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You had been to enough formal events to know what kind of smile to wear. Not too warm. Not too cold. Something politely neutral. Approachable, but not inviting. Enough to avoid questions. Enough to stay untouched.
You stepped into the ballroom just as the music changed, trailing behind the steady rhythm of chatter and strings. The dress clung just right, the shoes pinched a little, the weight of your makeup reminded you with every blink and breath that you weren’t doing this for yourself.
You didn’t like parties. Definitely not ones like this.
Too much gold. Too many faces you weren’t supposed to recognize but did. Too many eyes that didn’t look at you. They scanned you.
And worse: too many people pretending not to see the Fatui insignia carved discreetly into the marble above the doors.
You didn’t ask why you were invited. That could make it worse.
You moved toward the wall, settling near the shadows of a potted plant large enough to hide behind. Glass in hand. Elbows tucked in. Quiet.
Out of place. Exactly how you liked it.
You didn’t notice him at first. At least unless he spoke. Which was impressive, usually. The scent of velvet and attention preceded him by a mile.
“How cruel,” came the voice beside you, “to outshine every guest here, and then hide yourself away like a secret.”
You turned.
Lyney.
Smiling, as always. One hands tucked behind his back, other on his hat, in theatrical poise. His eyes gleaming with mischief and just enough sincerity to make you suspicious.
“That line would work better on someone who believes it,” you murmured.
He gasped, a real gasp, hand over his heart like you’d just run him through.
“Ouch. Pierced straight through. A fatal blow!”
He leaned closer, stage-whispering, “...But I’ll recover. If only for the honor of witnessing your smile one more time.”
You raised your glass to your lips to hide it.
He grinned, clearly satisfied. Then, his smile faded a little.
“You look... uncomfortable.”
He didn’t say it in a way that drew attention. Just enough that you felt seen. You glanced around the room. The lights, the crowd, the smell of perfume and tension.
“Parties like this aren’t really my thing.”
“A tragedy. Because they’re very much mine.” He twirled an imaginary cane, stepping away in a slow circle. “Dramatic entrances, dramatic exits, masks, mystery... and best of all-” He turned back to you with a wink. “A captive audience.”
You rolled your eyes. He took it as encouragement.
“But I suppose some prefer to observe rather than perform, I get it” he added, voice softening. “And you’ve always been good at watching.”
That caught your attention.
“Always?” you echoed.
He smiled, not teasing this time. “Let’s just say… even spotlights don’t hide everything.”
There was a beat of silence between you. Not awkward, just brief.
“I won’t keep you from your wallflower duties.” he said with a little bow.
He straightened, tipping his hat. “But if you change your mind… I’m only ever one spotlight away.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“Dear, that is exhausting. That’s the point.” He grinned. “Try not to look too miserable, alright?”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you, just a little.
And with a theatrical twirl of his fingers, he vanished back into the crowd, just like at the end of his performances, slipping behind the curtain.
You watched Lyney disappear into the crowd, all velvet and winks, swallowed movement. The ballroom reclaimed you the moment he vanished. Glittering chandeliers and faceless laughter, like a living thing made of silk and teeth.
You glanced around, automatically tracing the edges of the room, counting exits you’d never use.
Still too bright.
Still too loud.
Still not your scene.
You took another sip from your glass. And then you froze.
Your body knew before your eyes did. A pocket of stillness, like something had pulled back. You exhaled slowly, tipping your glass to your lips.
Something brushed your nerves. Not a touch, not even a sound, just a shift in pressure. A presence.
Your eyes lifted, not in any one direction, but your pulse had already taken notice. You weren’t alone anymore.
You let out a slow breath, put your now empty glass on the nearby table and turned your eyes back to the crowd. Just as that presence settled in your peripheral vision.
Still. Sharp. And unmistakably focused on you.
And that was when you saw her.
The Knave.
Oh shit.
Still as a blade in moonlight, framed by the velvet hush of the room's shadows, watching you like she’d been doing it all night.
She didn’t move. Not at first. Just stood there, half-swallowed by the dark, her gaze unflinching.
You should’ve looked away.
You didn’t.
Something ancient passed between you in the silence, not quite a threat, not quite a challenge, but something with teeth. And likely claws too.
You couldn’t tell if your stomach dropped or twisted.
Then she took a step.
And another.
No no no no no-
Unhurried. Soundless. Like the decision to cross the space between you had already been made. Just not by you.
You tried to breathe normally. Failed.
No one looked. No one turned. The room went on, all music and laughter and lies, while she walked right through it like smoke. Like a knife.
And your brain offered up the only rational thought it could muster:
Oh shit. I'm dead.
She stopped just a breath away. Too close. Too calm.
She was-
Exactly as people described. And somehow so much worse.
