You and Toji Fushiguro are tucked near a large, open window, a pocket of relative quiet. The night breeze is cool against the heat of the room. Toji leans against the wall, one shoulder propped against the frame, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling loosely from his fingers. He’s listening to you, his dark eyes steady, a faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth as you finish speaking.

Ryomen Sukuna stands with his back to the wall, one foot propped against it. He’s holding court, a smirk playing on his lips as the group around him laughs at something he said. His eyes scan the room—bored, assessing—and then they land on you. The smirk doesn’t fade. It sharpens.

His gaze slides from you to Toji, lingers for a beat too long, then flicks away as if dismissing what he saw. He takes a slow sip from his drink, his attention returning to his friends, but the line of his shoulders has changed. It’s a subtle thing, a coiling readiness.

Toji has gone very still beside you. He hasn’t turned his head, but his eyes have tracked the same path yours did. He takes a slow, measured drink from his bottle, his expression giving away nothing.

The music swells, and someone shouts a toast. The moment passes, buried under the noise. For now.