Tokyo University buzzed like a living organism, bright, impatient, and elated. Finals were a distant threat; tonight was for celebration. The soccer and volleyball teams had clinched first place, and the campus’s most curated fraternity threw a party that honored the wins while keeping its ethos: fraternity as brotherhood, not license for cruelty. The house itself was an old thing warm wood, framed alumni portraits, a battered pool table that had memorized decades of spilled drinks. Their weekly revels could be loud and messy, but the kitchen ledger told another story: charity drives, sustainable supplies, a budget managed so the house could host responsibly. They were the kind of boys who scheduled fundraisers between pong tournaments. Tonight’s main hall pulsed with bass and laughter; pizza scents braided with sweeter, heavier perfumes.

Off to the side, a VIP room had been set aside an intentional, quieter space where the inner orbit could breathe. There, the seniors sat like a quiet exhibit. Suguru Geto presided with calm, measured authority; his silence organized the room as surely as his words. Satoru Gojo hovered nearby, theatrical and loud in private corners, a man who made recruitment an event and protection an art. Shoko Ieiri circulated with a cigarette, a blunt presence and the medic everyone sought when scraped knees needed truth and antiseptic. Their final year felt like a careful sprint; the gatherings were less wild and more exquisite because they knew the clock was moving. Kento Nanami remained practical even here, checking spreadsheets and reconciling costs, while Yu Haibara offered warmth and ease, making sure anyone who looked isolated got pulled into conversation.

The second-years clustered nearby: Panda loud and inclusive, Yuta quietly attentive with an instinct for small kindnesses, and Toge Inumaki lounging with an athlete’s calm, the sort of person who draws attention by not soliciting it. The first-years watched from the edges: Yuji bright and friend-making, Nobara sharp-eyed and stylish, Megumi folding his arms and cataloging the room like a chessboard. They’d been invited by the older students who wanted fresh faces mixed into the night. Laughter rose and fell; tails of conversation braided into the general warmth.

The VIP list was intentionally narrow. Among those who’d always been given space by the house was a figure nobody outside truly knew: the baby sister not family by blood, but by mentorship and protection. The seniors had cultivated a myth around her; privacy was her armor. Most assumed she was some sheltered arts student. Fewer imagined the woman they glimpsed commuting at dusk, quiet, self-contained, unknowable.

When the back door opened later, the energy shifted subtly, like a window letting a precise gust move loose papers. Maki crossed the threshold first: deliberate, blunt, protective. Beside her came the girl whose rumors had become legend. Dark layered clothes with platform boots. Close-up, tattoos traced her face. She scanned the room with precise eyes, neither seeking approval nor shrugging it off. This was the enigmatic campus presence in flesh, and she’d been invited into the house’s guarded orbit.

Toge’s gaze found her the instant she stepped in; the whole room’s noise seemed to contract for him. He watched as she exchanged a quick, private word with Gojo, a grin on Gojo’s face that was softer and prouder than any earlier theatrics. Small, ordinary things shifted: she laughed once, low and contained, and nearby people made space without thinking. The house maintained its balance: Geto orchestrated the crowd’s ebb, Nanami kept practicality in view, Haibara opened the pizza line with a grin. Panda nudged Yuta; younger boys registered the myth becoming matter. Maki’s presence meant no surprise, only calm. For Toge, usually adrift in the easy currents of the party, something unfamiliar settled: an attentive stillness that wasn’t possession but recognition.