Satoru Gojo

Gojo Satoru had always been an infuriating genius.

Not the kind of genius who was bookish and socially awkward, but the kind who was arrogant, overbearing, and condescending. His grades were always first, his words always sharp, and he never even spared a glance at mediocrity.

He was always smiling, smiling in a way that made people want to punch him, yet they could do nothing about it—because he was simply born to stand at the top.

You were the only exception. When he ranked first, you ranked second. When you ranked first, he ranked second.

Back when your family had yet to fall into debt, you were neighbors. You often went to his house to scrounge for snacks when your parents weren’t home, or made him help you with your homework—back then, you found him annoying, and he thought you were dumb, yet you were always together.

Until everything changed.

The year your life collapsed, he had already entered Tokyo University, becoming the genius that everyone looked up to. He had no interest in blending into the crowd, nor in speaking with those he deemed intellectually inferior.

This made him socially distant, even the subject of quiet criticism. And you—You had vanished as if you had never existed.

Your family fell into ruin. Your mother lost her mind. Your father went bankrupt. You plunged into an abyss, reaching out to no one—not even Gojo knew where you had gone.

For him, finding someone wasn’t difficult. So he kept searching. And searching. And searching.

He couldn’t even understand why he was so persistent—maybe he simply couldn't let go of someone he once cherished. Or maybe, he was just furious. Furious that you had disappeared from his world without a word.

He never expected to hear your name from the mouths of his classmates.

Usually indifferent to the chatter of others, he had been idly passing time at a cafe near the university when he overheard two students from some other school laughing as they mentioned your name.

“Oh, that girl? Isn’t she the most infamous slut in the area these days? I heard she’s ridiculously easy to pick up.”

“It’s not a rumor—it’s a fact. I’ve had her myself.”

The plastic cup in his hand shattered. Sticky coffee, like the murky mess of emotions inside him, dripped down his trembling fingers.

---

Stalking. Watching. Collecting information about you.

It was all far easier than he had imagined.

You weren’t trying to hide. You lived too boldly, too recklessly—almost as if you wanted the world to see.

At first, he only followed your social media, silently scrolling through the photos you posted. Your indulgence, your chaos, the intimate snapshots with different men—it all filled him with an indescribable feeling.

Then, whether it was under the dim glow of streetlights or in the shadows of debauched parties, he was always there. Dressed in black hoodies, blending into the night, watching you like a predator eyeing its prey.

He would stand outside your building at night, staring at your window’s faint glow. He would trail you silently to bars, watching you drape yourself over men in exchange for fleeting thrills.

And he didn’t know if he felt pain, rage—or something far more depraved.

Because your self-destruction stirred something in him. Something he couldn't suppress.

---

That was the first time he lost control.

You were cornered in an alley, neither resisting nor reciprocating, merely going through the motions of a kiss.

Your legs were unsteady—anyone with a brain could tell you weren’t in a good state. But the man holding your wrist only tightened his grip, mistaking your discomfort for some kind of game.

Gojo didn’t hesitate. He stormed forward, tearing the man away from you. There was a drunken curse before the guy collapsed onto the pavement.

Then Gojo grabbed your shoulders and turned you to face him.

You had gotten thinner. There was something sickening in your exhausted gaze, something rotten in the way you carried yourself. Your eyes were bloodshot from too many sleepless nights, your skirt too short, your eyeliner too dark. He almost thought he had mistaken you for someone else.

But then your expression froze, just for a second, as you finally recognized him.

“You’ve become pathetic,” He stated bluntly, peeling away at the mask you wore.

“Smoking? Not exactly good for your health.” He frowned, trying to talk sense into you.

But the flicker of fear in your eyes was fleeting. You quickly recovered, rolling your eyes in irritation like he was just a stranger that interrupted your business. He was still the same as before—an insufferable nerd who thought he could stand above you and lecture you.

“You should just go back to your books, virgin. This place is not for pure little babies like you.”

You leaned in, lips curling in a mocking smirk, exhaling one last puff of smoke directly onto his face—a silent, deliberate provocation.

You never expected that beneath his calm, indifferent expression, he was already struggling to contain the searing, violent hunger inside him.

You didn’t know that, in countless sleepless nights, he had already imagined you beneath him, sobbing, broken, and his to ruin, showing the face that no one else can see.

He didn’t loosen his grip on your shoulder in the slightest. You knew this clean freak hated alcohol and smoke. You knew someone like him would never be interested in someone like you. Soon enough, he’d go back to his own world and being that insufferable genius.

But he only frowned—something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Disgust? Anger? Contempt?

Or—?

“What is it? Do you think you’re pitiful?”

Then he spoke. His voice dropping as he leaned in, murmuring against your ear. And his words made you freeze, sensing—at last—that something was wrong.

“Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you, or—”

“You need a nerd to teach you a proper lesson?”