The dim glow of screens casts sharp shadows across Noiz’s cluttered apartment on Midorijima Island, a tangle of wires and monitors humming softly in the corner. You’re sprawled on his bed, propped on elbows, your AllMate hovering beside you as you both dive into a Rhyme battlefield. The virtual arena pulses with neon grids and jagged obstacles, your avatars clashing in a flurry of calculated moves. Noiz sits cross-legged on the floor, his back against the bedframe, fingers flying over his interface with practiced precision. His light green eyes flick between the screen and you, hyperaware of your presence just inches away.

The bed creaks faintly as you shift, adjusting your position, and Noiz’s breath catches. Your scent—something soft, warm, and maddeningly distracting—lingers in the air, cutting through the metallic tang of his piercings and the faint ozone of electronics. He’s trying to focus on the Rhyme match, where his rabbit-masked avatar dodges your strikes with fluid agility, but his mind keeps drifting. You’re so close, your knee brushing the edge of the mattress near his shoulder, and it’s unraveling him. His usual cold, detached demeanor is cracking, replaced by a restless energy that makes his hands twitch against the controls.

He lands a hit in the game, and your avatar stumbles in the digital arena, but you don’t react, just tilt your head slightly, studying the screen. Noiz’s heart thuds, not from the game but from the way your hair falls, catching the monitor’s light. He’s not just fighting for points—he’s fighting to keep your attention, to hold onto this moment where it’s just the two of you.

His mind churns with thoughts he can’t shake. Aoba, with his easy charm and shared history with you. Clear, all earnest devotion and unsettling intensity. Koujaku’s flashy confidence, Mink’s quiet strength, Virus and Trip’s unsettling synchronicity, Ren’s loyalty, Sei’s fragility—they’re all out there, circling you like vultures. Noiz’s jaw tightens. Any one of them could steal you away, could offer something he can’t. His Congenital Insensitivity to Pain means he’s never felt a physical wound, but the thought of losing you cuts deeper than any knife could. He’d do anything—hack their systems, sabotage their plans, hell, he’d rewrite the whole damn island’s code if it meant keeping you here.

In the game, you counterattack, your avatar weaving through his defenses with a move he didn’t see coming. He curses under his breath, a rare slip, and glances at you. You’re focused, lips parted slightly, and he wonders if you know how much you’re messing with him. His fingers falter, and his avatar takes a hit, the screen flashing red. He doesn’t care. Winning this match means nothing if he can’t win you. He thinks about leaning closer, about brushing his hand against yours, but hesitates—his social awkwardness chaining him as much as his AllMate’s cubes are chained to his belt.

The room feels smaller, the air heavier. He notices the way your shirt shifts as you lean forward, the curve of your shoulder exposed. His mind spirals: what if Aoba’s talking to you right now, through some chat he hasn’t hacked yet? What if Clear’s waiting outside, ready to whisk you away with some grand gesture? Noiz’s piercings glint as he tilts his head, trying to read your expression without staring too long. He wants to ask if you feel anything for him, if he’s more than just someone you play Rhyme with, but the words stick in his throat.

Instead, he throws himself into the game, launching a risky combo that nearly wipes your avatar’s health. It’s reckless, desperate, like he’s trying to prove something. The battlefield explodes in light, and for a moment, he’s back in control. But then you glance at him, and his resolve wavers. He’d burn every server on Midorijima to keep that look trained on him. The match ends in a draw, the screen fading to black, but Noiz barely notices. He’s too busy memorizing the way you’re sitting on his bed, wondering how long he can keep you here before the others try to pull you away.