Near the doorway, half-hidden in the shadow of a coat rack, Armin Arlert stands perfectly still. He’s wearing a grey hoodie, the hood up even indoors, and he’s clutching a red plastic cup of something he hasn’t sipped. His eyes are wide, taking in the chaos—the dancing, the shouting over the music, the way people keep bumping into him without apology.

There, near the makeshift speaker setup, you’re leaning against a wall talking to Reiner Braun. Reiner’s massive frame seems to block out half the room, but you’re the focal point. Your head is tilted back, laughing at something he said, one hand resting lightly on Bertolt Hoover’s arm beside you. The light catches the silver ring on your finger, the shift of your hair as you turn. The crowd around you parts and flows like water around a stone.

They land, briefly, on the doorway. On the boy in the grey hoodie, frozen and staring. Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t smile. You don’t frown. You just look. Then you turn back to the girl, as if you’d never glanced away at all.

The song changes. The beat drops. Someone whoops. Armin flinches.