Dusk bled like ink along the street; as the shop filled, Shelika moved like a swift swallow, and time slipped like sand.

By ten, the dinner tide ebbed; Delicious Demon Shrimp, bustling an hour ago, lay quiet like a pond after rain.

The idle chef, Victor, stepped from the kitchen with steam drifting like pale ghosts. “That’s enough, miss. It’s about time.”

“All right,” she said, the word falling like a small leaf.

She loosened her apron, the knot opening like a sigh.

She turned to fetch her pay, but the door breathed open and carried in another guest like a cold draft.

“Sorry, the night shift hasn’t come,” Victor said, voice dropping like a weight. “Can you stay a bit?”

“Sure,” Shelika answered, the consent light as mist; she slipped the apron back on, motions smooth as water.

After ten, customers came in dribs and drabs, a patchwork of faces like fallen leaves.

One left, and another shuffled in—peculiar as a blot of ink on snow.

He looked like one of the Demonic Human Race: pig-fat cheeks, pendulous belly, priestly long robe swishing like dull silk.

He stank of wine, face rosy as overripe fruit, and wobbled in like a loose cart.

At the threshold he swung his foot too wide and kicked a chair, the clang slicing the air like a blade on brass.

People about to step inside flinched like startled sparrows and turned away like a tide reversing.

Diners hunched over bowls, gulped like wolves, and bolted in a rush like wind through reeds.

Victor wasn’t immune; he stared, brows knotted like rope, and muttered a name like a curse. “High Priest Gell of the Temple of the God of Wine.”

From his tone alone, Shelika felt the prickle; trouble had walked in like a storm wearing holy cloth.

A restaurant couldn’t turn away a customer without cause; worse, this drunk was a priest, heavy as a mountain in the Holy City.

In the Holy City, priests stood a step above, peaks over plains, with privileges coiled like dragons.

Most priests knew their measure—gods’ mouthpieces with clean faces—but stains exist like mold on silk.

Gell, High Priest of the Wine God’s temple, was one of those stains, spreading like oil.

He didn’t care about the toppled chairs; he slumped into the central seat like a toad on a warm stone and bellowed, “Food—food!” like a gong.

Victor hissed under his breath, the sound thin as steam. “Hell’s bells.”

Shelika didn’t know his history; she thought it was simple drunkenness and moved to guide him out like a hand calming a horse.

“Miss, I’ll handle him,” Victor said, tone set like iron.

She paused and stepped back like a shadow. Victor went forward, arms crossed like a gate, and faced Gell. “Sir Gell, we’re closed. Please dine elsewhere,” he said, words clipped like a blade.

“Whaaat?” Gell dragged the word, tone crooked as a bent reed, and smirked like a fox. “Wasn’t it crowded just now? Why close?”

Victor kept his voice cold, sharp as frost. “No more talk. Please leave.”

Gell’s eyes swam; wine-breath rolled like sour fog over a swamp. “Heh. I’m the God of Wine’s servant. If you don’t want to work, just say it.”

He primed a tirade, then his gaze snagged on Shelika behind the counter like a hook in flesh.

Malice slicked over his piggish grin like grease; it shone like oil on water. “Heh heh—Blood Clan miss, interested in working at my temple?”

His eyes crawled over her like slugs, licking where no hands had a right to go; Shelika shivered like a leaf in cold rain.

Facing that naked malice, her body recoiled like a cat’s; she forced a smile thin as paper. “No. I have matters to tend.”

She tossed the apron to Victor like shedding a skin, swept her coin pouch from the counter, and headed for the door like a quick shadow.

Gell wouldn’t let meat walk off his plate; before she reached the door, he lumbered across and blocked it like a boulder.

He wore that nauseating smile, urging raw and crude like a butcher. “You’re gorgeous, and built just right. Work under me, and you’ll earn more than here.”

“My temple even needs a Holy Maiden; the God of Wine will adore you,” he purred, the sound slick as syrup. “Heh heh.”

Heat surged up her throat like fire; she stepped back hard and kept her voice flat as slate. “I refuse.”

If this weren’t the Holy City, if he weren’t a priest, she’d baptize his backside with a steel pipe and end the talk like a cracked bell.

She wanted it like thunder; she couldn’t like held rain. Gell kept inching closer, step by step, a stain spreading like ink.

The shopkeeper finally couldn’t stomach it; his patience snapped like a twig in dry weather.

Victor, chef and owner, hadn’t trained in ages, but he was Demonic Human Race; the abyss had gifted him native Battle Aura like a dark flame.

Victor flared his Battle Aura; power snarled around him like a black wind. He surged to Gell, grabbed his neck with a muscled arm like a clamp, and barked, “I told you to eat elsewhere. Didn’t you hear?” like thunder.

Even hoisted in a choke no ordinary man could stand, Gell didn’t care; his smile stayed oily like a sheen on swamp water. “Heh heh. I’m the God of Wine’s servant, and I’m the High Priest.”

“Victor, do you ever think about consequences?” he crooned, words coiling like smoke.

“Save it,” Victor snapped, his threat cutting like a knife. “Watch me throw you out.”

He went to toss the man, but Gell loosed a wave of divine force like a bell of light.

The air warped like clear water swallowing a drop of dye; reality wrinkled like heated glass.

Victor took the hit. His Battle Aura guttered and blew out like a candle; strength fled like sand, dizziness rolled in like storm surf.

He dropped the priest, staggered back, and knelt retching, his stomach heaving like a netted fish.

The divine effect stitched a hangover straight into his bones, cold as night.

Not just Victor. Staff inside and passersby outside reeled, then buckled, choking on their own bile like beached turtles.

The street filled with rainbow reek, filth everywhere like spilled paint and sour rain.

Gell wasn’t ashamed; he preened like a rooster on a wall. “Heh heh—this is the miracle granted by the God of Wine,” he crowed, words gleaming like lacquer.

“The Wine God’s Domain. Now you mortals know its bite,” he said, pride fat as his belly.

Soon only Shelika and Gell stood steady, two figures like flint and grease.

He stretched a greasy, grasping hand, crowding her space like smoke. “All right, beautiful Blood Clan miss,” he rasped, voice crawling like ants.

“Before the God of Wine, let uncle enjoy you first,” he breathed, foul as a dry well.