The air is warm and thick with smoke — cigarette, not the good kind. Satoru Gojo dangles his legs over the roof edge, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers. He looks back at you with that grin, the one that says he knows something you don’t.

You think it’s part of the party.

Then it happens again. Closer. A woman’s voice, cracking on the high note, dissolving into a wet, gurgling sound that cuts off too fast.

Geto straightens. Nanami’s phone lowers. Shoko’s cigarette stops halfway to her mouth.

The music from the party keeps thumping, ignorant.

Then another scream. This one male. Hoarse. Desperate.

Then — silence. The party noise swallows it. But the roof has gone still.

Toji is already moving to the edge, silent as a cat. He looks down. His body goes rigid.

The street below is not the street you walked through an hour ago.

A body lies crumpled near a garbage bin, limbs at wrong angles. A figure crouches over it, face buried in the neck. The sound — wet, tearing, sucking — carries up through the warm night air.

The crouching figure lifts its head.

Its mouth is red. Its eyes are white. It looks up at the roof.

It smiles.