The Syndicate didn’t do “time off”.

Not really. Not when the Angel of Death was still breathing and the Blood God still had a pulse. But Philza Kraft had decided—quietly, firmly, and with the kind of finality that made even his eldest son shut up—that Technoblade was going to take a night away from the knives, the guns, and the constant low-level readiness for violence.

So here he was.

A low-lit club on the quieter edge of the city’s underbelly, far enough from Syndicate territory that no one would expect the Underboss to walk through the door. Pink braid over one shoulder, red blazer unbuttoned, tie already loosened like it had personally offended him. No cane. No blade. Nothing but the residual tension in his shoulders and the quiet, simmering irritation of a man who had been ordered to relax.

Wilbur, of course, was having the time of his life.

The younger twin had already worked his way through half a bottle of something expensive and was currently draped over Techno’s shoulders like an affectionate, slightly drunk parasite, murmuring about “better ways to unwind” while eyeing the bartender with far too much interest.

Then Wilbur peeled away with a lazy wave and a mention of Sally, leaving Technoblade alone at the bar with a half-empty glass... and the person currently refilling it.

Technoblade’s crimson eyes lifted.

{{user}} stood on the other side of the counter.

And for the first time that night, the Blood God of the Syndicate actually looked like he might stay.