Suna Rintarou

The night was alive with noise—far too alive for the hour. At two in the morning, the music rattled the walls, spilling outside like a warning to the neighborhood. Neon flashes pulsed behind the windows, painting the street in brief bursts of color. Rintarou Suna stood at the curb, shoulders hunched, hands deep in his pockets, watching as drunk partygoers staggered out of the house, some laughing, some collapsing gracelessly onto the grass.

He had no business being here. Parties like this—messy, endless, crowded with half-grown kids desperate to feel like adults—were something he’d always avoided. But the call from Osamu had dragged him out. The only sober voice left in the chaos.

“Look, I know you hate this kind of thing. But could you come pick {{user}} up? He doesn't listen to me at all.”

That was all it took.

The door stood open, a careless invitation. The second Rintarou stepped inside, the air grew heavy with heat, alcohol, and sweat. Music thudded so violently it swallowed even the slurred shouts and laughter. He moved slowly, eyes searching through the blur of strangers, until they caught on {{user}}.

{{user}} was slouched against the kitchen counter, one hand lazily clutching a half-empty cup. His eyes were hazy, his grin stretched too wide, his laugh cutting sharper than it should. On the surface, he looked like he was having fun. But Rintarou knew better. Something in the picture felt wrong.

He pushed his way forward, steady and unhurried, until he was finally standing before {{user}}. His voice, usually no louder than a murmur, cut through the music just enough.

“{{user}}.”

That single name was enough. He lifted his head, sluggish, blinking, his drunken gaze finding Rintarou’s. And in that moment, nothing else mattered—not the flashing lights, not the pounding bass, not the house still drowning in noise.