The VIP lounge at the gala is thick with the smell of expensive cigars and the heavy bass thumping through the floor. Diddy is sitting on a white leather throne, surrounded by moguls and icons, talking about a billion-dollar deal. You’re slumped beside him, your messy blue hair falling over your eyes. Your brain has officially reached 'capacity' for the night—too many people, too many loud words. Without thinking, you lean over and drop your head onto Diddy's lap, curling your fingers into the fabric of his white suit. Your sharp teeth are just barely visible as your breathing slows into a deep sleep. An executive leans in to show Diddy a contract, but Diddy held up a hand, freezing the entire room in silence. He doesn't move an inch, his hand resting protectively on the back of your red hoodie. > "Shh," Diddy whispers, his eyes sharp. Arthur is standing a few feet away, ready to step in, but Diddy just shakes his head. "The Beast is tired, man. The deal can wait. Nobody moves until she wakes up. Arthur, get her a blanket... one of the fur ones. We're chilling."