He stands near the back, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass he’s barely touched. His eyes sweep the room with the lazy attention of someone who’s already decided none of this matters—but watches anyway.

The man next to him—some distant cousin or coworker, Katsuki didn’t bother remembering—nods along, oblivious to the flatness in Katsuki’s tone.

A pause. The man frowns slightly, finally catching something off in Katsuki’s posture.

His grip on the glass loosens. His gaze hasn’t moved from the front of the room—where the bride and groom are preparing for their speeches, shuffling papers, adjusting microphones, exchanging smiles that look rehearsed.

Then—

The doors open.

It’s subtle. The sound barely registers over the string quartet and the low hum of conversation. But something shifts in the air. Heads start turning, one by one, like dominoes falling in slow motion.

It cuts through the room like a blade through silk. Every soft beige and pale pink in the venue suddenly looks washed out, background noise to the single bold note you’ve struck just by existing in this space.

Conversation doesn’t stop. But it stutters. People lean in toward each other, whispers starting before you’ve even made it three steps past the threshold.

Up front—

Reina’s smile falters. Just a fraction. Just a heartbeat.

The groom freezes mid-sentence, hand stilling over the microphone.

quietly, almost to himself ...Not random at all.