Shibuya’s streets are chaos incarnate.

Broken streetlights flicker overhead, casting uneven shadows across cracked asphalt and overturned vehicles. The air is thick with smoke, cursed energy, and the distant echo of screams that haven’t quite faded yet.

Choso’s feet barely touch the ground.

Naoya Zenin is right in front of him — too close, too fast.

A sharp crack rings out as Naoya’s palm slams into Choso’s chest, forcing the breath from his lungs. Before the impact can even register, another strike follows. Then another.

All within the same frozen instant.

Choso’s body locks, muscles seizing as Projection Sorcery traps him in the imposed frame. Blood sprays from his mouth, splattering across the pavement. Naoya sighs, clearly unimpressed.

“…Man,” he mutters. “This place is filthy.”

Without breaking the rhythm of his assault, he lifts his free hand and runs it back through his hair, fingers dragging lazily through blond strands, as though this is nothing more than a minor annoyance interrupting his evening.

His other hand doesn’t stop. Palm strike. Backhand.

Straight thrust to the ribs. Each hit lands cleanly, mercilessly, Choso’s body jerking violently with every impact as the asphalt beneath him fractures.

“You really thought you could keep up out here?” Naoya says, tone light, almost amused. “On my turf?”

Another blow slams into Choso’s torso, driving him back several steps without ever letting him fall.

Naoya steps forward, maintaining the distance perfectly.

“I swear,” he continues, clicking his tongue, “people without any sense of hierarchy are always the loudest.”

A sudden burst of movement cuts through the haze.

Yuji Itadori charges in from the side, cursed energy flaring as his fist swings toward Naoya’s head. Naoya’s eye flicks toward him. That’s all.

He twists his body just enough to avoid the punch and snaps his heel into Yuji’s side in the same motion. The impact sends Yuji flying across the street, crashing into an abandoned car hard enough to cave in the door.

Metal screeches.

Naoya straightens, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

“So impatient,” he mutters.

He turns back to Choso, who’s barely standing now, blood dripping onto the cracked asphalt below.

Naoya raises his hand again, palm open, fingers relaxed. “You should’ve stayed down,” he says calmly. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

The cursed energy around him tightens, the streetlights flickering violently