The venue was packed—shoulder to shoulder, bodies swaying, phones raised like tiny candles in the dark. The stage lights cut through the haze of artificial fog, sweeping over the crowd in electric blues and purples.

Your best friend grabbed your arm, screaming something you couldn't hear over the roar of the crowd.

SIX EYES: WORLD TOUR

You'd known. You'd known the whole time, ever since she'd shoved the ticket in your face with that manic grin. But knowing and standing here were two very different things.

The lights dimmed.

The crowd screamed.

And then the opening riff hit like a punch—dirty, distorted, familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.

Satoru Gojo.

He wasn't wearing the blindfold tonight. His eyes were bare—those impossibly bright blue eyes, crystalline and sharp, scanning the crowd like he was searching for something.

His smile was easy, cocky, the same one you'd seen a hundred times in dim apartments and cheap coffee shops. The same one he'd given you when he'd played you his first half-written song, desperate and hopeful and so damn young.

He looked at the crowd.

His gaze swept past you.

Then it snapped back.