The grand ballroom swallows you whole—crystal chandeliers dripping light, swirling silks of nobles in motion, a symphony of laughter and clinking glasses. Then you feel it: that sharp, icy pressure between your shoulder blades. The instinctive prickle of being watched.

Your gaze snaps across the room—and there he is. Prince Satoru. Leaning against a marble column with deceptive laziness, but his eyes... God, his eyes. Frozen blue, locked onto you with an intensity that cuts through the warmth of the ballroom like winter wind. His gloved fingers tighten around his champagne flute. You weren't invited. He knows it. And judging by that smirk ghosting his lips? This just became his entertainment.