Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

Parker finally smiled, tilting his head toward Nyxavere with that familiar twitch in his lips—the look that always meant he was thinking more than he was saying.

"Who is she?" he asked, voice low, smooth.

He didn't really expect a full answer. Hell, he was nearly sure Nyxavere hadn't met that woman before. But with her? Omniscience was just something that came bundled with her laughter and terrifying potential.

Nyxavere, never missing a beat, casually adjusted the tiny tiara on her head like it weighed more than it did and said with absolute clarity, "That, my foolish Daddy… is Noctavine Vaelith Draven. Matriarch of the Draven Vampires family."

Parker blinked.

Of course.

That name—Draven—rang loud in his mind, especially now that it had weight behind it. It clicked almost immediately. He had even seen that name when he'd gone digging into the files of the Origin Families back then when he first realized that Scarlett was a big shot—just after everything with Helena being a Nyxlith and him too when started to unravel the truth.

But—

"She didn't look like that in the picture," he muttered, half to himself. "She looked like her daughter… like it was taken when she was still a damn teen."

Nyxavere snorted softly, absolutely delighted by his ignorance.

"That picture," she said, voice smug, "is her mundane world disguise, Daddy."

Parker raised an eyebrow, amused and faintly humbled. It was rare to feel like the one who didn't know in a conversation. But his daughter? She always managed to make him feel like he was new to a planet... like she had already ruled it in a past life.

He didn't say anything else, just let the irony sit while she smirked up at him like she was five steps ahead—and maybe she was.

Instead, he exhaled, then nodded slightly toward the group. "Come on. Let's go greet them." Nyxavere nodded, her little fingers still latched onto his.

But while his steps read calm and composed, his mind was running calculations. One name in particular lingered too loudly.

Scarlett.

****

Since his Nyxavere was here he'd need to keep a very sharp eye on his sister. Because if Nyxavere and her exchanged so much as one sharp glance, the chances of this entire night spiraling into a full-blown, world-altering bloodbath were... not low.

And if they actually fought?

LA might not survive the first collision.

He glanced at his daughter again, who was smiling innocently, still holding his hand like she wasn't the potential apocalypse in lace.

Still, he smiled. Calm. Assured.

And this time, when he and Nyxavere descended the staircase, they didn't hide a single drop of their presence. It rolled through the mansion like a slow wave of midnight—thick, ancestral, and absolute.

The Prince and his Daughter had entered the room. And the atmosphere changed before their feet even touched the next step.

Nyxavere—the little princess with starlight in her eyes and destruction stitched into her smile. And Parker knew—no matter how sweetly she clung to his arm, no matter how childlike her giggles were—if his sister said the wrong thing, or teased Nyxavere… the entire damn city might not survive.

She nodded softly beside him, still looking at the gathering with innocent wonder, as if this was just a family dinner and not a convergence of power that could rewrite continents. But Parker wasn't fooled. Not for a second.

He had to control her.

Or more accurately, he had to keep her from reacting to the wrong person. Because if she snapped—if his sister decided, emotionally, to make a statement—then LA wouldn't just shake.

It would fall.

The kind of fall you write in history books after the timeline splits in two.

Parker exhaled slowly. Smiled, but not the happy kind. The kind that only came when you were doing very real math in your head about who would live, what would break, and how fast you could stop it.

'At least,' he thought, 'the estate would survive.'

The Nyxlith estate was near indestructible—woven in temporal restoration wards and bound to his existence. It could be scorched, shattered, or obliterated into quantum debris, but as long as Prince Nyxlith was standing… the mansion would rebuild itself.

Everything else?

Not so much.

He wasn't so sure about LA.

Still holding hands, he and Nyxavere took their first step down the stairs. No illusion. No silence. No veil.

This time, they didn't hide.

The full presence of the Nyxlith Bloodline descended like twilight in reverse—calm, commanding, absolute. And everyone in that living room—whether they looked or not—felt it.

*

Maya couldn't hold herself back when she saw him. Her legs moved before her mind even caught up. She approached slowly, cautiously, like she wasn't sure if the moment was hers to take. Then she just—wrapped him in her arms. Tight.

The kind of tight that squeezes years into seconds.

Parker didn't hesitate. His arms came around her like they never forgot the shape, like they'd just been on pause since the last life. And caught between them, of course, was their daughter, trying to squirm out of the hug like a struggling cat caught between two blankets she didn't sign up for.

"Uh-uh," Parker muttered, catching Nyxavere's tiny wrist and pulling her back in.

Family hug. No escape clause.

The three of them stood there in this imperfect, tangled embrace—father, mother, and daughter. Time didn't stop, but the room did. Even the flickering candles seemed to settle. It was warm. Sweet. Real. It tugged at things people tried not to admit they still wanted.

Maya sobbed softly into his chest, her voice muffled but raw.

"I missed you so fucking much."

Parker exhaled into her hair like he was letting out something ancient. His reply was a whisper—simple, but heavy with weight.

"I'm sorry. For ignoring you all those years. For everything."

Even Tessa felt it. Her arms folded gently, eyes soft, a ghost of a smile curving her lips. She'd always thought she hated Maya. But she too felt it—the weight of it, the warmth, the ache. A family, fractured across lifetimes, suddenly stitched together by one hug. It was hard not to feel something.

Except Vivian, obviously. She didn't even lift her eyes from her phone.

And just when the room had gone soft—just when hearts started to stir and eyes started to mist—

Nyxavere broke into a fit of laughter.

Nyxavere had peeled herself out of the hug, stumbling a few steps back, literally dying of laughter—hands on her knees, face tilted upward, tears in her eyes from how hard she was wheezing.

A full-blown, gut-deep, childish laugh that echoed like a slap across the living room hall.

Everyone turned, heads jerking, unsure if they'd misheard.

But no. She was cackling—arms folded, body tilted, nearly doubled over from how hard it hit her.

"Oh my God—this is rich." Her voice rang out, sharp and delighted. "Dad, ignoring Mom for years—years—and now here she is, sniffling into your shirt like a damn romcom just found its third act. I love this. I actually fucking love this."

She clapped her hands once, then wiped a tear from the corner of her eye—from laughing, not crying. It wasn't cruelty. It was relief. The sheer joy of seeing her own resentment finally reflected in someone else's choices.

To her, this wasn't healing.

This was poetic justice—and it was hilarious.

Gasps. Blink-stares. That kind of awkward tension that tastes like burnt toast and humiliation. Maya just smiled. Crooked. Tired. A little wry. She'd expected worse, honestly.

Tessa giggled. Couldn't help it. She hid it behind her hand, but it slipped through. The mom-daughter beef was so deep, even ancient drama couldn't top it.

The others?

Yeah. They were shocked. Even the succubus queen of the Shadowmires looked like someone just hit her with an emotional wet sock.

Parker sighed through his nose. He wasn't even mad. Just disappointed dad mode activated.

"Nyxa," he called out, voice low and warning.

She kept laughing.

He didn't want this. He knew how much she hated her mother, but this wasn't the way. Not like this. Not here. Not now.

And then...

Vivian didn't even look up from her phone. Her thumb scrolled, then stopped. Without lifting her gaze, she let out a short breath of amusement and said flatly,

"Spoiled-ass child."

That was it.

The house trembled.

Not a dramatic quake. Just a shiver. A warning ripple. Like something old had stirred inside the walls. Paintings crooked. Wine glasses ticked. And every supernatural in the room suddenly realized that the emotional tension wasn't just drama.

It was a threat.

And the daughter?

Still smiling.

But that laugh was gone now.