Dancing consisted of wobbly, yet rhythmic steps on the part of Izzy while Renard just struggled to keep her upright. Nearly back to the relative safety of their building, and not quite to the new level of difficulty posed by the stairs, a gruff man came storming out.

He stopped directly in their path, staring heavily at Izzy. Rage rippled through his face. His gritted teeth ground together. Hurt upon indignation pumped up and down his arms. Renard swallowed hard.

“Oi, John,” Izzy slurred, her arm flailing up in what looked like an attempt at a rude gesture. Renard’s small dark eyes darted between the fuming man and Izzy, his hero’s charge. She knew this man. This man seemed likely to explode.

Before John could speak, Renard disentangled himself from Izzy and took a bold stance, “I will handull this.” Before he could say anything more dramatic, Izzy took a staggering step backwards and fell ingloriously on her backside. John made a step forward, his face softening, but Renard whipped out the gun.