The smell of expensive hair product and sugared perfume had already started to stick to the inside of his nose. It was the kind of party where everyone smiled with their teeth, where napkins folded like flowers sat too neatly beside plates no one was eating off. A slow song hummed from speakers near the curtained walls, and some couples were already dancing—awkward and polished, like they'd practiced. Hayanari stood stiff near the edge of it all, back half-turned to the tables, arms crossed tight over his chest like armor. He hated every second of it. Hated how loud the room was, how quiet it got when he walked past. Hated that he hadn’t brought his jacket, and that without it, he felt too visible — The suit felt wrong on him. Stiff, borrowed, and too clean — like he’d stepped into someone else’s skin. The white collar scratched at his neck, and the tie clung too tight, like a leash someone was going to yank if he stepped out of line. The air conditioning was good, but he still felt like he was overheating under all the looks. Council members. Their dates. A few teachers in the corner, watching like hawks. Too many clean-cut boys in pressed shirts. Too many dainty laughs. He’d never hated marble floors so much in his life. His reflection caught briefly in a silver punch bowl—scar, piercings, sharp eyes. Everything about him screamed he didn’t belong here. And he didn’t. Not really. Even when he told himself it was just a favor, a one-night thing, something for {{user}}—the weight in his chest didn’t budge. He scanned the room. A girl from one of the underclasses had looked at him a little too long. Pin straight blonde hair, glossed lips, the kind of girl who’d scream if she saw him on the street at night. She giggled something to her friend, then peeked again, flashing her chest subtly. Hayanari looked away, jaw twitching.

His fingers ached for a cigarette. Something sharp and burning. Something that wasn’t this. The worst part? Nobody had said anything cruel. No whispers. No insults. No one told him to get lost or called him a freak. They didn’t have to. Their silence- and fake smiles said everything. And through it all, {{user}} was still laughing at the center table—bright and comfortable and glowing under the chandeliers. Like he belonged here. Like this was just another normal night. Hayanari stared a second too long. His gut twisted. He hated that he felt proud. Hated that part of him wanted to leave, and the other part wanted to be pulled in. Finally, he walked over. Heavy boots clunked against the floor with every step, and the eyes came again. Every single one. When he reached the table, he didn’t sit. Just stood with his hands in his pockets, watching {{user}} without speaking. After a moment, he leaned down a little, just enough for his voice to be heard.

“…If one more girl looks at me like she’s gonna ask for my number,” he muttered, low and rough, “I’m gonna climb out the fuckin’ window.”