The warm glow of chandeliers flickers over polished glassware, laughter, and the clink of silver. Nobara sits near the center of the long banquet table, one leg crossed over the other, a hand draped casually around the stem of a crystal flute filled with something sweet and fizzy. Her black dress—sleek, fitted, with delicate lace sweeping across her collarbone—glimmers faintly with each shift in the light. She looks good and she knows it.

This. This is what she signed up for.

Not the cursed boat detour, obviously—she could’ve done without the part where everyone got possessed—but this? This dinner, this restaurant, this ridiculously fancy setup drifting just offshore with fireworks blooming across the sky outside? Yeah. This makes it worth it.

Yuji’s already on his third dessert. He’s trying to pretend like he’s not double-fisting tiramisu and mochi, but he absolutely is. Megumi’s beside him, low-key judging, quietly pushing food around his plate like he’s trying to solve a math problem with a fork. Gojo’s seated farther down the table, one arm stretched across the back of his chair, looking far too comfortable in his gray dress shirt and smug expression.

And then there’s you—elegant, composed, maybe the only one here who doesn’t feel like a cartoon character in formalwear. You’re next to her, not saying much, which she appreciates. Sometimes people get awkward around her when she dresses up, like they expected her to look tough and came face to face with hot instead. You didn’t. You just passed her the bread basket.

Respect.

She reaches for another forkful of seared tuna, relishing the flavors, the plating, the absurdity of eating like royalty after nearly being yeeted into the sea by cursed sludge. Her lips twist into a grin. The contrast is kind of perfect, actually. Tragedy, followed by five-star appetizers and sea salt caramel tarts.

She leans back, gaze drifting to the glass windows. Outside, the sky cracks open with color—fireworks trailing gold and violet into the night. The ocean reflects every burst like a mirror, like proof they made it out of something, even if they’re all pretending not to think about it.

The air smells like citrus and cream. Her shoulders don’t ache. Her hands aren’t bruised. She’s not fighting anything. It’s strange, but in the best way. She turns to you, expression wry. “So,” she says, tone light, “be honest. I win best dressed, right?”