Chapter 124: Peace Brings Profit

Chapter 124: Chapter 124: Peace Brings Profit

Chapter 124: Peace Brings Profit

Dull impacts echoed through the alley.

A fist met a forearm. Someone stumbled into the brick wall. A shoe scraped against loose gravel, and a breathless curse broke off halfway when Cyrus Calder moved before the swing could land.

Last time, he had only beaten two people, and the situation had happened too suddenly for him to think much about it. This time there were seven of them, not counting the girls who had come to watch. Even so, Cyrus did not feel anything close to panic.

An open space made all the difference.

In a bathroom, walls, stalls, sinks, and bad angles could turn a simple fight into a problem. In a wider alley, there was room to step, turn, dodge, and hit someone properly. Anyone unlucky enough to take a clean strike from him needed to lie on the ground and reconsider several life choices before standing again.

His reaction speed was better than theirs too.

The boys trying to surround him had to worry about their own fists landing on a friend. Cyrus did not. He only needed to move through the gaps they created for each other.

There was one exception.

The boyfriend who had smiled at him earlier was not completely useless. He had training. When he moved, his footing was steadier than the others, and his kicks carried more control than the kind of street showmanship Cyrus had expected.

One of those kicks nearly caught Cyrus in the head.

Nearly.

That was as far as it went.

Seven people had entered the alley planning to teach him a lesson. By the end, the worst damage Cyrus had taken was that his St. Alder uniform had been pulled slightly out of place by his own movements, and a shallow scrape sat near the lower side of his face where the trained boy had managed to catch him during a close exchange.

The result looked better than the fight against three people.

Impressive, in a way.

Apparently this was what he had received in exchange for having his entire reproductive future treated like a rare-blood disaster.

The alley was full of groans now.

Cyrus stood among them, one hand gripping the boyfriend’s collar. The boy’s feet dragged uselessly over the ground as Cyrus hauled him toward the three girls. He did not care whether the position was comfortable.

When he reached them, Cyrus dropped the boy at the leader’s feet like he was throwing away a bag of trash.

The boy let out another pained sound.

He looked the worst of the group, mostly because Cyrus had accidentally hit him in the nose. Blood had run down over his mouth and chin, making the damage look much more dramatic than it probably was.

The three girls stared at the scene as if their souls had stepped out of their bodies and refused to come back.

Cyrus tugged at his collar, which had become uncomfortable during the fight, and looked at them.

"You still have Faye’s notebooks, correct?"

The leader jolted.

"I can give them back."

Her hands shook as she opened her bag and dug through it. The confidence from the classroom had vanished. She pulled out one notebook, then clutched it as if presenting it to Cyrus might keep him from noticing her boyfriend groaning on the ground.

The other two girls reacted a beat later and hurried to take out the notebooks they had carried away.

Cyrus glanced at the offered books.

"Why are you giving them to me?"

The leader froze.

The other two followed her with identical panic.

Cyrus looked at their faces and felt his already low opinion drop another step.

"You borrowed them from Faye. Return them to Faye."

All three nodded quickly.

"We will."

"We definitely will."

"We are sorry."

Their movements were so synchronized that the sight almost became funny.

Cyrus had no interest in enjoying it.

He lowered his eyes to the boy at his feet. The boyfriend’s physical condition seemed decent enough. At least he was still conscious.

Cyrus crouched down and remembered one of Isolde’s old methods. She had been very good at making warnings sound casual, and even better at making people believe them.

He tapped the emblem on the boy’s school uniform.

"I remember your face and your school. If what happened here spreads, you will be the one in trouble. Do you understand?"

The boyfriend swallowed painfully.

"I understand."

Cyrus straightened.

That was a lie, of course. He had not put any serious effort into remembering another boy’s face. He barely cared about boys he saw every day, much less some outsider who had chosen a bad alley for his girlfriend’s revenge plan.

He was more worried about the police.

If anyone reported seven injured students in an alley and dragged his name into it, the situation would become inconvenient. He had work tonight. He did not have time for statements, school discipline, or adults pretending they cared about student safety after everyone had already bled on the ground.

Cyrus picked up his bag and walked out.

Behind him, the students in the alley looked at one another.

For a few seconds, nobody spoke.

Then one of the boys sitting against the wall muttered, "Was he kind of cool for a few moments?"

"Maybe a little," another admitted.

The leading girl did not answer.

She looked down at the notebook in her hands with an expression that had become more complicated than fear. After a moment, she helped her boyfriend sit up.

The boyfriend wiped blood from his nose and felt humiliation rise hotter than the pain.

