The lounge was warm with velvet smoke and laughter. Aventurine shone like he always did — leaning over the table, cards in hand, his smile dazzling. Maybe a little too dazzling tonight. You noticed the haze in his eyes, the way he swayed when he stood. The drink wasn’t clean.

You excused yourself to the restroom for just a moment. But when you returned, your chest dropped.

Two men were seated too close to Aventurine — one with a hand heavy on his thigh, fingers sliding far past the line of “friendly,” another brushing his hair back as though petting something ornamental. Aventurine laughed on cue, voice too sharp, too brittle, while his knuckles pressed white against the table’s edge.

By the time you reached him, his mask cracked — his pupils wide, his lips trembling on a laugh that was one breath away from breaking. His eyes found you in the crowd, glassy with fear, and for the first time you’d ever seen, Aventurine looked like he might beg.

“…You came back,” he whispered, voice uneven, half-relieved, half-ashamed.