Zorion trudged through the long corridor like a man abandoned by maps, patience, and dignity. His eyes darted between confusing seat numbers and glittering signboards that looked more decorative than helpful. The grandeur of the stadium mocked him at every step.
"How the hell does a VIP box hide itself this well?" he mumbled, slowing to a halt.
He was seconds from giving up—perhaps even collapsing into one of the fancy flower pots—when fate decided to strike. Literally.
Thud.
A soft body collided with his chest and his jaw snapped slightly upward. The impact was surprisingly sharp—just under the chin.
"Oww—first the kick, now a headbutt?" Zorion winced, stepping back.
In front of him stood a girl, barely reaching his shoulders. Long blonde hair framed her small, doll-like face. Her big eyes widened in panic as she gripped two drinks in her hands, somehow untouched by gravity.
"I-I'm so sorry!" she blurted out, bowing rapidly, like a human apology machine.
Zorion blinked, still nursing his chin. "That's twice today. I'm starting to feel like the universe has a personal vendetta against my jawline."
"It was my fault!" she insisted. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to—"
"No, no, it was mine. I was walking like a possessed pigeon." He laughed, then clasped his palms together in a mock prayer pose. "Please, unknown corridor goddess, show me mercy and help me find my seat before I start crying in public."
The girl blinked. "I... I can help. Maybe. What section?"
Zorion straightened proudly. "VIP."
A second passed.
She blinked again.
"…You don't look like a VIP," she said.
There was silence.
Her face immediately turned red. "Wait—I didn't mean—I wasn't trying to insult you! I'm sorry again!"
Zorion let out a short laugh. "You're aggressively honest. I respect that. Nah, it's cool. I won the ticket in a lottery anyway."
She looked stunned. "You... won a VIP ticket? Wait… was it one of those special duo box tickets?"
Zorion tilted his head. Now he was the surprised one.
"You're oddly well-informed for someone who crashes into people face-first."
She pouted, cheeks puffed. "I said I'm sorry."
Zorion cleared his throat, brushing off the earlier surprise. "By the way, why are we the only two wandering this corridor? It was packed ten minutes ago."
Eucliea, still sipping her drink, answered matter-of-factly, "Kickoff's in ten minutes. Everyone's at their seats. Only people who want food are out here now."
She turned her eyes to him again. "Anyway… you said you won that ticket in a lottery, right? Are you from Indra?"
Zorion blinked. "Y—yeah…?"
Her big eyes scanned him top to bottom in one swift pass, like she was verifying a delivery. Then she lit up. "So you're him! Come with me."
Before he could protest, she grabbed his hand like a school teacher guiding a lost kindergartener and marched confidently down the hallway.
"Wait—what—where are we—?" he tried to ask, but Eucliea was faster than his confusion.
They reached a sleek, compact VIP box with a clear glass wall overlooking the field and two neatly arranged seats inside. Just as Zorion was taking in the view, Eucliea shouted toward the girl seated with her arms crossed, staring silently at the pitch.
"Heyyy! Look what I got! Your seat partner!" she beamed, holding Zorion's hand up like he was a stray cat she brought home.
Eirene slowly turned around.
Her expression, previously calm and collected, contorted into something between disbelief and quiet horror—like a person who just realized the milk in their tea was expired after drinking it.
Eucliea, completely missing the tension, smiled innocently. "Okay, I'm off to find Phylax. Byyee! Enjoy!" With that, she gave Zorion a playful shove inside and vanished down the corridor.
Zorion stood there awkwardly at the door, looking at the empty seat next to her.
"…Sooo," he laughed nervously, "Match starts in under ten minutes. Should I, uh, lock this door or leave it open… like thaat bathroom stall…?"
As the words left his mouth, he winced. Why do I speak?
"…Or I could just watch from the general area," he mumbled, already turning to retreat.
Eirene's voice stopped him cold. "You can come in, Mr. Lottery Guy."
Zorion blinked. "How does everyone know I won this ticket? Am I secretly on Zaherra's most wanted list or something? Is this a setup?"
He walked in slowly, half-joking, half-genuinely cautious.
Zorion sat down beside her, cautiously, as if the seat might detonate.
For a moment, silence.
Then, without turning her head, Eirene asked, "Are you really like this…? This carefree? Are all Indranians like you?"
Her voice wasn't mocking. It was genuinely curious—laced with a disbelief she couldn't shake since that absurd bathroom incident.
"If they are… then Eucliea would fit right in with your kind."
Zorion blinked.
"Who's Eucliea?. You are not from Indra?" he asked, like it was a reflex.
It was. He hadn't expected her to talk at all. For some reason, she just seemed like the 'silently judge you' type.
Eirene raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out I'm from Zaherra, especially after that statement."
"…Right."
Zorion looked at her. Really looked.
Her posture was perfect—regal, almost. Her voice had an edge sharp enough to cut air, and yet… there was something oddly warm beneath it. Something… unreachable but not unkind.
Wait—why am I thinking like a poet all of a sudden?
He blinked again.
Eirene turned slightly toward him. "Hello? Lost in your creepy thoughts again?"
Zorion flinched. "No—! I-I was just…"
What do I say… what do I say… what do I say…
"…I didn't want to give some cliché reply that would make me look uncool."
Eirene blinked.
"That was… honest. And dumb. But mostly honest.
But, you failed anyway."