Page 13 of Mane Rival in Store by Milly Taiden

Rune looked down. His fingers were, in fact, curling and uncurling at his sides in a rhythmic pattern that had nothing to do with conscious decision-making. He stilled them. Placed both hands flat on the counter.

“Write the letter,” he said. “I’ll review and sign.”

“I’m not writing it.”

“Dekel.”

“Send it yourself. Walk next door, hand it to her, watch her read it, and see what happens.” The pale green eyes sparked. “I’d pay to watch, honestly. I’d sell tickets.”

Rune did not send the letter. He did not walk next door. He did, however, spend the next forty minutes crafting the letter on his laptop in the back office, revising it three times for tone, formatting it on Sterling & Mane International letterhead with the Pride crest embossed in silver, printing it on heavyweight cream stock, and placing it in a monogrammed envelope that he sealed, addressed to “Ms. Lark Coleman, Founder & CEO, Villainette SoHo,” and set on the corner of his desk.

Where it stayed.

He stared at the envelope. Crisp and accusatory, representing everything he wanted to say and the absolute certainty that saying it would involve standing in her store again, within striking distance of her smile.

Through the wall, the playlist shifted to a track with a heavier bass line. The vibration hummed through the desk and into his forearms.

His hair lifted at the temples.

He smoothed it down. It rose again.

This is a building management issue. Not a personal one. The decibel levels exceed reasonable commercial norms. The letter is appropriate. Appropriate. Proportionate.

His phone buzzed. Aspen.

Aspen: Did you talk to her yet?

He typed: The situation is being managed through formal channels.

Three dots. Then: Oh no. You wrote a letter, didn’t you.

He set the phone facedown on the desk.

The teenager arrived after two that afternoon.

Rune clocked him through the storefront glass—sixteen, maybe seventeen, backpack slung over one shoulder, the particular blend of confidence and uncertainty that characterized a young collector still learning the terrain. The kid walked into Villainette first. Spent twelve minutes inside (Rune was not timing; his peripheral awareness simply registered the duration). Emerged carrying a small purple bag and crossed the three feet of sidewalk to Sterling & Mane’s entrance.

The bell chimed. The kid stepped in, eyes wide, adjusting to the shift from neon chaos to gallery silence how a diver adjusts to pressure changes.

“Whoa.” He turned in a slow circle. “This is like… the opposite.”

“Welcome to Sterling & Mane.” Rune stepped forward. “Can I help you find an edition?”

“I’m looking for anything Joker. Old stuff. Like, vintage.”

Rune guided him to the DC section. Pulled a graded 1975 Joker print—not a first edition, but a strong example, appropriate for a young collector building a foundation. The kid handled it with bare hands. Rune’s eye twitched. He produced a pair of cotton display gloves from his jacket pocket and offered them without comment.

“Dude.” The kid held up the print, gloved now, angling it under the gallery light. “This is incredible. How much?”

Rune named the price. The kid winced, did internal math, and pulled out a debit card. A collector’s instinct overriding a teenager’s budget. Rune respected it.

As he wrapped the print in acid-free tissue, the kid set his Villainette bag on the counter. The purple bag gaped open. Inside: a villain-themed eyeliner in a shade called Unhinged and a Celestial Ronin sticker pack.

Villain-themed eyeliner. From the store next door. On his counter. Next to a graded 1975 print that deserved better proximity.

“The store next door is sick,” the kid said, oblivious. “The lady in there recommended your store for vintage stuff. She said you have the best Joker archive on the East Coast.”

Rune’s hands paused on the tissue paper.