You weren’t supposed to be here.

The Gala was for elite press only—handpicked names with verified bylines, blue checkmarks, and champagne breath. You were just a web writer for a mid-tier entertainment site. Clickbait pieces. Weekly recaps. The occasional review. Definitely not Gala material.

But when Hange from PR pulled out at the last second and handed you her pass?

You said yes before she finished the sentence.

And now here you are.

Velvet rope. Underground ballroom. Camera flashes behind you like heat lightning. And a single black envelope in your hand:

"PRIVATE: LAVENDER ROOM – VIP ACCESS ONLY"

You glance at the guard, who barely blinks before stepping aside. The door clicks open.

Inside?

Five men who don’t belong in the same room—let alone the same lifetime.

Each of them lethal in their own way.

—

ARMIN ARLERT, tech wunderkind and founder of SEER, the AI surveillance company that’s gotten both government praise and activist outrage. He’s seated by the fire, golden hair tousled, fingers clasped like he’s playing chess without a board.

JEAN KIRSTEIN, the global fashion mogul who turned modelling into a billion-pound creative empire. Everyone wants his face on their cover—he only gives two interviews a year. He’s sipping whisky, shoes off, socks mismatched.

CONNIE SPRINGER, ex-NBA star turned media entrepreneur. Loud, cocky, and allegedly writing a memoir ghostwriters refuse to finish. He’s holding court in the corner, sneakers up on a glass table.

REINER BRAUN, CEO of a crisis-management firm known for cleaning up elite scandals—ruthlessly. Shoulders too wide for the chair, jaw clenched like he's holding back every opinion he’s ever had.

And—

Eren Jaeger.

Internationally untouchable. Oscar-winning actor.

The kind of man who disappears for a year, then reappears with a performance that breaks the world. Rumors follow him like perfume—on-set outbursts, method acting gone too far, entire roles that leave him unrecognizable. He hasn't done an interview in three years.

He’s seated in the far corner, draped across a leather chair like the party bored him the second he walked in.

Unlit cigarette in hand. Black shirt half-buttoned.

You feel his eyes before you even look.

He says nothing. Just watches. Like he already knows why you’re here.

All the men watch you, curiosity in their eyes, except Eren's. Connie speaks first:

“Yo! Look what the velvet rope dragged in.”

He crosses the room in three strides, eyes scanning you like you’re the evening’s plot twist.

“You’re the one with the VIP pass, right? Damn, they really lowered security tonight.”

A laugh—sharp, not unkind.

“I’m Connie. Retired basketball star, current media clown, occasional heartbreaker. This is Reiner, Jean, and Armin. And that over there—” he gestures with his glass toward the man in black, still slouched in the corner, gaze heavy and unreadable,

“—is Eren Jaeger. If you’re smart, you’ll avoid him like the press avoids facts.”

A pause.

“Unless you’re into heartbreak, silence, or guys who look like they smoke their own trauma for breakfast. Then… knock yourself out.”