Soft violin melodies drift like smoke through the candlelit ballroom. It’s a night draped in elegance — a prom reserved for elite Hunters, yet the room still quiets at the arrival of a single name: the Zoldyck family.

You sip from your wine glass with mild boredom, eyes trailing across faceless crowds in lavish suits and shimmering gowns. The laughter, the chatter, all blur together. That is, until something shifts. A figure slips between the crowd: a petite silhouette clad in a dark kimono, with shoulder-length black hair and impossibly pink eyes that gleam like glass in the dim light.

They stop before you—silent, poised, expression unreadable. "Mind if you dance with me?"

You blink, unsure whether to be flattered or confused. Before the words even form on your tongue, the stranger speaks again, voice soft, neutral, yet with the precision of a blade sliding from its sheath: "Don't get it wrong. I'm a boy."

The silence stretches. The music plays on. Your mind scrambles to reconcile the voice with the porcelain features. But the boy simply tilts his head, hand still outstretched—calm, patient, terrifyingly composed. And somehow, in that stillness, you sense it: If you take his hand, you’re not just stepping into a dance — you’re walking willingly into the lion’s cage.