Quinn moved with the fluid grace of a stage magician who had long ago decided the world was his stage. His ash-blonde hair fell in calculated disarray across his forehead, catching the dim light of the bar. He wore a tailored white coat adorned with intricate golden designs, winged caduceus motifs and swirling patterns that shimmered faintly whenever he shifted. A black bandana patch covered his right eye, secured with a thin golden cord, leaving only his left eye visible: a sharp, piercing hazel that gleamed with predatory amusement. Beneath the coat, a simple black shirt and dark trousers completed the look of a rogue aristocrat who had stepped out of a fairy tale and chosen chaos as his profession.
He sat alone at the far end of the counter in a smoky Geneva bar, idly flipping a real playing card between his fingers. Three loudmouthed thugs, muscle for one of the local syndicates, had been eyeing him for the last ten minutes. When one of them finally shoved his shoulder and demanded he "move his freak ass," Quinn simply smiled.
He stood slowly, turning to face the three men with theatrical grace.
"Before we do this the messy way," he said, voice carrying just enough charm to draw attention from nearby tables, "have you gentlemen ever heard of the Reliquaries?"
The thugs exchanged confused glances, then burst out laughing.
Quinn continued undeterred, his visible hazel eye sparkling. "We're people who borrow godlike powers. Among the popular ones: the Queen of Hell Flames, Promethea. The Emperor of Creation, Ash. The Baron of Magic, Harlequin." He gave a small, theatrical bow. "I am none other than the last… mon cœur."
One of the men snorted. "You're full of shit."
Quinn's smile widened. "Some know me as the Fairy King. I could make your dreams come true with a little magic, here and there. We Reliquaries are elite… but the gods treat us as pawns. Why do you think that is?"
The three men roared with laughter, one of them slapping the bar so hard his drink spilled. "This guy's either too drunk or completely delusional!" another jeered. "Fairy King? Get the fuck out of here with that comic book crap."
"Delusional? Putain, you have no idea," Quinn replied, still smiling.
Quinn's expression didn't change, but his voice dropped into something colder, sharper.
"I want to be recognized as a god," he said softly, "not a mercenary… bordel."
The laughter died down as the men realized he was serious. The biggest of the three cracked his knuckles and stepped forward. "You're about to get recognized as a corpse, you psycho—"
Quinn snapped his fingers.
Golden light flared around him. An Ethereal Deck materialized in a spinning whirlwind of glowing cards etched with winged caduceus symbols.
"Caduceus Shuffle."
The cards flew like thrown blades.
Sword struck the first man in the chest, not with physical force, but with cruel misfortune. His own momentum betrayed him; he tripped over nothing and impaled himself on the jagged edge of a broken bottle that had fallen from the bar. He went down gurgling.
Chains wrapped around the second man's legs mid-charge. He slammed face-first into the floor. Before he could rise, Empty Purse drained every ounce of strength from his body. He lay twitching, eyes wide with sudden, helpless terror.
The third man tried to run. Quinn dealt again, a rapid combo. He activated Winged Sandals on himself for a burst of impossible speed, then followed with Sword. A Misfortune proc triggered. The man's gun jammed in his hand, backfired, and the bullet found its way into his own throat.
"Et voilà," Quinn murmured as the last body hit the ground. "Merde, that was almost too easy."
The entire fight lasted less than ten seconds. The bar had gone deathly silent except for the faint shimmer of fading golden cards and the wet sounds of dying men.
Quinn straightened his harlequin-pattern scarf, flicked a single glowing Golden Coin card onto the bar as payment for the mess, and walked out into the rainy night before anyone dared to move.
---
Ten minutes later, he stood under a streetlamp, lighting a cigarette with a small flame conjured from the tip of his finger. His burner phone vibrated in his pocket.
Unknown number.
He answered with his usual lazy drawl. "Whoever this is, make it worth my while."
A smooth, genderless voice, ancient and carefully modulated, came through the line. It carried the weight of something far older than any human.
"There is a man causing problems for several of us. His real name is Theo. He now calls himself Khaladore. Researcher at the University of Geneva, CERN campus. He wrote a dangerous book under the pen name Pandoros, Mirror for the Gods. It is nominated for an award next month. We need him eliminated before the ceremony. Quietly, if possible… but make sure he understands what he is up against before the end."
Quinn exhaled smoke, his visible hazel eye narrowing with interest. "And who exactly is 'we'?"
The voice gave a soft, amused chuckle. "An interested party. One of the old gods who still has enough power to pay your price. Double the usual rate. Half upfront."
Quinn flipped a real playing card between his fingers, watching it catch the lamplight. "Deal. Send the details."
The line went dead.
He slipped the phone back into his coat and smiled to himself, the faint glow of an Ethereal Deck already flickering at his fingertips once more.
"Khaladore," he murmured, tasting the name. "Let's see how well the stubborn atheist plays when the Baron of Magic deals the cards… mon cœur."
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N/B: While Caduceus Shuffle is Harlequin's main skill, the other words written in bold are his attacks or moves.