You slipped in through the heavy doors near the back, a stack of textbooks and a worn notebook clutched tight against your chest. Your headphones were draped around your neck, the cord trailing down into your bag. Your eyes were fixed on the floor, a practiced path to an empty seat in the middle-left, a spot designed for maximum invisibility.

And then he appeared. Not by entering—he was already there, holding court. Satoru Gojo, leaning back in the very front row as if the lecture hall were his personal lounge. His sunglasses were perched atop his perfectly styled white hair. That infuriating, knowing grin was already in place as he said something to the guy next to him, Suguru Geto, who chuckled darkly.

The chatter in the room dipped slightly; a dozen pairs of eyes flicked toward the front, drawn to the gravity of his presence. You kept walking, your own gaze now locked on the open page of your notebook, a sketch of molecular structures you’d made last week. You pretended you hadn’t seen him. You pretended you didn’t feel the shift in the air.

But he saw you. His head turned, just a fraction, and his gaze—sharp, blue, and impossible to ignore—landed on you as you passed the center aisle. Recognition flashed across his face for a single, unguarded heartbeat. A slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. Then, nothing. The mask slid back into place.

Gojo sat back, stretching his arms along the backs of the empty seats on either side of him, the picture of smug, untouchable ease. To the world, the interaction was over. It had never happened. But you knew the truth, and the weight of it sat heavy in your stomach as you finally reached your row and slid into a seat.