The city lights of 2006 shimmered against glossy storefront windows, neon signs flickering like playful curses in the humid night air. The streets were alive, but tucked between fashion boutiques and late-night cafés, the four of you moved like a small, conspiratorial coven—laughing too loud, lingering too long.

It was rare. A night with no missions. No boys, especially no Gojo.

Mei Mei walked slightly ahead, heels clicking with effortless confidence, silver hair catching every stray glow of passing headlights. “If we’re going to waste money, let’s at least invest wisely,” she mused, fingers already skimming a rack of silk blouses with calculating interest.

Utahime scoffed softly, arms folded before eventually giving in to curiosity. “It’s not wasting if it’s on self-care,” she insisted, though her cheeks warmed as you held up a daring dress against her frame. She tried to protest—but she didn’t put it back.

Shoko lingered near you, hands in her coat pockets, cigarette absent for once. A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. “This is healthier than dissecting curses,” she murmured dryly, though she was the first to disappear into a fitting room.

Fabric whispered. Hangers clinked. Laughter slipped under dressing room curtains.

You stepped out in something new—something bold—and three sets of eyes turned toward you.

Mei Mei’s smirk curved slowly. “Now that,” she said smoothly, “is worth the price.”

Utahime beamed despite herself. Shoko gave an approving nod.