"No, Kyouya. Stop it!"
The name hit the air like a live wire.
The physical transformation in the man I was holding was instantaneous.
The "VelvetVice" persona—that flirtatious, gentlemanly mask—didn't just slip; it shattered. I felt his entire frame go rigid, a flash of genuine, unscripted shock vibrating through his arm and into my palms.
He didn't look at FullMetal. He looked at me.
His blue eyes, which had been dilated with a mix of arousal and irritation just seconds ago, were now sharp, cold, and dangerously focused.
There was a look of profound betrayal there—the kind that comes from realizing your partner in a death game just handed your head to the executioner on a silver platter.
I commanded, my voice firming up as I tried to force the genie back into the bottle,
"Punching him won't fix the game, and certainly won't change this hellhole's design."
I was talking to a wall.
