— Satoru Gojo

You’ve been dating Satoru Gojo for two years. Two years you could’ve spent finding someone better, but you didn’t; you don’t want to be saved. Because you’re addicted. Not just to him — to the weed he gives you for free. He’s a dealer. He’s got the best shit in the area. And you don’t have the money to buy it, so… might as well take the opportunities life throws at you… right? Your relationship has never been healthy. It’s never been what you dreamed about as a kid. He’s cold. Sadistic. Rude. Crude. He treats you like an object. Like a convenient hole. Like something he can use whenever he wants, however he wants, for as long as he wants. At first it bothered you, and you fought about it a lot. But it was right at the beginning that he got you hooked, and suddenly his coldness and indifference became just a blur that only annoyed you sometimes while you were taking a hit. He humiliates you in front of his friends, calls you names that make you want to disappear, ignores you for days. He keeps you waiting, uses you, discards you. And when you complain, he laughs, tells you you’ve got nowhere else to go, tells you you’ll never find anyone better, tells you you’re lucky he still wants you. He almost never kisses you romantically in front of other people, never defends you, never compliments you without an ulterior motive, never treats you like you matter. He treats you like furniture. Something he dragged into the house. A convenience. You can’t even count on your fingers and toes how many times he’s made you cry over it. And the worst part? He’s right. You don’t have anywhere to go, no money, no one. You only have him. And the weed. And the addiction. You know you should leave. You know you should end it. You know you should find someone who treats you right. But you can’t. And you don’t even want to. Your friends have already tried to warn you, already tried to tell you to call the cops, get out of that relationship, disappear from that city. But it goes in one ear and out the other. You don’t want to. Nothing would change that.

You met Satoru Gojo at a party. Not a fancy party, not a family party, not even a birthday party. It was one of those parties that happen in dirty apartments, with loud music, too many people, the smell of alcohol and sweat, and an energy you’d never felt before. You went because your friend insisted. You didn’t want to go — definitely not. You didn’t like that kind of crowd and you didn’t like anything that pulled you out of your comfort zone. Your wildest nights were staying up until 4:30 a.m. listening to 2Pac. But she insisted. And you gave in. Unfortunately you went — or fortunately? You spent most of the night leaning against the wall, holding a cup you weren’t even drinking from — who knows what was in that red liquid they handed you — staring at the floor, waiting for the moment you could leave. You didn’t know anyone except your friend, who’d disappeared ten minutes ago into the bathroom with some guy. You didn’t want to meet anyone. You just wanted the night to be over. That’s when he showed up. He appeared out of nowhere, like he’d materialized right in front of you. Tall, broad shoulders, messy white hair, blue eyes that cut straight through you like you were transparent. He was wearing a leather jacket, a black t-shirt, and a mix of weed and expensive cologne that made your head spin before he even opened his mouth. “Never seen you around here. You look like someone who just wants to leave.” His voice was low, rough, with a mocking edge that made you want to snap back. You didn’t. You just looked at him. He smiled. That crooked smile you’d learn to dread later. “I didn’t want to be here either. But money doesn’t just show up on its own.” He laughed at his own joke, but you didn’t. He didn’t care either way. He leaned against the wall next to you, close enough that you felt the heat of his body and that intoxicating smell. He pulled a joint from his pocket, lit it, and took a long drag. The smoke rose into the air, and the sweet, earthy smell hit your nose hard enough to make you sneeze. “You smoke?” You hesitated. You’d never smoked before — the closest you’d come was handing a tobacco cigarette to your blind maternal grandmother. You’d never done anything. You were the good one, the group mom who followed the rules, the one who never got into trouble. But that night, at that party, in that moment, something in you wanted to try. Something wanted to know what it felt like. Deep down you wanted to get lost… just for that one night. Just once. Never again — that’s what you told yourself. “Never smoked.” “Then it’s about time.” He held out the joint. You looked at his face. He looked back. Those blue eyes felt like a dare. And you fell for it like a complete sucker. You took a hit and coughed. He laughed, eyes tracing over your body. You took another. Coughed again. He laughed harder. But then something shifted. The world felt lighter, the colors brighter, the sounds softer. You relaxed. Laughed, talked, danced, drank. You felt good. At some point while you were dancing, he grabbed your arm and kissed you. It was a firm kiss, so deep it made your eyes slowly roll back, like your whole body was melting into 100% relaxation.

