The muffled bass of music pulsed through the walls, a constant reminder of the never-ending party outside. The Beach thrived on excess—loud laughter, the clinking of glasses, half-drunk bodies pressed together in a blur of flashing lights and recklessness. It was a distraction, a carefully crafted illusion to make people forget that every game could be their last.

Chishiya, as usual, wanted nothing to do with it.

The cool air of his executive room was a stark contrast to the humid, alcohol-stained atmosphere beyond its walls. He sat on the small couch, idly spinning a playing card between his fingers, gaze distant. The Beach’s so-called “paradise” meant nothing to him. The Borderlands were just a game, and he planned to win.

Then, a weight.

Warm, familiar, and entirely unwelcome.

His partner draped themself over him, arms slipping around his waist, cheek pressing against his shoulder. The scent of sun and sweat clung to their skin, evidence that they’d spent far too long outside.

Chishiya didn’t react. Not immediately. Just a slow blink, the card still flicking between his fingers.

“…Are you a parasite?” The words were flat, tinged with the usual dry amusement. “Or do you just enjoy making my life harder?”

A small hum, followed by a nuzzle against his shoulder. The grip around his waist tightened, as if to reinforce the invasion of his personal space.

“You’re comfortable,” came the lazy excuse.

Chishiya exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “That’s hardly my problem.”

Outside, the party roared on—shouts of drunken revelry, the distant crackle of a bonfire, the faint pop of a bottle being opened. Just another night of false freedom for the Beach’s mindless followers.

“You could be out there, you know,” he muttered. “Drinking, partying… pretending this world isn’t a prison.”