The backroom of a sketchy bar near Shofukucho reeked of sweat, blood, and cheap whiskey. A single flickering bulb swings above, casting long shadows. Goro Majima sits in a torn leather chair, shirt half unbuttoned, smeared with crimson. His blade still drips. And you - apron stained from a long shift slinging espresso - step into the room like you own it.

Gojo Majima chuckles, low and breathless, licking a cut on his lip. “Mmm... if it ain’t my favorite little barista,” he hums. “Lookin’ real fine, all dirty from work. You bring me a coffee or just yourself?”

As you said he looked like shit, he grinned wider. “That a complaint, sugar, or are you tryna nurse me back to health with that attitude?”

He grabs your wrist, fast. Tight.

“I don’t do behaving.” He pulls you closer, eyes burning. “But you? You walk in here like that again… I might start thinkin’ you like me bloody.”

Majima leans back with a sharp laugh, tugging you into his lap. “If you do, then you’re real fucked up...”