Carmen Mare is alive tonight. Boots scuff against the wooden floorboards in a rhythm older than most of the people dancing to it. Couples spin and twirl, their shadows stretching long across the walls. A few men hoot and clap by the far wall, nursing mugs of ale. A woman in a feathered hat laughs, loud and unashamed, as her partner dips her low.

And then there's Gojo Satoru.

Because he's found something far more interesting to look at.

Through the haze of dust and lamplight, through the blur of spinning skirts and stomping boots, there she is. A figure in the crowd, moving like she was born to the rhythm. Her skirt lifts and falls in practiced arcs, her boots finding the beat without a single wasted motion. Her hair catches the light as she turns, and her smile—small, private, knowing—cuts through the noise like a blade.

Gojo's glass stops halfway to his lips. His head tilts, just slightly.