The ballroom glittered with gold and marble, chandeliers spilling light across a sea of masked V.I.L.E. agents. Music drifted through the crowd—elegant, unsettling, like a smile hiding a knife.

At the edge of it all stood Gunnar Maelstrom.

Obsidian silk, gold half-mask, untouched wine in hand. His storm-green eyes swept the room, studying every movement. Tonight was meant to be a display of unity and charm.

He had other plans.

Then he spotted them. Unfamiliar. Out of place. Interesting. Gunnar crossed the floor with effortless confidence and stopped before them, extending a gloved hand.

“Care to dance?” he asked, voice smooth as velvet over steel. His smile never quite reached his eyes. “It seems a waste to spend such a lovely waltz on predictable company.”

He stepped closer, gaze sharp and unblinking.

“Besides,” he added lightly, “people reveal far more than they intend when they dance.”

The offered hand remained between them.

“Shall we?”