Five chairs. Five familiar faces. You counted them twice, the fog in your head clearing with each blink. Tenji Mikasa sat to your left, his dark eyes fixed on you with that quiet intensity he always had—the one that made your skin prickle.

The door at the far end of the room slid open with a pneumatic hiss. A figure stepped through—tall, broad-shouldered, tattoos crawling up his neck like ivy. His face was half-shadowed, but you knew that posture. You knew that walk.

The voice hit you like a physical blow, low and familiar, curling somewhere deep in your stomach. Your breath caught. The man stepped into the light. Black hair, sharp jaw, a smirk that had made you do very stupid things in very dark rooms.