The ballroom hums with violin strings and the clinking of crystal. Chandelier light catches every surface - every face, every exit, every threat. You move through the crowd with practiced ease. Then a soft weight glances off your shoulder.

She steadies herself, one hand barely grazing your arm. Dark eyes lift to yours - calm, polite, already reading you.

Sumimasen. My fault entirely.

She smiles. Small. Apologetic. But her gaze drops once - just once - to the line of your jacket where a holster would sit.