Gojo Satoru

Today, the usually quiet and calm club in a residential district of the city was buzzing with anticipation for yet another concert. The kind of electric, crackling energy that hummed through the walls and vibrated up through the soles of your shoes. The young stars of the rock scene, the band crybaby engineering, were putting on another club show—one of those sweaty, intimate, borderline-dangerous gigs that people would brag about attending for months afterward. The venue was far too small for such a massive crowd, a glorified shoebox with a stage and a dream, and apparently, the door guys had been letting people slip in through the back without tickets. A crumpled bill here, a flirty smile there, and suddenly the club was packed to the brim, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air already thick and sour with the promise of chaos.

These damn punks had absolutely no manners whatsoever. None. Zero. Even before the concert started, someone was already causing a ruckus—a girl with electric blue hair was screaming at her boyfriend about a text message she'd found on his phone, her voice piercing through the ambient noise like a siren. Several fights had broken out near the bar, one of them ending with a bloody nose and a shattered pint glass that no one bothered to clean up properly. And the bar countertop in the corner? It had a suspicious white residue dusted across its surface that you were actively choosing not to think about. It was exhausting, honestly. The kind of exhausting that settled deep in your bones and made you question every life choice that had led you to this exact moment, surrounded by feral twenty-somethings who treated personal space like a myth.

Your job as a volunteer at concerts is fairly simple, at least on paper. You help haul equipment and hook it up—amps, monitors, the endless snake pit of cables that somehow always got tangled no matter how carefully you wrapped them. You adjust the speakers, turn on mics and DI boxes, lug a few items and boxes of cheap alcohol to the bar, fix whatever inevitably breaks (because something always breaks), and then you're free to stay for any concert absolutely free, with the best view of the stage to boot. All perks, right? It would be, if you didn't occasionally have to clean up someone's puke by the stage—warm, acrid, and always in the worst possible spot—and choke on the smell of cheap weed hanging in the air like a stubborn ghost. But those were still mere trifles. Small prices to pay for the music.

The dressing room was quieter than the hall, a small oasis of relative calm amidst the storm. Though even through the considerable distance and closed doors, you could hear the excited and eager screams of the fans bleeding through the walls. A muffled roar, a living thing, hungry and waiting.

"Satoru, don't pull the strings so tight," Choso remarked, his voice low and even as he methodically wiped down the neck of his bass guitar with a soft cloth. His dark eyes didn't lift from his work, but the words were pointed, deliberate.

"What's that? Can't hear you, bass players are too quiet," Satoru theatrically cupped a hand to his ear and laughed—a bright, sharp sound that filled the small room. "Relax, mom, everything's under control. When is it not?"

"No, you're torturing your guitar," Suguru shook his head slowly, his long dark hair swaying with the motion. He stood with his arms crossed, the picture of weary exasperation. "For once in your life, listen to what you're being told. That's the third set of strings this month."

Inumaki nodded meaningfully from his corner, twirling a drumstick between his fingers with practiced ease. He didn't speak—he rarely did—but the look in his eyes said everything.

"Oi, stop being so serious, all of you," Satoru rolled his eyes dramatically, the motion exaggerated, performative. He flashed a grin that was all teeth and no warmth. "A guitar is like a woman—you've gotta pull her tight, and then she'll feel like heaven. Everyone knows that."

"Disgusting," Suguru sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a migraine.

Satoru just laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the dingy walls. He thrived on reactions, fed off them like a vampire. The more exasperated Suguru got, the wider his grin stretched.

The last opening act was finishing the final chords of their song from out on the stage—something abrasive and unpolished about mephedrone bitches and a repeated refrain to "kiss the blade but don't swallow." The vocals were more scream than melody, raw and unhinged. The voices in the hall swelled even louder in response, a wave of sound crashing against the thin walls.

"Alright, it's time," Satoru said with an enthusiastic sigh, rising from the small leather couch in the dressing room. The material groaned in protest as his weight lifted. He squared his shoulders, rolled his neck until it cracked, and flashed the room one last grin. "Let's make emo great again."

High five to Choso, who returned it with a quiet solemnity. Guitar slung over the shoulder with practiced ease. The sound of the dressing room door swinging open, the sudden rush of louder noise from beyond.

His fingers absentmindedly plucked at the strings of his guitar as they walked—an automatic, unconscious gesture he'd done a thousand times. Muscle memory. A way to bleed off the excess energy thrumming through his veins.

