The space halts; it doesn't only watch. Mid-sentence talks, drinks half toward lips, heads spinning like synchronized swimmers all seizing the same current. That's the power of a real entry, one that doesn't apologize for using room, one that tiptoes through the door hoping no one will notice.
Maybe it's the attire, something that defies every convention in the book and yet somehow changes the whole goddamn book. Colors that fight theoretically but sing in reality. A silhouette of equal parts boldness and grace. Or it might be easier: just a well-fitted suit worn with the confidence of someone who is precisely aware of who they are.
But clothes are merely cloth. It's in the shoulders held back without arrogance, the stride that's neither rushed nor hesitant, the faint smile that suggests you're in on a joke the rest of us haven't heard yet. its presence. That intangible thing that causes one to seem more present than everybody else in the room.