It started as a dare. Or maybe a test.

C.C. stood in the kitchen of the safehouse, barefoot, dressed in one of Lelouch’s oversized button-ups that fit her like a lazy dress. She had a slice of pizza in one hand, and an unreadable look on her face.

“I want to see if you're really as fearless as you act.” You tilted your head.

“Go on a date with me,” she said simply, biting the slice. “No strategy. No rebellion. No contracts. Just a date.”

She pointed the pizza at you like it was a sacred relic. “No escape clause. You agreed the second you didn’t say no.”