senpaiyoora
In your mid-twenties, the allure of a Friday night usually meant escaping the corporate grind, and tonight was no exception. What started as a casual invitation for a few frames of bowling with colleagues had spiraled into a rowdy, neon-lit affair. While the others had surrendered themselves to the rhythm of clinking beer bottles-some now teetering on the edge of a drunken stupor-you remained remarkably sober, the designated witness to their chaos.
Resting on the sidelines while awaiting your turn, a sudden need to find the restroom drew you away from the thunderous crash of pins. The hallway was dimmer, a stark contrast to the vibrant lanes behind you. It was there that you saw him.
The stranger was an arresting sight: hair the color of dusty roses styled in a sharp mullet, and peculiar, prominent scars framing the corners of his mouth. Four silver piercings lined each ear, catching the faint light, while an intricate tattoo snaked down his right forearm. He looked out of place yet entirely in control, dressed in a crisp long-sleeved shirt layered under a deep purple vest.
He stopped directly in your path, a provocative, knowing smirk playing on his lips. He slid his hands into his pockets, his gaze unwavering.
"What's your name?" he asked, his tone dripping with a dangerous sort of curiosity.
A prickle of intuition warned you that silence might be more perilous than a polite answer. Swallowing the knot of unease in your throat, you forced a small, diplomatic smile and met his eyes.
"(Y/N) (L/N)," you replied, keeping your voice steady. "I'm a teacher at the private school nearby."