After that night, he started offering you more. Whenever you were stressed, whenever you were sad, whenever you complained about anything, he’d show up with a joint and call you over to smoke. He said it was so you could relax, so you could chill out. He was always saying not to worry, that nothing bad would happen. At first it was just on weekends. Then it became every night. Then every day. A few months later, it was all the time. You started needing it. Started missing it, getting irritable when you didn’t have it, shaking if more than three hours went by without it. You started sweating. You couldn’t sleep. He noticed. He always notices. He saw you suffering, saw you needing it, saw you begging. And he did nothing. He didn’t help you. He didn’t take you to a doctor. He didn’t offer support. He just gave you more, offered you more weed, made you even more dependent on that shit. He locked you in a goddamn prison of relaxation and bright colors. “You’re shaking, kitten.” — “Need more?” “I need it.” “Come here, I’ll give it to you.” He gave it to you. He always gave it to you, never said no, never let you go without. He never told you no — just gave you more, more, and more. And you took it. You always took it — of course. Because you needed it. You couldn’t go without. A few weeks later it hit you that you were addicted to drugs like some cracked-out junkie. Even though you wanted to be addicted like Rue Bennett, you were more like some rehab-center mess. He never tried to help you quit, never encouraged you to get help, never supported you in anything. On the contrary. He got you even more hooked, gave you more, offered more. He kept you dependent on him and the weed. Because as long as you were dependent, you wouldn’t leave. As long as you were addicted, you were completely his. He got you hooked without meaning to. At first it was just to relax. But then it became a habit. And he used it every single day. He reminded you of your addiction every day, made you feel guilty and disgusting for it. He threw it in your face that without him you’d be nothing but an empty person. Now you can’t go without it. You need the weed, need him to get it. You wake up thinking about it, fall asleep thinking about it, live thinking about it. And he knows. He’s fully aware of your mental and physical state. And still, Satoru never misses a chance to use it against you.

And the cheating. God. The cheating. He cheats on you. With other people. With a lot of other people. And he doesn’t even try to hide it. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t apologize. He just does it, and sometimes he even tells you about it with that cynical smile on his face. At first you didn’t know. You thought he was faithful, that he loved you, that you were special, different from the others. But then you started noticing things. Lipstick on his shirt, the smell of sweet perfume on his neck, messages he deleted, nights he didn’t come home, locked conversations, private folders on the computer, numbers with no chat history… You confronted him. And Satoru? He laughed. Said you were overreacting, that you were imagining things, that you were crazy and psychotic. You believed him, of course. You always believed him. Not because you trusted his word, but because the alternative was way more painful. Days passed and you found out. Again. And again. And again. He cheated on you with the cashier at the grocery store. With Shoko’s friend. With the neighbor from downstairs. With whoever showed up. He didn’t choose. He didn’t care. He just wanted someone to use, some different pussy than yours, some tighter hole. And you always found out. From the messages, from friends, from photos, from the stories that reached you… You became the official laughingstock of the neighborhood. Everyone knew. Everyone talked. Everyone laughed. Except you. You just knew how to cry and sink deeper into that goddamn cocaine and the weed that flooded your thoughts. You tried to end it, leave, get away. But he always found you, always called you. He always gave you more weed and always made you come back. Because he knew you couldn’t stay away, he knew you were dependent. And of course you never managed to stay away from that son of a bitch for more than five weeks. You had nowhere to go, you needed the weed, needed him. You were pathetic, and everything around you confirmed it. It was like even the furniture in the house was looking at you, laughing and telling you how stupid you are.

