Super Hero Rhapsody II: 1980

The dive bar feels like the earlier office trap given a new skin, smoke, low rock, and a corner booth where Sally and her friends try to pretend this is only drinks and laughter. Then she spots the familiar Commission face at the bar, the same upper-management grin, the same careless confidence.

On the counter beside him lies the recovered bidder list, spread open under the amber light. One line is circled in dirty red, a high-ranking government official tied straight to the auction. The page under the desk was never a stray page, it was the key.

Mark V leans forward first, optics narrowing as he compares the names. The Rose goes still, her fingers tightening around her glass. Amilia’s eyes harden behind her glasses, and Devlyn’s jaw sets like he is already counting exits.

The Commission man notices them noticing. He does not run. He folds the list once, slowly, as if he owns the room and everyone in it.

The jukebox crackles between songs. The circled name stays in view, waiting for Sally to decide whether the booth goes quiet, or the whole bar does.

Sally moves first. Her hand snaps across the table, and when the Commission man reaches for the folded page, she takes it cleanly out of his grip.

The paper is in Sally’s hand now, the circled name exposed again in the booth light. The man’s smile thins as the room shifts around him.

Amilia slides her glass aside without taking her eyes off him. The Rose closes her notebook with a soft, final tap.

The Commission man eases back from the bar, but his glance flicks once toward the exit, already measuring how fast this can turn sour.

Sally turns from the bar and works the table with quick, sure hands. Bottles clink, glasses line up, and the booth fills with the sharp smell of liquor and smoke.

She sets the shots down one by one, making sure everyone gets one, even the man in the middle of the mess. The circled name sits in the center like a dare.

A few quiet laughs break the tension. The Commission man keeps his eyes down, but he takes the glass when it reaches him.

The toast lands softly, but the paper in Sally’s hand is now tucked safely away, and the booth feels, for one breath, like a team instead of a trap.

Sally crosses to the jukebox, fingers moving fast over the buttons while the room keeps its easy hush.

The machine chirps, catches, and kicks into a sly guitar groove that cuts through the smoke.

Sally slides back from the booth and starts moving with the beat, and the others follow her lead.

Devlan gives one careful step, then another, and even the Commission man loosens enough to sway. The song starts strong, but Sally’s shoulder clips the jukebox edge, costing her a sharp little sting and leaving a fresh scratch on the chrome.