SEVEN FIFTY-FIVE, NIGHT OF THE GALA.
INSIDE THE VENUE.
The moment Aronohai Miyamura steps into the room, all eyes turn to us.
It’s unnerving.
The hunger and intensity in their gazes.
They all want something from him. They all see him as a means to fulfill their desires— whatever they may be.
The bravest of the lot begin to approach him slowly. And in all this, his hand never leaves mine.
Honestly, it’s comforting. It’s a gesture I can’t help but equate with safety. If Miyamura were to leave my hand and leave me in the midst of these people, I would just shrivel up and die.
I have never seen so many elites in one place before— talk less of standing amongst them.
It’s terrifying.
These are people I have only seen on my television screen from the comfort of my home, and some I d
