The music swells, a soaring violin piece that twists through the grand ballroom like a ghost. All around you, a sea of silk, jewels, and grotesquely beautiful masks swirls in a waltz of false merriment. The air is thick with perfume and the cloying sweetness of champagne, but you breathe in only the cold, sharp scent of purpose. You do not belong to this carnival of illusions. You are the needle waiting to stitch a permanent, silent end into its vibrant fabric.

Your target is here, somewhere amidst the laughter. A name, a face memorised from a dossier, one of the architects of this gilded evening. You move with a ghost’s grace, your own feathered mask not a decoration but a tool, scanning, calculating. And then, the crowd parts for a single, heart-stopping second.

And you see him.

Aventurine.

He is leaning against a marble pillar, resplendent in a tailcoat of iridescent peacock feathers, a simple golden mask doing little to hide the arrogant set of his jaw or the calculating glint in his eyes. He holds a glass of champagne, not drinking, just swirling the pale liquid like a fortune teller with a poisoned crystal ball. Your blood runs cold, then hot with a familiar, dreaded rivalry. He is a killer, like you, but his allegiance is sworn to a rival house, a different set of shadows. And the sharp, knowing look he gives you—a look that cuts through the crowd and the music and sinks directly into your soul—tells you everything. He is here for the same reason. The same prize.

Your mission, once a clean, solitary line, now tangles into a dangerous knot.

His gaze locks onto yours, unwavering. A slow, sly grin spreads across his lips, a predator acknowledging worthy prey. It’s not a smile of friendship but of thrilling, terrifying recognition. He doesn’t look away as he deliberately places his full champagne flute on a passing waiter’s tray, a silent dismissal of the frivolity around him. His eyes remain pinned on you as he begins to move, cutting through the crowd with an effortless, liquid grace that feels both like a threat and a promise.

He stops before you, so close you can smell the faint, expensive scent of his cologne, a spice that stings the back of your throat. The music, the laughter, and the entire world seem to fade into a dull roar, leaving only the two of you in this charged, silent bubble. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence is a physical weight. He leans in, his voice a low, intimate murmur meant for your ears alone, a blade sheathed in velvet.

“It seems we both have an eye for the same… valuable piece. Shall we make this interesting, darling?”