Loki sat motionless at his window table, fork still suspended halfway to his mouth, the perfectly seared piece of steak now forgotten.
The conversation between the head chef and the manager drifted over from the kitchen.
The chef leaned against the metal counter, arms crossed. "I'm telling you, a supplier working from the port of Le Havre called this morning. Half the herd was lost in that last surge two weeks ago."
"The surviving cows are being quarantined by the Association. No more A5 shipments for at least three months or so until the operation succeeded."
Patrice, the manager, pinched the bridge of his nose so hard his knuckles turned white. "Three months? We'll lose half our dinner crowd. That ribeye is the reason people walk past three Michelin places to come here."
"You know what they say on the forums-'If you want wagyu that doesn't taste like regret, go to Le Comptoir on Rue de Rivoli.'"
The chef snorted. "They can go cry to Rivoli then. We don't have magic cows in the walk-in. I can bump the price on the remaining stock-maybe go from €68 to €95-but after that we're done."
"We either replace it with Australian Wagyu or just take it off entirely."
Patrice groaned. "Australian? They'll notice. The texture is different, the marbling's not the same. And taking it off the menu you say?"
"We'll have a riot. Remember when we removed the black-truffle gnocchi for two weeks? We lost thirty percent walk-ins."
Chef shrugged helplessly. "Then we charge 95€ and pray. Or we substitute and hope they're too drunk to care. Your call, boss."
Loki's fork finally returned to the plate.
"€95.."
"For my favorite dish."
The one he came here for specifically because it was one of the few places in the arrondissement that still did it right-thick cut, perfect sear, black garlic butter melting into the mash, truffle shavings just enough to perfume without overpowering.
His head ran. "Tomorrow it would cost almost 50% more. Or vanish."
"Even if I went to other restaurant the price will still be the same meaning it's pointless."
"As long as the Le Havre is taken under by those gang the price won't change..."
He stared at the half-eaten steak in front of him.
His mind ran the numbers quickly.
"Wipe out the supply-chain saboteurs-probably some low-tier gang or rogue monster poachers. Easy."
"However the problem is every guild in Paris would notice a sudden power vacuum / massacre. Guild recruiters. S-rankers hopefuls wanting to spar. Paparazzi. Worse-other gangs wanting to eliminate future threats like me."
"Result, no more quiet grocery runs. No more anonymous walks. No more sitting in restaurants without someone recognizing me and starting shit."
"Conclusion, peace gone. Forever."
He could do it. Could walk into whatever warehouse or den was responsible, compress every bone in every body until they looked like modern art, and walk out before the first scream finished echoing.
But then...
Then he'd have to wear the mask.
The mysterious trench-coat-and-hood figure. The silent savior. The "hero" persona.
"But that is too cringe and edgy."
"The absolute, unbearable cringe."
He imagined it for half a second, standing on a rooftop in a dramatic coat, wind billowing, delivering one-liners like "Your time is up" or "Justice has arrived."
His own brain recoiled so hard he almost gagged on the remaining garlic butter.
"No."
"Absolutely not."
He'd rather eat overpriced sirloin for the rest of his life than become that guy.
Loki set the fork down, pushed the plate away slightly, and leaned back in the chair. The waiter hurried over.
"Everything alright, monsieur? Was the steak-"
"It's fine," Loki said quietly. "Just... not hungry anymore."
He paid (using Rémi's money, because irony), stood, gathered his absurd collection of plushies, and walked out past the still-whispering patrons.
Loki stepped back into the cooling Parisian evening, giant teddy bear over one shoulder, inflatable hammer across his back like a cartoon zweihander, medium plushies tucked under his arm.
He looked up at the sky for a moment.
Then muttered to no one in particular, "I hate this world."
He kept walking.
A few blocks down a quieter side street, something small and luminous caught the corner of his eye.
A glowing light-blue butterfly.
It fluttered lazily in front of him, wings pulsing with soft bioluminescence that didn't belong in daylight. Loki slowed, tilting his head slightly. Butterflies weren't usually that color. Or that bright. Or that... deliberate.
It danced once in a perfect circle, then darted left into a narrow alley between two old Haussmann buildings-the kind of shadowed cut-through most people avoided.
Loki stopped.
Stared at the empty mouth of the alley for two full seconds.
Then sighed. "...Seriously?"
The alley was darker than it should have been for late afternoon-almost like someone had dialed down the ambient light.
The butterfly led him deeper, turning corners he didn't remember existing in this part of the city. Sounds of the city faded behind him until there was only the soft noise of glowing wings and his own footsteps.
At the end of the passage, in a dead-end corner piled with cardboard boxes and crates, the butterfly landed on a small, dirty hand.
A boy-maybe ten, or eleven-looked up at Loki with wide, innocent eyes. Dirty hoodie, ripped jeans, scuffed sneakers.
Classic street kid aesthetic. He smiled shyly, holding out the glowing insect on his palm like a gift.
"Mister... you followed it all the way here?"
Loki stared down at him, expression flat. "Yeah. I did. What could a little boy doing all the way here in this dark area?"
The boy's smile widened-just a fraction too wide.
Then his other hand darted forward, quick as a cat, slipping into Loki's right pocket and emerging with the slim black wallet in one smooth motion.
Before Loki could even blink, the boy vanished.
Vanished-melting into the shadow cast by a stack of crates like ink dissolving into water.
The glowing butterfly winked out at the same instant.
Silence.
Then Loki muttered something. "Shadow manipulation... that's cool."
"Hah! I fooled him somehow!" The kid twirls in the shadow at high speed.
In the center of he forest, there sat what remained of the once-arrogant raid party.
Mélanie, Otes, Enéas, and about nine other survivors were tied together in one giant, humiliating bundle-back-to-back, wrists roped with glowing red mana-cord that zapped anyone who tried to struggle too hard.
They looked like the world's saddest team-building exercise gone wrong.
Surrounding them-nothing but darkness, trees and bushes. Probably monsters hiding behind it too.
Mélanie, whose warhammer lay snapped in half ten meters away, finally broke the silence.
"...So."
Otes grunted. "So."
Enéas, whose once-impressive violet robes were now ripped and covered in mud, let out a hysterical little laugh.
"So we're monster food. Fantastic. Truly the highlight of my career."
Mélanie rolled her eyes so hard it was audible.
"Shut up, cloud. At least you still have your dignity. I'm tied to a man who smells like old gym socks and broken dreams."
Otes flexed against the ropes-uselessly. "I showered... two days ago."
"Exactly," Mélanie deadpanned. "Two days ago."
Enéas dropped his head back against Otes' shoulder with a defeated sigh.
"I just want to know one thing." He raised his voice toward the trees.
"Was it fun? Leaving us here like a gourmet charcuterie board for the forest?"
"Did you laugh while you walked away? Blink twice if you recorded it for blackmail later."
No answer.
"They're probably halfway to Paris by now, drinking and eating..."
Otes flexed again-still nothing. "I could've taken the cube guy. I swear. If my shield hadn't-"
"Your shield,"Mélanie interrupted sweetly, "was used as a frisbee by the golem. I saw it. It flew beautifully. Ten out of ten for style."
Otes grumbled something unintelligible that might have been a prayer or a death threat.
Mélanie stared at the night sky. "I want to go back home."