Page 12 of Mane Rival in Store

For twelve years, the scent of a properly maintained comics archive had functioned as Rune’s anchor—the one constant that kept him level when Pride politics, business, or human interaction pressed too hard. He’d built Sterling & Mane on that anchor. Every flagship, every vault, every temperature-controlled display case: a fortress of order, arranged with the discipline of a man who understood that control was not a personality flaw but a survival mechanism.

Then Lark Coleman opened her store, and the anchor started dragging.

It had been five days since the grand opening. Five days since she’d called him Your Majesty and smiled the smile that short-circuited his prefrontal cortex. Five days of her music thumping through the shared wall like a heartbeat he couldn’t regulate, her laughter carrying through plaster at unpredictable intervals and detonating inside his chest.

Five days, and his hair had not cooperated once.

“Mr. Sterling.” Gerald Fontaine, a seventy-three-year-old Silver Age collector who’d been purchasing from Sterling & Mane since the Oslo location, stood at the counter with his reading glasses perched on his nose and the expression of someone enduring a personal affront. “What is that… noise?”

Through the wall, a bass-heavy R&B track vibrated at a frequency that Rune’s lion read as a territorial provocation and his authentication equipment registered as interference.

“The neighboring store has a sound system.”

“I’m aware it has a sound system. I can hear it in my molars.” Gerald placed a gloved hand on the display case between them. “I’ve been coming here for the acoustic environment, Rune. The silence. The reverence. This used to be peace.”

Used to be. Rune adjusted the display case lighting by an imperceptible degree and did not look toward the glass at the front of the store, where the purple neon from Villainette bled into his carefully calibrated gallery lighting like an uninvited guest at a state dinner. “I’m addressing the situation, Gerald.”

“Are you? Because yesterday there was a young woman in here—purple lipstick, I might add—who asked if you carried ‘villain vibes.’ I don’t know what that means, and I don’t wish to learn.”

From the back counter, Dekel made a noise. A brief, strangled exhalation that he converted into a cough with the practiced efficiency of someone who had been disguising laughter around his alpha for over a decade.

“We don’t carry villain vibes,” Rune said. “We carry authenticated first editions. I apologize for the disruption.”

Gerald sniffed. “Perhaps someone could inform the neighbor that SoHo isn’t a nightclub.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“See that you do.” Gerald collected his graded Spider-Man #129 and departed with wounded dignity; his temple had been profaned.

The door closed. Rune stood motionless behind the counter. The R&B track transitioned to a trip-hop instrumental with a synth line that vibrated through his jaw.

“That’s the third complaint today,” Dekel said.

“I’m aware.”

“Gerald, Mrs. Oshiro, and the hedge fund guy with the CGC obsession. Three loyal customers. Three complaints about the noise. In five days.” Dekel leaned against the register. “You need to talk to her again.”

Talk to her. The last time he’d talked to her, he’d said “moderate the audio” and she’d called him Your Majesty and his lion had paced for the next six hours. Talking to Lark Coleman was not the low-risk engagement Dekel was implying. Talking to Lark Coleman was a tactical operation requiring preparation, emotional containment, and possibly a written script.

“I’ll send a formal request.”

“A formal—” Dekel straightened. “Rune. No.”

“A letter. Professional. On Sterling & Mane letterhead. Outlining the decibel levels, the shared-wall acoustics, and a reasonable proposal for sound management.”

“A cease-and-desist. You want to send her a cease-and-desist about her playlist.”

“It’s not a cease-and-desist. It’s a structured communication regarding⁠—”

“It’s a cease-and-desist on monogrammed stationery, and I’m not sending it.”

Rune’s teeth set. “As my beta⁠—”

“As your beta, your best friend, and the only person in this Pride willing to say this to your face: sending a legal letter to the woman next door because her music makes your hands tingle is mortifying.” Dekel crossed his arms. “It’s also the least smooth thing I’ve witnessed in a lifetime of watching you be not smooth, which is a competitive field.”

“My hands do not tingle.”

“Your hands are tingling right now. You’ve been flexing your fingers since Gerald walked in.”