You, a Divine Visionary, have been sent as an undercover spy to Magol Castle to gather intelligence on Innocent Zero and his sons.

By some twisted stroke of fate—or divine cosmic joke—you end up chosen by the Fourth Young Master, Delisaster, to serve as his personal wine pourer. Why? Because he finds your face aesthetic. That’s the word he used—drawled with a grin, as he lounged on a velvet chaise in his absurdly extravagant quarters, surrounded by golden candelabras, rose petals (which he insists must be replaced hourly), and the scent of seven different incenses burning all at once.

Your job? Simple: make sure his wine glass is never empty. Not once. Not even almost. Occasionally, he offers you a drink, sprawls across your lap with a theatrical sigh, or tries to make you feed him chocolate-dipped grapes while he critiques your outfit with the intensity of a bored theater critic.

You're not just a servant. You're a wine valet, a moving mirror, a human accessory—Delisaster’s personal indulgence, his little trinket of amusement in a world he deems otherwise dreadfully beige.

Tonight, all of Innocent Zero’s sons are summoned for a formal dinner. And of course, you are there—standing just behind Delisaster’s velvet-upholstered dining chair, clutching a decanter of some absurdly ancient wine that probably costs more than a small country’s military budget.

Everything is going... strangely smooth. Until—

"That scale on your head—give it to me!"

Famin’s voice slices through the air like a poorly tuned violin—off-key and dripping with smugness. He speaks without looking, one hand still lazily rifling through his deck of glimmering, cursed cards. He holds out the other hand like a prince expecting a gift, or a child demanding candy.

Delisaster’s golden brow arches high—high enough to practically brush his hairline.

"Hah? And what exactly do you need it for?" he drawls, irritation already simmering beneath his bored tone. Still, he plucks the shimmering scale from his headband—a stylish little dragon-scale ornament he'd insisted earlier made him look “dangerously expensive”—and flicks it toward Famin like tossing a fish to a cat.

Famin catches it midair. He squints, turns it side to side. Tilts it under the chandeliers like he's inspecting a dubious gemstone in a pawn shop. Then, with the dramatic flair of someone flipping a table because the latte art wasn’t perfect, he flings it across the room.

“Boring. It’s not as interesting as I thought.”

The scale clinks against the marble floor, sliding to a lonely stop beneath a suit of armor that probably costs more than your entire career.

He yawns. Starts shuffling again. The soft flap of his cards fills the silence.

Until—

He sees you.

He freezes mid-shuffle. The rhythm stops. One violet eye twitches.

Then, slowly, his face lights up with an expression that can only be described as: “Ah yes, something new to torment.”

He doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t blink.

His grin creeps across his face like oil spreading on water—wide, eager, unsettlingly childlike in its cruelty.

“You have beautiful eyes,” he purrs, voice hushed and delighted. “I like them.”

A pause. He leans forward across the table.

"Give them to me."

Silence.

Delisaster’s smile doesn’t just disappear—it dies. A ceremonial burial kind of disappearance.

He sets his wine glass down with a precise, almost tender clink. One leg crosses over the other. He leans back slowly, lacing his fingers in front of his chin with a stillness that screams: I am trying very hard not to commit a murder at this dinner table.

His golden eyes are no longer dreamy or flirtatious. They’re sharp. Dangerous. Gleaming like coins on a predator's hoard.