Jenny smirked back, her fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. She took his outstretched arm with a playful glint in her eye. “I’ll take that as a compliment, though I suspect you’re buttering me up.”

“Me? Never,” John replied, feigning innocence with a smile that only served to confirm her suspicions. “No trouble on your way here?”

“None. Marshall dropped me off directly. He had to dash off, something urgent. I assume that was your doing?”

“Guilty,” John admitted, pulling a small brooch from his pocket. He handed it to her with a little flourish.

Jenny’s slender fingers wrapped around it as her eyes sparkled with curiosity. The brooch featured a silver snake coiled around a blooming rose. Her long lashes dipped slightly as she traced the delicate petals with her fingertips, the gesture unintentionally mesmerizing. “Have you met him?” she asked, her tone carefully neutral.

“I have. Your family’s got style, I’ll give them that. Artistic flair seems to run deep.” She chuckled softly, though there was a touch of sadness in it. “Dad designed this. He was always more of an artist than a governor. Maybe that’s why he ended up the way he did.”

For once, John’s usual smirk faded. His expression turned serious, a rarity for him. “Your uncle’s a grade-A bastard. The kind of noble that makes you wish they came with a return policy. Even by the Imperium’s standards, he’s a real piece of work.”

Jenny’s gaze lingered on him, trying to decipher if his words carried a personal edge or if he was simply stating a fact. Either way, she decided it didn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. “So, what’s your plan to deal with him? Bolter to the head?” she asked, her voice light but probing.

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” John said, placing a hand gently on her arm. His grin returned, brighter than before. “Big plans. You know I like to save the details for a dramatic reveal. Adds to the suspense.”

Jenny sighed, though the corners of her lips tugged upward despite herself. “And why, pray tell, did you choose this place for our date tonight?”

“What’s wrong with it? The Sharman Club’s top-notch, exclusive, and booked solid. I pulled strings for this.”

“Sure, it’s a lovely spot, but it’s owned by that syndicate boss, Philip. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘romantic getaway.’”

John chuckled, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Consider it multitasking. Fine dining and scheming all in one.” The pair strolled through the lush garden leading up to the club, the air fragrant with exotic flowers. The club’s entrance shimmered with an almost obnoxious display of lights, and a long queue of eager patrons stretched down the street.

Naturally, John had no intention of waiting. He sauntered right up to the entrance, his confidence cutting through the murmurs of discontent from the crowd. “Hey! Sir! Back of the line!” shouted a young aristocrat, clearly unused to being ignored.

John turned slowly, fixing the boy with a look that somehow managed to be both amused and menacing. “If I were you, kid, I’d keep quiet. Might save you some embarrassment.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The boy faltered, though his indignation drew the attention of the club’s doorman and two hulking guards in tailored suits. The doorman approached, his expression professional but firm. “Sir, everyone queues. No exceptions,” the doorman stated, gesturing toward the line.

John leaned in slightly, tapping the clipboard in the doorman’s hand. “Check the list. Name’s John Constantine. Should be there.”

The doorman’s eyes widened briefly before he composed himself. He skimmed the list and then nodded. “Of course. My apologies, Mr. Constantine. You and your companion may proceed. I’ll inform Mr. Philip of your arrival.”

John nodded graciously, leading Jenny inside as the murmurs from the line were quickly silenced by the guards’ imposing glares.

Inside, the club was a kaleidoscope of decadence. The dance floor pulsed with music, its obsidian surface glinting under shifting lights. Men and women, draped in luxury, danced with abandon while others lounged with drinks and substances that definitely weren’t legal. Jenny took it all in with a bemused smile. “It’s funny. When I first came here, I didn’t notice how… peculiar it all was. Now it’s hard to miss.”

“Imperium’s finest,” John said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “They’re nothing if not committed to indulgence.” He extended a hand toward her, bowing slightly for dramatic effect. “Care for a dance?”

Jenny raised an eyebrow but eventually relented, slipping her hand into his. “Fine. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

They moved to the center of the floor, where John’s arm slid around her waist. They danced effortlessly, as if they’d been doing this for years. Her dress shimmered like starlight, and his silver-armored boots tapped in perfect rhythm.

As they twirled and spun, it felt as though the rest of the room faded into the background. The music, the lights, the crowd—all of it became a blur, leaving only the two of them at the center of the universe.

When Jenny spun outward, her skirt flaring like a blooming flower, John caught her smoothly, pulling her close once more. She laughed, the sound like a melody that complemented the music perfectly. John leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I’ll get you back on that throne, princess. Believe me.”

Jenny’s lips curved into a soft smile. “I do believe you, my king.”

For a moment, they stood frozen in time, their eyes locked. But just as they leaned in, the spell was broken by a polite cough. The doorman from earlier had returned, looking sheepish but resolute. “My apologies, Mr. Constantine. Mr. Philip requests your presence.”

John sighed, then turned to Jenny with an apologetic grin. “Rain check?”

She chuckled, slipping her arm through his. “Absolutely. Let’s handle business first. Then we’ll pick up where we left off.”

It’s kind of funny when you think about it. Violent gangs always get slapped with labels like barbaric, vulgar, and ignorant—like they’re the dirt stuck to humanity’s shoes. Even the Pious Society, with their sanctimonious airs, don’t escape this perception. Take the Hammers, for example. If you saw them, you’d peg them as your run-of-the-mill under-hive rabble.

But then, there’s the Syndicate. Oh, they’re something else entirely. Unlike the usual gang types who look like they’ve crawled out of a scrap heap, these guys are dapper as hell. Picture this: sleek suits, perfect hairstyles, and weapons that look more like museum pieces than tools of destruction. They’re less gang, more aristocratic cosplay group—if aristocrats spent their free time running the hive’s black markets. Their polished vibe is thanks to their boss, Philipus von Jean Christol.

Yeah, that’s a mouthful. Sounds like someone choked on a noble family tree. And surprise, surprise, Philip (as he’s called) is nobility. Well, sort of. He’s the illegitimate son of the late Lord Jean Christol. Apparently, the old man couldn’t keep it in his pants, and now we’ve got Philip—a blond, smooth-talking club king ruling over the hive city’s nightlife.

The “King of Carnival,” they call him, and with good reason. Philip owns the swankiest clubs in the hive and has the charm to match. Ladies swoon over him, and politicians adore his “networking” events. Right now, he’s lounging in one of his private club suites, draped in luxury and women. Two stunning beauties cling to him, their laughter as rich and intoxicating as the cocktails they sip. But Philip isn’t focused on them. His sharp mind is spinning on a very different matter—a problem that walked through his door tonight.