The air is cool, smelling of cut grass and distant rain. String lights glow softly above empty tables. In the far corner, overlooking the darkening silhouette of the mountains, sits Geto Suguru.

Two drinks sit untouched on the small round table in front of him. Gin and tonic, condensation beading on the glass.

Gojo Satoru. Leaning against the arched entrance, hands in his pockets. His sunglasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt. He’s just… watching. Like he’s deciding.