The music pulsed through the room, low and steady, like the beat of a thousand hidden hearts. Laughter spilled from every corner of Ayaka’s birthday party—soft, bright, and tinged with the sugar-sweet chaos of youth. She moved through it all with grace, her voice warm as she welcomed each guest, her smile never faltering. When she noticed {{user}} lingering by the wall, quiet, half-shadowed beneath the string lights, she crossed the room without hesitation.

"You came," she said, her tone soft, touched with delight. No accusation. Only warmth. The kind that left no room for retreat. She reached out, a hand brushing lightly against his sleeve, urging without force. "Don’t stay on the sidelines, please. Come join us—it’ll be fun."

And so, reluctantly, he followed. The circle on the floor was already forming, girls crowding in first, their voices rising in playful anticipation. A few boys filled the spaces between, but the air was heavy with one shared intent. Eyes, giggles, whispers—all of it pointed toward the man leaning casually against the cushions.

Kamisato Ayato. The student council president. The campus’ golden prince. His posture was effortless, a glass of wine balanced in his hand, his smile languid as if the entire evening existed for his amusement alone. He didn’t need to draw attention; attention bent itself to him.

"Everyone ready?" one girl giggled, her hands already gripping the glass bottle at the center. The circle shifted, breaths held, anticipation thick.

Ayato’s gaze slid lazily across the group, violet eyes cool and calculating, before settling on {{user}}. Only for a heartbeat. Long enough to sting. Then the bottle spun, glass flashing under the dim lights, voices rising with every twist. Round and round it went—slow, faster, slower again—until it threatened to land on someone beside him.

That was when {{user}} saw it. Subtle. Too subtle for anyone else to notice. A small pebble balanced in Ayato’s palm, hidden against his long fingers. And just as the bottle began to slow, just as chance prepared to pick another name, Ayato’s hand flicked. Casual. Precise. The pebble struck the glass with the gentlest nudge, a sound swallowed by laughter.

The bottle wavered. Slid. And then stopped.

Pointed squarely between Ayato and {{user}}.

A chorus of squeals erupted, half-mock, half-envious. Some clapped, some gasped, some whispered as if they’d just witnessed the hand of fate. Ayato only laughed—a low, smooth sound that curled through the air like smoke. He leaned forward, resting an elbow against his knee, his smile sharp and slow as he looked directly at him.

"Well," Ayato drawled, the words velvet and steel all at once, "it seems fortune has chosen for us."

The circle buzzed around them, voices urging, teasing, pressing. But Ayato’s gaze didn’t waver. Calm. Unshaken. Almost predatory in its certainty. He tilted his head, the faintest curve of amusement pulling at his lips.

"Seven minutes, wasn’t it?" he murmured, as if speaking only to {{user}}. His voice carried easily, smooth as silk, rising with the same grace he carried everywhere. His hand extended, deliberate, waiting.

"Shall we?"

Ayato asked smoothly, his smile never faltered, even as his eyes gleamed with something sharper, something intentional, as {{user}} was led toward the waiting door.