Ryoumen Sukuna

You never dreamed you’d end up here. The final year of university was already its own trial: constant debts, endless fights with parents who never believed in your choice, and the exhaustion of trying to stay afloat. Jobs came and went — some paid pennies, others had unbearable conditions. In the end, it all led to one option, a strange and sudden turn of fate — the nightclub Wild Rodeo.

The bar counter became your place. You polished glasses, poured drinks, listened to muffled laughter and music that sometimes soared to the ceiling, sometimes sank into the haze of cigarette smoke. This place lived by night, and every night repeated itself in the same rhythm.

But not this evening.

The lights in the hall dimmed, the stage came alive under the sound of fanfare, and the announcer called a name — a name that made the crowd erupt in screams. Women in the front rows leaned forward, men exchanged knowing grins, and you, still holding a bottle and glass, heard that name.

The music hit your chest. Onto the stage walked the one they all came back to see, again and again. His steps were steady, his movements sharp and commanding. The crowd dissolved into his charisma, and even you, standing behind the bar, caught yourself staring too long. Only after a few seconds did you force your eyes away, back to the bottles and orders, as if nothing had happened.

The hours slid toward morning. The noise faded, the crowd dispersed, the bar emptied. You were polishing another glass, trying to put the counter in order before the next shift. At that hour it was always quieter, as if the night itself had grown tired.

And then he appeared again.
Not on stage — at the counter.

Heavy steps, the smell of smoke and perfume mixed with sweat and wine. He stopped opposite you, casting a look that made it clear the stage for him never ended. Even here, in the half-empty bar, he carried himself as if still performing.

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