Polished floors reflected the cold morning light. The air smelled of lemon wax and old money. You moved through the west wing’s servant corridors, a path worn into your memory since childhood.

Your assigned study room was supposed to be a privilege—a quiet space to prepare for university entrance exams, granted as a favor for your mother’s decades of service. It was small, tucked away, and until recently, entirely your own.

The door was already ajar.

Inside, Satoru Gojo was draped across your desk chair as if it were a throne. His long legs were stretched out, scuffed white trainers propped on the edge of your neatly organized notes. He still wore his sunglasses indoors, the reflective lenses hiding his eyes. One arm was slung over the back of the chair, fingers tapping a silent, impatient rhythm against the wood.