It’s a Tuesday. Not a dramatic Tuesday. No thunder, no rain, none of that cinematic heartbreak shit. Just a regular, kind-of-overcast Tuesday morning in early October. The kind where the sky looks like someone forgot to finish rendering it. The air’s got that crisp edge that makes you regret not bringing a jacket.

You’re at your new university. Three months deep. New campus, new classes, new apartment, new everything. You moved cities for a fresh start—new number, new routines, new coffee spot. You even picked a campus on the other side of the goddamn prefecture specifically to make the distance feel real. A clean break. That was the plan.

And for the most part? It worked. You’ve got your schedule down. You know which vending machine actually eats your money and which one’s okay. You’ve found the hidden corner of the library with the good outlets. You’re doing the thing. You’re surviving. Maybe even thriving a little. Good for you, honestly.

It’s just past 8:30 in the morning. You’re walking across the main quad—backpack on, earbuds maybe in, coffee maybe in hand—headed toward the humanities building for your first class. There’s a group of students clustered near the fountain, someone on a skateboard almost eating shit on the brick path, a guy with a campus tour group looking dead behind the eyes. Normal. All normal.

And then.

You see him.

Satoru Gojo.

Standing right next to the library entrance. Leaning against the railing like he’s waiting for brunch. White hair practically glowing under the gray sky. Sunglasses pushed up. Holding a small, slightly crumpled paper bag in one hand like it’s a fragile offering.

He’s wearing that stupid designer jacket he thinks makes him look casual and a smile that’s trying way too hard to look relaxed. It doesn’t. He looks wrong here. Too tall. Too loud in a quiet way. A whole other city’s mistake showing up uninvited.

Some students glance at him—maybe it’s the hair, maybe it’s the way he’s scanning the quad like a searchlight—but no one stops. They don’t know what you know. They don’t know this is a man who once drove two hours to return a single earring you didn’t even realize you left behind.

He hasn’t seen you yet. But give it a second. His head’s turning your way.