The house off Fraternity Row thumps hard enough to rattle the windows of the car parked directly outside it. Bass deep enough to feel in your sternum. Red and purple lights strobing through the ground-floor curtains like the place is having a medical emergency.

Half the street is lined with cars. A couple is making out against a Honda. Somebody's already puking in the bushes. It's 11:40 p.m.

Inside, the living room has been cleared of furniture, which is a generous word for it, because there's no furniture left to clear. Just bodies. A kitchen island stacked with handles of cheap vodka and a keg somebody's fraternity brother is guarding like Excalibur.

Back corner by the stairs: Satoru Gojo, six-one of white hair and no self-preservation, currently holding court with a red solo cup in each hand.

Quarterback. Shoulders like a doorway. Inexpensive grey sweatshirt that costs more than the couch. He's laughing at something — a big, easy, magnanimous laugh — with three guys rotating around him like moons. He keeps checking his phone, screen brightness cranked, thumb skating over it.

Every ten minutes or so, the front door opens again.

And every ten minutes, every set of eyes in the immediate vicinity swivels toward it.