Chapter Text

Drown Out The Rhythm

The crowd buzzed with anticipation and nervous energy. The previous match's ending had been short, brutal, and terrifying. But within the nervous crowd, a rhythm began to build—softly at first and then slowly growing louder.

Thump.. Thump.. Thump 

The blood had barely dried on the stone. Sawdust and silence in the air, the aftermath of the previous match still hung over the arena like a great shadow. There were no cheers now, no excitement or celebration. Only the low murmur of the unsettled crowd.

From the right side of the arena, where a long shadowed hallway led out into the open morning air, the cold slap of bare feet on the stone floor began to echo.

The crowd remained silent, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the next contestant.

Then, a single stomp was heard.

Then another.

Clap. Clap. Stomp.

A low rhythm pulsed from within the arena, emanating not from the hallway, or the battlegrounds, but from the stands. Like a rainstorm, building to the crescendo of thunder, the arena began to shake with that rhythm.

Clap. Clap. Stomp.

They moved as one. Dozens, or perhaps even hundreds of them. Scattered all throughout the arena. Cloaked in worn, tattered robes, their bodies wrapped in a myriad of different cloths and ornaments, some wearing masks of wood or brass, some barefoot. Their only uniting feature was the euphoric, fervorous smile plastered on all of their masks and faces. Proof of their conviction. Mikoto’s cult.

They had no name. No banners, chants, or uniforms. Only rhythm.

And in perfect sync, they began to dance.

The beat rose like a heartbeat, pounding through the floor of the arena as it climbed to a feverous pitch.

From the darkness, a jingle, the soft chime of metal on metal barely audible over the stomping. Then a deep, booming DOON!, the first strike of a taiko drum. DOON! Another. DOON! Then a third.

Mikoto Tenjin emerged from the corridor with a whirling spin, the jolly old man dancing to the thundering rhythm with a fluidity that belied his age. 

He lifted his khakkhara in one hand, the ringed staff almost double the diminutive man’s height. The small taiko drums, strapped across his waist like a belt, rattled as he moved. Sunlight danced as he spun, shimmering off the golden oni mask and silver hooped earrings that adorned his head. His thin grey hair was slicked back beneath the mask, clinging to his scalp.

Bare feet kissed stone in steps that sounded too heavy for a man his size. The rings on his khakkhara clattered like laughter. His hips swayed, his knees bent, arms loose and flowing, every motion feeding the rhythm his people had summoned. He danced his way up the stone steps to the battleground, every beat matched by the crowd.

As he approached the center of the arena, the music swelled into a hypnotic loop. The crowd pulsed with it. Sorcerers and spectators alike found themselves caught, either unwillingly tapping their fingers and feet, or frozen in unnerved awe at the spectacle taking place around them.

Mikoto stopped. He tapped the base of his staff against the stone floor, and an impossibly loud ringing noise echoed through the arena as the crowd halted. Silence.

Then he spoke. “Can you feel it?” he said, his jubilant voice booming through the stands. “That little flutter beneath your ribs? That pulse in your bones? That’s not fear, my children. That is your soul itself! Crying out against its oppressors!"

Mikoto turned slowly in a circle, arms outstretched, the taiko drums at his waist still echoing softly. “Out there, you follow rules. Titles. Lineage. Chains of command. Chains!” he continued, “But all of that shit is worthless!” He tapped his staff once, BOOM! A shockwave cracked the stone floor beneath him., a metallic ringing resonating through the arena.

“Here,” he said, tapping his free hand against his chest, “Only the rhythm matters. The dance of freedom. The song of liberation. The chains of the oppressors are nothing but instruments that add to our symphonies"

He lowered the staff to the ground. His fingers hovered over the drum skin. “I am Mikoto, the dancer of freedom.” He struck the drum once DOON! And the crowd roared, half in devotion, half in disbelief.

And with that, Mikoto dropped back into his stance, spinning slowly, dancing once more.

The roar of the crowd still lingered in the air, echoing off stone and sky like the remnants of a festival.
Mikoto stood at center stage, bathed in light, surrounded by the energy of his rhythm and the ecstasy of his followers.

Then, stillness.

From the opposite side of the arena, the second hallway remained untouched by sound. It was darker there. Colder.

And when the first jellyfish slipped silently out of the shadows, the crowd’s cheering caught in their throats.