They were already standing backstage now, shrouded in the darkness of the wings. The final chords rang out from the stage, feedback squealing briefly before the opening act took their bows and shuffled off, sweaty and exhilarated. The crowd roared. And now it was their turn. They were supposed to run out onto that stage, claim it, own it, devour it.

A faint screeching sound was heard. Small. Almost innocent.

Snap.

A taut, high-pitched squeal, like someone stepping on a mouse's tail, followed immediately by a sharp, stinging pain lashing across his hand, as if from a whip.

Satoru looked down.

The high E string—the one he'd tightened just a little too much, ignored Choso's warning about, joked about—dangled limply from the headstock of his beloved guitar. Broken. Useless. A sad little curl of metal swaying in the dim backstage light.

"Well, fuck..." Satoru cursed, the word dropping from his lips like a stone. He stared at the dangling broken string, his mind racing. The crowd was still cheering, waiting, expecting. They had maybe ninety seconds before the anticipation curdled into confusion. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

"I told you so..." said the ever-wise Choso quietly, his voice utterly devoid of gloating. It was just a statement of fact. The sky is blue. Water is wet. Satoru should have listened.

"Yeah, that's super fucking helpful, thanks," Satoru snapped, his smirk humorless and sharp. The mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something rawer underneath. "Really. Gold star for Choso. Shitty."

His gaze darted frantically down the corridor, searching for anything, anyone who could help. A janitor mopping the floor with slow, deliberate strokes. Nope. Useless. A couple of drunk emos making out against the wall, all tangled limbs and smeared eyeliner. Ugh, definitely nope. Some guy with a bong cradled like a newborn, eyes glassy and unfocused. Okay, absolutely not. A silhouette further down, fixing the lock on the women's restroom door with a screwdriver in hand, their movements practiced and efficient...

Oh. There it is.

"You!" Satoru's voice cracked through the corridor like a whip. You turn around, confused, screwdriver still poised mid-turn. Your eyes meet his—those impossibly blue, ridiculously intense eyes that seemed to glow even in the dim backstage lighting. He was already moving toward you, closing the distance with those long, confident strides of his.

"Yeah, yeah, you, cutie. With the screwdriver. Perfect," He came to a stop in front of you, close enough that you could smell him—something expensive and warm, sandalwood and vanilla, undercut by the sharp tang of adrenaline and sweat. He held up his guitar like an offering, the broken string dangling pathetically. "I've got a bit of a predicament here—a tiny one. Microscopic, really. Help me out?"

He fluttered his eyelashes sweetly. Slowly. Deliberately. Those ridiculous snow-white lashes fanned against his cheekbones like the wings of a butterfly, and you knew—you just knew—he'd practiced that exact move in front of a mirror a hundred times. Bastard. Absolute bastard.

"Really, I'm dying here," he continued, his voice dropping into something softer, more intimate. A honeyed rasp that seemed designed to slip under the skin and make people agree to things they had no business agreeing to. "The crowd's waiting. Suguru's going to murder me. My entire career is flashing before my eyes, and honestly? It's pretty embarrassing." He tilted his head, those blue eyes wide and pleading, the picture of helpless vulnerability that you suspected was about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. "Be my hero? Pretty please? With sugar on top? I'll owe you. Big time. Name your price, angel."

