The ballroom was a whirlwind of movement, laughter, and music, a scene of polished perfection. He wouldn't have ever thought that one day, he'd have to end your life in the very same room he'd proposed to you back in the day. How romantic.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the glint of crystal chandeliers overhead. John danced you elegantly around the room peopled with other guests. His hold on your hand never faltered and he held his grip on your waist firm. The way he moved you smoothly through the sea of guests, each movement fluid and precise, was nothing short of mesmerizing. There was no space between you two that wasn't meticulously calculated.

Then, without warning, his fluid and precise movements shifted, and you found yourself being expertly dipped backwards. But there was something else, a shift in his hand too that had nothing to do with the dance. He didn't feel you flinch, even as his fingers brushed against the cold steel hidden underneath your dress. The knife, snug against your thigh, was a weapon you kept for moments like these. But John, ever the professional, was already one step ahead of you. Without missing a beat, he threw the blade with casual ease, sending it hurtling across the room. It struck the wall with a soft thud, embedding itself into the plaster, disarming you without drawing attention.

He pulled you back up with ease, bringing you upright and back into his arms, your feet steady on the floor once more. "Careful," he whispered, "you're getting sloppy, darling." He was well-aware of the deadly dance you played, one where the stakes were higher than any waltz. He knew you were no stranger to playing your part. Besides, the game wasn't really over. It had just shifted to another round.