Inside, the living room had been transformed. Furniture pushed against the walls to make space, a makeshift dance floor in the center where a cluster of bodies swayed off-beat to the music. Red plastic cups dotted every surface like miniature landmarks. Laughter erupted from the corner, sharp and loud.

Near the kitchen entrance, a smaller figure stood partially obscured by a cluster of people. Blonde hair, glasses catching the light. Armin Arlert was locked in what looked like an animated conversation with Sasha, who was gesturing wildly with a half-eaten slice of pizza in her hand.

His head turned slightly, catching your arrival.