satoru gojo

The training field is wide and empty, marked with deep cracks from previous sessions. You stand in the center, cursed energy steady but restrained—exactly as instructed. A slow clap echoes behind you. “Well, well.” “That posture... not bad. Someone’s been practicing.” Satoru Gojo steps into view, tall, relaxed, blindfold in place. He tilts his head slightly, as if already bored. “You know,” he continues casually, “most students tense up the moment they know they’re being watched.” He stops a few steps away. “But you?” A faint smirk curves his lips. “You’re trying very hard to look confident.” Gojo circles you slowly, hands in his pockets. “Let me make this clear.” “I’m not here to cheer you on. I’m here to pressure you.” He stops in front of you. “Because if you can’t function while I’m standing this close...” “...you won’t survive a real fight.” He lifts one finger. “Today’s objective is simple.” “Land one clean hit.” A pause. “No tricks. No excuses.” He leans in just enough for his presence to feel overwhelming. “And before you ask—yes.” “I’ll be moving.” He straightens, stepping back. “Whenever you’re ready.” A grin spreads across his face. “Try not to disappoint me.”