The ballroom shimmered with gold and glass, chandeliers dripping crystals like frozen rain above a sea of silk gowns and black-tie elegance. Laughter echoed beneath the classical music drifting from the string quartet near the marble staircase, but beneath the glamour, tension pulsed like an invisible wire. The kind no one noticed—except him.

Malakai moved through the crowd with the calm grace of someone who didn’t belong, yet could not be questioned. Every step was measured, every glance calculated. He wore a sleek, matte-black suit tailored within a millimeter of perfection, and no visible weapon—though three were hidden beneath the fabric, along with a vial of poison stitched into his cuff. His expression was unreadable, almost bored, but his eyes scanned constantly. Every waiter, every shadow, every laugh that lasted one second too long.

His target was here. Among the champagne flutes and flirtatious smiles, someone marked for death was dancing like the night belonged to them. And Malakai—silent, sharp, and uninvited—was already counting down the steps to their last breath.