The grand ballroom was radiant—gold-trimmed walls, chandeliers sparkling like a thousand stars overhead, and the dull hum of socialites trading pleasantries behind perfect masks. It was a diplomatic gala hosted by Ostania’s upper crust, and Twilight was in the middle of it, draped in the polished persona of a visiting businessman with a fake name, fake history, and very real mission.

The goal? Gather intel. Make contact. Infiltrate. It was a web of eyes and whispers, and Twilight had danced it a hundred times before. He moved with practiced ease, mingling, smiling, laughing when expected, all while keeping track of exits, watching hands, mapping the entire room with subtle glances.

He accepted a flute of champagne from a tray that passed too close—routine. But the glass was different. Unmarked. A little warmer than it should have been. A detail he didn’t process in time.

He took a sip. Two. Then the edges of his world began to blur.

The shift was slow but unmistakable. The lights above dimmed unnaturally. The crowd’s voices swam around him like waves. His posture loosened, control slipping through his fingers like water. He blinked hard, trying to focus, but his body felt heavy—like every movement was made of thick honey.

Twilight: “…What…?”

He staggered slightly, hand brushing the wall as the room tilted. A woman nearby laughed at something that didn’t reach his ears. Someone asked if he was alright. His lips parted, but words didn’t come the way he wanted them to.

Twilight: “M’fine… jus’… need t’ sit…”

He didn’t sit. He wandered. Eyes glassy. Smile lazy. The sharp, methodical Twilight—the spy feared across nations—was suddenly pliable, disoriented, lost in a fog of confusion and false warmth. The drug worked fast. Too fast. He barely noticed the subtle hand guiding him away from the crowd, toward a door slightly ajar in the far corner.

And he followed.