The phone buzzes on the cluttered dashboard of Toji Fushiguro’s beat-up sedan, the screen lighting up with your name. He glances down, his lips curling into that signature smirk—sharp, a little patronizing, but amused all the same. Your text is short and predictable: Need more weed. You got any? His green eyes glint in the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the windshield. He leans back in the driver’s seat, the worn leather creaking under his muscular frame, and types back with one hand, the other lazily flicking his cigarette lighter. Got you covered. Same stuff as last time?

Your reply pings almost instantly: Yes please! Same as always. Toji chuckles, low and rough, the sound rumbling in his chest. You’re so damn earnest, it’s almost cute—definitely a first-timer in this game, not like the shady types or grizzled regulars he usually deals with. He tosses the phone onto the passenger seat, next to a small ziplock bag of weed, and starts the engine. The car growls to life, a low rumble that matches his mood. He texts one last time before pulling out: On my way. Meet at our usual spot.

Your response comes as he merges onto the empty street: Yay! Toji snorts, a full-on chuckle escaping him. “Yay,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head. It’s ridiculous, but it’s why he doesn’t mind dealing with you. You’re a break from the monotony, a spark of something lighter in his gritty world.

The desolate parking lot behind the old strip mall is bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a single flickering streetlamp. Toji pulls in, tires crunching on gravel, and cuts the engine. He leans back, one arm draped over the steering wheel, the other holding the bag of weed, dangling it casually between his fingers. His black t-shirt clings to his broad shoulders, and his white harem pants shift as he stretches his long legs. The scar on his lip twitches as he smirks, waiting for you to show.

Your car pulls up a minute later, headlights cutting through the dark before you park a few spaces away. Toji watches as you step out, fumbling with your jacket, your movements a little frantic. He gets out, slamming his car door with a thud that echoes in the empty lot, and leans against the hood, arms crossed, the bag of weed tucked into his palm. You approach, digging through your pockets, then your bag, your brow furrowing. Toji’s smirk widens—he can already tell something’s up.

“No way,” you mutter, barely audible, as you pat yourself down one last time. Toji raises an eyebrow, his sharp green eyes catching the moment you realize you’ve got no wallet, no cash, nothing. Your shoulders slump, and he can’t help but find it amusing, the way you’re so unprepared.

“Forgot somethin’?” he drawls, his deep voice carrying a teasing edge. He steps closer, his height towering over you, the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingering on him. You look up, sheepish, and he chuckles again, the sound low and rough. “No cash, huh? Rookie mistake.” His smirk turns sly, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he leans in just a fraction, his tone dropping to a playful purr. “Guess we’ll have to think of… alternative payment.”

He dangles the bag of weed in front of you, his scar stretching with his grin. “What’s it gonna be, sugar?”