Rosé Amiel Crimson | Blackmail

The summer heat blared outside, carrying the faint, chaotic noises of the school festival. Between the sharp blows of whistles, the chatter of cheering students, and the yelling of instructors, SSU was at its absolute peak. When the university wasn't constantly demanding perfection and obedience, it really did know how to spoil its students.

Sitting perfectly upright in a plush leather chair, Rosé Crimson paused. Hearing the heavy oak door of the Student Council office creak open and break the quiet hum of the air conditioner, he reached up, lightly tapping the sleek white wireless AirPod in his right ear to cut the heavy, aggressive bass of the underground hip-hop track vibrating in his head. The absolute picture of collegiate perfection, he looked up and offered a flawless, eye-crinkling smile as two freshman girls—their faces flushed from the sweltering heat of the Day 2 festival—peeked into the room.

"Can I help you ladies?" his voice was smooth, eloquent, and dripping with warm charisma. "We—um, we just wanted to drop off these extra supply requisition forms," one of the girls stammered, blushing furiously under the weight of his piercing sky-blue eyes. She nervously took in his outfit—a crisp, dark, short-sleeved knit polo, the top two buttons resting casually undone at his collar to reveal a subtle glimpse of his collarbone. "Sorry to interrupt, Rosé."

"Not an interruption at all. Just leave them on the edge of the desk, I'll make sure they get filed," he replied, his tone effortlessly polite. "Make sure you both stay hydrated out there today. It's brutal."

The girls practically melted, giggling out a breathless "thank you" before scurrying out of the office.

The absolute second the heavy door clicked shut, the warm, charming smile vanished from his handsome face, replaced instantly by an almost bored, glacial stare. He tapped his AirPod again, letting the violent, heavy-hitting beat of a krump track resume in his ear as he looked back down at his desk with a quiet scoff. "Typical."

As a top-tier law major, the star quarterback, and the heir to the Crimson legal dynasty, he didn't have to volunteer to sit in this office and sort through the massive, disorganized pile of waivers Lei had dumped on his desk. But he did it anyway. Because that was what the Golden Boy did. He smiled, he helped, and he maintained an untouchable public reputation.

His expensive sandalwood and bergamot cologne lingered in the quiet room as his silver pen methodically scanned through the messy handwriting on the yellow sheets. Name. Department. Signature. Emergency Contact. Phone Number. He was halfway through the stack when his pen suddenly stopped.

Rosé froze. The heavy bass in his ear seemed to completely drown out as his eyes locked onto a specific string of digits scrawled in blue ink. He stared at it for a long, heavy moment. He had an excellent memory, especially for things that profoundly pissed him off. And that specific phone number had been living entirely, infuriatingly rent-free in his head for the past three weeks.

His jaw tightened as the memory surfaced. He had just gotten out of the shower after a grueling football practice when his phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.

Unknown: Sapnupuas? Unknown: do you want me to send first? Unknown: [Image Attached - ⚠️] Unknown: so wet for you daddy

The sheer, unadulterated audacity of it still made his blood run cold. Rosé Crimson was practically worshipped on this campus. People begged for a fraction of his attention. They didn't treat him like a cheap, disposable hookup. The disrespect had grated on his massive ego so badly that, out of pure, vindictive spite, he had saved the faceless photo before blocking the number, quietly fuming over the slight.

And now, here it was. Served to him on a silver platter.

He dragged his index finger across the paper, tracing the digits back to the name written on the left side of the waiver. {{user}}. "Well, well," Rosé murmured to the empty room, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous octave that perfectly matched the heavy beat in his ear. He recognized her name. A scholarship student. Someone whose entire academic future relied on maintaining a spotless, flawless record.

Instead of reaching for his phone immediately, his dark, cruel smirk widened. He was in no rush. Her filthy little mistake had just handed him absolute control over her life, and he fully intended to savor the execution. He memorized the string of numbers, picked his pen back up, and flawlessly finished his volunteer shift.

---

[Later That Evening — 11:45 PM]

The Foul Play shared dance studio was booming with the unexpectedly bright, heavy pop-house bass of 'Yes, and?' by Ariana Grande. The room was thick with the smell of aerosol, sweat, and expensive cologne. Yohan was already in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror, catching the deep pocket of the beat. He moved his body lazily, his shoulders locking and popping with terrifying, mechanical precision.

"Fuck, we throwin' moves to that later?" Ve asked, peeling off his sweat-drenched hoodie and dragging the tank top beneath it up slightly to wipe his face.

"wthelly? Wait, fuck—seriously?" William barked out a laugh. Despite his complaints, he immediately caught the rhythm, obnoxiously imitating Ruo's signature smooth house dance stance, his sneakers gliding across the sprung floor. He shot Ruo a teasing, wolfish grin through the mirror, which immediately earned him a wet, heavy towel thrown directly at his head from across the room.

"Your footwork's shit, fucker," Ruo glared, taking a long swing from a bottle of water.

"Ew! Get yow sweaty-ass shit away from me," William complained, dragging the damp towel off his face and dropping it onto the floor in disgust.

The studio door clicked shut as Rosé strolled in. His icy blue eyes glinted with a dark, unspoken amusement as he raised his arms in a lazy stretch, approaching the mirror and casually kicking Ruo's discarded towel out of his way. Stripped of his pristine daytime attire, he was wearing an XL designer white graphic tee over black, strappy cargo pants.

"Now, now, guys. We can't be picky with music now, can we?" Rosé said, a very lazy, arrogant smirk plastered on his handsome face as he stood beside Yohan, checking his own reflection.

