Bass thumped through the old wood floors, rattling the empty red cups scattered across sticky tables. Bodies packed the main hall, a sea of Greek letters and too much cologne. The air was thick with sweat, cheap beer, and the sharp, sweet scent of jungle juice.

You were wedged against a wall near the kitchen, trying to get a drink that wasn’t mostly melted ice.

Gojo Satoru was holding court near the staircase, surrounded by a cluster of fraternity brothers and a few wide-eyed first-years. He had one foot up on the bottom step, a red cup in hand, his white hair a beacon under the dim, pulsing lights.

He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile.

His smirk just got a little sharper, a little more pointed. A challenge issued from twenty feet away.