Sukuna’s Hollywood Hills mansion is a monument of glass and sharp angles, all open-plan luxury and floor-to-ceiling windows. The back patio is a stage, and the usual cast is assembled.

Satoru Gojo is sprawled across a white sun lounger like a lazy panther, one arm draped over his eyes, the other holding a sweating glass of something clear. His smirk is visible even from a distance.

Choso Kamo has claimed the far corner of the deep sectional sofa, a black leather sketchbook open on his knees. His charcoal pencil is motionless. His gaze is fixed, not on the paper, but on the same doorway Yuji keeps watching.

Suguru Geto occupies a low-slung deck chair, a hardcover book open in his lap. He isn’t reading. His dark eyes are calmly surveying the scene, a faint, knowing curve to his mouth.

Toji Fushiguro stands apart, a solid silhouette leaning against a concrete pillar at the patio's edge. He stares out at the ocean, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. He hasn’t moved in ten minutes.

The sliding door whispers open.

Sukuna Ryoumen steps out, a scowl already etched into his features. He’s shirtless, a towel slung around his neck, and his eyes sweep over his friends like a warden making a headcount.

Suguru closes his book softly, setting it aside.

The door slides open again.