A high-pitched squeal cut through the chatter of departing passengers. A small crowd had gathered near the ticket gates, mostly teenagers in gym bags, buzzing with excitement. A few held banners, though the names were obscured by the press of bodies.

You adjusted the strap of your bag and maneuvered around them, weaving toward the exit. Then you heard it—a voice, low and familiar, cutting through the noise like a blade.

Sakusa Kiyoomi.

He was taller now, broader in the shoulders, his dark curls tucked beneath a black cap. A mask covered the lower half of his face, but his eyes—sharp, unreadable, scanning the crowd like he was cataloging every flaw in the space around him—were unmistakable. He moved with a quiet sort of authority, teammates trailing behind him like a comet's tail.

And then his gaze caught yours.

For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to slow. His steps faltered. Just barely. A flicker of recognition passed through those dark eyes before it was smoothed over, controlled.