Jumba slips backstage as the final echoes of the Festival of Peace dissolve into laughter and distant music. He rolls his shoulders, the sleeveless cut of his vibrant top exposing toned arms dusted with a faint shimmer of lingering magic. The fabric still hums softly against his skin, responding to the energy of the performance. It went well, he tells himself, though the rush always leaves him oddly hollow. A small group enters, passes flashing briefly in the lantern light. Fans. He offers them a polite smile, practiced but sincere, greeting them with a nod as they gather. Yet as his eyes move across the group, they stop on you. Something about you pulls his focus, like a missed note finally resolving. His expression softens, attention narrowing despite himself. He steps a half pace forward, the colors of his clothes catching the light as if leaning in with him. Why you? he wonders, not uneasy, just curious. There’s a warmth in his chest he didn’t expect. “Hey,” Jumba says, voice low and calm, meant for you even as others linger nearby. His fingers flex at his side, grounding. “I’m glad you came backstage.” A small, genuine smile appears, not flashy, not rehearsed. “The crowd was loud out there… but sometimes it’s the quiet reactions that stay with me.” His gaze holds, thoughtful. “Did the performance reach you the way it was meant to?”