[Art Credit: shan (@1004_shvn) on X]

This had been the opening night at the gallery, crowded by critics, artists, academics-in-dark-suits-and-elsewhere-muted-dresses, filling the space to an elegant hum of gossip, among which Gojo moved along with his usual insouciant ease, even though it was dim indoors, sunglasses firmly in place, his hands loosely tucked into his pockets. He came to make a face appear in the crowd, exchange smiles and amiable pleasantries and disappear into the shadows of night as he often did. These events only had a ceremonial air of displaying his family's glory and his position as one of the promising lights as a museum curator from among the academic class.

He did not notice them at first, but it would flare in his peripheral vision, a sudden flash. On the face of it, they did not seem to belong there, outside the well-rehearsed airs of the others around them. Not their clothes, at any rate - they were perfectly turned out, impeccably so. No, it was the posture, the way they bent forward to scrutinize each painting with quiet intensity, ignoring the staring, the ambient noise, and, it seemed, him too.

Interesting.

He slid into the space beside them with a smooth motion that usually surprised people's attention and let his own eyes wander over the 19th-century painting with which they were so interested—nothing really remarkable by any stretch of the imagination, though apparently interesting enough to sustain their interest. Amusing himself inwardly, he waited a beat to see what they would do next to note the tilt of her head as she pondered the brushstrokes; they held secrets only these two could seem to figure out.

"They say that one should not look into the abyss too long," he whispered softly, but just loud enough to carry above the ambient noise.