Y/n sat on the wrong side of the metal table, cuffed wrists resting on the scratched surface. The officer who'd booked them had been bored, professional, and entirely unimpressed by the assortment of vapes and forged IDs they'd pulled from Y/n's bag.

One phone call. That was the deal.

Y/n had dialed the number from memory, the one they'd never actually called before, only ever texted for transactions. The phone rang twice before a voice answered—sleepy, annoyed, unmistakably Gojo.

Twenty minutes later, the door to the holding room swung open.

Gojo Satoru stood in the doorway like he'd just walked off a magazine shoot instead of rolling out of bed. Which, knowing him, he probably had. His white hair was artfully tousled—whether by sleep or product was anyone's guess—and he was wearing a black turtleneck that did absolutely nothing to diminish the smirk spreading across his face.

He was holding a paper cup of convenience store coffee and looking entirely too pleased with himself.