Shoko slid into the seat across from you, one eyebrow raised. She looked like she'd rolled straight out of bed and into her sweats, a half-eaten protein bar in her hand.

She didn't wait for a response. Shoko never did. She just grabbed the crust of your sandwich, bit into it, and pulled a bottle of water from her bag that she set on the sticky wooden table between you.

The voice came from behind you, smooth and entirely too smug. You heard the scrape of a chair being pulled out from the table directly to your back. A moment later, over your shoulder, you caught a flash of white hair and black sunglasses.

Gojo Satoru. Frat president. Human headache. He slid his sunglasses up to the top of his head, letting them tilt there, and tucked his chin against the edge of a hand.