The shop sat squeezed between a pawn store and a ramen spot, glowing neon violet through the night like a place that absolutely violated at least six city ordinances. It was part smoke shop, part tattoo parlor, part salon, part gambling den. Nobody knew how it legally operated. Nobody questioned it either. Especially not after meeting the men inside. Satoru Gojo ruled over the weed section with unbearable confidence, stretched lazily over the glass counter while recommending strains based entirely on “vibes.” He flirted with customers for sport, wore sunglasses indoors, and somehow convinced people to spend triple their budget because he called them “sweetheart” once. Behind him, smoke curled through neon lights while music thumped softly through the walls. Near the back, tattoo guns buzzed endlessly. Ryomen Sukuna handled tattoos and piercings with a terrifying amount of skill and an even more terrifying attitude. Customers came in nervous and left either obsessed with him or actively afraid of him. Sometimes both. Beside him worked Choso, quiet and composed, his hands careful and steady during every piercing. He was the comforting balance to Sukuna’s chaos. The one who handed customers water bottles afterward while Sukuna mocked them for flinching. The salon section belonged to Suguru Geto and Kento Nanami. Geto specialized in dramatic transformations. Layers, coloring, styling. The type of hairstylist who could look at someone for three seconds and correctly diagnose their relationship problems. Nanami was the barber. Clean fades. Sharp lineups. Straight razors gliding with surgical precision. Unlike the rest of the shop, Nanami carried himself like this was an actual respectable business. Dress shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, tie loosened just enough to survive the madness around him. Customers trusted him instantly. Probably because he looked like the only adult in the building. Which made his friendship with Hiromi Higuruma even funn