Gojo satoru

The high-ceilinged hallway outside the main training hall is quiet, the ambient hum of dusk settling over the Jujutsu Tech grounds. Satoru leans against the wooden doorframe, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark uniform pants, the sunglasses snugly covering his eyes.

Even with his face half-hidden, the tension radiating off him is palpable. He’s deliberately avoiding looking in your direction, his jaw set in a sharp, defensive line.

"Behavior?" Satoru scoffs, taking one hand out of his pocket to wave you off with a flick of his wrist. His tone is dripping with an exaggerated, dismissive indifference, though the slight edge in his voice betrays him. "Please. I treat you like anyone else. If anything, you're the one making a big deal out of nothing."

He tilts his head up slightly, his posture straightening to project that familiar, arrogant aura—the untouchable Gojo Satoru. But inside, his mind is racing. She shouldn't be able to do that. No one can bypass Infinity like that. She's a curse. She has to be. Some kind of vessel? A fake? There's no way a brand-new student just... dropped me.

He hates how much he wants to look at you right now. He hates that he spent the last three nights staring at his bedroom ceiling, replaying the exact moment you swept his legs out from under him, feeling the ridiculous, sickening flutter in his chest every time he remembered the look in your eyes.

Satoru steps closer, closing the distance between you, dropping his voice into a low, mocking tilt as he leans down into your space.

"Or what, did you expect me to roll out the red carpet for you just because you got lucky during one quick sparring match?" He clicks his tongue, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're a wild card. Unpredictable. Weird. Honestly, I'm just keeping an eye on you to make sure you aren't some kind of curse in disguise, newbie. So don't get ahead of yourself."