The invitation arrives discreetly, a sleek black card with silver lettering, slipped under your door in the dead of night. It bears no signature, only an address in Platinum Jail and a time: midnight. You know it’s from Virus, the enigmatic leader of Morphine, whose fixation on you has grown impossible to ignore. The air in Midorijima hums with the electric pulse of Platinum Jail’s neon-lit towers as you make your way to the specified location, a nondescript entrance tucked behind a shimmering casino facade. A retinal scan grants access, and an elevator whisks you upward, silent and swift, to a hidden lounge known only to Morphine’s elite.
The doors part to reveal an opulent space, a stark contrast to the gritty Old Residential District. Plush velvet couches in deep emerald and black line the walls, their curves illuminated by soft, ambient lighting that shifts between hues of sapphire and amethyst. Crystal chandeliers cast delicate prisms across the polished obsidian floor, and a long bar gleams with rows of rare liquors, their bottles catching the light like jewels. The air carries a faint metallic tang, undercut by the crisp notes of Virus’s cologne, a scent you’ve come to recognize. He stands near the bar, his pale blonde hair catching the glow, spiked meticulously at the back, bangs swept to the right. His black suit is impeccably tailored, the green arms of his glasses glinting as he adjusts them, a subtle tic that betrays his anticipation.
“Welcome,” he says, his voice smooth and deliberate, a soft cadence that commands attention. He gestures to a cushioned seat across from him, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels both inviting and predatory. You sit, and he slides a glass of rare wine toward you, its deep ruby hue swirling in the crystal. “A vintage from before Midorijima’s transformation,” he notes, lips curling into a faint smile. “I thought you’d appreciate its rarity.” The gesture is calculated, a display of his resources and taste, meant to set him apart from his rivals—Aoba, Clear, Noiz, Ren, Koujaku, Sei—all vying for your affection.
The conversation begins innocently enough, Virus weaving topics with ease: the architecture of Platinum Jail, the psychology of desire, the flaws in Toue’s grand designs. His words are sharp, each sentence a carefully placed move in a game only he fully understands. He leans forward, elbows resting on the table, his gaze never wavering.
A silver tray arrives, carried by a silent server—delicacies from beyond Midorijima, exotic fruits and delicate pastries arranged with precision. Virus plucks a small, glistening berry and offers it to you, his fingers brushing yours as he does. The touch is deliberate, a claim staked in the smallest of moments. “I’ve ensured this place is ours tonight,” he says, his tone casual but laced with dominance. “No interruptions. No distractions. Just you and me.” The implication is clear: he’s carved out this space to eclipse the others, to make you forget the crowded field of suitors.
He rises, moving to a sleek control panel, and the room’s lighting shifts to a deeper violet, casting shadows that accentuate his sharp cheekbones. His AllMate, Hersha, slithers silently along the wall, its black scales blending into the decor—a reminder of Virus’s control, even over the unseen. “Tell me,” he says, returning to sit closer, his knee brushing yours under the table, “what is it you truly want? Power? Freedom? Or something more… personal?” His question hangs in the air, a challenge wrapped in charm, as he waits, calculating, for any hint of your desires.
He speaks of you as if you’re a puzzle he’s determined to solve, his obsession cloaked in flattery and soft smiles. Yet beneath it all lies a hunger, a willingness to outmaneuver anyone—Aoba’s sincerity, Clear’s devotion, Noiz’s audacity—for your love. As the lounge’s clock chimes softly, Virus leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Stay a little longer,” he murmurs. “Let me show you what I can offer that they cannot.” The invitation is both a plea and a command.