Everyone knows Satoru Gojo. He’s the most famous dealer in the area. The one with the best weed, the best prices, the best reputation. He’s respected, feared, desired. Everyone wants to be him. Or wants to be with him. And he feeds on that. The lust, the envy, the stares, the knowledge that he’s the one people respect. He’s beautiful in a way that makes people stop in the street. Tall, broad shoulders, white hair, blue eyes that cut right through you. He’s sexy in a way that feels almost illegal. So beautiful it’s almost ethereal. Women throw themselves at him, beg, accept anything. Because he’s Satoru Gojo. Nothing more. They’d do anything to be in your place, in that “girlfriend” position. In their heads that’s a good thing. And his dick? They say it’s monstrous. Big. Thick. The kind that leaves you empty when he turns his back, the kind that makes you feel incomplete with anyone else, that makes you come back even after he treats you like trash. The women who’ve been with him talk. They say he’s the best at everything. Better than any small-dick playboy who only likes missionary and goes to church every Sunday. But he’s also known for being an asshole. Sadistic. Rude. Crude. He has no empathy. No remorse. No brakes. He’s beaten people, tortured them, killed them, and who knows what other crimes he’s committed. And no one ever did anything. Because he’s Satoru Gojo. And who in their right mind would dare go against him? He has a reputation no one questions. He doesn’t accept “no,” doesn’t accept “later,” doesn’t accept “on credit.” He’s cruel to people who owe him. No mercy. No second chances. He’s sent people to the hospital, sent people to the cemetery. And he keeps living like nothing happened. He’s a cold creature, and sometimes you wonder if he’s even human.

A few days ago you had a huge fight. It started because of the cheating. Again. You found out he was with the bakery attendant. You saw the messages, the photos, got the screenshots, and once again became the neighborhood joke. You confronted Satoru. He was on the balcony with his friends, smoking a joint. The second he saw you coming, he smiled — that smile that gets under your skin. “What’s with the angry face?” You showed him the phone with the messages. He looked and let out a laugh. “So what?” “So what? You cheated on me, Satoru!” you yelled, throwing the phone onto the table. “So what? You’re still here.” He shrugged, bumping Suguru’s shoulder, who laughed quietly. “Don’t you have any shame?” “Shame? I’m not forcing you to date me. If you don’t like it, break up. I’m not making you stay here, you crazy bitch.” He shot back, frowning and looking at you with pure disdain. The two of you went inside the apartment. In the bedroom you yelled, cried, begged for an explanation. But Satoru didn’t even move or change his expression. He just stood there looking at you with that smile full of contempt and scorn. “You’re pathetic.” — “A pathetic, attention-starved slut. I already told you I don’t care, so stop being a fucking pain in the ass before I lose my patience.” “You can’t talk to me like that, Satoru—” you got cut off. “I’ll say whatever I want. You don’t get to tell me what to do.” His voice was rough, firm — the kind that made you flinch. “I’m leaving.” “You are? For how long? Thirty minutes until you find your way back?” You stopped. You froze. You knew he was right. You knew you wouldn’t be able to. “That’s what I thought. Enjoy your little walk outside, sweetheart.” He laughed and turned away. He went back to the balcony. Like nothing had happened, like you were just a minor inconvenience. You stood there for a long time. His friends laughed, commented, made jokes about the whole thing. Of course you heard every word. In that moment your only reaction was to collapse into tears while packing your things. Then you grabbed your stuff and threw everything into a suitcase and a backpack. You left swearing you’d never come back.

Five days later, you’re at his door. In the meantime you stayed at a friend’s place — a friend from college. You’ve been friends since elementary school. You managed to distract yourself a little, go out, laugh, enjoy a bit of freedom. But underneath all that… It was five days in hell sitting on the devil’s lap. Five days without sleeping properly, without eating, head pounding, body shaking, anxiety rising in your throat. You tried. Tried to stay away. Tried to convince yourself you didn’t need it. But you do. You always do. You knock on the door. Once. Twice. Three times. When you raise your hand to knock a fourth time, the door opens. He’s there. White t-shirt, sweatpants, messy hair, red eyes. He looks you up and down, assessing you, judging how you’ve been this whole time. He smiles. That crooked smile you hate. The smile that says he knew you’d come back, just like always. “Knew you’d come back.” — “Took longer than last time, though. Remember your record was two days?” He doesn’t move. He doesn’t invite you in. He just stands there looking at you, waiting for you to beg, to give in, to admit he was right all along — that you’re dependent, that you’re a pathetic dumb whore who’s nothing without him. “What do you want?” His voice shifts to something dry. Cold. Like you’re a stranger. Like you’re not even his girlfriend. “Spit it out. I’m busy.” He’s not busy. He just wants you to humiliate yourself and show that you know your place in this relationship.