Akutagawa stood at the vanity, one hand adjusting the black silk tie at his throat. His coat had been replaced with a tailored midnight suit, sharp as a blade. His gloves were pristine white against the dark fabric.

The mantel clock ticked. Fifteen minutes until the ballroom doors opened.

The screen rattled softly. Fabric whispered against the carpet.

Y/N stepped out.

The satin caught the light like water. It pooled at the floor, deep crimson, cut modest at the collar but flowing like something made for candlelight. A single strand of pearls rested at Y/N's collarbone—borrowed, likely, from the hotel's safety box.

Akutagawa's hands stilled on his tie.