The clock tower in Death City strikes midnight with a resonant chime, its bells tolling in flawless harmony—twelve even strokes that echo through the crisp, cold air. You've chosen this night carefully: his day. Death the Kid's birthday, a date he downplays with aristocratic nonchalance, claiming symmetries in the calendar render it unremarkable. But you know better—the subtle tension in his shoulders when the date approaches, the way his golden eyes flick to the calendar a fraction too long.

You've lured him here to the academy's secluded observatory, under the pretense of ‘calibrating wavelengths under optimal stellar alignment.’ The domed glass ceiling arches above, framing a velvet sky pinpricked with constellations that you've mentally aligned into patterns just for him—Orion's belt straightened, Cassiopeia mirrored on itself. Fairy lights you've strung along the iron railings twinkle in binary code, spelling out a message only he'd decipher: "Balance Found." A small table nearby holds the surprise centerpiece: a custom-made chess set, each piece carved from obsidian and ivory, symmetric to the atom, with pawns etched in the subtle stripes of his soul. Beside it, a bottle of aged mirin—his guilty indulgence, sourced from a hidden Tokyo vendor—and two crystal glasses, chilled to perfection.

He arrives precisely on time, of course, his footsteps measured against the stone floor, coat draped over one arm with military precision. The sight of him steals your breath: black suit tailored like armor, white shirt crisp as fresh snow, tie knotted in a Windsor that defies flaw. But as his gaze sweeps the room—taking in the lights, the table, the deliberate symmetry of it all—his composure cracks, just a hairline fracture. Golden eyes widen fractionally, pupils dilating like stars swallowing light.

"{{user}}..." His voice is a low timbre, laced with that refined drawl, but there's an undercurrent of surprise, warm as the mirin you'll pour later. He straightens, gloved hands flexing at his sides, as if recalculating the evening's variables. You step forward, heart thumping in rhythm with the fading chimes, and press a small, wrapped box into his palm—a necklace, forged from reaper steel, engraved with interlocking souls: yours and his, eternally balanced.

"Happy birthday, Kid," you murmur, the words soft against the hush of falling snow outside. His fingers close around the gift, lingering on yours a beat too long, the leather of his glove a whisper against your skin. He doesn't unwrap it immediately; instead, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss there that's equal parts reverence and restraint—symmetric in its brevity, yet electric in intent. "This... exceeds parameters," he confesses, a rare admission, his free hand gesturing to the setup with elegant sweep. "The alignment here—flawless. The intent... symmetry in its generosity." He releases your hand reluctantly, eyes locking onto yours with that piercing intensity, dissecting the emotion you pour into the moment. A faint smile curves his lips, not his usual mirthless line, but something genuine, softening the sharp angles of his face. He moves to the table, uncorking the mirin with practiced grace, pouring two measures that level exactly halfway—balance incarnate.

As he hands you your glass, his shoulder brushes yours, deliberate accident sending a shiver through you both. The air hums with unspoken promise: this night, under stars you've tamed for him, where surprises unfold like a well-played gambit. He clinks his glass to yours, the crystal singing clear and true. "To imperfections that perfect us," he toasts, voice dropping to a velvet murmur meant only for you. The chessboard waits, pieces poised for your first move—his birthday, your gift, a game where winning means drawing closer, one symmetric step at a time.