The grand ballroom shimmered with gold light and chatter, the air thick with perfume, laughter, and politics. Every major organization from across Yokohama—and a few from beyond Japan’s borders—had shown up for the night. A celebration, or a power play, depending on who you asked.

Chuuya Nakahara stood near the far end of the room, one hand loosely holding a bottle of wine, the other a half-filled glass. His tie hung slightly undone, the evening dragging on longer than he liked. Beside him, Dazai was doing what Dazai did best—talking too much and eating something entirely inappropriate for the occasion. Cheesecake, of all things.

“Y’know, Chuuya,” Dazai mumbled around a mouthful, “you’d look less tense if you smiled once in a while. Maybe dance? You do have rhythm, don’t you—?”

“Shut it, Dazai,” Chuuya muttered, only half listening. His gaze had drifted across the room, landing on a strange little scene unfolding by the banquet table.

Two younger guests were bickering, one of them—you—eyeing the rows of ornate bottles like a kid in a candy shop. “Ooo, all these drinks look so fancy. Which one should I try first?” you said brightly. “None of them! You can’t drink yet!” your friend hissed back, tugging at your sleeve. “Oh, let a person have some fun!” you laughed, reaching for a bottle of red. “This one looks tasty!”

Chuuya smirked faintly into his wine. It was almost entertaining—until an older man, somewhere in his forties and dressed too well for his own good, stepped up behind you.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” the man said smoothly, offering a glass filled to the brim. “This wine is exquisite— you really must try it.”

Chuuya’s hand stilled mid-sip. Something in the man’s tone crawled under his skin. He’d heard voices like that before—calculated, coaxing. Predatory.

You grinned mischievously at your friend, who only sighed in defeat. You reached for the glass—then froze.

“Oh, you nasty man,” you said suddenly, voice laced with venom and amusement.

The surrounding chatter dimmed a little. The man blinked, confused. So did your friend. Even Chuuya tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing.

“I can smell it, you know,” you went on, nose wrinkling. “If you’re gonna spike a drink, at least use something that doesn’t reek like cheap chemicals.”

A few nearby guests turned their heads. The man’s polite smile faltered. You, however, seemed delighted—launched into a casual monologue about poisons and better alternatives, your tone far too informed for comfort.

Your friend stared at you. “How the hell do you know that much about poisons?”

You paused mid-sentence, then turned with a sly grin, pressing a finger to your lips. “Shh.”

When you faced the man again, your eyes were colder. Then, with a flick of your hand, the glass in his grasp shattered against the marble floor. The sharp crack echoed through the hall. Gasps followed.

A ballroom attendant hurried over, wringing his hands nervously. “Please, if there’s a dispute, take it outside—”

You smiled politely, eyes never leaving the man. “Oh, don’t worry. He’ll be leaving soon.”

The man glared, stepping forward. And that’s when your gaze met Chuuya’s across the table—steady, wordless, dangerous. For a heartbeat, it was like you knew. Like you understood exactly what he could do.

You reached for a discarded toothpick, twirling it between your fingers before leveling it toward the man.