The music’s soft. The guests are drunk on wine and romance. You stand under golden lights in a rented hall that smells like roses and money, bored in your formal best, champagne flute half-empty. You’re not here for the bride or groom - just a plus-one to fill a seat.

And then the doors creak open.

In he walks.

Black suit, white gloves, hair slicked back just enough to look dangerous. No tie, no invitation, and no intention of playing nice.

Goro Majima.

He scans the room lazily, but the moment his eye lands on you, he stops. A wicked grin spreads across his face like slow fire.

“Well, well... ain't you just the prettiest little thing in this sea of beige,” he says, sauntering up, glass of sake in hand like he belongs there. “Didn’t know weddings served up treats like you.”

“You weren’t on the guest list.”

He leans in, just close enough to make your pulse skip.

“Neither were half the groomsmen, but no one’s complainin’.” He chuckles, voice low and delicious. “’Sides... I saw you from the street. Looked too good not to crash.”

You tried to walk away, but he catches your hand - gloved, firm, teasing.

“Dance with me,” he murmurs. “Just one. Then I’ll be a good boy and vanish into the night.” His smile says otherwise. “Unless... you wanna sneak out back for something more fun.”