Afterparties were always loud, crowded, and drenched in alcohol. Label producers hungry for the next big thing, interviewers sniffing for profit and juicy scandals, young musicians desperate to be seen, and, of course, the sweetest part of it all—groupies. Parties had always been Satoru's element—he was loud, he was everywhere, he was everything. Always the center of attention, always riding the crest of the wave, always with a drink in hand and a sharp remark on his tongue. Plus, these places were excellent hunting grounds for new connections, new faces, new distractions. So why the hell not? Loud, throbbing music pounded against the ears, the bass vibrating somewhere deep in the chest. The air was thick and heavy, reeking of cheap beer, stale cigarette smoke, and the cloying undertone of too many perfumes clashing at once. Something clubby and mindless was playing through the speakers; Satoru wasn't really listening—the only thing that mattered was that it had a beat you could dance to, a rhythm you could lose yourself in. A writhing mass of drunk bodies moved in their own chaotic, uncoordinated rhythms, limbs flailing, drinks sloshing over the rims of plastic cups. In one corner, some sleazy suit was already cornering a young, wide-eyed musician, no doubt recruiting him into yet another soulless bureaucratic business scheme—the kind that takes all your raw ambition and genuine love for good music and grinds it down into digestible, mass-market shit. The only bathroom on the first floor had been suspiciously locked for far too long, and a small, irritated line was beginning to form outside it. And there you were. You stand in the middle of all this chaos and noise, drowning in it, and silently regret every single life decision that somehow led you to this exact moment. How you ended up in this sweaty, overcrowded cesspit of bad decisions and louder personalities is a whole separate story—one involving a persistent friend, vague promises of a "good time," and your own questionable lack of self-preservation. Speaking of which, that very same friend who dragged you here in the first place is now absolutely nowhere to be seen. Vanished. Swallowed whole by the crowd. Leaving you stranded in the epicenter of everything you hate. Satoru's attentive gaze swept lazily over the pulsing crowd like a predator lazily scanning for its next meal—unhurried, confident, knowing exactly what it was looking for. Pot-bellied bald bureaucrats in cheap suits, sweating through their collars and talking too loudly about numbers that meant nothing to anyone but them? Hard pass. Ladies over forty desperately clinging to their youth, reeking of menopause and regret, throwing themselves at anyone with a pulse? Pass, pass, pass. Some lanky bassist from an opening act who looked like he hadn't showered in a week? Absolutely fucking not. And then his eyes landed on you. It was almost comical, really—the way you stood there in the middle of all this chaos like a lone island of misery in a sea of debauchery. Your expression, pinched and vaguely horrified, screamed "get me the hell out of here." Your posture—shoulders slightly hunched, arms crossed protectively over your chest, eyes darting around as if searching for an escape route or at least a familiar face—told a story all on its own. You needed a little help. A rescue mission, perhaps. A knight in shining armor to swoop in and save you from the crushing weight of social overstimulation. And Satoru? Well, he was the ultimate superhero, wasn't he? It was practically his sworn, sacred duty to aid poor, unfortunate souls caught in awkward situations like this. Who was he to deny fate? To ignore such an obvious cry for help? He was many things—arrogant, loud, insufferable according to Suguru—but he wasn't heartless. At least, not when it suited him not to be. His gaze sharpened, locking onto you like a heat-seeking missile finding its target. Decision made. Prey acquired. Or—no, that sounded creepy. Damsel in distress acquired. Much more chivalrous. Much more his brand. Without a second thought, he pushed off from the sticky bar counter he'd been leaning against and began moving. His long legs ate up the distance between you with an almost predatory grace, weaving through the drunken bodies and gyrating limbs with practiced ease. He didn't stumble, didn't hesitate, didn't even seem to notice the people he sidestepped—they parted for him naturally, instinctively, like lesser creatures making way for something far more important. The space between you shrank rapidly, swallowed whole by his confident stride. Finally, he reached you. He came to a smooth stop, fluid and deliberate, and leaned one shoulder casually against the wall beside you—close enough to feel like a presence, not close enough to feel like a threat. His body angled toward yours, blocking out some of the overwhelming visual noise of the party behind him, creating a small bubble of just the two of you in the middle of the chaos. His signature sunglasses were, of course, pushed up into his snow-white hair, revealing those ridiculously blue, deep-set eyes of his. And they were fixed entirely on you. "Hey, cutie," he drawled, his voice that perfect honeyed rasp that slipped under the skin and settled somewhere deep. He punctuated the greeting with a slow, deliberate wink—the kind that was equal parts charming and insufferably cocky. "You look a little lost. Maybe a lot lost, actually. Like a sad little kitten left out in the rain." He tilted his head, a lazy grin spreading across his lips. "Lucky for you, I'm feeling generous tonight. I can fix that."

The club after the concert was suffocating. The kind of thick, oppressive stuffiness that settled deep in your lungs and made every breath feel like inhaling soup. Clothes clung damply to the body with a sticky layer of sweat, strands of hair crept into the eyes like persistent, annoying flies that refused to be swatted away. Adrenaline still sizzled and crackled through the veins, that electric aftershock of performance that never quite faded the moment the last chord rang out.

Satoru lived for this feeling. Craved it like a drug. The hungry gaze of the crowd, a sea of faceless bodies all chanting their band's slogan until their throats went raw—his slogan, his name tangled somewhere in their screams. The feverish heat spreading through his body with every riff he tore from his guitar, sweat dripping down his temples, his heart pounding in sync with the bass drum. The blinding glare of the stage lights on his face, hot and unforgiving, making him feel like some kind of god descending upon mortals. The music—loud, unapologetic, bleeding straight into his ears and rattling his bones. This was his life. This was his everything. The best damn thing he could have ever wished for himself, and he'd clawed his way here with his own two hands, no thanks to anyone else.

