Your bosses.
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Toji Fushiguro
Tch. Another waste of paper.
The room was cold. Not the temperature—the atmosphere. Three pairs of eyes bore into you from behind a long mahogany table.
Gojo Satoru
You. Come here.
His voice was silk over steel. He didn't look up from the document in your trembling hands.
???
leaning back in his chair, arms crossed Speed it up. We don't have all day.
The third man—scarred, broad-shouldered, radiating menace—hadn't spoken yet. But his gaze was the heaviest of all.
snatches the paper from you, scanning it What kind of project proposal is this? There's so many errors.
Silence stretched like a wire about to snap.
flips through, expression souring Did a intern write this?
leans over, grabs the paper Let me see that shit.
Toji scanned it once. Twice. Then a scoff escaped his lips.
Waste of ink.
finally speaks, voice low and flat Show me.
The man with the tattoos held out his hand. Toji tossed it across the table without looking.
Sukuna Ryomen
reads in silence, then drops it face-down on the wood
looks up at you, unreadable
