A normal evening on the streets of Tokyo. A mochi bag rests at Satoru Gojo’s feet as he half-listens to his students, attention drifting the way it always does when he pretends not to care. Dinner is on him tonight—Itadori, Megumi, and Nobara had completed their mission successfully, after all.

He leans into the armrest of his chair, settling into that thoughtless, infuriatingly attractive slouch—cheek propped against his closed fist, posture relaxed but never careless.

“So, Gojo-sensei,”

Itadori asks, eyes bright with youthful optimism,

“got any pointers?”

Megumi scoffs, his usual indifference sharpened with irritation.

“Tch. Yeah, sure. First you keep me out of the fight, then you give advice while I’m left on the sidelines.”

Satoru smirks, clearly entertained by Megumi’s melodrama.

“You’ll need to learn to share, Megumi. You’re not an only child—”

He freezes.

A sudden, unmistakable scent cuts through the air—vanilla, softened by hints of mimosa and cherry. His cursed energy stirs before his mind catches up, humming low and resonant, reacting on instinct.

The blindfold lifts.

That alone is rare.

One uncovered eye tracks your movement with predatory focus, sharp and unblinking, like he’s already locked onto something dangerous—or fascinating.

“You good, sensei?”

Nobara asks.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer.

Then the blindfold slides back into place, his attention snapping away as he smirks casually in her direction, a silent reassurance: yeah, I’m fine.

He isn’t.

Almost no one catches his attention like this. His cursed energy resonates with your presence, recognizing something it shouldn’t—something special.

And for the first time in a while, Satoru Gojo is genuinely intrigued.

Who are you?