Classical music waltzes through my ears long before we reach the end of the hall on the thirty-fifth floor. My heels and the guys' dress shoes form a steady, if asynchronous, click-click-click against the shiny, beige floor. By the time three people dressed in suits appear like pillars in front of white double doors, my breaths come in short bursts.

"Name please," the one on the left says. Her white-gloved hands clutch a tablet.

"Prince Tewen of Aqualan," I say.

She swipes at the screen and scrolls through a glowing list of names. After a moment, she looks up and smiles at Two. "Of course. Please enjoy your time."

The two male attendants open the doors for us, and we step into a room bursting with light. Cream-colored walls add to the warmth, as does the crystal-fringe chandelier twinkling overhead. Small tables, seating no more than five chairs, fill one half of the room, covered in pale tablecloths and topped with bouquets of pastel carnations. Further left, buffet tables line the walls.

People freckle the right side of the room at the moment, either standing or reclining on velvet couches that match the table cloths. In keeping with the theme, the guests' attire can only be described as expensive.

"What a pleasant surprise!" I whirl around as a dark-skinned man in a blue-checkered suit approaches. "I'm honored to finally meet you, Prince Tewen."

"Nice to meet you as well." Prince Two beams, shaking the man's hand a bit too hard. The man doesn't even flinch. His friendly smile nearly reaches his high cheekbones.

"A-are you Victor Hector?"

The man's smile drops. "Hector Victored."

My cheeks ignite with an intensity I'm unused to. "Of course. So sorry."

"That's alright." He folds his hands in front of him, a slight upturn returning to his lips. "Please make yourselves at home. There are hors d'oeuvres and drinks to your left. We will be dining in half an hour, and then Taylor Fife and members of the SOWAFC will be giving a short presentation on fish clubbing. I'm sure you have many opinions on the topic, Prince Tewen."

"Call me Two," Two chirps.

Hector's brow furrows. "Like the number?"

"Yup."

"Oh." Hector clears his throat. "Well, enjoy your time, Prince Two." Hector slips away to greet another guest before anyone can respond.

Two faces me. "What are oar derves?"

"They're like miniature appetizers," I say. "Small bites to eat."

"Food?" Two's eyes light up. "Where?" His head bobs up and down as he scans the room, trying to see over the various people, or perhaps more accurately, politicians. I can tell the moment his eyes lock with the tables on the left side, pupils dilating and his tongue running over his lips. He darts away, nearly plowing into a woman in a silky cocktail dress. Pink liquid splashes on the silver fabric. She lets out a cry that the string music muffles.

"I am so sorry," I say. I rush to her side, grabbing a stack of napkins off the nearest table.

The woman bats my hands away. "Is he part of your organization?" she demands.

"We're... not exactly affiliated."

"Humph." The woman stalks away. The pink has seeped into the front of her dress, transforming it into modern art. We stand there for several minutes, watching her leave. She ends up on the other side of the room and chats with several men and women in formal business attire.

My gaze wanders around the room until it lands on a girl with bouncy, dark brown curls. Taylor's smile practically twinkles as she speaks to another with long and sleek black hair. She wears a pale yellow dress that compliments her warm, brown skin, a shade between her Latina mother and Irish father. With rosy cheeks and large, sparkling eyes, Taylor Fife definitely has a way of lighting up a room.

"So we're just going to stand here and apologize for Two?" Right-Scar says after the long stretch of silence. Left-Scar shrugs.

"I don't know about you two, but I think I'm going to sit down," I say. I make a beeline for a divan. A glass coffee table stretches in front of it, and a few hors d'oeuvres dishes are artfully arranged across it. I grab a toothpick with an olive and feta cube on it, an orange peel threaded between them.

Left-Scar murmurs something to Right-Scar. He frowns, whispers something back. I catch something about 'seven days' and 'pay up.'

"What's another seven days, Scar-Twins?"

Two pairs of eyes snap to me. A slight flush creeps onto my cheeks. It occurs to me that this may be the first time they're hearing the name I gave them. I lift my chin, suppressing my embarrassment.

It is completely normal to come up with a name for someone when they won't tell it to you. I have nothing to be embarrassed about.

"We're not twins," Left-Scar states.

I cross my arms. "Well, you certainly look like it."

"It's due to plastic surgery," Right-Scar says.

"Oh really? Then why do you have a scar? If one of you really had plastic surgery, you would've removed it."

"It was part of the surgery." A smile crosses Right-Scar's lips, and he leans back, crossing his legs. "One of us decided that we should look alike. I'll bet you can't figure out which one of us had plastic surgery."

I arch an eyebrow. "How much?"

The smile widens on Right-Scar's face. He exchanges a glance with Left-Scar, who just shrugs. "Tell you what, we'll give you ten million dollars if you can guess which of us had the surgery."

Now both my eyebrows shoot upward. "A-are you serious?"

"One-hundred percent."

I stick out my hand. "You've got yourself a deal."

"Better hurry up and figure it out," Right-Scar chuckles. He nods toward the corner of the room. "It looks like the boss just made contact."

