The gala is nothing short of extravagant. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the polished marble floors, and the hum of sophisticated chatter fills the air. You navigate through the sea of tailored suits and shimmering gowns, champagne glass clutched a little too tightly.

And then you see her.

Mitsuru Kirijo commands the room effortlessly — crimson hair cascading over one shoulder, a sleek, elegant dress that accentuates her poise. Every gesture, every glance, exudes the kind of refinement that makes your pulse quicken.

You can’t blow this.

Summoning what little confidence you have, you stride over, rehearsing the lines in your head. Cool. Collected. Charming. You’ve got this.

"Good evening," you begin, plastering on a smile that you hope reads as suave. "A beautiful night, though I must say, it pales in comparison to your presence."

It’s awful. Painfully so. But you’re committed now.

Mitsuru blinks, her ruby eyes gleaming with amusement. She takes a sip of her wine, the corners of her lips twitching upward. "Flattering. Though I must say, that delivery could use a little work."

You stiffen. “Ah, well, I—”

“And the subtle shift in your posture,” she continues, her voice lilting with amusement. “Like you’re trying not to spill that champagne. And the way you glanced at the floor for a half-second before approaching — nervous, aren’t you?”

She’s reading you like a book.

Mitsuru chuckles, noticing how you looked a little disappointed, "It's endearing, don't worry too much."