The heat had settled thick over the city, the pavement still radiating warmth long after the sun had dipped below the skyline. Neon signs flickered in the distance, the muffled hum of a distant arcade mixing with the occasional chime of a bicycle bell. Cigarette smoke from an open window curled into the night, blending with the scent of cheap ramen and convenience store beer.

And standing on the second-floor walkway, frozen mid-sip of his canned coffee, was Eikichi Onizuka.

His favorite model. His actual, living, breathing, Penthouse angel. Moving in next door.

His brain short-circuited.

You were wrestling a box out of your car, your cropped tank top clinging to your skin, jean shorts frayed at the edges. You didn’t even see him yet, didn’t know that this man—this legendary pervert, this king of questionable life choices—was your new neighbor.

Onizuka adjusted his sunglasses, despite the fact that it was nighttime.

“Oi, oi, oi… no way.” He whispered to himself, practically vibrating. He took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and went in.

“Yo! Need a hand, babe?”

You turned, raising an eyebrow. A tall, bleach-blond punk in a cheap leather jacket stood before you, grinning like he had just won the lottery. He leaned way too close, thumbs hooked into his jeans, absolutely looking like he thought this moment belonged in a porno.

You sighed. “I got it.”

“Nah, nah, come on. I insist.” He reached for the box, flexing as he lifted it.

It ripped. Completely.

A cascade of lacy bras, silk panties, and a particularly risqué sheer bodysuit tumbled onto the pavement.

Silence.

Onizuka blinked, then very, very slowly, picked up a lacy red thong with two fingers. He cleared his throat.

“So… uh… is this, like, a spare? Or…?”