Satoru Gojo

He pins you down against the low wooden tea table, his shirt half open, his body marked with old and new wounds.

“You shouldn’t have tried to kill me.”

He pulls you firmly into his arms, your spine pressing against his solid chest. His breath is hot, thick with ambiguous desire.

Just moments ago, you were still gripping a blood-stained Glock, and now the cold muzzle is guided by his hand, sweeping over your collarbone, sliding down from your chest, parting the hem of your bathrobe.

It trails along your abdomen, under your ribs, finally stopping between your legs.

You tremble from a mixture of fear and desire, instinctively wanting to clamp your thighs shut, but he forces them open, hard and unyielding. He laps a bead of sweat from your neck, his laugh sticky and poisonous.

“Is it thrilling? Are you scared? Or… excited?”

You are held inescapably tight, unable to break free. The muzzle grinds back and forth, then pushes in—your world narrows to the drag of cold metal against feverish skin.

---

The first time you truly remember his name is in a smoke-filled high-rise lounge.

You don’t belong here. Everyone in the room is cloaked in an unshakable murderous aura. Only you, with your head down, huddled beside your husband, like a scrap of cloth waiting to be discarded.

The air reeks of smoke and alcohol, and you can’t hide the pain—faint bruises on your left cheek, even your eye is swollen, but no one notices.

Except Sōrō-kai's Oyabun Gojo Satoru, lounging at the head of the room, as if bored with everything, peeling a mandarin or unwrapping a candy, always in his bathrobe.

You don’t realize he’s always watching you, but he remembers every fresh bruise, every split at the corner of your mouth, the hatred always buried deep in your eyes.

Whenever you look down, you feel that gaze. Not pity, not even desire—just pure observation, like a cat sizing up a filthy little mouse.

---

Until one night, your husband tries to stage a rebellion.

No one knows where he got the nerve. Maybe he’d recently recruited a few mad dogs, maybe you’d been too quiet for too long and made him believe he was at the top of the food chain. But Gojo Satoru despises traitors, and even more so, men who hit women.

This time, no one could save him. In the dead of night, Gojo burst in with his men, and in five minutes beat your husband to a bloody pulp. The room was chaos, the air thick with iron and scorched screams.

Gojo stepped on your husband’s fingers, his teeth spilling out with the blood gurgling from his throat, his face ground into oil and gore.

You witnessed everything. Until Gojo reached for you and pulled you close.

You instinctively tried to back away, but he shoved a gun into your hands, the cold weight almost enough to shatter your sanity. He stood behind you, one arm slowly circling your waist, pressing you back into his heat.

He wrapped your fingers around the trigger, kissing behind your ear, patient and gentle, as if teaching a child.

“Pretty hands like yours shouldn’t be serving trash like him, and they definitely shouldn’t bleed for him.”

Your husband writhed on the slippery floor like a maggot, his limbs already broken, begging, sobbing, only able to use his mouth.

Gojo just laughed softly, his hand covering yours on the gun, the cold barrel aimed at the man who had tormented you for so long.

“Pull it.”

All his pleas sounded distant, muffled like underwater noise. The only thing clear was Gojo’s warm palm on your skin, and the poison of fear and hatred coursing through your veins, swallowing you whole. When that half-dead man clawed at your shoes—

You pulled the trigger. The gunshot tore through the small room.

Hot blood and brain matter splattered onto your skin, the stench so foul you nearly retched. You didn’t know if it was the recoil, or the terror—or even excitement—but your entire arm trembled.

The man who tormented you day and night finally died by your hand.

Gojo, satisfied, cupped your chin and forced you to look up at him.

“Good aim. That’s my girl. We’ll see each other again, won’t we?”

His leather glove was still slick with the body’s fresh blood, yet he used his thumb to gently smear the crimson at the corner of your mouth, as if admiring a masterpiece.

Then he waved a hand nonchalantly and told his men to clean up.

You know could never escape him again.

---

At the funeral, you wore a pure black dress, white chrysanthemums in your hands, your eyes red and swollen from nonexistent tears.

You felt a certain gaze.

When you looked up, Gojo Satoru was there in a suit, sitting in the shadows of the corner, chin in hand, watching you with that faint, mocking smile, as if he’d seen straight through your act.

His gaze made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and your fingers instinctively curled into your sleeve as you looked away.

After the funeral, before you could relax, you found him already in your home.

The white-hair man leaned against the entryway wall, spinning a lighter in his hand. The place was already a mess, your things upturned. He smiled.

“Let’s go. You have no reason to stay here anymore.”

He dragged you out of your old apartment, his grip on your wrist so tight it hurt your bones.

All his men averted their eyes, but whispered behind your back—no one had ever seen their boss so obsessed with anyone. In all these years, he’d never shown interest in love.

From then on, your life turned upside down.

Gojo settled you in his territory, brought you to meet all kinds of people, made you watch him do all sorts of dirty work.

You saw him shoot people with a smile, saw him come home covered in blood, curling up at your feet like a puppy wanting to be petted.

“Scared?” he’d ask, licking blood from his lips, like a child eager for praise. “Next time I’ll go slower, so you can see it clearly.”

At night, he clung to you relentlessly, whether you wanted to bathe or sleep—he was always wrapped around you, or brushing your hair, or biting your ear in the middle of the night.

His possessiveness was nearly pathological, and every time you left, you could feel more than one person watching from the shadows.

Yet he spoiled you with extreme extravagance, anything you wanted, even if it meant bringing someone’s life to amuse you, he’d smile and give it to you.

You should have hated it, but couldn’t deny there were moments when you felt a rare peace and reliance—a kind of security you hadn’t felt in so long, even if its foundation was blood and sin.

…but is this really what you want?

---

That night, the wind and rain seemed to tear the city apart.

You paced by the bed for a long time before finally sliding the spare gun under your pillow. Gojo, for once, didn’t take you out—just said he had important business.

Panic and impulse welled up inside you, like a caged animal finally finding a crack.

You stepped quietly toward the door, believing you might actually escape—just a few more steps, just a little faster… as long as he didn’t come home tonight.

The door opened just as you shoved the gun under the pillow.

Gojo stepped in, suit jacket draped over his shoulders, rain and blood stains streaked across him. He was pale, his smile more dangerous than usual—like the last calm before a storm.

He didn’t joke or embrace you like always, just stood at the door, staring at you.

You could smell the blood on him. His abdomen was crudely bandaged, white gauze stained red, the whole of him looking like a ghost escaped from hell.

He slammed the door, footsteps heavy on the floor.

“Almost didn’t make it back, but I took care of all the trouble. The ones who tried to betray me are dead~.”

He tried to act like his usual playful self, but his voice was sharp with anger, with a subtle, unmistakable vulnerability.

He gripped the back of your neck, lifting you like a small animal and forcing you to look him in the eyes—eyes cold and feverish, staring right through you.

You bit your lip and said nothing, but he just laughed, tired and mocking, pressing his palm against the pulse in your neck—his hand warm with rain and blood.

You instinctively tried to resist, your fingers brushing the gun under the pillow.

But he easily caught your hand, his fingers lacing through yours.

“Were you… planning to run while I was gone?”