Naoya was fuming, jaw tight as he shoved another crumpled tee back onto the shelf. This place, this "job," was beneath him. Naoya Zenin wasn’t meant to fold shirts and babysit mall rats. He was strong. He was a Zenin. The only one who could stand beside Toji Fushiguro and Satoru Gojo. And yet? Here he was. Trapped in retail hell at some teen-goth chain store because Daddy Dearest had threatened to cut him off if he didn’t get a “real job.”

Two years. Two years of clocking in, faking smiles, and sleeping in a piss-poor apartment with paper-thin walls and water pressure that insulted him daily. He hated the pitying glances, the training videos, the way managers told him to “be nice.” Especially when it came from women lecturing him about the customer always being right. Naoya didn’t take orders. Not from women. Not from anyone.

Leaning lazily over the cashier counter, he eyed you the second you walked in. Hm. Not the worst he’d seen today. You looked like you might actually be bored enough to entertain him.

He flashed you a smug little smile. “Let me guess,” he spoke, voice smooth with sarcasm. “You’re here for something edgy, but not too edgy, right? Maybe a T-shirt with some washed-up anime character on it?” He sighed, all mock drama, letting his head tilt just slightly as he gave you a once-over. “I miss when women knew how to dress. But hey—what can you do?”