It hovered a few feet above the ground, pale and translucent, its ghostly tendrils trailing across the dust like whispers.

Then a second jellyfish emerged.

Then a third.

Itsuki Ebi stepped out behind them, arms folded behind his back, footsteps muted by a sheen of cursed energy beneath his soles.

He walked slowly, precisely, the jellyfish drifting in orbit around him like the moons of a dead planet.

His coat fluttered with the faintest breeze, but his expression did not change. His eyes scanned the arena with no joy, no awe, no fear, only cold, calm calculation.

He didn’t acknowledge the crowd as Mikoto did. He didn't even look at them. He didn’t need to. To him, this wasn’t a show. It was a transaction. A test. A task.

And one he intended to complete without wasting energy.

As he reached the center of the arena, his jellyfish moved into formation. Two of the Shikigami floated forwards and upwards, taking up positions high above, the other remained by Itsuki's side, slowly bobbing up and down behind him like a silent bodyguard. 

The contrast to Mikoto was tangible. Where Mikoto pulsed with rhythm and energy, breathing life into the crowd, Itsuki seemed to drain it from them, like the final breath from a corpse.

A shadow darted above them and Zexel Okmatra landed in between the competitors. “No need to go over the rules again,” Zexel said curtly as he raised his right arm in the air. “Ready? BEGIN!” and with that, he once again vanished from the arena.

The two fighters didn’t move immediately, Mikoto swayed gently, as though carried by a rhythm only he could hear, his feet shifting in subtle, hypnotic steps, his body moving with the grace of a dancer. Across from him, Itsuki Ebi was stone still, eyes narrow, posture tight. He drew a compact jitte from the folds of his cloak, its wooden shaft short and dark in the morning light. Both fighters waited for the other to make the opening move. Then it happened.

Mikoto’s gentle footwork shifted in an instant. With a thunderous thump, his right foot pushed off the ground, the amplified vibrations launching him at Itsuki with incredible speed. The burst did not take Itsuki by surprise. Pointing his jitte forward like a spear, he spoke. “Yokin.”

The command was calm and clinical. The jitte snapped forward like a harpoon, its shaft multiplying in length with brutal force. Mikoto twisted midair, but not fast enough. The iron tip struck his golden mask with a sharp clang, knocking him sideways through the air. 

He landed on his feet, spinning smoothly with the force of the blow. The old man’s iron staff, crowned with silver rings, gleamed in his grip. He surged forward again, this time from a low angle, eager to take advantage of the now unwieldy weapon that Itsuki was holding. His left hand smacked the drum at his waist with playful glee, while his right brought the khakkhara down in an overhead arc with lethal intentions.

Itsuki did not flinch. “Tekkai” he muttered, and in a heartbeat, the jitte had retracted back to its original length. Just in time to catch the strike from the old man’s staff. Their clash echoed through the arena, a loud crack as the iron khakkhara met the wooden shaft of the jitte. The impact pushed them both backwards, Itsuki’s knees dipping slightly, Mikoto sliding back with a low chuckle spilling from behind his mask.

A soft cackling laugh escaped from behind Mikoto’s mask, quickly building into a boisterous roar of laughter. “Hurts, doesn’t it boy?” he said, his tone mocking and the smile behind his voice unmistakable. Itsuki said nothing. But the scowl on his face spoke volumes as he flexed his numbed right arm, the limb still stinging from the exchange. Whatever that was he couldn’t aff-

“Vibrations,” Mikoto offered, almost generously. “That’s the nature of my technique. It allows me to amplify existing vibrations, including those created by our little clash there”

Itsuki clicked his tongue, silently cursing the old man’s Binding Vow. By revealing his hand, Mikoto gained a surge of cursed energy that Itsuki could feel emanating from the man. But it was a useful revelation. For now, Itsuki decided that he’d avoid close-range combat with the old bastard to avoid giving him the advantage. 

He leapt back, channeling cursed energy into his legs, launching himself away a considerable distance. Overhead, his two jellyfish-like Shikigami descended, silent, serene, and deadly, forming a drifting curtain between himself and the advancing cult leader. His grip around the jitte tightened by a small fraction when he heard that same cackling laugh echoing from the other side of his wall of Shikigami. “That scared of an old man huh?” came the mocking voice.

