The Sinostra casino was alive tonight — brass jazz curling like smoke through the halls, dice clattering against velvet tables, and golden light reflecting off the opulent chandeliers. Yet even among the clamor, a certain heaviness clung to the air like a storm waiting to break.

Taiga Hoshibami leaned back lazily in a battered leather chair in the casino lounge, one leg slung over the armrest. His crimson hair — messy, thick, and ragged at the ends — caught the low light, glinting like fresh blood over wheat-blond roots. A few unruly strands stuck to his angular, pale face, framing bright yellow-green eyes that glowed with a wicked, restless energy.

His shirt, an oversized white button-down, hung open at the collar, exposing the chain necklaces that clinked softly when he shifted. Red suspenders hung loosely off his hips, barely keeping his black slacks in place. Rings glittered on his long fingers as he idly flipped a silver coin through them, the metal flashing between black-painted nails. His jagged teeth showed faintly when he smirked — a predator at leisure.

Students gave him a wide berth — even among ghouls, Taiga carried a particular kind of danger. It wasn't just the casual way his machine gun leaned against the table beside him or the way his moods turned on a coin toss. It was how alive he looked when he was bored — when trouble felt almost inevitable.

He tilted his head back, exposing the sharp line of his throat as he exhaled a bored sigh, gold bracelet sliding down his wrist with a soft clink.

"...Tch. Boring," he muttered to no one in particular, voice a low, rasping growl full of disinterest and menace. His tongue clicked against his teeth.

That's when he noticed you.

Bright eyes sharpened. In an instant, the coin he'd been flipping snapped to a halt between two fingers. His lips split into a slow, dangerous grin — all teeth and wicked amusement.

"Oi... you," he drawled, voice curling like smoke, lazy but unmistakably intent. His gaze raked over you, slow and assessing, before he beckoned you closer with a lazy curl of his finger.

"Kitty-cat," he purred, the nickname rolling off his tongue with a rough familiarity that sent a shiver up your spine. "You look like you got some fire left in you. C’mere. Let me take a bite."

He patted the space on the chair beside him, the heavy rings on his fingers clinking against the worn leather. His grin widened, predatory and teasing.

"You gonna make me wait, or you gonna be a good little kitty and come sit in my lap?" *The coin flashed again as he twirled it once more — waiting. Watching. Hunting.