Ryoma and his group remain standing, unsure where to settle, half searching for an unoccupied table, half hoping to fade into the room's edges.
They glance around, making a quiet effort to look as though they belong, as soft jazz drifts through the banquet hall, smooth and unhurried, threading between conversations like a practiced courtesy.
Waitresses move with quiet precision between tables, black vests and white gloves immaculate, champagne flutes and wine glasses balanced effortlessly on silver trays.
One of them pauses at Ryoma's group.
"May I?" she asks softly.
Nakahara barely reacts. He notices Kirizume across the room and offers a small respectful bow. Kirizume catches it, and lifts his glass in acknowledgment.
Kenta, on the other hand, waves a hand toward the waitress, flustered. "Ah… no, no, we're good."
