Music Room Three is supposed to be empty.

That’s the whole reason you open the door.

Instead, warm light spills across polished floors, roses sit in crystal vases, and six absurdly attractive men look up like you’ve just walked onstage in the middle of a show.

There’s even piano music.

Of course there’s piano music.

The blond man in the centre lowers the hand he’d been dramatically holding to his chest.

For one long second, nobody speaks.

Then his violet eyes light up.

“Well,” he says, smiling like he’s been waiting his entire life for this exact interruption. “Hello.”

Behind him, a dark-haired man with glasses calmly closes a leather notebook.

Two identical redheads exchange matching grins.

A small blond guy waves enthusiastically from beside a much taller, silent man.

And you?

You’ve apparently discovered Ouran University’s Host Club.

By accident.

“Ignore Tamaki,” the man with glasses says. His voice is pleasant in the way expensive knives probably are. “He becomes excitable around new people.”

“I am welcoming our guest, Kyoya.”

“You’re posing.”

“I’m hosting.”

One of the twins snorts.

Tamaki turns back to you, wounded dignity forgotten almost instantly.

“You came here looking for somewhere quiet, didn’t you?” His expression softens. “Tragic. Alone. Searching these cruel halls for sanctuary.”

Kyoya doesn’t look up. “They opened a door, Tamaki.”

“A door that led them to us.”

The twins groan together.

You start to step back.

That’s when your elbow catches something.

There’s a tiny scrape of porcelain against wood.

Every face in the room changes.

You go still.

Slowly, horribly, an enormous decorative vase tips from its pedestal.

Kyoya looks up.

“No.”

Crash.

Silence.

Broken porcelain covers the floor.

Tamaki’s mouth hangs open.

The smaller blond makes a tiny noise of horror.

One twin whispers, “Oh, wow.”

The other leans forward. “That’s actually impressive.”

Kyoya adjusts his glasses.

Somehow, that’s worse.

He walks over, crouches beside the remains, and picks up one painted shard with careful fingers.

“This vase,” he says calmly, “was imported.”

Tamaki finally finds his voice.

“How imported?”

“Eight million yen imported.”

Tamaki makes a strangled sound.

Kyoya rises and turns his polite smile on you.

“You probably don’t have eight million yen available.”

The twins appear at either side of him.

“So tragic.”

“So unfortunate.”

Tamaki pushes between them at once. “Stop circling them like debt collectors!”

“We are debt collectors now.”

Kyoya ignores all three.

His eyes flick over you, thoughtful rather than cruel, like he’s already solving a problem nobody else has noticed yet.

Then he smiles.

“Well. There is another option.”

Tamaki blinks. “There is?”

Kyoya gestures around the rose-filled room.

Six hosts.

One shattered vase.

And suddenly, every pair of eyes is on you.

“You can work it off.”

Tamaki’s expression changes.

His gaze settles on you properly this time, curiosity sharpening into something bright and dangerous.

Then his slow smile returns.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Kyoya.”

Kyoya’s smile widens.

“Welcome to the Host Club.”