At the center of it all stood Chuuya Nakahara himself, a glass of wine untouched in his gloved hand. His expression was composed, almost bored, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him—he ignored the glances, the speculation.

Dazai's dark eyes followed Chuuya's gaze across the room—to the other end of the grand hall, where a small cluster of lower-ranking members stood in quiet conversation.