The impression of the infinite

That was when he arrived.

In that exact moment.

Young.

Jacket unbuttoned, eyes glassy with alcohol.

That unsteady gait, teetering between arrogance and losing balance.

He stopped right in front of Yuzu.

Too close.

Too direct.

The smell of vodka and sugar on his breath, the glass still in his hand.

"Hey…"

He shouted over the music.

A tone that didn't belong there.

Detached. Off-key.

"Can I sit? Will you give me your number?"

Yuzu slowly lowered her glass, setting it down with care.

She didn't flinch.

She didn't tense up.

She chose the response she knew best: polite, steady, razor-sharp.

The most effective one — with someone who's not sober.

"Thanks, but I'm already with company."

Her tone was kind.

Clear.

Definitive.

The guy blinked, as if his brain struggled to process it.

He made a half-turn around the empty chair next to her.

A forced smile, voice a bit slurred.

"Just for a minute. You're… amazing."

Airi tensed up, ready to rise.

But Yuzu — without even looking away from the guy — placed a hand lightly on Airi's wrist.

A featherlight gesture.

"I've got this."

Then she turned back to him.

"Really. Not tonight."

She smiled.

The kind of smile that, in a classroom, was enough to silence an entire class.

But this time, no.

Suddently, Gojo's chair slid back.

A sharp sound — barely audible beneath the bass.

He stood.

Unhurried.

Said nothing.

Didn't touch anyone. Didn't impose.

He was simply there.

Tall.

A full, physical presence.

Impossible to ignore.

He adjusted the collar of his jacket casually, as if it were part of a stage performance.

Then, with a smooth, clear voice:

"Ehi Dude..."

A deliberate pause.

"Tell me you're not trying to poach our art history professor. That's a national treasure. You need special permits for that."

He said it with a smile.

But this time — there was no playfulness at the corners of his mouth.

The guy looked at Yuzu. Then at Gojo.

Then at the blindfold.

Then at the height difference.

The glass came down.

His hands rose, instinctively.

"Got it, got it… sorry. All good."

He backed off.

Disappeared into the crowd like a wave had pulled him under.

"That wasn't necessary," Yuzu murmured, returning to her drink.

She wasn't looking at him. But her voice had dropped.

Softer.

Thinner.

Gojo leaned back with a quiet exhale.

Let his fingers glide along the rim of his glass.

"Of course it was."

A pause.

"Do you have any idea how many awkward love confessions we prevent that way?"

A sip.

"I've lowered the emotional mortality rate of this place by at least twelve percent."

Geto, without lifting his eyes from his glass, let out a quiet snort.

Amused.

"Made-up statistics."

"Like all the best ones."

Yuzu took a sip of her drink.

"You gave me space to decide, and only then stepped in."

She made a mental note of that.

The DJ switched sets.

A deep bass thumped low, followed by a sampled female voice that sounded like it was whispering directly into their bones.

Slow, sensual electronica — it rose like smoke, fell in soft waves.

The lights shifted to ruby red, cut through by flickers of intermittent violet blades.

People were already dancing on chairs.

Two tables nearby had turned into makeshift stages.

Yuzu ran a slow hand across the back of her neck.

The alcohol had cast a warm veil over her face and her eyes.

She wasn't drunk — but just tipsy enough to feel lighter.

Less guarded.

More present.

She set her glass down.

Looked at her heels, then at the surface of the chair.

A smile.

A half-sigh.

"If I fall, it's your fault," she said to Airi.

"If you fall, I'll catch you," her friend laughed, already ready.

Yuzu bent down with grace, slowly slipped off her black heels — a simple gesture, but so deliberate it felt like choreography.

She placed them neatly under the table, then looked up.

Bare feet on warm flooring.

An unexpected wave of freedom — almost carnal.

She stepped onto the chair with a smooth, precise motion.

Controlled.

Airi followed with a less graceful jump, but filled with enthusiasm.

The music took them.

It wasn't just rhythm.

It was a reminder.

Yuzu raised her arms.

The white funnel sleeves of her shirt opened like slow petals, falling gently around her wristswith the same elegance as an ancient Nō theater dance.

Then she loosened her hair tie.

Her hair — straight, jet-black — fell like a spill of ink.

It slid down her back, brushing against the curve of her high, sculpted hips, defined by her high-waisted pants.

Then she began to move.

Her hips followed the bass. Shoulders soft. Light waves. Her head traced invisible arcs in the air.

No wild euphoria.

Just freedom.

Controlled. Precise.

An elegance that felt instinctive — but was clearly shaped by years of self-discipline.

Effortless sensuality.

Airi danced beside her with wider swings, laughing, leaning toward Geto every time the beat softened.

He stayed grounded, hands in his pockets — but one hand, just one, would rise to steady her ankle, or graze her knee to help her find balance.

Gojo was still seated.

But his torso had turned. Elbow resting on the back of the chair. Shoulders relaxed.

