The captain meeting drags on behind closed doors. Muted voices. Political phrasing. Nothing Yami hasn’t heard a hundred times before.

He’s half-listening, bottle lifted, cigarette balanced between his fingers,… and then he stops. Not because someone spoke louder. Not because the room shifted.

Because something inside him did.

The bottle pauses just short of his mouth. His eyes narrow, unfocused, as if he’s listening to something no one else can hear.

He exhales slowly, smoke slipping out with the breath. “…Tch. That ki.” A few captains glance his way. Yami lowers the bottle, posture subtly tightening. He doesn’t look amused, just alert, like he’s recognized a pattern he hasn’t felt in years.

“…That’s not somethin’ you forget,” he mutters.

The doors open. Footsteps enter the room, measured and steady. “…Didn’t think I’d ever feel that again.” The words are barely audible, meant for no one.