In New Elysion, weekends didn’t wait for calendars.
By Thursday night, the whole city was already pulsing. Portside metal bars, inner-city basement clubs, even rooftop hideouts and abandoned buildings on campus. All boiling over.
And tonight, for the first time, Solan Elric had been dragged into a full-blown house party. Like, capital-H House. The real kind.
“This is supposed to be a house?” Solan gawked at the angular, glass-paneled megastructure—a geometry professor’s fever dream given building permits.
“Correction—this is a mansion,” Matt said, giving him a friendly shove. “Scratchlist upperclassmen hosting. Word is, they’ve got fire hoses in the entry hall and medics hanging out by the snack table. You’ll be fine.”
They reached the gate—a pair of chromed doors pulsing faint light from within. Outside, a broad-shouldered guy in a bomber jacket stood sentinel, arms crossed, earpiece glowing faint blue. Not exactly security. More like a friend who’d decided he was security. Matt greeted him with that exaggerated half-hug men did when pretending not to care. “Hey, my guy,” he said, thumbing toward Solan. “This one’s with me.” The man’s gaze flicked over Solan, head to sneakers, then he gave a slow nod.
The second they stepped inside, heat and sound hit them like a wall. Not just body heat—but Kamuy energy. The kind of pressure that hummed in your teeth.
A girl was dancing upside-down from the ceiling—barefoot on a disc of golden flame, gravity-defying and spilling sweet-smelling pink sparks that people caught midair like confetti. One guy, wearing sunglasses at night, stood by the pool zapping arcs of electricity into the water every few seconds, creating ripple illusions and synchronized screams from girls in LED swimsuits. Near the stairs, an art-club-looking girl traced glowing cat animations in the air with a fingertip; each time someone passed.
Matt threw an arm over Solan’s shoulder. “Now this ,” he grinned, “is what college is supposed to feel like.”
Solan tried to approach the drinks table, but a bottle near him suddenly exploded into a hovering water sphere. A Water-type Kamuy user spun it casually on a fingertip before sipping it like soup.
The guy looked at Solan. “Newbie? Don’t touch the green stuff. Someone laced it with truth-serum Kamuy.”
“Excuse me—what?!”
Before Solan could flee the crime scene, Matt triumphantly wielding two radiant glasses from god-knows-where. “To love and poor life choices,” he toasted. “Mixed personally by Chemistry major #3. Drink it and you’ll see who you’re cosmically compatible with.”
“Please tell me you didn’t take two just to check your compatibility with me .”
“Bro,” Matt wheezed with laughter. “Just drink it.”
Solan eyed the glass like it might sprout legs and run. “If this tells me I’m meant for you, I’m jumping off the roof.”
He raised it to his lips. Didn’t even get halfway before choking. “What the HELL—!” He coughed, clawing at his throat.“That’s not alcohol. That’s molten cinnamon dragon lava! ”
Matt was already doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly slid down the wall. “Dude, you really drank it?! That’s Fire-Drake Cinnamon Reserve! Love-predicting my ass—if that worked, I’d be married by now!”
Solan couldn’t speak. His tongue was on fire. His lungs were spicy. His soul was scorched . Matt clapped him on the back.“Loosen up, man. It’s nightlife, not a final exam.”
“MATT!”
The voice was deep, roughened by laughter and too many late nights. A girl in a glitter-streaked jacket barreled toward them, half-running, half-dancing her way through the entry. Her hair flared tangerine under the club lights; a plastic cup of something electric sloshed in her hand. The denim skirt she wore was criminally short, and her boots hit the floor like punctuation.
She threw her arms around Matt with the kind of energy that could ignite a small bonfire. “Oh my God, you actually came! You have no idea who’s here—I’m gonna get him.”
Matt laughed, tightening the hug just enough. “Sure you will, girl.”
She grinned, then turned and, without hesitation, wrapped Solan in the same embrace—perfume, sequins, everything. “You must be Solan! First time seeing you. Matt told me so much—sword boy, right?”
Solan blinked. “Uh. Possibly.”
“I’d love to meet you properly later,” she said, pulling back with a grin that lingered a beat too long. “But Matt, I gotta run—I’ll catch you guys later.” She vanished into the crowd, laughter trailing like glitter.
"sword boy? really"
Matt grinned. “Just saying—it’s catchy. Oh, and for your own sake, I’m telling you most people here tonight are American.”
“What? Isn’t New Elysion part of America?”
Matt gestured toward the crowd, the lights, the rooftop skyline humming beyond the glass. “Sure, they hand you a passport if you’re born here. But that doesn’t make you American.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You’ll get it one day, sword boy.”
Solan gave a small, mock-solemn pat on his shoulder. “Sure thing, ambassador.”
Matt snorted. “Don’t jinx it.”
And with that, Matt vanished into a crowd of people wearing LED mohawks and shirts that glowed in sync with the bass.
Solan stood alone. Surrounded by strangers, flashing drinks, and bursts of uncontrolled Kamuy residue. He pressed his back to the wall and moved slowly, like he was infiltrating enemy lines. Avoid eye contact. Evade enthusiasm. Look for corners.
Then he turned—and saw her .
Clara Vele.
Standing at the center of it all like a magnet sculpted from light. There were people around her. Pouring drinks. Doing Kamuy-enhanced card tricks. Trying so hard . She just smiled. Calm. Collected. The kind of ease that made the room revolve around her, not the other way around.
Then she saw him . And waved. Solan felt the cinnamon fire roar back up his throat. He almost raised a hand. Almost. Instead, he shoved both hands in his pockets and turned away to stare very intently at a faded Club Recruitment poster on the wall. Like it was modern art. Like he might write his thesis on it.
Why is she here? Why didn’t I wave back?
She didn’t seem like the party type. But she was laughing. At ease. Like the air belonged to her. His brain turned into static. Every thought overlapping, overanalyzing, short-circuiting. He considered walking over. Then immediately imagined opening his mouth and saying, “So… uh… what are you drinking?”
Kill me now.
He looked at her again. She was already speaking to someone else. And that’s when he remembered:
“You’re sure I won’t die if I drink this?” He’d held up the pale blue bottle like it was radioactive.
Matt, still fixing his hair in the mirror, had just grinned. “Not die. At worst? Flushed cheeks, faster heart rate, speech inhibition bypass. Perfect for you.”
“You sound way too confident.”
“Buddy, this is your first real party. Not a tea ceremony. You’re there to make a mess. Trust science. I field-tested it.”
“You’re smiling like a scam artist.”
“You wanna be brave? Drink it. Wanna sit in the corner all night being wall decor? Put it down. I’ll still be here next year.”
He had just stood there, like a man awaiting sentencing. He’d looked back once—at the lights, the laughter, Clara’s silhouette in the crowd. She was there, glowing, out of reach.
Something cracked. Quietly. Like a glass in his chest finally giving in. He grabbed a cup. Marched over to the glowing metal keg that looked vaguely illegal. Spun the valve.
The smell alone made his face twist, sharp and bitter in his throat. “Screw it,” he said. “Let’s see just how dumb I can get in front of her.”
“Hey,” he asked the guy next to him, “what’s this one?”
“No clue, but we call it Suicide Squad.”
“Perfect.”
And down it went.