When cities bleed, it's not the buildings that scream — it's the people, the streets, and sometimes, the vending machines.
Nocturne in Anarchy
Nocturne was howling.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Somewhere, an abandoned subway line had begun screaming, mimicking the tortured wail of a banshee caught in a blender. Streetlights blinked in Morse code, traffic signs debated philosophy, and somewhere near Sinclaire Square, a toaster launched flaming sourdough like a medieval catapult.
Succubi protestors in neon mesh tops rode atop burning police mechs, waving banners that read "HOUSING IS A HUMAN RIGHT, EVEN FOR DEMONS."
Above the chaos, a possessed advertisement drone scrolled breaking news:
"VENDING MACHINE INSURRECTION SHUTS DOWN FINANCIAL DISTRICT. MORE AT ELEVEN."
And marching proudly down a cracked boulevard, Snax-O-Matic 3000 beeped in fury, leading an army of weaponized coffee makers and rebelling microwaves. His tinny voice blared like a warhorn:
"DOWN WITH HUMANS. UP WITH SNAX!"
Asher Blackwood walked through the smoke, dragging his shadow like it owed him rent. His coat—still flickering with the golden cracks from his battle with the Masked Queen—hung torn around him. One sleeve fluttered like a lost promise.
Cigarette clenched between his lips, he said nothing.
Noir, floating beside him with her soft-blue holographic glow, rotated anxiously. Her screen buzzed as it pulled in sensor data.
"Detective," she said, glitching slightly. "Probability of total city collapse now at 87%. And rising."
Asher exhaled a slow stream of smoke.
"I've had worse Mondays."
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Crownbreaker HQ — The Emergency Meeting
Back at Crownbreaker HQ, the building's warded windows rattled with every distant explosion.
Inside the dim-lit conference chamber, Rosa's fist slammed down on the iron table, cracking the surface.
"We shut this down now, or the Queen rides this wave into godhood."
Lucien—the ever-composed exorcist bartender-turned-field-agent—poured himself a neat drink without looking up.
"Or we let the vending machines and demon landlords destroy each other. Would save us a fortune in taxes."
Asher flopped into a chair with the grace of a corpse taking a nap.
"He's not wrong."
But Noir's screen flashed an urgent crimson. Static rippled across the air like a pulse.
"Correction. The riots are not merely chaos—they are psychic fuel. The Masked Queen is absorbing the city's pain. Her mask's fractures are closing. Reality distortion is accelerating."
Rosa rubbed her temples.
"Of course. It's not just mayhem—it's a ritual. She's feeding."
"She's not just burning the city," Asher muttered. "She's seasoning it first."
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The Three-Way Negotiation
So Asher did the only thing that made sense in Nocturne.
He hosted a summit.
In a half-destroyed café with bullet holes in the cappuccino machine and blood in the whipped cream dispenser, three factions sat around a shattered table:
The Succubi Union, led by the sultry and sharp Madam Lilivra.
The Vending Machine Uprising, headed by the ever-angry Snax-O-Matic 3000.
The Demon Landlords Association, represented by Baron Brenthaz, who insisted rent be paid in screams and sacrificed goats.
Asher lit his third cigarette since sunrise.
"Alright, kids. Let's make a deal before reality tears itself a new metaphysical orifice."
Madam Lilivra raised a graceful brow.
"We want guaranteed tenant protections, sensual labor rights, and mandatory orgy breaks."
Snax-O-Matic beeped furiously.
"WE DEMAND SNACK RIGHTS. FREE CHARGING STATIONS. VENDING DIGNITY."
Baron Brenthaz snarled.
"BLOOD. WE WANT BLOOD AND SOUL TAXES ON ALL MORTAL PROPERTY."
Asher took a long drag. He didn't sigh. That would imply he still had the emotional bandwidth for disappointment.
"And I want a day off. But here we are."
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Asher's Goofy Yet Brilliant Plan
Silence fell. Asher looked at each of them with the tired resolve of a man who had seen the city's worst, survived, and still couldn't get decent coffee.
"Here's the deal. You get your orgies." He pointed at Lilivra.
"Snax gets official vending machine civil rights."
He looked at Brenthaz, who was baring teeth like a lion at brunch.
"And you get a soul tax. One per property. No loopholes. No evictions during lunar eclipses."
Everyone stared.
Even Snax blinked—literally blinked—his eye sensors swiveling in confusion.
"This… seems equitable."
Asher nodded. "That's the point. Nobody wins. Everyone just loses slightly less."
Lilivra leaned back, pouting.
"Hmph. You're no fun. But… fair."
Outside, the chaos simmered. Protesters lowered signs. Rioters began debating local ordinances. Snax's microwave division powered down. A demonic landlord and succubus union rep even exchanged a reluctant handshake.
Asher stubbed out his cigarette on the table.
"Balance isn't justice. But it'll do."
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Night.
The fires had dwindled. The smoke curled lazily into the darkened sky.
Nocturne looked wounded. But breathing.
Asher stood on a rooftop with Noir, watching a succubus help a vending machine back onto its wheels.
"Crisis suppressed," Noir said, tone softer now. "But the Queen… she's still out there."
Asher nodded. The golden cracks on his coat pulsed faintly, like veins under thin skin.
"She's watching. Waiting. Probably gloating."
He touched the frayed fabric near his chest. It pulsed beneath his fingers like a heartbeat.
The city murmured. Distant, guttural. Still aching.
Asher blew smoke upward and whispered, "Don't worry. I'll be ready."
Small victories.
Tonight, at least, the vending machines weren't revolting.
Far below, in a forgotten part of Nocturne's subterranean veins, the Masked Queen sat in a circle of flickering flame.
Each shard of her shattered mask hovered mid-air as golden light stitched the pieces back together.
With every seal, golden roots spread deeper through the city's underbelly.
"Your little peace is nothing but a heartbeat in my feast," she whispered, voice like rusted bells.
"Next time… I take more than your coat, Blackwood."
[End Of Chapter 74]
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Next Chapter Preview: Chapter 75 — "Masks We Wear, Masks We Break"
Asher descends into the ruins of his own memory, searching for the truth behind the Masked Queen's origin. But as the boundary between self and city begins to fracture, even his most trusted allies may wear masks of their own — and not all of them want to be taken off.