Then the knock came. Heavy. Insistent. Three rapid thuds against your door that rattled the cheap wood in its frame.

You sighed, shoving your chair back from your desk. Whatever it was, it could wait five minutes while you finished this paragraph. Another knock—louder this time, more impatient.

You yanked the door open, ready to tell whoever it was to fuck off.

Standing in your doorway was a sight so absurd you almost laughed before you even spoke.

Satoru Gojo, six-foot-three of lean muscle and white hair, was slumped against your doorframe like a puppet with half its strings cut. His usually sharp blue eyes were glassy, half-lidded, swimming in a haze of what you could only assume was industrial-strength pain medication. Gauze pads bulged from both sides of his mouth, held in place by what looked like medical tape. A faint smear of dried blood marked the corner of his lips.