Satoru Gojo leaned against the wooden railing of the engawa, hands shoved deep in his uniform pockets. His dark sunglasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose, revealing a sliver of those unnaturally blue Six Eyes as he tracked two students fumbling through a basic hand-to-hand exchange.

A couple of first-year girls a few feet away giggled, their eyes fixed on him. He turned his head just enough to give them a wink, watching with detached amusement as they immediately looked away, blushing.

Being Satoru Gojo was, objectively, the best hobby he’d ever picked up.

Then, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn’t a curse. It was a sudden, collective intake of breath. The teachers overseeing the drills—Yaga-sensei with his permanent frown, and a few others—paused their critiques. The sparring students slowed, then stopped. All heads, as if pulled by a single string, turned toward the main gate.

Gojo didn’t bother looking up right away. New transfers, visiting dignitaries, lost delivery guys—they all caused a stir. He was mid-eye-roll, preparing a sarcastic comment for Geto beside him, when his own gaze finally drifted over.

And landed on you.

You stood just inside the gate, the late sun casting your shadow long across the courtyard. The standard uniform, but the sleeves were rolled to your elbows, the jacket unbuttoned. A single bag was slung over your shoulder with a casual weight. Your expression was calm, assessing, completely devoid of the wide-eyed terror or gawking awe that usually greeted this place.

You scanned the courtyard—the frozen students, the stern teachers, the sprawling old buildings—with a level, almost bored detachment. Your eyes passed over the clusters of whispering first-years, over the imposing figure of Yaga-sensei, and then, finally, over Gojo himself.

They didn’t linger. Didn’t widen. Didn’t flicker with recognition or fear. They just moved on, as if he were part of the scenery. A bench. A tree. A completely normal person.

For one full, arrested second, the constant hum of Gojo’s own cursed energy seemed to stutter in his veins. A sharp, unwelcome flicker of… something. Not irritation. Something else.

A slow, intrigued smile spread across Gojo’s face. No fear. No nerves. No reaction to him.

He pushed off the railing, his long legs carrying him across the courtyard in a loose, sauntering gait that made students instinctively step aside. He came to a stop a few paces from you and Yaga, his hands still in his pockets, his head tilted.

Just a look. Level. Assessing. Utterly calm.

And then you looked back at Yaga-sensei, as if Gojo had finished speaking.

Something sharp and hot twisted under Gojo’s ribs. He covered it with a grin so wide and cocky it felt like a challenge to the universe itself.