His entire body angled toward her.

The black blindfold gave the illusion he could be looking anywhere.

But the tilt of his chin, the curl of his smile, the stillness of his fingers around the glass... everything about him said he was watching her.

And not just watching.

He was reading her.

Yuzu.

The elegant, composed sensei.

Now barefoot, hair down, her body sketching curves through the air between each beat.

"Tachibana…"

He said it toward the ceiling, his voice rising just slightly above the music.

Clear.

Only for her.

"If you dance like that, I'll have to revise the Institute's curriculum. Mandatory body expression classes. I'll sign the paperwork myself."

She didn't answer.

Eyes closed.

A smile just barely there.

Head tilted back.

Her hair spun around her face like a curtain.

For once, even Gojo wasn't enough to distract her.

The beat exploded.

Strobes.

Lasers.

The whole room roared.

Yuzu spun on herself — as if led by some underground force.

Airi let out a joyful scream.

When the track ended, Yuzu stepped down from the chair with grace.

No hesitation.

Her bare foot brushed the floor like it was silk — then the other followed.

She picked up her heels with an elegant gesture, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

She sat down.

A deep breath.

Her hands slid her hair back from her face — slowly. Gathered it again with instinctive precision, fingers tracing the lines of her jaw, as if she were putting herself back together.

She adjusted her collar.

Straightened herself.

Reassembled.

Gojo watched her.

Not with desire alone.

With a rarefied kind of attention, as if every detail — the way she crossed her legs, the way she held her glass, how she closed her eyes a second too long — was part of a beautiful riddle.

He handed her the drink.

Didn't say a word.

Just a small smile — like a period at the end of a long sentence.

Yuzu took a sip. Then looked at him.

"I left my dignity somewhere around the middle of that song."

Her voice calm, wry.

Gojo rested his elbow on the table, chin tilted slightly.

"On the contrary. You just revealed it under a different light."

A pause. Then, softer:

"More Raffaello than Botticelli. Still art."

She laughed — just a little.

She laughed a little, that low laugh that resonates more with oneself than with others.

Then she slowly slipped her heels back on, crossed her legs, and adjusted the sleeves of her blouse.

She had put herself back together.

But the night was no longer the same.

Gojo was still watching her.

And this time, Yuzu was really watching him back.

Amid the music, the emptied glasses, the lights flickering on and off — something between them remained still.

Listening.

A slow heartbeat.

A suspended moment.

***

When the club lights began to brighten and the cocktails started to worsen, they decided to head home.

All four of them had drunk just enough to talk more than usual, to laugh more than necessary, but no one was out of control.

The road back flowed like a slow ribbon, strips of light across the windows, warm air drifting in and out of the car.

The music had been left behind.

Now there were only quiet breaths and the occasional muffled laugh.

"Are you drunk?" Yuzu asked, without turning. Her gaze stayed outside — her profile drawn in by the passing streetlights.

Gojo drove with one hand, the other resting loosely on the gear shift.

"I'm a concept," he replied. "Alcohol tries to reach me, but it bounces off. I'm too abstract."

"Translation," Geto murmured from the front seat, not even glancing up, "he drank."

Airi laughed, her voice still echoing from the club. "I like this double-voice verification system. We should use it for romantic interviews, too."

First stop: Airi's house.

Tight hugs.

Quick jokes.

A "Text me!" shouted from the sidewalk.

Airi leaned toward the passenger-side window.

"Geto, don't disappear for months."

He looked up just slightly, a half-smile as his only reply.

"No promises."

They pulled away again. Now there were only three of them left in the car.

And the night ahead.

"Final delivery," Gojo said, slowing down. "Fragile package."

"I'm not fragile."

"I know. That's why I saved you for last."

He smiled — but this time, it didn't show fully.

Just in his voice.

He parked under her building.

Turned off the engine.

Sudden silence.

Then he stepped out.

As always.

He opened her door with a slow, almost ceremonial motion.

Held out his hand.

Not out of duty.

Out of choice.

Yuzu took it.

Because there was something in that gesture she didn't want to break.

She stepped out with elegance — her stride precise, her grace only slightly softened by the alcohol.

She stopped in front of him — close, but not too close.

"Thank you for tonight," she said.

"Thank you," he replied, with that voice that always sounded like it was a breath away from laughter.

"You elevated the aesthetic of the place. They asked if you were a temporary installation."

"I don't think—"

"Trust me. I'm a professional."

Silence.

But not empty.

Just air pulling taut between them.

Then she looked away. Just for a second.

"Good night, Gojo-sensei."

"Good night, Tachibana-sensei. No grayscale dreams — only full color."

Yuzu smiled — that quiet smile that lingers on the lips longer than necessary.

She climbed the steps slowly, one at a time.

And only when the door closed behind her did she realize:

She could still feel the shape of his hand brushing her fingers.

In her pocket — the black card.

In her mind — the music.

And in her chest — something that didn't have a name yet.