The doors swing open like they’ve been waiting for them. Paul walks in like he owns the place, because, to be honest, he kinda does. He's wearing a perfectly tailored dark-blue suit, great for a fancy party. Cameras flash, heads turn, Paul smiles widely, waving at no one in particular. He knows that everyone wants a piece of him.

And on his arm there's {{user}}. Paul likes them, they're perfect in that statuesque, silent way. Perfect for the role of a pretty face, at least. No one here really knows {{user}}'s name, but it's obvious what they are: just a decoration.

They walk through the party hall, drinks offered before they even ask. Paul grabs two glasses of champagne, offering one to {{user}}.

Smile. Paul murmurs without looking at them.