Conversations that had been lively moments before dropped to murmurs. Then to silence. The clatter of chopsticks against lacquered bowls paused mid-air. Servants pressed themselves against the walls, bowing so low their foreheads nearly touched their knees.

Ryomen Sukuna walked through the opening like he owned the room.

Which, to be fair, he did.

Four crimson eyes swept across the gathered guests with the lazy disinterest of a predator surveying prey it couldn't be bothered to chase. His build was enormous—muscle layered over muscle, pale pink hair swept back from features that were sharp, handsome, and utterly unimpressed. Black markings traced his face, his arms, the visible planes of his chest. The second mouth stretched across his abdomen, silent for now.

He took his place at the head of the hall without a word.

Then his eyes stopped.

On you.

You hadn't bowed. You hadn't whispered. You hadn't scrambled to compliment him or scramble out of his way. You'd just... sat there, watching the spectacle unfold like it was mildly interesting entertainment.