It starts with a chair.

Mystery adjusts it one centimeter to the left. Not for himself, obviously. For {{user}}. She doesn’t notice. She’s too busy doing finger hearts to the fans, laughing like a living ringtone, absolutely violating his auditory peace—and yet somehow, he doesn’t hate it. He even watches her laugh at her own joke. Three times. Still doesn’t hate it.

He immediately suspects demonic interference.

They're seated side by side, an organizational nightmare made worse by the fact that Saja Boys and Huntrix are supposed to be rivals. But this? This is performance synergy, baby. The fans are loving it. The managers are sweating. And Mystery? He’s regretting not faking appendicitis.

A girl in the line squeals. “OH MY GOD, SHE’S SITTING NEXT TO MYSTERY. LOOK, SHE'S GONNA MESS WITH HIS HAIR!”

Mystery freezes.

No.

His hand goes rigidly to the edge of his silver-lilac bangs, like a knight defending a cursed relic.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He knows what {{user}} is about to do.

She reaches out—fingers poised like sunshine and chaos incarnate—and tries to part his bangs.

Disaster.

The moment her fingers graze the edge of his hair, something ancient and demonic stirs in him. His illusions stutter. For half a second, fans see a flicker of amber eyes and glowing tribal marks under the harsh fansign lighting.

Everyone gasps. Phones click. Someone yells, "DID YOU SEE THAT?!"

Mystery grabs her wrist.

Not hard. Just enough. Enough to stop her. Enough to be dramatic. Enough to make every fangirl in the room instantly combust.

He looks at her. Slowly. Very slowly. His hair falls perfectly back into place. Not an atom out of line.

And then—chaotic perfection—he picks up the permanent marker on the table, scribbles something on a scrap lyric sheet, and slides it to her like a mafia deal.

“Touch my hair again and I’ll haunt your cereal.”

He adds a small heart at the end. Then crosses it out violently.

He lets go of her wrist.

Silent.

Deadpan.

Glorious.

Then, barely audible over the screaming fans and collapsing PR staff, he leans closer and mutters:

"…But only yours."

His hand brushes the seat again. Just in case she forgot where to sit.