From the streaks of grey in her hair, the slight tremor in her voice, the way she stood, and the thin wrinkles drawn across her face like old parchment, Simma and Sarah needed no one to tell them this woman was elderly; seventy, perhaps even more. Yet, despite her age, she carried herself with the fire of someone half her years.

"Get your ass up and enjoy the night!" she commanded, her voice cracking like a whip.

Sarah and Simma shared a glance, one that barely held back their shy laughter. Still chuckling under their breath, they rose sluggishly to their feet, their bodies moving as if weighed down by invisible chains.

"Now move your bodies. Come on, dance! Don't be shy!" the woman urged.

But their bashfulness was so blatant that even a passerby could have spotted it from across the room. The old woman studied their awkwardness with a sharp squint.

"What are you laughing at?" she barked. "Ohh, I see. You two are shy about holding each other and dancing, huh? Well... I've just the solution!"

Before either could protest, she fished out a small envelope from the depths of her bra. To Simma's disbelief, she drew out a rope far too long to ever fit in that little pouch.

"Come here, both of you," she ordered.

"What... no, no!" Simma and Sarah protested in unison. But their pleas fell on deaf ears. The old woman circled them with surprising speed, winding the rope around their waists and lower body, looping and tightening until there was no room left between them.

Their sniggers, once lighthearted, turned nervous when the woman gave a satisfied tug and declared, "Good. Now you both can dance!" With a wicked grin, she strutted away, leaving them tied like unwilling partners in some ancient ritual.

The weight of the situation struck them instantly. They couldn't resist stealing glances at one another, though their faces flushed crimson every time their eyes met. The rope made avoidance impossible.

Simma's smile was strained, more a projection than a genuine grin. Sarah's was worse; her head dipped low, unable to meet his gaze directly. Their bodies pressed together, warmth sparking between them, each collision of movement making Simma acutely aware of Sarah's soft frame against his.

His fingers twitched, aching with the urge to hold her properly, though hesitation chained him.

"Well… this is weird," Simma finally muttered, as if it took the strength of the entire Sentinel order to summon those words.

Sarah lifted her gaze at last, her eyes glimmering with a dangerous softness. "I know, right?" she whispered, her tone smooth and low, almost seductive. And it aroused Simma all the more, but he had to play the man.

He chuckled, the tension between them bending into something new, something unspoken and electric. His chest tightened, his breath short.

"Y-you look beautiful," he managed, the words trembling as they left him.

'Screw it' Sarah mumbled within herself, summoning courage as she tossed her head back, flicking strands of hair away from her face, her lips curving into a smile laced with challenge.

"So, Simma," she murmured, her voice sliding over him like velvet, "when are you going to man up and hold me for this dance?"

Her words didn't just prod him, they ignited him. Shame, shyness, and a rush of boldness flooded together.

And the way those words, as hot and as sexy as it came caught him unawares, it kind of poked his little man, and something deeper stirred inside him, the same reckless flame that had once made Naya stagger in his past life. That made her always want him.

"Oh…" he muttered, breath catching. "Oh, it's on."

His hand slid hesitantly, then firmly, around her waist, savoring the curve that fit against his palm, soft, elegant, and damn too good that he didn't believe he could afford to hold such luxury. Sarah, in turn, raised her arms and draped them around his neck, drawing them so close their lips hovered inches apart.

"So…" Sarah whispered, her eyes locked on his lips, her intent plain.

"What was your core trait?" She asked despite her self, and the way she felt right at the moment.

Simma's heart hammered in his chest as they swayed, the music carrying their movements. It felt as though the entire hall's eyes had narrowed onto them.

"Well, I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," he countered, barely able to keep his voice steady.

Sarah's gaze didn't waver, her brown eyes dark and sharp. Somehow she knows what she was putting Simma through, but she still had doubts.

"No." she persisted. "I asked first… so you tell me yours."

Before Simma could answer, a new voice broke in. A voice that Simma could swear would have torn whoever owned it apart for ruining what was worth.

"What is it you both are telling each other, lovers?" the voice asked, with lack of dignity.

"Sam…" Sarah turned, her lips tightening. The boy stood with short black hair, a round face, and an average build. His red-black collared jacket over a crisp white shirt made him look irritatingly polished.

"So this is it, huh? This is your boyfriend?"

Simma blinked at him. The words dug under his skin like thorns. Heat flared in his chest before the denial burst out. "I-I...I'm not her boyfriend!"

