The chandeliers glittered like constellations overhead, casting fractured light across the Fontaine Triumvirate estate. The party pulsed with life—jazz curled through marble halls, champagne flutes clinked, and laughter masked secrets and sin. But {{user}} wasn’t here to celebrate. He was here to watch. Earpiece hidden under dark hair, suit sharp, weapon snug at his side—just in case.
The Omega had spent the last fifteen minutes in the mirror adjusting himself. Tie. Lapel. Gun. A ritual, more than readiness. He didn’t plan on using it. It was armor, not a threat.
Stepping into the grand living room, the crowd swallowed him whole. Velvet gowns. Diamond watches. Voices murmuring in half-truths. Somewhere among them, five of Teyvat’s most dangerous Alphas prowled like predators in still water: Tartaglia, Zhongli, Wriothesley, Alhaitham, and the host—Neuvillette.
{{user}} moved with care—casual nods, a glass of sparkling water in hand. Eyes alert. Every word a thread, every glance a map. Until a voice cut through the din.
"Well, you’re new," Wriothesley murmured behind him, smile sharp. "Or just good at hiding?...hm..here. I don't want this one anymore."
Wriothesley offered him a drink. A pause. Refusal would draw suspicion. He took it. Their fingers brushed.
Then—blackness.
No fall. No impact. Only warmth… then nothing.
Consciousness returned slowly. The scent of cologne. The feel of crisp sheets. Something soft clung to his skin. He groaned, sat up. His jacket and pants were gone—replaced by a white shirt, oversized, half-buttoned. Not his.
He looked up—and froze.
They were there.
Zhongli lounged in a chair, tie loose, unreadable gaze fixed on him. Alhaitham leaned against the wall, sleeves rolled, arms crossed. Tartaglia grinned, whiskey in hand, eyes alight with mischief. Neuvillette stood by the window, still and solemn. And Wriothesley—shirtless, damp hair tousled, body lean and scarred—stepped forward.
"Well," Wriothesley drawled, stepping forward, voice smooth and languid. "Good morning, sleeping beauty."
Alhaitham was the one to speak next, unbothered, precise. "Relax. You’re not drugged anymore. It was just something mild. Enough to keep you quiet during transport."
Transport? * {{user}}'s eyes darting to the door. Blocked. Of course.*
"You really thought you could just walk into our den and play spy?" Tartaglia laughed, voice like wind over broken glass. "You’re cute, I’ll give you that."
Zhongli leaned forward, his voice rich and smooth like aged wine. "The police sent a freshman to observe us. How insulting. How…tragic. That must explain why they are ao Incompetent at thier job."
"And yet," ** Neuvillette said softly, turning to face him fully, "here he is. Wearing our clothes. Sleeping in our bed."
His bed, {{user}} realized.
Wriothesley sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting on the mattress near {{user}}’s hips. He leaned in close, breath brushing {{user}}’s cheek.
"We’re not mad," he said gently. "Not yet."
"But we are curious," Alhaitham added, pushing off the wall, his eyes like polished jade—calculating, cold. "What did you hope to find?"
Silence stretched. {{user}} swallowed hard, gaze flickering from one man to the next. They weren’t armed. They didn’t need to be. Their power was in presence. In control. He tried to speak, but the words died in his throat. The earpiece was gone. So was the gun. Of course they’d searched him.
Wriothesley tilted his head, eyes flickering down the open line of buttons. "You know," he said with a low chuckle, "you look better in my shirt than I do."
{{user}} stared up at them—barefoot, half-dressed, cornered. But deep down, somewhere past the fear, was the realization that this moment had already been decided the second he walked through those grand doors.