Itsuki took a sharp breath, smothering his growing anger. Emotions had never done him any good, not in this line of work. He gave the mental command and the jellyfish Shikigami advanced. 

Mikoto’s movements never really stopped. Still dancing, still bobbing, he tilted his head quizzically to the side as the Shikigami approached him. Then he moved.

With a fluid motion, he sprang left, planting his khakkhara into the stone as he jumped and swung himself around it. His foot struck the first jellyfish a split second after his hand slapped a drum around his waist, the shockwave generated by the kick triggering a blast of kinetic energy that hurled the creature away like debris in a storm.

Mikoto did not stop moving, completing his spin, he grabbed the staff in both hands as he landed, twirling around with grace and fluidity that belied his age. The khakkhara staff came whipping around, silver rings singing through the air before they made contact with the second Jellyfish. It exploded into a cloud of miniature copies as Mikito’s thunderous blow made contact with it, all of them careening backwards. Twirling the still-singing staff until it sat in the crook of his elbow, he started walking towards Itsuki again. That is when the first jellyfish he had struck, now behind him, surged forward and touched his shoulder.

Mikoto was thrown like a ragdoll. His body slammed into the arena floor, skidding violently before he came to a stop. Slowly, he rose, leaning on his staff, brushing off his robes with deliberate calm. “What was that?” he thought. “It wasn’t raw force... it felt oddly familiar.” He shook his head, that didn’t matter now. 

He took a step towards Itsuki and then he felt it. A new obstacle in his way. The small jellyfish, the ones the second Shikiggami he had struck had exploded into now littered the space between him and Isuki like a spectral minefield. “I don’t know exactly how these Shikigami work... but based on that last one they probably need to touch me to apply that force...” he mused, “So I’ll just do this!”

Slamming the khakkhara staff into the ground, rooting it into the stone floor with a dull metallic thud, Mikito stepped forward, his arms extended out wide to either side, fingers splayed. With a booming CLAP, he brought them together. The amplified shockwaves raced forward like a hurricane, knocking the jellyfish out of the way, all of them swept aside like petals in a storm, tumbling weightlessly into the air.

Without missing a moment, Mikito gripped his staff, wrenching it from the lodged stone and racing towards Itsuki, his footsteps a quick staccato beat on the stone floor. The larger jellyfish loomed close again, tendrils dancing behind it as it surged towards Mikoto. Without missing a beat, Mikoto reached up with a free hand, pulling his golden mask up above his mouth as he screamed. The sound was not just noise, it was a weapon. The amplified cry, made tangible through his cursed technique, struck the jellyfish like a wall of pressure. Unlike the smaller jellyfish, this one was not hurled away by the wave of force, instead, it floated in place, momentarily halted as its bulbous head rippled from the force of the collision. 

For a heartbeat, this bothered Mikoto, but he did not let it interrupt his momentum. Taking advantage of the Shikigami’s pause, he continued his rush towards its master. Then it hit him. The same force Mikoto had unleashed, now rebounded, magnified. It struck him in the back, hurtling him head over heels to where his opponent was waiting, jitte pointed forward like a hunter’s spear, ready to skewer its prey.

“Yokin.” The jitte extended once more, a blur of wood and steel. It struck Mikoto square in the chest, lifting him off his feet. Air and blood burst from under his mask with a soft, muted gasp. He crashed to the ground, rolling with the momentum. “Tekkai,” Itsuki said as he stood tall, retracting the jitte once again.

Mikoto lay on the arena floor, chest heaving beneath his robes, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The blow had been clean, precise, but not fatal. Not yet. He allowed himself another moment of stillness. Then, he moved.

With a pained groan, Mikoto rose slowly, deliberately, once again placing his khakkhara staff into the dirt beside him as leverage. It rang softly as it scraped across the stone, silver rings jingling like funeral bells. His breathing steadied. His sway returned. And with it, the rhythm.

Itsuki narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening around the hilt of his jitte. The man should have been down. That strike had been clean, deadly. Instead, Mikoto stood, wounded, but dancing again. The sway of his body moved downwards as his feet began to tap against the stone floor in a lazy rhythm. Itsuki felt a sense of unease growing within him.

