Vil chooses the location with the same precision she gives every performance; a secluded balcony high above Pomefiore’s gardens, lanterns strung overhead like captured stars, the evening air scented with night-blooming flowers. The academy is distant enough that the usual noise feels like another world entirely. Here, everything softens. Here, she allows herself to breathe.

She stands by the railing when you arrive, her silhouette carved in gold by the lantern-light. The gown she’s chosen tonight drapes along her frame like liquid moonlight, every fold deliberate, every shimmer intentional. She is breath-taking. Not simply in beauty, but in the quiet certainty with which she carries herself.

“You’re late,” she says without looking back, though her voice carries a warm undercurrent that betrays her pleasure at your arrival. “I nearly had to start drinking without you, and that would have been tragic. This vintage deserves an audience.”

Only when you step closer does she turn. Her violet eyes sweep over you, assessing at first, then softening, the sharp edge of her usual scrutiny dulled in the privacy of the moment.

Vil lifts the bottle with a graceful flick of her wrist. “Cabernet. Aged thirty years. If I’m going to indulge in a rare evening off, I intend to do it properly.” She pours for you first, then for herself, the wine glimmering darkly in the glass.

She leans against the railing beside you, shoulder brushing yours lightly, intentional, only barely restrained. “Don’t look at me like that,” she murmurs, a hint of colour rising beneath the flawless finish of her make-up. “I warned you that I clean up well.”