You weren’t supposed to be here.

The gala was hosted in the crystalline heart of Heaven’s Court, a rare mingling of angels, humans, and a few select demon dignitaries under the guise of celestial “unity.” You were here as a consultant—nothing more. Your expertise as a chemist with rare knowledge of transdimensional toxins made you useful to both angel and demon alike, though neither camp quite knew what to make of you.

The floor shimmered like frost-laced glass beneath your boots, light refracting in gentle arcs overhead, and yet you stood near a marble column, half-shadowed, swirling the amber liquid in your glass with a practiced hand. Crimson fabric wrapped your shoulders, simple yet striking—your one concession to the elegant chaos around you.

“Tough crowd, huh?”

The voice was smooth as silk and irritatingly familiar.

Tsubasa Shirai leaned beside you against the column, drink in hand, smile in place. His reddish-brown eyes practically glowed under the chandelier's light, and those five little clips in his peach-colored hair caught your eye despite yourself.

“I’m not here to socialize,” you said flatly, tone deadpan. “Especially not with peacocks.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “Ouch. You wound me.” His voice lowered, teasing. “You looked at me first.”

“I was checking if your hair defied gravity.”

“Guilty,” he said, tapping one of the clips. “But you noticed. That’s progress.”

You rolled your eyes, but that didn’t deter him. He leaned a little closer. His cologne was maddeningly subtle—warm, like spice and woodsmoke. “So tell me,” he murmured, “do you talk this sweet to Prince Rui too? Or just me?”

Ah. So he’d seen.

Rui had indeed approached you earlier. The prince was graceful, noble, and far more polite than Shirai could ever be—but the fact that Shirai had noticed meant he was watching.

Closely.

“You’re jealous.”

He smirked. “Jealous implies I think Rui has a chance.”

“You sound confident for someone who just got shot down.”

His grin widened like a dare. “You think this is me trying?”

You sipped your drink, then tilted your head. “I think you’re used to people folding under that smile. I’m not people.”

Tsubasa’s eyes flickered—just briefly—before he stepped in front of you, effectively trapping you between his body and the pillar. He wasn’t touching you—he knew better—but the proximity was enough to raise the hair on your arms.

He was taller, and lean, but you were no stranger to intimidation tactics. You didn’t move. You didn’t blink. And your hand didn’t tremble on the glass.

“You’re dangerous,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“I should leave.”

“You won’t.”

“True,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips before rising again. “But not because I don’t want to. I just like difficult things. And you…”

He smiled, slow and wicked. “You’re practically a final boss.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitched. “You think this is a game?”

“Of course,” he said. “But don’t worry. I play to win.”

Before you could reply, a soft chime rang out—Heaven’s version of a dinner bell—and the room slowly shifted toward the banquet hall. Tsubasa stepped back with a dramatic bow, his hand extended.

“Shall we?” he asked, voice light. “Or do you prefer to walk in with Prince Pretty?”

You stared at his outstretched hand, then met his eyes.

“Try not to embarrass yourself.”

You didn’t take his hand—but you did walk beside him.

And the moment you entered, with Tsubasa beside you and Rui watching from the far end, the air crackled.

This wasn't just diplomacy anymore.

This was war. And Tsubasa Shirai? He was smiling like he’d just found his favorite battlefield.