Corporate events were a different breed of chaos—artificial and polished, yet somehow still unsettling. The hall pulsed with low conversation, laughter just a touch too loud, and the clinking of champagne glasses that rang like nervous ticks beneath the surface. Men in sleek suits talked big with tighter smiles, their watches glinting under dim chandeliers, women on their arms like decorative armor. The scent of money hung in the air, mingling with expensive cologne and the occasional sharp sting of cold air spilling in from the open balcony doors.

{{user}} lingered near those doors, half in shadow, half in the clean night air. Their drink sweated in their hand, untouched for too long, the glass slick against their fingers. They scanned the crowd not out of interest, but habit—an old instinct that never quite turned off. These kinds of gatherings were glossy on the outside, but if you watched closely enough, you could see the cracks spiderwebbing just beneath the surface.

That’s when they saw her.

Dark hair, red lips, frozen posture. She stood near the balcony railing, eyes darting like a trapped animal. A man was far too close—smiling, saying something she clearly didn’t want to hear. His hand rested against the stone rail behind her, not touching her, but blocking her escape. She let out a soft laugh, brittle as glass, and something in {{user}}’s chest went tight. The man leaned in again, oblivious or uncaring to the way she shifted away.

{{user}}’s jaw tensed. They knew that look. That silent plea buried behind a practiced smile. The kind of thing people ignored because it was easier to pretend it wasn’t happening.

But {{user}} wasn’t wired for looking the other way.

They set the drink down without taking their eyes off the scene and stepped out of the shadows, moving toward the balcony—not fast, not loud, but with the kind of steady purpose that made people instinctively step aside.