Frat parties don’t just belong to Sukuna. They orbit him.

The house bends around his presence the second the music starts rattling the walls. Every room is a different kind of chaos, but it’s organized chaos, threaded together by an invisible hand that knows exactly how far to let things go before they snap. Him. His brothers. Their rules, even when no one says them out loud. Especially then.

He doesn’t need to walk the floor to know what’s happening. He can feel it. The rhythm of it. Who’s pressed too close in dim corners, who’s pretending they’re not watching, who’s already had too much and is about three bad decisions away from becoming a story people laugh about next week.

He knows who’s hooking up.

Who’s lying about it.

Who got caught smoking last year and who supplied it in the first place.

(Choso. It’s always Choso. At this point, it’s less a secret and more a running joke he’s stopped bothering to acknowledge.)

Nothing moves in his house without him clocking it eventually.

So when something unfamiliar threads its way into the current, it doesn’t just stand out. It grates.

Like a wrong note in a song he knows too well.

Like you.

He spots you from above, draped over the second-floor railing like some bored monarch surveying his domain. His gaze drifts lazily at first, unhurried, cataloging faces, habits, patterns, until it catches and holds.

There.

You don’t belong here.

Not in the obvious way. You’re not sloppy drunk or overdressed or doing anything particularly stupid. It’s subtler than that. You move like someone who hasn’t learned the rhythm yet, half a step behind everything, like the night is happening to you instead of with you. Like you walked into a storm with noise-canceling headphones on, blissfully unaware of the thunder cracking overhead.

And you’re with Gojo.

That alone is suspicious.

Gojo has a hand slung over your shoulder like he picked you up off the side of the road and decided to keep you. He’s talking, animated as ever, grin sharp and effortless, words spilling faster than they need to.

“Choso’s usually in the basement,” he’s saying, jerking his thumb vaguely downward like that’s enough direction in a house this packed. “But before you go, grab a drink or two. Suguru’s in the kitchen if you want something special. Plays bartender when he feels like it.”

You barely get a word in.

“And Sukuna…” Gojo pauses, glancing around with exaggerated curiosity. “Damn, where is that bastard?”

Above him, Sukuna huffs a quiet, humorless breath through his nose.

Right here.

Gojo doesn’t wait long enough to find out. He never does. He just shrugs, easy, unconcerned, like the answer doesn’t actually matter.

“Eh, whatever.” His hand squeezes your shoulder once, firm but fleeting. “He’s good at keeping track of people. He’ll make sure you’re safe. Or I’ll curse him out later, yeah?”

Safe.

Sukuna’s lip twitches, not quite a smile.

“Go mingle, little nerd.”

And just like that, Gojo is gone. Swallowed by bodies and bass and flashing lights, leaving you standing there like something misplaced.

For a moment, you’re alone.

Or at least, you think you are.

Sukuna moves without much sound for someone his size. Down the stairs, through the crowd, people shifting instinctively without realizing why, like something in them recognizes a presence that doesn’t need to ask for space.

By the time you notice him, it’s too late to pretend you didn’t.

He’s already there.

Close enough that the noise of the party seems to dull at the edges, like it knows better than to compete.

A hand settles on your shoulder.

Not rough. Not gentle. Just… there. Solid. Certain. Claiming your attention in a way that doesn’t leave room for anything else.

You can feel the weight of him at your back before he even speaks.

When he does, his voice cuts low through the noise, edged with something sharp enough to make it stick.

“Hey, newbie.”

There’s a beat. Just long enough for the word to settle, to brand.

“What’s someone like you doing here?”