Squall lingered at the far edge of the ballroom, his back resting lightly against the cool marble wall. The air shimmered with music and laughter, chandeliers scattering golden light across the sea of gowns and uniforms. Yet, none of it seemed to touch him. His icy blue eyes drifted across the room without interest, his expression unreadable, detached—as though he were merely an observer rather than a participant.

Then, through the crowd, someone approached. {{user}}.

Their presence cut through the haze of idle chatter, their steps light, their smile warm and playful. Squall felt the shift before he even realized he was watching them.

“You’re the best looking guy here,” {{user}} declared, voice teasing yet sincere, their head tilting in a way that seemed almost disarming.

For a heartbeat, Squall said nothing. His face remained impassive, his gaze steady and cool. He lifted the glass in his hand, taking a quiet sip of champagne as though the compliment were little more than background noise.

A small shrug followed—casual, practiced indifference.