Clearly, Sarah felt what he felt too, since she had said it with him in unison.

"H-He's not my boyfriend," their faces flaring with crimson strokes of blushes, as they avoided each others faces.

Sam's chest rose and fell heavily, and Simma noticed his hand resting far too comfortably on Sarah's waist. A dangerous irritation spiked within him. He wasn't one for trouble... but he wasn't about to let go of that waist after the war he had fought within himself to claim it.

Maybe he really was asking for trouble.

Sam sneered, his tone dripping with mockery. "You're ungrateful, Sarah. You told me you wouldn't dance tonight when I asked, and yet here you are... dancing with Mr. Dragon."

'What the actual fuck... Mr. Dragon.' The words lit a fuse in Simma. Maybe he had been quiet too long, quiet enough that people thought his dragon was a toy to mock. He wouldn't stand for it.

"Now I think....wuoo....!" Simma spun toward Sam wanting to lay his threat, forgetting entirely about the rope. Their bound bodies collided, and with a sharp stumble they both lost balance.

Thud!

They hit the floor, Sarah landing squarely on top of him.

"Ughh…" Simma groaned, the impact ringing in his skull. "Are you okay?" he asked breathlessly.

Sarah nodded, unharmed. Simma, however, had been the sacrifice, cushioning her fall.

"Well… I think we should really untie this rope," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

Sarah tried to adjust herself but only ended up pressing her chest harder against his. "Ouch, ouch… girl," Simma murmured, his tone half-complaint, half-suppressed laugh. He love the moment though, and wouldn't mind if it spread till eternity.

Maybe many more old strange woman can come and tie them up again some other time.

Sarah smirked, clearly enjoying the position more than she let on. "Sorry," she whispered, balancing herself with deliberate slowness.

A ripple of purple light sparked from the ring on her finger, forming into a slim blade. With one swift motion, she cut through the rope and stood, drawing in a steadying breath before turning to glare at Sam, the reason for their fall. Her face written with killing intent.

Simma began to rise too, only to find a hand extended toward him.

"Need a hand?" The man's voice was calm, his smile kind.

"Strange man," Simma bellowed with relief as he clasped the hand, which pulled him up easily. His grin turned pure and unrestrained, and before he could stop himself, he hugged the man. The stranger did not return the gesture. But was rather surprised at the sudden outburst of emotion.

This was the black-skinned mentor who had trained him. Though his training and drills had been like climbing through a vertical wall of ice, still it paid off.

Before Simma could say more, Sam's voice broke through the din again.

"Sarah! This guy doesn't deserve...mmm! Mmmm! MMMMM!"

Sam's voice choked off mid-sentence. His mouth vanished, sealed over with skin, leaving his face warped and cartoonish, like a toddler's crude drawing. His muffled attempts filled the air: "Mmm! Mmmm!"

The strange man laughed sharply, the sound rich with amusement. Of course it was him that had done that, and Simma couldn't agree more with the action, it gave him joy and he laughed too, unable to resist.

But the laughter stopped suddenly. The mentor's face hardened, his eyes narrowing on Simma as he arched one brow… then the other.

"What?" Simma asked innocently, confused.

"What did you call me?" the man asked, his tone cool and probing.

The realization struck Simma, he had never been told the man's name. Out of habit, he'd simply dubbed him "strange man," and now, in his relief, he had spoken it aloud.

"Well… ehh… you never told me your name," Simma admitted sheepishly.

Sarah blinked, confused, still reeling from Sam's grotesque muzzle and now this cryptic exchange.

"Simmaaa?" she called, her voice suspicious, stretched with curiosity.

Simma's shoulders slumped. He exhaled, totally defeated without an attempt on fighting.

"Mphm" He cleared his throat, his eyes shooting at both Sarah and the strange man like someone seeing death "Sarah... ah, Mphm...Th-This is my… mentor," he muttered, stumbling over the words, then quickly added,

"And this is Sarah. My… my uhh… my f-azren friend." His stutter betrayed his nerves.

Sarah opened her mouth to question further, certainly something was off, and she couldn't help but notice it. But the mentor cut in smoothly.

"Sarah," he said, his tone polite but edged. "I hope you don't mind me speaking to Simma."

Sarah forced a smile, though unease lingered in her eyes. "Of course."

"Thanks," the man replied, and with a swift motion, he pulled Simma away, guiding him like a lamb led quietly toward slaughter.

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