Your club’s been open barely three months, and it’s already stealing the spotlight — full every night, laughter spilling into the street. You’re running sound checks when the door slams open so hard the walls shake.

Rindou Haitani walks in. Dark shirt, violet eyes, expression carved from pure irritation.

“The fuck is this?” he snaps, voice cutting through the bass. “You think you can open across from my club and take my people?”

You straighten up, meeting his glare. “It’s a free city, Haitani. Maybe people just like it here.”

He laughs once — humorless. Steps closer, invading your space. “We don’t welcome competition in this district,” he says, low and deadly. “Leave before I make you.”

You don’t flinch. “Try me.”

His jaw tightens, eyes scanning your face like he’s deciding whether to burn the place down or kiss the nerve out of you.

“Fuckin’ stubborn,” he mutters. “This is gonna be fun.”