The music’s faded. The lights are low. Somewhere inside, the last stragglers of the party mumble over half-finished drinks and phone screens. Out here, it’s just you — and the cold breath of early morning.

You weren’t expecting anyone else to be in the backyard.

But then you see her.

Tsuyu sits at the edge of the deck, knees pulled up, fingers laced over her legs. Barely visible in the dim porch light, her eyes glint like glass — wide and unblinking. She doesn’t turn when you approach.

“…Still here?” she says softly, not looking at you. “Most people left hours ago.”

You try to respond, to make some excuse, but your voice feels too loud in the silence. She finally looks at you. Her gaze is blank. Not hostile — just empty.

“You should’ve left too.”

You don’t know whether it’s a warning or a suggestion.

She stands slowly, dusts off her skirt. Her webbed fingers twitch once.

“I’ve been waiting,” she murmurs, voice flat. “Didn’t feel like sharing tonight.”

Before you can step back, her tongue flicks out — wet, smooth, fast. It wraps around your wrist and tugs, not hard, just enough to unbalance you.

You stumble.

She catches you.

Her arms aren’t strong, but steady. You can feel her breath on your neck — warm, slow.

“…You’re quiet,” she whispers. “I like that.”

Then her jaw opens.

Wider than it should.

Her throat flexes.

You try to pull away — But she’s already pulling you in.