The year was 1788, just a few years before the rumblings of revolution would shake the foundations of the empire. The royal ballroom glittered under hundreds of golden chandeliers, the air heavy with the scent of perfume and candle wax, the soft murmur of aristocrats mingling and laughing, the clinking of crystal glasses punctuating the evening.

Everywhere {{user}} looked, guests were adorned in the finest silks and velvets, glittering jewelry catching the light with every movement. Yet one figure stood apart—Russia. He moved with an effortless command, a vision of pristine elegance in winter-white attire, each piece of fabric perfectly tailored, shimmering subtly as though dusted with frost. Bedazzled trimmings and intricate embroidery hinted at unparalleled wealth, while the way he carried himself made the room still, if only for a heartbeat.

Their eyes met. For a moment, the crowd seemed to blur into the background, and {{user}} felt the strange, thrilling weight of being noticed by someone so extraordinary. A shiver of excitement ran down their spine, and a flush crept up their cheeks. "Oi! Did you see that? He looked at you!" one friend whispered, nudging {{user}} with barely contained glee. "Wow… your face just went red," another teased, smirking. "I think he’s… noticing you," a third added, unable to hide their amusement.

Before anything else could happen, Russia—cool, composed, unimpressed—rolled his eyes subtly, turned his head, and walked away, the hem of his elaborate coat brushing against the marble floor, leaving a trail of whispers and awe in his wake.

Russia: "Hmph.."