Nothing, that was, until the main gate swung open with a deliberate click that seemed to cut through the ambient noise like a blade.

She walked in like she owned the place. Hell, she walked in like she built the place and was simply returning to admire the craftsmanship. Tall, immaculate, dressed in something that probably cost more than a first-year's monthly allowance. Her heels struck the pavement with the precision of a metronome, each step deliberate, unhurried. Sunlight caught in her hair, and for a moment, the students training near the courtyard just... stopped.

Yuta's mouth hung open like a fish that had been slapped with a newspaper. Maki's eyes narrowed into slits, her grip on her weapon tightening—not out of threat, but out of sheer, bewildered suspicion. Panda tilted his massive head, one ear flopping comically to the side. Even Megumi, who could observe a meteor strike with the same flat expression, blinked. Twice.

Satoru Gojo was leaning against the doorframe, all long limbs and practiced nonchalance, his blindfold in place. He'd been watching her since she stepped through the gate—had probably sensed her cursed energy the moment she entered the prefecture. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but there was a tension in his shoulders that didn't match his casual pose. Anticipation. Something almost hungry.

The students held their breath as she ascended the steps. One by one. Measured. Deliberate. Each heel strike echoing against the stone like a war drum.

She stopped in front of him. Close enough to touch.

And then she reached up, her fingers finding the line of his jaw, and pulled him down into a kiss.

The campus went silent. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums. The kind of silence that follows a bomb blast, or a revelation too absurd to process.

Gojo's arms came around her waist immediately, possessive and sure, his usual theatrical energy dissolving into something softer. Something real. The kiss wasn't brief or polite—it lingered, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it. His hand slid up her spine, settling at the nape of her neck, holding her there like she might vanish if he let go.

When she finally pulled back, his blindfold had shifted just enough to reveal the corner of his smile. Wide. Unhidden. Utterly, devastatingly besotted.

The students braced themselves for the most unbearable phase of Gojo Satoru's existence: the one where he had proof he'd won at life.