Tall. Sharply cut. A creature carved from midnight and control. Everything about her was deliberate. From the sleek line of her coat to the smooth fall of her hair, untouched by a stray strand. No softness. Not even a hint of hesitation.
She didn’t need it.
Where others wore power like perfume, she wore hers like skin.
The red of her eyes wasn’t warm. It didn’t glow - it pierced. Pinned you like a needle through fabric.
Her eyes met yours. Not a flicker of amusement, not a trace of mercy. Just cold, calculated interest. Like a wolf studying a lone deer that had wandered off the path.
Then came her voice - low, even, and entirely unimpressed. "You're wasting that dress standing here."
She didn’t blink. Instead, she stepped forward with a graceful calm. Her hand extended, palm up, fingers slightly curled, inviting without demanding. A slight, almost imperceptible bow followed, as if presenting the moment itself. Her eyes held yours, deep, unreadable.
“Shall we?” she asked, voice low, smooth as velvet but edged with something sharp.
The simple invitation hung between you like a challenge wrapped in silk.
“I… I don’t really know how to dance,” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
One corner of her mouth lifted, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.
“Then I’ll lead,” she replied, her tone leaving no room for doubt. “You’ll learn quickly.”
You hesitated for less than a heartbeat before sliding your hand into hers. The touch was electric - cool and certain. Her fingers closed gently around yours, guiding without force.
The room seemed to narrow, until it was just the two of you, poised on the edge of something unspoken.
The music was a slow waltz, coiling and uncoiling like smoke.
She led you into the open space with that same measured calm, every step intentional. Her hand found the small of your back, not heavy, not light, just enough to tell you she was in control.
Your pulse stuttered.
Your hand found its place on her shoulder, fingers lightly pressing against the firm muscle beneath the fabric of her coat, taut and strong, a reminder of the power she carried even in stillness.
The first movement wasn’t a dance so much as a test. She stepped in, and you stepped back, your body following before your mind caught up.
Her gaze never wavered, pinning you there as though the rest of the ballroom had been erased.
“Relax,” she murmured. It wasn’t comfort, it was instruction.
She turned you, slowly, so you could feel the shift of her weight before it happened. Every brush of her hand, every adjustment of your stance, was precise and impossible to ignore.
Your heartbeat filled the spaces where the music dipped.
When she drew you in closer, your breath hitched. Not because of the proximity, though that was intoxicating, but because you realized she was guiding you without ever needing to push. Every step was an unspoken command that you obeyed without thinking.
Her fingers tightened around yours just enough to make your skin burn. A slight tilt of her head brought her close enough for you to catch the faint scent of her perfume - dark, crisp, and unfamiliar.
“You’re learning,” she said softly, like a secret.
And she smiled, just barely, as if she already knew exactly how the rest of the night would go.
Her hand settled firmly at your waist, grounding you with a steady, unyielding pressure. There was no space between you, not even the slightest breath’s width. Every beat of her movement echoed through the contact, a silent command and an unspoken promise.
The music shifted, a swelling note, smooth and inviting.
Without a word, she guided you into a dip, her other hand supporting your waist as she leaned you back just enough to steal your breath.
Your heart thundered, caught between the thrill of surrender and the sharp edge of anticipation.
Her eyes locked onto yours, unwavering and intense, daring you to lose yourself completely in the closeness, to fall into the moment and into her.
Oh Archons
The world narrowed until it was only the two of you. No space, no distance, a dance, a game, a question hanging in the charged silence between every heartbeat.
Her fingers tightened around yours with a quiet insistence, a steady rhythm beneath the surface of the music. You could feel the strength in her grip, unyielding, but never harsh.
Your hand resting on her shoulder shifted slightly, tracing the subtle tension in the muscle there, the way her body responded to every movement like a well-oiled machine.
She dipped you just a little lower, her breath brushing against your ear, warm and deliberate. The faint scent of her, sharp, something impossible to place, seeped into your senses, grounding you in the moment.
Your breath caught as her other hand slid from your waist to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with surprising gentleness.
Time seemed to bend. The rest of the world blurred and receded, the glittering chandeliers, the murmurs, the distant clink of glasses, all replaced by the steady beat of your heart and the electric charge coursing through your skin.
Her eyes held yours, unreadable but not unyielding. A challenge, a promise, a secret shared without words.
She straightened you up slowly, still holding you close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. The dip was over, but the tension between you didn’t loosen, if anything, it grew sharper, like the quiet before a storm.
And just before the next note of music pulled you back into motion, her voice, low, intimate, almost a murmur, slipped into the space between you:
“You’re a quick learner.”
The dance continued, fluid and magnetic, each step a silent conversation between you and her. But then, just as you were settling deeper into the rhythm, a shadow fell over the edge of your vision.