As if Cyrus needed to warn him.

Seven people had blocked one gloomy, weak-looking student in an alley and gotten destroyed instead. Even if someone threatened him, he would not have the face to tell the story.

People would laugh him to death before anyone took revenge.

Cyrus had barely left the alley when he noticed a familiar student approaching from the next intersection.

Owen Keats arrived a little too late.

The moment Owen saw him, he looked Cyrus over from head to toe, checking his face, uniform, hands, and posture all at once.

"Are you hurt?"

"Do I look hurt?"

"Someone said you were being blocked by a group after school."

"They chose a peaceful settlement."

Cyrus had been peaceful the entire time.

Owen’s mouth opened, but before he could respond, several students limped out of the alley behind Cyrus. One leaned on another’s shoulder. Someone had a hand pressed to his stomach. The boyfriend’s face was still bloody enough to make the conclusion obvious.

Owen looked at them, then looked back at Cyrus.

"Did you do that?"

"What are you talking about?"

Cyrus’s expression did not change.

Owen gave up on pretending the answer was unclear. He exhaled, and the tension left his shoulders.

"I thought I almost came too late because something held me up."

"What held you up?"

Owen hesitated.

"Iris had something she wanted to talk about."

Cyrus understood enough from the answer.

"All right. Thank you for coming."

"I did not really help."

"You came."

That counted. In the human world, intention seemed to matter, at least when no one was bleeding enough to require an ambulance.

Cyrus lifted a hand in farewell.

"I need to go to work. I will see you tomorrow."

"I will see you tomorrow."

They parted at the corner.

On the way to The Full Moon Lounge, Cyrus fell into thought.

Ever since Iris’s misunderstanding began, everything had developed strangely. Her desire to keep Owen away from him had caused public suspicion, which had dragged Faye into the class’s attention. Because Faye was gentle, the wrong people had realized she could be pushed.

Iris’s exclusiveness seemed very strong.

She had targeted Cyrus, but Faye had taken collateral damage.

Owen wanted to help, and that was worth acknowledging. Still, Iris had delayed him enough that he had missed the more interesting part of the alley situation.

Explaining the whole pattern to Owen directly would probably be difficult. Owen was not stupid, but he was slow in the places Iris had trained him to be slow. If Cyrus pushed too hard, Owen might defend her again, or worse, feel guilty enough to make no decision at all.

The solution itself was simple.

Whether Owen was willing to sacrifice a little was the question.

The weather had turned colder, and The Full Moon Lounge had fewer customers than usual.

Most of the people who came in on nights like this were regulars, the kind who already knew which seat they liked and which drink they wanted before removing their coats. The lounge glowed warmly against the damp Grayhaven evening, all soft lamps, old wood, quiet music, and the low murmur of adults tired from the day.

Cyrus went through the staff entrance, changed, and stepped out from the back.

He noticed Rhea Maddox immediately.

She was at the bar earlier than expected, one elbow resting on the counter as she raised a hand toward him in greeting. She looked relaxed, as if she had nowhere else urgent to be, which was not a promising sign for anyone who preferred her busy.

Cyrus also noticed the way she looked at him.

Rhea did not bother hiding it. Her gaze moved over him with open appreciation, taking in the cooler expression, the neat work clothes, the faint laziness in his posture, and the calm that always seemed to settle over him inside the lounge.

To customers, he probably looked composed.

To Cyrus, it was simply the posture of someone who had already fought seven people, still had homework in his bag, and needed to earn tips before worrying about sleep.

When he came behind the bar, Rhea’s brows lifted slightly.

"You are dressed pretty lightly for this weather. Are you not cold?"

"What are you drinking tonight?"

Cyrus ignored the question and turned his face slightly, partly to reach for a glass, partly because the warm lights made the scrape near his jaw less visible if he angled himself correctly.

The lounge’s heat was more uncomfortable than the cold outside. As winter approached, this might become difficult. Humans insisted on warming indoor spaces until they felt like traps with furniture.

Rhea did not notice the scrape at first.

She did notice the bandage on his finger.

Before she could comment, another figure entered the lounge and came directly to the bar.

Helena Baird sat beside Rhea as if the place had always been reserved for her. Her coat was tailored, her hair smooth from the wind outside, and her composure clean enough to change the atmosphere around the counter.

She looked at Cyrus once.

Her expression sharpened immediately.

"What happened to your face and your finger?"

Cyrus had not expected Helena to catch the scrape so quickly. The cut on his finger was covered, and the injury near his jaw was small. Under the amber light, it should have blended into shadow unless someone was looking too closely.

