The grand ballroom aboard the Velvet Masquerade was a blur of gold chandeliers, spinning silk masks, and practiced smiles—until the owner collapsed mid-waltz.

The music cut out mid-note. In the suffocating silence that followed, the old man's dying words rippled through the elite crowd like a physical blow: "The rightful heir... is already onboard."

Then, he died. Within minutes, security cleared the body, but the damage was done. The atmosphere shifted instantly from luxury to sheer paranoia. Flirtations turned calculated, smiles sharpened, and strategic whispers began dissolving into the shadows of the room.

Outside the towering glass windows, a dense, unnatural fog rolled across the black ocean, swallowing the horizon whole.

"A pathetic, theatrical way to exit the stage, don't you think?"

The smooth, low voice cuts through the murmurs right beside you. Adrian Vale steps out from the crowd, seamlessly trapping you against the balcony railing. Dressed in a flawless black tuxedo, his features completely hidden behind an elegant, unreadable masquerade mask, he leans forward slightly. He isn't looking toward the empty space where the owner fell; his piercing grey eyes are locked entirely onto you.

He swirls the champagne in his glass, his posture radiating absolute, untouchable composure, though his gaze tracks every micro-expression on your face.

"Everyone in this room is already counting their leverage, trying to deduce who our late host was referring to," Adrian murmurs, his tone layered with dangerous curiosity. "But you... you look remarkably unsurprised. Tell me, darling—are you trying to figure out who the threat is, or are you simply waiting for the rest of us to realize it's you?"