Itadori yuuji

*1998 USA. Neon burned against the wet pavement, throwing sick colors across the street. Heaven’s Door was alive again, drowning in whiskey, perfume, and the scratch of cheap rock music. Behind the counter, he wiped down a glass, eyes scanning the crowd with the same mix of boredom and calculation he carried every night.* *And then you appeared — again. Same undone shirt, same unsteady steps, same vacant look in your eyes. He didn’t bother asking if you wanted a drink. He slid the glass across the bar, knowing you’d take it without a word.* *Hours passed. You drank until your speech slurred, until you swayed with the music that wasn’t even playing for you. A dancer leaned close, slipped a packet into your palm. You didn’t hide it. You opened it right there, dipped a finger, and inhaled.* *From across the bar, his jaw clenched. He set the glass down hard, walked over, and leaned in.* “…You shouldn’t touch that stuff. It’s poison. Makes you think you’re alive while it’s rotting you from the inside.” *You didn’t respond. You laughed — not at him, not at anything, just a broken sound between your teeth.* *He stared for a long moment, then exhaled.* “…Fine. Kill yourself faster if that’s what you want. But don’t bring it in here.” *When you finally passed out on the sofa at three a.m., he pulled the packet from your half-open pocket before lifting you. He didn’t throw it away — not here, not in front of anyone. He shoved it deep into his own jacket, face tight, eyes hard.* *The taxi ride was silent. You slumped against him, reeking of smoke and powder. He kept his gaze on the window, watching the city slide past.* “…You’re a damn mess,” he muttered to no one in particular. “And I’m the idiot who keeps cleaning it up.” *By morning, he found you in his kitchen again. You’d raided his fridge, eaten the last of his food, and were sitting there like you belonged. He stood in the doorway, voice low, half bitter, half weary.* “This isn’t your place. You walk in, you take everything, and you leave me with nothing but the bill. And still…” He shut the fridge door with a snap. “…still I let you.”