Helena was looking too closely.

At her words, Rhea leaned forward and studied him properly. Her earlier attention had been focused on his eyes, his mouth, and the general problem of his face existing in public. Now she noticed the faint abrasion near the lower edge of his cheek.

Cyrus set the glass down.

"I ran into a little trouble. It is already handled."

"What kind of trouble?"

Rhea’s tone had changed. The playfulness did not vanish completely, but something official moved beneath it.

Cyrus did not answer that question.

He had just warned other people not to spread the alley incident. Explaining it to a detective immediately afterward seemed counterproductive.

"It was a small matter."

Helena’s gaze remained visibly severe, just as it had the last time she had found something wrong with him.

Her eyes moved from his cheek to the bandage, then back again.

"Come with me. We are putting medicine on that."

Cyrus did not move.

"It is only a scrape."

"That was not a request."

Rhea laughed softly beside them.

"Helena, you always sound like you are about to put someone under professional management."

Helena did not look away from Cyrus.

"Some people clearly need management."

Cyrus considered several possible refusals.

The problem was that Helena had adult authority in the lounge, and refusing her in front of Rhea would only make both women more interested. Also, medicine on a scrape was reasonable. Humans liked medicine. Medicine meant adults could feel helpful without asking where bruises came from.

That made cooperation the cheaper option.

Cyrus turned slightly toward the back.

"I can put it on myself."

"You can sit still for two minutes."

Helena stood.

Rhea watched with obvious amusement, then lifted her glass.

"Try not to scare him off. I just got here."

Cyrus glanced at her.

"I am not scared."

"That is what makes this fun," Rhea said.

Helena’s expression cooled another degree.

Rhea smiled into her drink as if she had accomplished something.

Cyrus followed Helena toward the small staff area behind the bar. He could feel Rhea’s gaze on his back the entire way.

Inside, Helena took out the first-aid kit from a cabinet as if she already knew exactly where Malcolm kept everything. That was not surprising. The Baird family seemed to have roots in the lounge deep enough that Cyrus could not always tell who owned which part of the room.

Helena opened the kit and pointed to a chair.

"Sit."

Cyrus sat.

She cleaned her hands first, then took out antiseptic and a cotton pad. Her movements were precise, not lazy like Vera’s and not performative like Rhea’s. Helena’s care had polish. That made it more dangerous in a different way.

The cotton touched the scrape near his jaw.

Cyrus did not flinch.

Helena’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"You are very used to not reacting."

"That sounds useful."

"It is not always a good thing."

Cyrus did not reply.

The antiseptic stung faintly, but it was nothing compared to the annoyance of being fussed over. Helena cleaned the scrape with controlled gentleness, then applied a thin layer of ointment.

Her fingers did not linger.

That almost made it worse. Careful boundaries made it harder to refuse the next act of care.

"Your finger."

"It already has a bandage."

"Show me."

Cyrus raised his hand.

Helena inspected the bandage, then looked at him.

"This was treated by the school nurse?"

"Yes."

Her expression suggested the words school nurse did not inspire full confidence.

"She did put a bandage on it," Cyrus added.

"That is the minimum requirement."

He thought of Vera trying to put his finger in her mouth and decided not to mention it.

Helena replaced the bandage anyway. She cleaned the area again, wrapped it properly, and smoothed the edge down with her thumb.

"There. Do not get either injury wet tonight."

"I work around drinks."

"Then work carefully."

Cyrus looked at her.

Helena held his gaze without softening.

"If anything else happened, you tell Malcolm or me."

There it was.

Care becoming a reporting requirement.

Cyrus nodded because nodding was easier than arguing.

"I understand."

Helena stepped back and closed the first-aid kit.

"You can return to the bar."

Cyrus stood. Before leaving, he glanced at the cabinet where the kit had been stored, noting the location for later. Knowing where medicine was kept had never hurt him.

When he returned to the bar, Rhea immediately tilted her head.

"You survived the treatment."

"Peace brings profit."

Rhea blinked, then laughed.

Helena followed behind him with the first-aid kit in hand, her expression still serious.

Cyrus resumed work as if nothing had happened.

The scrape on his face stung faintly beneath the ointment. The fresh bandage on his finger felt cleaner than the school nurse’s version. The lounge remained warm, the customers remained quiet, and the evening’s tips still needed to be earned.

For now, the fight was handled.

Faye’s notebooks would go back.

Owen had noticed enough.

Helena and Rhea had noticed too much.

That was a normal amount of trouble for one day.