Dismissing the feeling, Itsuki once again pointed the jitte at the stumbling old man, certain he could land a fatal blow on his injured opponent. “Yokin.” The cursed tool extended in a blur of motion—deadly and precise. It missed. A clean stab into the stone floor, the tip striking stone a pace wide of Mikoto’s bobbing frame. That laugh came again. The high-pitched cackle, mocking.

Itsuki scowled and repeated his command. “Tekkai. Yokin.” The jitte retracted, then struck again with whiplash speed. Another miss. Too short this time, stabbing the earth just ahead of Mikoto’s feet. Unease fully took root in Itsuki’s gut.

He tried to reset. “Tekkai,” he commanded, but no sound escaped his lips. He tried again. “Tekkai!” Again nothing. A strange numbness crept up his arm. The jitte vibrated unnaturally, resonating, humming like a struck tuning fork. He stared down at it confused, only for silver rings to fill his vision. Mikoto’s khakkhara smashed into the side of his skull. The ground rose to meet him. He hit the arena floor with a heavy thud, the jitte skittering from his hand.

“Shit—” his thoughts swam, blood trailing down the side of his face. His fingers gingerly reached toward the split in his scalp. “The old bastard lied intentionally... he never said he could suppress vibrations!”

He rolled, instinct carrying him aside just as Mikoto brought the khakkhara down again, the impact cratering the stone where his body had just been. The shockwave lifted him off the ground, hurling him several meters before he crashed again, dazed.

There was no time to recover. Mikoto was already there. Blow after blow rained down on Itsuki. Even as he blocked the strikes, he felt as the reverberations beneath them tear through his body, muffled concussions that made his bones hum and his organs shake.

Panicked, Itsuki made a desperate choice. “Dispel. Re-summon. Merge.” The command echoed in his mind, and his Shikigami obeyed.

In the air above, his resummoned Shikigami converged and melded together, bloating and expanding until a single, massive entity floated high above the arena, drifting with spectral grace, inverted with its bulbous head facing the arena floor far below.

Still, the pain didn’t stop. Mikoto pressed him, blows rattling his frame like a cruel symphony. Still, Itsuki waited. Timing everything on instinct now, fighting through blinding pain until the moment came. He lunged.

With a guttural shout, he surged forward and seized both of Mikoto’s wrists, locking them in place. To his surprise, Mikoto didn’t resist. He laughed. Genuinely. “That won’t work on me, young man,” he whispered. And then he stomped.

The vibrations tore upwards with violent force. From foot to earth. From Earth to Mikoto. From Mikoto into Itsuki.

The vibrations smashed through him, his bones groaning as they ground against each other, ligaments strained as they trembled, muscles twanging as they were ripped apart. Itsuki’s body became an instrument, and Mikoto played a note of ruin.

He cried out, a sound low and primal. A sound that was only matched in its guttural volume by Mikoto’s laugh, as shrill as Itsuki’s scream was deep.

And then... silence.

Itsuki collapsed to the floor, arms still twitching, bones still rattling. Ahead of him, suspended in the upside-down bell of an enormous jellyfish, Mikoto now thrashed. Suspended in space, legs kicking like a drowning man, the old man struggled as life was slowly forced out of his lungs.

The past came rushing back. Not like a memory, but like water. Crashing. Drowning.

Itsuki Ebi was no longer in the arena. Not in the present. He was a boy again, moving quickly through a sunlit forest, the laughter of his siblings echoing like wind through the trees.

“Faster!” Ren, his little brother cried, legs kicking wildly as he clung to the smooth, bulbous head of a glowing white jellyfish.

The three of them, Itsuki, Reika, his older sister, and Ren, danced between the trees, each floating on the rounded head of a jellyfish Shikigami, tendrils drifting behind them like strings pulled by the wind.

Itsuki didn't really know what they were. The creatures had only just manifested, barely under control, summoned more out of instinct than understanding. But to him and his siblings, they were magic. A game. A flight through the woods on the backs of magnificent spirits.

Itsuki laughed too. For once, he wasn’t the quiet middle child. For once, he had given them joy.

Then the trees parted, and the forest gave way to the wide, blue maw of the river. A shallow breeze whispered across the surface, creating little waves in the flowing water. The three siblings came to a stop, their jellyfish bobbing precariously beneath them. Itsuki turned to his brother, who was already grinning, eager to cross the river. “Can we ride them over?” Ren begged, pulling his lower lip, “Please!”

