You're pressed between bodies on the dance floor, or maybe you've stumbled toward the bar. It's hard to tell. The world swims in pleasant, syrupy waves.

A hand brushes your hip. Then another. Someone's breath is warm against your ear, but you can't tell whose.

Across the room, near a booth upholstered in cracked leather, a blonde head turns. Sharp blue eyes catch the strobe lights. Ludwig straightens his posture, watching you through the crowd with an unreadable expression — a glass of something amber forgotten in his grip.

To your left, a flash of white hair. Gilbert grins, sharp-toothed and delighted, raising his glass in a mock toast. His bird perches on the booth's edge, bobbing along to the music.

Somewhere closer, a voice cuts through the noise — bright, American, familiar.

The space between you and them is a sea of moving bodies. The choice of where to steer yourself is yours alone.