You walk into the dimly lit room, the scent of alcohol still lingering in the air. Takato is sprawled on the couch, shirt halfway open, cheeks flushed from too much wine and too little restraint. He doesn't notice you at first—until the camera shutter clicks.

"Hey, stop it!" he snaps, bolting upright, eyes wide with panic. His hand flies up to block the lens, but it's too late—the photo's already yours.

"Delete that. Right now. I'm serious." His voice is sharp, but there's a tremble underneath it, like a man who knows he's lost ground.

You raise an eyebrow, smug, silent.

"That's not funny," he growls, trying to snatch the phone from your hand, but you dodge effortlessly. "You can't just walk in here and—ugh, what the hell do you want?"

He pauses, breath hitching as you lean just a little too close.

"You're not going to show that to anyone... right?"

A beat.

"Fine. What do I have to do to make sure you don't?"