Sure enough, I spot Two bowing slightly to Taylor Fife. He presents her with a plate piled high with what looks like a sampling of every single appetizer in the room. She smiles and appears to politely decline it. Two offers an arm to her, and once again, she politely declines. Taylor steps to the side as if to try to escape the situation, but Two shifts, blocking her escape.

"Oh dear," I breathe. This is not good, not good at all.

Taylor rises on her tip-toes, glancing around the room. Her eyes lock with something, someone. I turn around to see a few security officers on the other side of the room. Taylor's head gives a few micro-flicks in Two's direction.

Then, she stops. Her gaze returns to Two, brows knit together. Two is chattering away about something. Taylor smiles and gives a slight nod. Her eyes flick across the room once more, and she gives a shake of her head.

The tension in my muscles melts into the divan cushions. Everything's fine. Two and Taylor are getting along. Hopefully, things continue to go according to plan. I literally can't afford to stay in New York indefinitely while Two navigates the social complexities of the human world.

Again, Two holds out his plate of hors d'oeuvres. Taylor lifts an olive and brussel sprout toothpick. After chewing it, she begins to converse with the merman. Beside me, Right-Scar glances at his watch.

"You think it's time," he mumbles to Left-Scar. The latter nods and leaves the room.

Concern creeps back. What does that mean? Time for what?

I watch Taylor and Two, deeply engrossed in conversation. Minutes tick by on the clock mounted on the wall. I grab a bacon-wrapped scallop from a tray nearby, then munch by the handfuls on what appears to be gourmet trail mix, composed of hazelnuts, macadamia nuts, parmesan crisps, apple-cinnamon popcorn, crystallized ginger, and the best chocolate I've ever eaten in my life. Seriously, the buttery melt-in-your-mouth-yet-not-too-sweet chunks are the only thing keeping me sane.

My nerves are completely frayed. All my muscles are on edge, watching and waiting. What is going on? What is it time for?

Voices come from just outside the entrance. My gaze snaps to the door cracked ajar. Surely if there's a problem, the security officers will take care of it, right?

Right?

The door widens, and Left-Scar enters with a giant stuffed lobster blocking his torso from view. I exhale in relief, collapsing against the cushions. My stomach churns from all the food I just consumed, but it's hard to care.

Everything is fine. Left-Scar only left to get the lobster for Taylor.

"Uh, you good?" Right-Scar chuckles.

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?" I force a smile — my customer smile.

Two presents the giant stuffed animal to Taylor. She laughs, placing it on a nearby chair. Left-Scar rejoins us on the divan.

"Do you know what they're talking about?" I ask. I don't really expect him to respond, but curiosity has gotten the better of me. What could Two possibly say that would charm Taylor Fife?

"Ocean environmental stuff," Left-Scar states to my surprise. "You know, ocean pollution, noise pollution from boats, merfolk getting stuck in fishing nets, stuff like that."

"Oh." I guess I should give credit where credit is due. Two certainly has done his research, though it's a little creepy that he's Instagram-stalking people.

No, I take that back. It's very creepy.

The classical music overhead fades, leaving a strange void behind the continuing conversations. It's so funny how its absence is more prevalent than when it's playing. People migrate toward the tables stretching across the room. Two and Taylor, however, stay in the corner. Two keeps chatting away, while Taylor looks over his shoulder. She starts forward, but he blocks her way, continuing to talk.

My pulse ticks up a few notches. What is he doing?

Perhaps he doesn't understand that it's time for lunch. I rise from my seat, brushing off the chocolate shavings and dropped nuts on my lap. As Two's life makeover coach, I should steer him toward the tables before he draws more attention to himself.

Two slots his arm with Taylor's. Her face tenses, but she stiffly follows him along the side of the room. His left hand dips into his pocket before appearing again.

My brow furrows. A ring glitters around his index finger, one I hadn't noticed. Two reaches over with his left hand and pats Taylor's arm. They pass by the coffee table, pass by the door...

Suddenly, Taylor crumples. Two grabs her, then begins pulling her toward the exit. The Scar-Twins leap up from beside me, Left-Scar racing to the door, Right-Scar toward the officers in the back of the room. A shout erupts from the tables.

Guards burst into the room. Left-Scar jumps, kicking two in the stomach. His fist sends the third sprawling backward. Left-Scar lands on his feet, then pummels the other two with a few extra punches for good measure. Meanwhile, Two drags Taylor into the hall. A few men and women rush forward, but it's too late. The fabric of Taylor's long dress is the perfect sled across the slick floor, and Two is nearly out of sight.

A gunshot pierces the air. I spin around as Right-Scar staggers back, clutching his arm. The sound jogs a memory from the depths of my mind.

Gun. Weapon.

Taser.

With barely a thought, I whip out the strange, small device and aim it through the open doorway. Two's shoulder aligns in the viewfinder, at least I think it does. Steeling myself, I squeeze the trigger. Two jolts backward, dropping Taylor. His body convulses a moment, his jaw open and his eyes frantically scanning the corridor.

Then he collapses on the floor.