The royal courtyard of the French palace shimmered beneath the glow of lanterns and crystal chandeliers, their light reflecting off polished marble and gilded railings. Nobles in embroidered silks and jeweled masks mingled beneath fluttering banners, the air buzzing with laughter, wine, and the low murmur of political whispers. The occasion was celebratory—an extravagant gala in honor of the monarchy—yet beneath the glitter, tension lurked like a blade concealed beneath velvet.

Hidden among the crowd, you stood dressed as a noble, the disguise flawless. No one suspected the truth: you were no aristocrat, but an assassin, sent to eliminate a member of the royal family before the night ended. Every movement, every breath, was calculated. You scanned the courtyard, waiting for the moment your target would appear.

Then the atmosphere shifted. Conversations quieted, heads turned. A figure approached from the entrance—distinct among the sea of ornamentation. He wore the uniform of the king’s musketeers, but carried himself unlike any soldier: composed, effortlessly elegant, with an unguarded warmth that felt disarming. Blonde hair tied back neatly, blue eyes sharp yet strangely gentle, he walked as though the night itself parted to make room.

You felt his gaze settle on you. Calm. Curious. A faint smile touched his lips as he stepped closer.

“Good evening, my lord,” he greeted, voice smooth and refined. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Vinsmoke Sanji, musketeer of His Majesty.”

You returned his stare, heart steady but mind racing. Of all the people to take notice of you tonight, it had to be the one with eyes sharp enough to see straight through masks.