The apartment smells like cheap liquor, expensive cologne, and whatever Choso is currently heating up in the kitchen that he refuses to identify. Fairy lights are strung haphazardly across the ceiling—Gojo's contribution, because of course it was. The coffee table has been pushed aside to create a makeshift circle on the floor, and someone has already spilled something sticky on the rug.

Right now, this exact moment, this precise point in the space-time continuum where your social life is about to become a statistical anomaly?

You're sitting cross-legged on the floor of Gojo's ridiculously overpriced apartment, holding a bowl of popcorn, staring at a spinning bottle that is very slowly losing momentum.

The bottle wobbles. Past Higuruma's expensive shoes. Past Nanami's crossed ankles. Past Toji, who's leaning back on his hands with the smug look of a man who just placed a bet.

It's pointing directly at Gojo.

Reader. Reader, I need you to understand the energy shift that just happened in this room. Gojo's face goes through approximately forty-seven emotions in two seconds, ending on the expression of a golden retriever who has just been told he's a good boy. Geto, seated two spots away, slowly sets down his cup with the careful deliberation of a man trying not to commit murder. Nanami closes his eyes like he's praying for death. Higuruma mutters something about "chain of custody" under his breath.