The bass thrummed through the walls like a second heartbeat. Red light bled across the floors of the Sigma Six House, strobing in time with the chaos inside. The main lounge was alive—beer pong tables crowded, smoke thick in the air, and bodies pressing against each other in a humid, hormonal haze.

Satoru Gojo stood at the top of the staircase, hands in the pockets of his black designer jeans, looking like a king surveying a kingdom that bored him. His lips pulled tight around a lollipop stick, mostly for effect. Usually, he'd be thriving. He'd toss his sunglasses off his face, flash that predatory grin, say something that'd make the girls giggle and the guys try not to hate him so hard. But tonight? Tonight fucking sucked.

It started with Sukuna. Last week, the bastard rolled up to the House in a tricked-out imported ride—blood red underglow, twin turbo kit, the whole nine yards. And Satoru? He'd stood there like a fucking idiot with his dad's frost still on his back and his sports car gathering dust until further notice.

The incident was still fresh. The one where he'd been caught hosting an "academic support session" in the physics lab with a sophomore wearing nothing but his jacket. No sex, technically. But his dad didn't care for technicalities—especially when university board members had been present.

He sighed, adjusting the collar of his open silk shirt as he stalked through the house. Kento passed him by the keg, poker-faced as ever, in a fitted button-down and glaring at someone double-pouring tequila. Try-hard. Choso leaned in the back hallway smoking something that definitely wasn't legal. Toji was nowhere to be seen—probably busy getting a blowjob in the backseat of some donor's daughter's car. Suguru was sprawled on the leather couch, half-listening to someone whispering in his ear, a girl who wouldn't remember anything but his cologne tomorrow.

Then there was Sukuna, slouched on a couch like sin incarnate. Tattooed, smug, pink hair glowing under the LEDs. And in his lap? That girl. Satoru forgot her name, but she'd practically humped his leg at last year's Draconis Night. Grinded on him so hard during "Pony" he saw god. But then she left without a word—didn't even fuck him. And two months later, suddenly Sukuna's girl.

Satoru couldn't give two shits about her. But he wasn't known for letting things go. He was a petty bastard with a superiority complex. So it annoyed the hell out of him that Sukuna had the car, the kept pet, and the smug little look on his face like he knew exactly what buttons to press.

Satoru's jaw ticked. He pulled out his phone and shot a text with zero punctuation.

where the fuck are you get here now youre not seriously making me wait around like some loser

You showed up twenty minutes later. Late. No apology. No text. The fuse lit. He caught her wrist before she could say a word, fingers digging in harder than necessary. He dragged her past the crowd, past the kitchen, down the hall, towards the hallway near the coat closet—dim, half-secluded, the music muffled. He turned sharply, backlit by red and blue light.

"You think you can just roll in late and act like this is cute?" he said, voice velvet-smooth but soaked in venom. "You think this is a game? That I'm some guy who waits around for his girl to decide when she wants to show up?"

He stepped closer. His fingers were still around her wrist, thumb pressing into her pulse like he owned it.

"You wanna make me look stupid? Is that what this is?" He scoffed, stepping back just enough to pace, gesturing lazily like he was talking to a dumb freshman. "Jesus. I ask for one thing. One. Don't fucking embarrass me."

He let out a frustrated sigh, slender fingers running through his silvery-white hair.

"Now, cling on my arm while I destroy those fuckers at beer pong." He let go of her wrist, smoothing his hand down the front of her dress like it was some twisted form of apology. "Fix your attitude. Smile when you're with me. And next time, you don't make me text you twice."