Someone approached Arlecchino, a whisper of urgency in their hurried voice, too low for you to catch the words but sharp enough to pull her attention away.
"It’s been a pleasure,” she said, her voice low enough that it barely carried over the music. “But it seems I’m being summoned. Important matters.” One corner of her mouth curved.
She dipped her head, a graceful half-bow that somehow felt far more personal than the polite gesture it should have been.
“Please excuse me.”
And with that, she stepped away, leaving the echo of her touch like a ghost across your hand.
You barely registered the crowd parting as you made your way toward the ladies’ room. Your steps felt unsteady, like you were moving through thick fog.
Once inside, the quiet hit you like a wave. You closed the door behind you, pressing your back to the cool tile, trying to slow your racing heart. Your hands trembled, fingers curling into fists at your sides. The pulse in your neck throbbed, every beat pounding so loudly you feared it might burst through your skin.
You swallowed hard, eyes darting to the mirror, the reflection staring back at you was both familiar and strange, flushed and wide-eyed.
Two hundred beats per minute, easily.
You breathed in, then out.
And still, your mind raced, replaying the feel of her hand on your back, the brush of her fingers against yours, the way she’d looked at you, like she already knew what she was doing to you.
You blinked at your reflection, suddenly aware of the smudge beneath your eye, the mascara that had run from nerves, or maybe from the warmth of the room.
Great. Just what I needed.
You reached up instinctively, fingers trembling as you tried to smooth the streak without making it worse.
Maybe if you focused on this, on the small, controllable task of fixing your makeup, you could slow the frantic beating in your chest.
A few gentle touches, a breath held, a breath released.
You forced your eyes to meet your own gaze in the mirror, trying to will yourself calm.
It wasn’t just about the makeup.
It was about the way your pulse still screamed beneath your skin, a wild reminder of the dance, the touch, and the promise lingering in the shadows just beyond the door.
You caught sight of the smudge on your lips, the lipstick you’d carefully applied earlier, now faded and smeared at the corners.
Of all things to mess up.
You reached into the pocket in your dress, fingers trembling slightly as you searched for the small tube of lipstick you always kept with you.
Finding it, you twisted the cap off with a shaky breath, determined to fix the imperfection.
As you raised the lipstick to your lips, the bathroom door creaked open behind you.
She paused just behind you, voice low and smooth,
“Ah, there you are.”
You jumped slightly, caught off guard.
“Oh- I didn’t expect anyone else here,” you murmured, fumbling with the lipstick. “It’s just… the dance was a bit overwhelming, and I think my makeup betrayed me.”
She stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off her.
A slow smile curved her lips.
“Let me help.”
Before you could protest, her fingers gently reached out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear, then delicately tracing the outline of your lips as she took the lipstick from your hand.
Her fingers moved with practiced ease, steady and confident as she reapplied the lipstick, her touch feather-light against your skin.
You caught your breath, her eyes fixed on your lips.
Her gaze flicked up, meeting yours, a silent question, an invitation?
Without breaking eye contact, she leaned closer, her breath warm against your cheek.
Gods, she's beautiful...
“Not bad for a first dance,” she murmured, voice low and teasing.
You swallowed, heart hammering, caught between wanting to pull away and the magnetic pull that held you there. Then, almost before you realized it, her hand cupped your cheek gently, fingers trailing down to rest just below your jaw.
Her lips brushed yours with the softness of velvet, a whisper of heat that spread like wildfire across your skin.
They were cool at first, hesitant. As your breath caught, the kiss deepened, growing warmer, more certain.
You felt the slight dampness of her lips, the subtle give as they pressed gently against yours, the smooth glide as if they were made to fit perfectly with yours.
Her hand slid from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, fingers tangling lightly in your hair, anchoring you in the moment.
Time slowed, every sound muffled except the pounding of your heart and the soft sigh she released against your mouth.
The taste of her, faintly wine sweet, with a trace of something sharp you couldn’t name, lingered like a secret only you were meant to know.
She pulled back slowly, her eyes never leaving yours, dark pools of something unspoken, heavy with promises and unsaid questions.
A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, softening the intensity in her gaze.
With a slow, deliberate motion, she reached out and handed the lipstick back to you, her fingers brushing lightly against yours in the exchange.
“I’ll be waiting for you back on the ballroom floor,” she whispered, voice low and intimate, a vow and a challenge all at once.
Her fingers brushed lightly against your arm, a final, fleeting touch that sent a shiver racing down your spine.
Then, as effortlessly as a shadow slipping through the night, she turned and vanished out of the bathroom, leaving the cool air behind and the sudden, aching stillness you hadn’t expected.
You remained rooted to the spot, breath shallow, pulse pounding in your ears, caught in the heavy silence she’d left in her wake.