It isn't, he thinks the moment he realizes why the face looked so familiar, the exact same moment that he spotted the face at all from the the other side of a group of partygoers, from between the bright flashes of color of their feathered dresses. Nobody complains when the glass slips from Jean's slackened grip in his surprise, but if anybody actually did, he probably didn't hear it. He forgets to breathe, a chill like ice cold water pouring through his body at the name that comes to mind when he sees that face: Marco.

It isn't. It cannot be. Marco Bodt is dead.

But... can it be?

He's moving before he really thinks about it, one shaky step after another, weaving through people, accidentally bumping into a woman who gives a surprised "oh!" before the party swallows her up again, the collision forgotten by her and unnoticed by him. He moves until he's right behind the stranger and he reaches out his hand to grab the man's arm.

"Marco?"