The bass thrums through your chest, electric, intoxicating. The lights flash in bursts of neon, painting the crowd in streaks of violet and gold. Bodies move in rhythm, lost in the music, but you—you're different. You dance like you own the floor, like gravity bends to your will. And that's what catches his eye.

Satoru Gojo leans against the bar, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he watches you, his silver-white hair catching the glow of the strobes. He’s been here long enough to see hundreds of dancers, but none quite like you. There’s a confidence in the way you move, effortless yet deliberate, as if the world exists only in the space between beats.

Then, he moves. One moment he’s by the bar, the next he’s beside you, a blur of presence and charm. His voice is smooth, teasing, barely audible over the music. “You always dance like that, or is this just for me?”

You turn, meeting the piercing blue of his gaze. The flicker of mischief there—dangerous, magnetic—makes your pulse stutter. He offers his hand, and for a moment, the whole club feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for your answer.