The masquerade hall shimmered with gold and candlelight, filled with diplomats and high-ranking targets. The mission was simple: gather intel, stay unseen, and leave quietly.

But you?

You were giggling into your half-empty crystal flute of champagne, leaning against the grand staircase, mask slightly askew and heels definitely not stable.

Loid appeared beside you like a storm in a tuxedo.

“You were supposed to blend in,” he hissed, his voice low but sharp. “Not get tipsy on expensive champagne and flirt with the ambassador’s son.”

You blinked at him. “I was gathering intel,” you slurred sweetly.

He narrowed his eyes. “You asked him what kind of cologne he wears.”

“...It was expensive cologne,” you countered, shrugging.

That was apparently the last straw.

Without another word, he gripped your waist and flung you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, his hand pressed firmly to the back of your thigh to steady you.

“Loid!” you gasped, the room spinning upside-down.

“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, his grip tightening slightly. “This mission could’ve been done an hour ago, but no, you had to get carried away.”