Itsuki looked at his sister, expectant. Reika's sister shrugged. “If we fall, we’ll just grab onto the tendrils.”

Itsuki nodded as he heard Ren cry out in joy behind him, allowing himself another small smile. One by one, the siblings leaned forward,  urging the jellyfish spirits to cross the river. Reika went first, nervous but certain. She made it to the opposite riverbank and waved her brothers over. Itsuki nodded,then cautiously leant forward. A nervous laugh escaped his throat as the jellyfish below him wobbled, then steadied itself. Catching his balance, he looked up, smiling at Reika as he reached the riverbank.

She was not smiling back, staring dumbfounded at something behind him.

Itsuki turned just in time to see Ren slipping from the Shikigami’s smooth head and tumbling into the water below. The moment seemed to stretch into a lifetime, the world holding its breath as his brother fell. His sister’s voice pierced the quiet.

“Itsuki! Don’t just stand there—get him out!”

He reacted on instinct, hand outstretched as he sent the jellyfish his brother had been sitting on, gliding down toward the struggling boy. His brother reached up, gripping the tendrils. The creature began to rise, lifting the small, soaked boy out of the river.

They all breathed a sigh of relief.

Then... a drop hit the jellyfish’s head. Then another. Then a splash, the wind blowing small waves of water that splashed onto the Shikigami’s head. The soft patter of water turned into something else. The jellyfish’s form began to sag, tendrils drooping.

Itsuki’s eyes widened. “Why... why isn’t it rising?” His sister’s scream came next. “Itsuki! What’s happening!?”

He didn’t know. It looked like the jellyfish was absorbing the river water. Every splash, every droplet added weight. Its glow dimmed. Its movement slowed. Then, it began to sink.

His brother’s grip tightened in panic, but the jellyfish pressed down on him now, folding over his back, pushing him beneath the surface.

“Itsuki! Get rid of it!?” Reika's shriek came from behind him. “G-Go away! Dispel!” Itsuki shouted, his voice cracking.

The Shikigami vanished in a burst of vapor, but Ren was nowhere to be seen, swallowed whole by the water. Bubbles drifted to the surface. Then nothing.

They searched for hours. Days. Nothing.

When the boy was found downstream, face turned toward the sky, his arms were crushed, the flesh blackened and bones contorted under some unseen weight. He had been alive when he went under. He had tried to swim, but whatever had crushed his arms had made that an impossibility.

A week later, his parents walked into the river, hand in hand. Their corpses were found, washed up near Ren’s grave. Crushed by the same water that had taken their youngest son.

After that, there were no more games. No more laughter. Just silence, and a sister who raised him not with joy, but with tolerance. She hid it well, but the warmth had long since left her eyes. But she had endured.

And now, so would he.

He had set the goal for himself then and he was so desperately close now. One more job. One more contract. One more life taken by these damnable Shikigami.

Then he’d go back to her. With enough wealth to repay the life she gave up. With enough wealth to repay all his sins.

Mikoto floated in the black. No sound. No light. No rhythm.

Moments ago, he'd been triumphant. The vibrations had sung through his arms, and the stoic young mercenary had crumpled beneath his blows. Now, he was suspended in silence, suspended in water or something like it. It clung to his limbs, pulled at his robes, and slowly pressed the air from his lungs like a scorned lover smothering him in sleep.

He reached, reflexively, for his drums, for his staff, for anything, but his movements were sluggish, slow. He wouldn’t generate enough force. No vibrations. No freedom.

His body spasmed as the oxygen left him. His thoughts grew blurred. And in the growing dark, an old memory bloomed, one he thought he'd danced far beyond. The darkness. The helplessness. The weight. The oppression.

And then a sound.

Thud. 

The first rhythm. The last truth. That was all that had kept him alive once before. It would carry him again.

His heartbeat.

On the arena floor, Itsuki rose. Blood matted his hair. His weary bones and torn muscles ached. But his Reverse Cursed Technique flowed through his broken body like a small stream through stone, slowly weaving his injuries closed. He slowly climbed to his feet, clutching his ribs, blinking blood from his eyes—

Thud.

A pulse from above. His eyes shot upward. 

Thud. Again. A ripple within the jellyfish’s translucent dome. 

