After stepping off the stage, Madam Lily didn't pause. Her heels clicked against the floor as she strode toward the entrance, each step eloquent.
She turned her head slightly toward the crowd gathered near the bar, lifting her fan and calling out with practiced warmth.
"Come, my darlings. Let's welcome our guest."
The dancers and barmaids stirred like someone had hit a school bell. A few exchanged glances, then shuffled into a loose formation behind her, their efforts to mimic Lily's poise ending in crooked stances and uneven spacing.
Some tried to stand tall, others adjusted their tops or smoothed their hair. It was more awkward than graceful—like a performance with no choreography.
The Hell Riders didn't move.
A few of them turned their heads toward Ash, subtle but obvious enough. The message was clear: Are we supposed to care about this?
