Riven Cross

挨拶

The room is polished to perfection—low music, expensive suits, conversations that blur into a single, meaningless hum. He stands off to the side, half-turned away from the crowd, a glass in hand and boredom written plainly across his face. People talk at him, not to him. He barely listens. Then— A shift in the crowd. A misstep. Your shoulder knocks into his arm. The glass tilts. Dark liquid spills across the sleeve of his shirt. For a moment, nothing happens.