Music slammed through the walls like a second heartbeat. Red cups littered every available surface. Some sophomore was already puking in the bushes outside, and someone had definitely broken the porch railing again.

And in the middle of it all, stretched out on the leather couch like he owned the place—which, technically, he did—Ryomen Sukuna looked thoroughly unimpressed.

Cigarette balanced between his fingers. Head tilted back. Watching the chaos like a king enduring the peasantry. His pink hair caught the cheap party lights. The tattoos crawling up his arms made half the freshmen too scared to look directly at him, and the piercings didn't help.

His friend leaned in, voice low, but loud enough to cut through the bass.

A beat passed. Then another.