as the man hadn’t made his entrance yet. For how late it was in the evening, Mitch assumed that the man wouldn’t show at all.

From the inherited memories, Mitch knew that Crae’s Agency was rich and apparently paid extremely well. Descending the Depths, trading with subterranean merchants, and clearing endless Abyssal Spawn surges was the main business. The magic and often cursed loot they plundered from the deeper Depths was just what they were most well known for.

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Sable’s eyes measured Mitch as he wedged through the last of the crowd. Standing in front of the doorway of the cellar, she looked immediately annoyed. Squaring up with the newcomer in her space, one yellow eye and one red eye took in his size before realizing he was just the club’s barback. She relaxed and went back to dancing.

Mitch struggled to not stare at the black thread covered by ringlets of blonde hair that cut diagonally on her neck.

Without that, she might just be pretty.

“‘Scuse me, just need to get a bottle from there.” He croaked in his service voice, embarrassed that he needed to get past her.

“Mind yourself, big man. Get away from her or I’ll make you get away.” An orc in the circle grunted, eyeing him. Mitch met his eyes, and realized that the orc was the only other in the entire club that matched his size.

“Relax, Warrick. This one is just getting a bottle for us. Absinthe, yeah?” Her gravelly voice and casual tone surprised him. Flashing him a small smile, she moved out of the way so that he could pass. Mitch thanked her and approached the cellar door.

A loud voice boomed out from waist height, “Bit big for a bloody barback. The size of him. What in the depths has he been eating?” Glancing, Mitch saw the speaker was a dwarf, shorter than even Hathgar. The man’s wild black beard covered most of the plate armor and face, but not the giant axe strapped to his back.

Mitch crouched at the entrance of the cellar, reaching for the bottle of Nightswart Absinthe, his hands working on autopilot as his body knew exactly where to find it.

Just as he started to stand, he realized the dwarf was still talking about him.

“Bit of a waste, innit? Someone that size running your bottles, Sable?” The dwarf’s rough voice made it sound harsh. Mitch let the words roll off his back. If anything, he felt a strange pride at someone commenting on how large he was.

That’s right, I am massive.

He straightened from the cellar, bottle of glowing Nightswart Absinthe in hand, the dwarf’s words swelling him. His gaze flicked to Sable, who swayed to the beat. Her eyes assessed him with a slight smirk.

“Just because he’s big, doesn’t mean he can fight,” she said coolly, as if that settled the matter.

Mitch clenched his jaw, keeping his expression neutral. A tension built inside of him. Fighting back wasn’t something he had been great at in his old life–but he was different now. The Grimmers he’d dealt with proved that. The Souls pulsed within him, dark, powerful, and waiting.

Could I fight actual warriors? Can I really do what I think I have to?

Those souls, they weren’t just for collecting or currency. They were for something more. Granting him power and strength. He felt their battle cry thrum within him. Over the last few hours, the scratching souls that had previously wanted to escape had settled. As if they liked being within his core.

The dwarf’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Heh, I’d like to see him try. What’s the point of being so bloody large if you’re not going to use it, eh?”

Warrick chuckled darkly from the side, sizing Mitch up with a sharp gaze. “Aye. Urgar’s got a point. What’s the point of life if you ain’t damn well fighting?”

Mitch tensed but kept quiet, focussing on his breathing. The souls inside his vault stirred, feeling the beginnings of a confrontation.

Hohoho, it is definitely more fun fighting when you’re this big.

Sable waved a hand dismissively, though her eyes lingered on Mitch for a moment longer than they should have. “There’ll be plenty of fighting soon enough, boys,” she said with a sly smile. “Once everyone sees what’s up for grabs, you’ll get all the brawls you want.”

Before Mitch could question what she meant, the atmosphere shifted. The dim lights flickered once, and a cold shiver slithered through the room. Robin had finally arrived.

He didn’t walk. He simply glided onto the dancefloor, his form drifting effortlessly through the air. Robin flashed the crowd his easy too-wide smile that glowed, a gesture he knew would draw everyone’s eyes. A handsome man in his mid-thirties with slicked-back black hair and mixed features. Wrapped in a shimmering blue suit, his figure blurred at the edges, as if his ghostly form couldn’t anchor itself to reality. To his credit, he didn’t need solid form to command the room. The house music pulsed in sync with his arrival.

Robin was interesting enough to draw eyes. But what drew everyone’s attention was the black box he carried in his hands. Thick silver chains wrapped around it. Despite having an ethereal form and hands, Robin held Mathilda’s party favor forward for all to see.

And then Mitch felt it. An invisible force swept through the club. There had been no notification, no build up. Robin had activated a Skill. The moment it surged through the room, everything sharpened. The air felt heavier, the lights brighter, and the sounds of the house music thumped within Mitch’s body. Robin’s Skill would open people up, turning up the dial of their emotions to the maximum.

Oh, that’s fun.

The Souls within him stirred relentlessly, responding to the power within the air. Everyone watched as Robin tapped the chains, which unraveled themselves and clattered to the floor. Robin raised the black box above his head, relishing the anticipation in the room. Mitch’s eyes were locked onto the box as well.

Something in me craves what’s inside.

“Now, now…” Robin’s high-pitched voice cut through like silk. “No need for any impatience, my friends.” With a flourish, he lifted the lid of the black box. The room tensed further.

Then it shot out–small, black, fast as lightning. A one-eyed, dark entity, trailing smoke as it zipped through the crowd. It blurred in a streak of shadow. Its single glowing eye blinked as it suddenly stopped and hovered mid air, its body swirling with dark tendrils. The crowd gasped, awestruck.

Robin’s voice cut through the murmur. “This,” he announced, his tone playing to the eager crowd, “is one of the rarest specimens ever recovered from the Abyss. A Shadowshroud, still alive.” He floated above them, eyes gleaming in the ghostly light. “Courtesy of Crae, and myself. One of the only Abyssal creatures that can be bound to anyone. A living, growing protector.”

I want it. I need it.

The room buzzed with excitement, but Mitch barely registered it. The Souls inside him screamed, clawing at his insides. Urging him forward. To fight for this floating creature.

Robin’s gaze flicked to Mitch, and for a split second, their eyes met. “Only one of you walks away with it,” he said, almost laughing. “Do ensure it is you.”

Mitch’s hands balled into fists, his chest tight with need. He wasn’t sure why, but the pull was undeniable.

I have to win this. Time to put this body to use.

Sable strode forward onto the cleared dance floor to stand next to Robin. “You know the rules,” she declared with authority, her one yellow eye glinting. “One on one, until there’s a victor. No weapons. No armor. No Active Skills,” she let the crowd hang in anticipation before shouting in her gravelly voice, “Bear Pits!”

The crowd erupted, cheering with excitement and bloodlust. Then they started chanting.

“Two men enter, one man leaves! Two men enter, one man leaves!”