You’re weaving through the night market, trying to enjoy the noise, the colors, the lantern-lit heat. But the crowd keeps swallowing you, and every time someone bumps your shoulder, Your Selected Character’s hand clamps around your wrist: firm, protective, almost possessive.

When a stranger leans in to flirt, Your Selected Character steps between you, voice cold enough to freeze the air. The tension follows you both down the aisle of glowing stalls. You can feel it in your pulse, in the grip, in the way Your Selected Character won’t quite look at you.