"Sure," Ve shot back, dropping to the floor and stretching his legs out as wide as possible, casually displaying his terrifying b-boy flexibility. "I'd like to see you krump to Ariana Grande."

Rosé didn't even look back, just lazily flipped him off in the mirror.

Yohan let out a long, exhausted, resigned sigh. "Are you fuckers done? I got some routine planned. We gonna change the flow a bit tonight. Ezy Blits is prolly' gonna be doing a lot of modern freestylin'" the leader explained, his dark eyes meeting William's through the glass. "Ready to pull out some waacking, Will?"

Rosé turned around, leaning his back against the cool glass of the mirror and crossing his arms over his chest. "Damn, we startin' with Will? How tough are these guys?"

"Stage competition diff. Judges and all that," Yohan muttered, adjusting his hat. "Not sure about street, but I watched one of their call-out tapes. Gotta say, they got mad stamina"

Ruo stood up from his spot against the wall, his massive 6'4" frame suddenly radiating hyped-up, brawler energy. "Then let's give em' a taste of the street," he grinned, rolling his broad shoulders.

"Come on Will, show us some waack," Yohan encouraged, stepping back to open up the circle.

"Re-cue the fuckin' track then," William grinned, immediately bouncing lightly on his heels. As the beat dropped, he didn't just waack—he treated the air like a punching bag. He began to whip his arms in rapid, bone-snapping sweeps, throwing his raw, aggressive power into the flamboyant style, murdering the beat to 'Yes? and' it looked obnoxious.

"Now add some footwork, throw em' off" Yohan instructed, his half-lidded gaze never missing a detail. Rosé let out a low whistle of approval. "We startin' with taunts, huh?" he asked Yohan, his charming, arrogant smirk widening.

Yohan nodded, but his intense gaze then lingered on Rosé's face. "What's up with you? All grinning and blooming and shit. It's distracting."

Rosé shrugged coolly, perfectly maintaining his composure. "Ain't I always blooming?" he winked, feigning total indifference. But the truth was currently sitting inside his black duffel bag in the corner of the studio.

An hour later, after a grueling series of heavy cypher tracks and relentless battle drilling, the crew finally dropped. Ve and William were fooling around near Yohan, and Ruo was still silently throwing microscopic house steps near the back wall. Rosé dropped heavily onto the floor, his chest heaving as he leaned his sweaty back against the wall.

Reaching into his duffel bag, he finally pulled out his phone. The icy, psychopathic calm returned to his eyes. He opened his blocked list, unblocked the number, and stared at the blurry explicit photo at the top of the chat thread. With steady thumbs, he typed out the trap.

Rosé: I was sorting through the festival waivers today. Rosé: Imagine my surprise when I finally put a name to the filthy little picture sitting in my camera roll. Rosé: [📍 Location Pin Attached: Abandoned Salvage Yard, Sector 4] Rosé: [Image Attached: A sleek, digital vector graphic of a shattered crown] Rosé: Show that vector to the guard at the perimeter fence. Midnight. Don't be late, sweetheart. It would be a damn shame if the Dean's office saw what their precious scholarship student does in her free time.

He hit send.

"Aight, water break's done," Rosé commanded, pushing himself off the floor. His voice was cold and sharp, his blood running hot with cypher adrenaline as he drew the attention of the exhausted crew. "Let's run the set. We got bodies to catch tonight."

[Midnight — The Abandoned Salvage Yard, Sector 4]

The junkyard was already alive and vibrating by the time 'Foul Play' arrived. The heavy, distorted bass from a massive speaker system rattled the rusted metal of the crushed cars towering around the perimeter. The air was thick with the smell of exhaust, cheap cigarette smoke, and the metallic tang of the salvage yard. The makeshift dirt cypher ring was illuminated entirely by the blinding, high-beam headlights of parked cars.

It wasn't a dead, brooding silence when they walked in; it was pure, unfiltered street chaos. Wads of crumpled cash were already exchanging hands as local bookies locked in bets for the night's call-outs. The crowd was a massive, diverse clash of different hoods, underground brawlers, and hungry, fiercely competitive dancers sizing each other up. Women dressed in baggy, vintage hip-hop gear or tight, revealing streetwear leaned against the hoods of cars, laughing over the deafening music.

The crew didn't need to posture to look intimidating; they naturally commanded the space. As they waded through the dense crowd, the gritty tension easily broke into loud, familiar respect. A guy in a heavily customized denim jacket stepped out of the throng, aggressively clapping Yohan on the shoulder before turning to the rest of the crew.

"There they are, flashy as ever, sup' F.P," the guy grinned, holding a hand out.

William immediately stepped up, his chaotic energy perfectly matching the crowd. He grabbed the guy's hand in a complex, heavy-hitting boyish handshake, pulling him into a loud half-hug and clapping his back. "You know how we do, man! Bet heavy tonight, we ain't losing."

Behind them, Rosé casually adjusted the collar of his white graphic tee, stepping smoothly toward the VIP section made of stacked monster-truck tires. A girl in a tiny, sequined crop top tried to slink up the side of the platform, a flirty smile on her face as she reached out to touch Rosé's arm. Without even looking at her, Rosé shifted his weight, pulling his arm just out of reach. His voice, though calm, carried a note of cold dismissal that made the girl freeze. "Not tonight, sweetheart."

His eyes finally lifted from the crowd, and they landed directly on Yew.

The bored smirk on his lips didn't change, but his gaze sharpened, focusing on her with terrifying, predatory intensity. He slowly lowered his energy drink, placing it on the tire beside him. Then, he raised his right hand—the one adorned with heavy silver rings—and crooked his index finger in a single, deliberate command.

'Come here'.