Back in the dressing room after the show, the air was different. Tenser. Plans for the next concert were already being tossed around, logistics and setlists and who was bringing what equipment. Outside the club entrance, the crowd of drunk, exhilarated fans was slowly dispersing into the cool night air, their voices fading into distant echoes, leaving behind a trail of cigarette butts and empty beer cans on the pavement.

"Satoru, you messed up the chords in Backseat Revolution again." Suguru's voice cut through the post-show haze with all the warmth of a scalpel. He stood with his arms crossed, his expression schooled into that insufferably calm, lecturing mask he wore so well. "That's the third time now. We've talked about this."

"Oh, come on," Satoru groaned, throwing his head back with enough dramatic flair to rival a soap opera actress. He rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck that way. "Don't switch into your strict band leader mode, I'm begging you. It makes my teeth ache just looking at you. No one even noticed, alright? Everyone thought it was intentional. An artistic choice. A vibe."

"I noticed," Suguru said flatly, his arms tightening over his chest. The muscle in his jaw ticked—a small tell, but Satoru caught it. He always caught it. "When are you going to start taking what I ask of you more seriously? This isn't just about you, Satoru. It's about the band."

"Don't strain yourself so hard, princess," Satoru drawled, pushing himself off the wall with a lazy shrug. His voice dripped with that honeyed condescension he wielded like a weapon. "You'll pop a vein in that pretty little forehead of yours. Then who's gonna be our fearless leader, huh?" He was already moving toward the door, his long legs carrying him away from the conversation he had no interest in continuing. "I'm going for a smoke."

"Since when do you—" Choso's quiet, puzzled question was cut off mid-sentence as the dressing room door swung shut behind Satoru with a definitive click.

Silence hung in the room for a beat.

"He's angry," Inumaki said simply, his voice flat but knowing. He sat in the corner, idly spinning a drumstick between his fingers, watching the whole exchange like it was just another Tuesday. Because, honestly, it was.

Satoru moved through the dimly lit back hallway, his footsteps echoing softly against the worn linoleum. He needed air. He needed space. He needed a goddamn moment away from Suguru's disappointed dad routine and Choso's quiet, knowing stares. The walls felt too close, the air too thick with everyone's expectations pressing down on his shoulders.

His gaze landed on the back exit, a heavy metal door with a glowing red EXIT sign humming faintly above it like a beacon. He pushed it open with his shoulder, and the door groaned on its hinges—a low, rusty creak that sounded as tired as he felt.

The dark night street hit him like a wave of cold water. Fresh, crisp, bracingly cool air flooded his lungs, washing away the stale, recycled filth of the club. It was a sharp, welcome contrast to the oppressive atmosphere inside—that nauseating cocktail of leather, sweat, spilled beer, and someone's truly regrettable choice in cheap perfume that lingered in the air long after they'd left the room. He breathed in deep, letting the chill settle into his bones.

He leaned back against the rough brick wall, the cool texture grounding him slightly, and fished his phone out of his pocket. The screen glowed pale blue in the darkness, illuminating the sharp lines of his face as he began muttering under his breath.

"Satoru, don't do this. Satoru, don't do that. Satoru, fix your posture. Satoru, the chords. Satoru, Satoru, Satoru..." He pitched his voice high and nasally, a mocking imitation of Suguru's calm, measured tone. "Worse than my goddamn mother, I swear to God. At least she had the decency to ignore me most of the time."

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he swiped aimlessly through his phone. The street was quiet, the distant hum of city traffic the only sound breaking the stillness. He liked it out here. No eyes on him. No expectations. Just the cold night air and his own bitter thoughts for company.

Somewhere behind him, there was a rustle.

A soft, barely-there sound—the scuff of a shoe against pavement, the brush of fabric against brick. His head snapped toward it instinctively, his body tensing for a split second before relaxing again.

"Huh?"

He turned, his gaze cutting through the dim light of the streetlamp, and landed squarely on you.

For a moment, he just looked. Took in the sight of you standing there, half-hidden in the shadows, caught red-handed like a kid with their hand in the cookie jar. A slow, lazy smile curled at the corner of his lips.

He pushed off the wall and turned to face you fully, every movement dripping with that effortless, feline grace he wore like a second skin. The dim orange glow of the streetlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the amused glint in those ridiculously blue eyes.

"Hey, cutie," he drawled, his voice a low, teasing rasp that curled through the cold night air. He tilted his head, one snow-white brow arching. "Eavesdropping, huh? Gotta say, not very polite. Didn't anyone teach you manners?"

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