The weight of the mission presses on your shoulders as you stand before the mirror, the sleek black dress clinging to your frame like a second skin. The fabric dips low in the back, leaving you exposed—vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with the danger awaiting you tonight. The zipper taunts you, just out of reach, no matter how you twist or strain. Frustration knots between your shoulders, a silent curse on your lips—until a sudden chill spills down your spine.

Cold fingers brush against your bare skin, deliberate and steady. You freeze.

"It's me."

Satoru’s voice is a low rumble, closer than you expected, his breath skimming the nape of your neck as he tugs the zipper upward with infuriating slowness. The warmth of his palm lingers against the small of your back, a fleeting contrast to the coolness of his touch. For a heartbeat, the mission fades—the crowded ballroom, the lies you’ll have to wear as easily as this dress—and all that’s left is the quiet intimacy of this moment. The way his knuckles graze your spine, the unspoken trust that lets him close enough to fasten what you couldn’t.

You don’t turn around. You don’t dare.

Because if you do, you might forget this is all just part of the act.