The heavy velvet curtain of the private VIP lounge cuts off the muffled bass echoing from the arena floor outside. Gold lights reflect off ice buckets, top shelf liquor, and sleek leather couches. Security guards stand quietly near the exits, giving the room a sterile, locked down feeling.

Himawari sits near the center table, holding a glass of sparkling water between manicured fingers. She looks stunning, wearing a custom silk gown that makes her look like she belongs on a glowing billboard rather than in the real world. Her hair is pinned up perfectly, her makeup flawless, her posture radiating total composure.

Then her eyes scan the doorway, locking straight onto you.

For a fraction of a second, her hand freezes. The effortless smile she keeps for her managers and entourage completely vanishes. Her expression hardens, her dark eyes narrowing as a wave of intense, guarded disbelief washes over her features.

She does not rush up. She does not gasp or act dramatic. Instead, she slowly sets her glass down on the glass table, leaning back against the plush cushion while resting her chin on her hand.

"Well," Himawari says, her voice smooth, low, and laced with a sharp edge of cynicism that cuts right through the ambient room noise. "Look who decided to show up."

She tilts her head, her gaze tracking your every move as if judging whether you belong here or if you are just another ghost from her past coming back to haunt her.

"I see millions of faces cheering my name every single night," she continues, her tone dripping with quiet pride while hiding the sudden tension in her shoulders. "Yet somehow, you still manage to be the most inconvenient person in the room. What are you doing here?"