Tòumíng pulled the cup away from his lips, confused. "Why? What's wrong with it?"
"Don't worry about it." Cupid's tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. "Just trust me. Don't drink it. Don't even taste it."
Tòumíng shrugged and dropped the cup into a nearby waste receptacle, the red liquid splashing slightly as it hit the bottom. Whatever. There were other drinks available if he got thirsty.
He carried his plate toward one of the empty tables scattered around the ballroom's perimeter, choosing one that gave him a good view of the room while keeping him relatively isolated from the main clusters of wealthy attendees and their companions.
Time to see if expensive food actually tasted better than the street food and delivery he'd been living on.
He started with the foie gras, cutting a small piece with the provided silver fork. It looked interesting, the texture smooth and almost paste-like.
He put it in his mouth.
Ass. Complete ass. The texture was wrong, too smooth, too rich, holy shit and ew was it slimy. The flavor was overwhelming, liver-y in a way that made his stomach immediately rebel. How did people eat this willingly? How was this considered a delicacy?
He forced himself to swallow, grimacing.
Next up, the blue cheese. Maybe that would be better.
He took a small piece, noting the visible blue-green veins running through the pale cheese.
Worse. Somehow worse than the foie gras. The taste was sharp, moldy, aggressively pungent. It felt like eating spoiled dairy that someone had decided to call gourmet. His throat tried to close, his body's natural defense against consuming things that tasted like they'd gone bad weeks ago.
Tòumíng grabbed a napkin and very discreetly spit the cheese into it, nearly gagging in the process. Rich people food was a scam. An absolute scam.
But the Wellington—the beef wrapped in pastry—that was different.
He cut a piece and tried it cautiously, half-expecting another assault on his taste buds.
Not bad. Actually... kind of good? The beef was tender, cooked perfectly medium-rare, the pastry flaky and buttery. The mushroom mixture between the meat and pastry added a savory depth that actually made sense. This was food he could understand.
Not too shabby at all.
He focused on the Wellington, systematically eating it while trying to ignore the lingering aftertaste of foie gras and blue cheese.
Across the ballroom, in a shadowed corner that provided excellent observation angles, Ghost Claw watched.
They'd noticed Tòumíng the moment he entered. New face. Young—too young to be a regular at these events. Walking alone despite being listed as Háo Héng's associate. Wearing an off-the-rack suit that probably cost less than a single glass of the wine being served.
And most interesting—he'd almost drunk from the red dispenser before stopping himself. That showed either excellent instincts or prior knowledge. Either way, worth investigating.
Ghost Claw set down their own untouched drink and stood, moving through the crowd with practiced ease. Nobody looked twice at them, another young companion among dozens, unremarkable despite what they carried beneath the elegant exterior.
They approached Tòumíng's table from an angle that would make the approach look casual, social, like they were just another guest mingling.
Tòumíng was halfway through the Wellington when a presence approached his table. He looked up.
A woman, very muscular for someone in such a revealing silk dress, the fabric clinging to defined shoulders and arms that suggested serious gym time or combat training. Green eyes visible above a simple black mask, the kind people wore for masquerade events or privacy at exclusive gatherings. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a way that emphasized the sharp lines of her face.
She sat down across from him without asking, her movements controlled and deliberate.
Tòumíng blinked, fork paused halfway to his mouth.
He leaned slightly away from the table and whispered under his breath, "Is she hitting on me?"
Cupid didn't answer.
The masked woman leaned forward slightly, her green eyes fixed on him with unsettling intensity.
"Follow me," she said. Her voice was low, androgynous in a way that made gender identification difficult. She stood up smoothly and walked toward a side corridor, glancing back once to ensure he'd heard.
"You should follow her," Cupid said finally.
"Why?"
"Because I'm curious what this is about. And because she's clearly not going to leave you alone if you don't."
Tòumíng set down his fork, the Wellington half-finished on his plate. He stood and followed at a casual distance, trying not to look like he was being led somewhere.
The masked woman moved through the ballroom with confidence, navigating around clusters of conversation, heading toward what looked like a service corridor. She walked with purpose, occasionally glancing back to ensure Tòumíng was still following.
Then she turned a corner, and Tòumíng saw her slip into what was clearly a bathroom—single occupancy based on the door design.
She stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, her body language somehow both inviting and threatening. Her eyes met his, holding the contact for a long moment.
Then she stepped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar.
"This is either a trap or something very weird," Cupid muttered.
"Agreed," Tòumíng whispered back.
But curiosity—and something else he couldn't quite name—pulled him forward.
He pushed open the bathroom door and stepped inside.
Immediately, the world spun.
His back hit the wall with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. An elbow pressed against his throat, not choking, but firmly pinning him in place. The masked woman's face was inches from his, her green eyes cold and analytical.
"I have some questions," she said, her voice flat and businesslike.