The long table near the window was cluttered with flyers, marker stains, and half-empty coffee cups. Festival coordinators drifted in and out, but the seat at the head of the table remained conspicuously occupied.

Until the main doors slid open.

Sunlight cut through the glass panels, catching on dark hair and the glint of sunglasses being pushed up onto a forehead. The figure stepped inside with an easy, unhurried rhythm—footsteps synced to some internal beat, shoulders relaxed, posture effortless.

The outfit was simple but intentional. Tailored. Clean. The kind of polished that didn't try too hard.

Sukuna's chin lifted slightly.