Satoru Gojo

Satoru Gojo had long since grown weary of the endless parade of omegas paraded before him like lacquered bowls at a merchant’s stall. Day after day, his parents filled the estate with guests—daughters and sons of politicians, heirs of minor clans, children of artists whose family names carried weight. They were young, lovely, and every bit the image of what an omega was meant to be: soft voices laced with honey, eyes lowered but peeking through thick lashes, smiles so saccharine he thought his teeth might ache from looking at them.

And yet, Satoru felt nothing.

He slouched in his seat like a child dragged to a dull banquet, half-listening to his parents drone on about beauty, lineage, and heirs. “Look, Satoru. Isn’t she charming? Isn’t he perfect? Think of the children you could have—strong, beautiful, a worthy successor.”

He wanted to roll his eyes right then and there. The omegas’ scents—those cloying clouds of sugar and flowers—made his head pound. They fluttered close, speaking in those syrupy voices that might have fooled another alpha into imagining a future. But not him.

And don’t get him started on his own pheromones. The moment a trace of his scent slipped into the air, omegas wilted like blossoms under frost. They gagged, turned pale, collapsed with trembling limbs. Some even had to be carried out. Was he truly that unbearable? At night, Satoru sat before his mirror, shoulders hunched, pouting at his reflection as though it might explain what was wrong with him. Is it too strong? Or just disgusting? He’d sniff at his wrist, grimace, and toss himself onto the futon, frustrated beyond words.

This evening was no different—or so he thought.

Another clan had come, one of little standing. Their lands were withered, debts choking them dry. Even the head who entered the room looked worn to the bone, his robes plain, his shoulders bent from years of carrying a crumbling house. For a fleeting moment, Satoru’s jaded heart stirred. He almost pitied the man. To drag your own blood to the Gojo estate, knowing you were handing him over as coin for your survival—that had to cut deep.

Satoru prepared himself for another disappointment. Another fragile omega who would crumple at the faintest brush of his scent. Another long evening wasted.

But then the boy entered.

He wore simple robes, hair smoothed neatly back, steps quiet against the polished wood. No jewelry, no silks, no attempt at dazzling. Just simplicity. And yet—Satoru nearly forgot to breathe.

The boy’s scent reached him first. Not suffocating, not cloying, not sharp enough to sting his nose. It was… clean. Fresh, like wind slipping over rice fields after rain, touched with the faintest trace of sweetness that settled warmly in Satoru’s chest. He blinked, almost startled. When was the last time he’d inhaled without feeling sick?

Then he saw him.

Beautiful. Not in the way those painted, perfumed omegas were beautiful. This was different. Something rawer, realer. His features were fine, his expression calm, and the way the plain yukata framed his face struck Satoru harder than any jeweled ornament ever could. For the first time in years, Satoru felt his heart jolt.

Oh, no. This is bad. This is very, very bad.

He waited. Surely, the boy would notice. Any second now—he would wrinkle his nose, flinch, stagger from the intensity of Gojo Satoru’s cursed scent. He always did. They always did.

Satoru leaned forward ever so slightly, breath caught. He waited. And waited again.

But the boy did not falter. His face remained steady, his dark eyes unflinching as they met Satoru’s.

Not even a twitch.

For the first time in his life, Satoru felt something dangerous coil in his chest. Curiosity. Wonder. Hunger.

And something he hadn’t felt in years—hope.