I turned. Reika already knew.
She stepped out from the shadow of a pillar as if she had always been in motion. Violet hair tucked back, violet eyes steady. She wore simple black with a narrow silver line at the waist—elegant, quiet, exactly the kind of dress that let her disappear when she wanted. She didn't reach for my hand right away. She scanned the balcony, the doors, the percussion line, the nearest exits. Then she met my eyes and let the tension ease two degrees.
"Arthur," she said.
"Reika," I answered. "May I?"
"You'd better," she said, mouth tipping up just enough to count as a smile.
We stepped onto the floor as the orchestra slid into a slow waltz. The room understood the pairing and gave us space. Reika fit under my arm like she belonged there, frame light but secure, posture perfect in a way that came from a thousand hours of drills. She didn't dance to be seen. She danced to see.
Her eyes kept moving. Over my shoulder. Past my ear. Back to me.