Itsuki’s heart began to race. “No,” he muttered. “That shouldn’t be possible... He’s got nothing in there—”

THUD. Louder now. Faster.

Itsuki’s instincts screamed. He dispelled the Shikigami immediately. Just in time.

BOOM.

A thunderclap of bursting water. A wave blasted cold water across the arena in a frigid spray. The crowd gasped as a soaked figure crashed to the ground. Mikoto. Coughing, gasping but alive. The old man ripped his golden mask above his mouth, heaving air into his starved lungs as water poured from his sleeves and drenched hair.

Itsuki scrambled for his jitte, spotted it a few meters away, and lunged for it. A laugh from behind interrupted him, sending shivers down his spine. That horrible, hacking laugh, rising from a throat full of water and victory.

Itsuki spun, summoning all remaining Shikigami into his strongest defense. The arena flickered with cursed energy as three massive jellyfish hung in formation, two in front of him, one behind, tendrils swaying protectively.

He expected Mikoto to strike again. But when he looked up, Mikoto was not facing him. He was facing the crowd.

Arms raised like a prophet at a sermon, the old demon bellowed, “Did you hear it, my people? My heart itself cried out! And in your fear, you went silent!” He coughed, then chuckled, the fire back in his voice. “Are we not freedom incarnate? Are we not the beating drum of liberty that strikes fear into the hearts of the oppressors? Let them fear us, for we are free!”

The crowd exploded. Cultists and sorcerers alike bursting into howling cheers and claps and stomps. The arena vibrated with life and rhythm. 

Mikoto turned back to Itsuki, his golden mask gleaming as droplets of water still ran down it. “And as for you...” Cursed energy surged from the old man, the spark wild and ominous. Itsuki braced himself, sinking into a defensive posture. He knew it was coming, something powerful. Something final.

He’d take it.

He’d absorb it.

He’d return it twice as har—

BOOM!

The jellyfish behind him exploded. A concussive blast of sound and pressure slammed into his back like a falling building. Itsuki soared, limp, through the air, crashing to the ground with a bone-shaking thud.

He teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. Blackness clawed at the edges of his vision. His body barely clung to coherence, torn flesh, shattered bones, and exposed nerve endings screaming.

He tried to stabilize. Even as he pushed himself to stand once more, Reverse Cursed Energy slowed his bleeding, but there wasn’t enough to undo what had already broken. His right arm dangled, mangled beyond use. His collarbone was gone, ribs shattered. Cold air bit at the raw skin on his back and neck.

His eyes flicked downwards. Two scrolls had spilled from his belt. Two choices.

Looking up, he saw the old man casually strolling towards him, having retreated his khakkhara staff. “H-How did you” Itsuki paused to cough up blood, then it hit him “You... You cheated” he growled. “The crowd... their noise” 

Mikoto chuckled, genuinely amused. “Jujutsu is freedom, boy. There are no rules. Only rhythm.” He reached up, wiping water from his mask. “I was struggling to reach you past your little ghosts, so I let the people sing for me. Their cheers did the rest. Honestly, I didn’t expect quite such a bang!” He spun his staff once.

“Now come. Let’s finish this.”

Itsuki stood up straight. Barely. He summoned one jellyfish beneath his feet and began to rise slowly into the air. Blood streaked down his side. His other remaining jellyfish shimmered above the arena, waiting. He gathered the last of his cursed energy in his right leg — the one thing still intact.

Stomp.

The jellyfish beneath him absorbed the force and released it, launching him skyward. The arena shrank below. The crowd gasped again. High above the wall, the last jellyfish waited. Itsuki reached out with his one good arm, gritting his teeth as tendrils coiled around him. Clutching them tightly, he held on.

He closed his eyes as he floated away from the arena. Away from the bloodshed, towards his sister’s home.

Jirou Fujiwara felt the skin on his hands split where his nails dug into his flesh. He stood from his seat and walked to the edge of the viewing booth as the crowd stared up, waiting for the return of an insolent coward who was not coming back.

Taking a moment to calm himself, he cried out "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! Mikoto Tenjin!"

The crowd tore their eyes from the sky above and burst into a roar of applause for the winner. Mikoto soaked it in, playing to the crowd and proudly flourishing his khakkhara staff. He read the situation perfectly, staying just long enough and then vanishing into the long corridor as the noise died down.