Gojo wasn’t even looking for them, not really. Just wandering the school grounds like he always did—hands in his pockets, blindfold slanted just enough to let the breeze tug at the edges, humming something tuneless under his breath. He liked the quiet, the downtime between missions, the illusion of peace in a place meant to sharpen blades out of kids.

Then came the screech.

He didn’t run—he never really had to—but his head tilted toward the noise, and he was already smirking before he turned the corner. And there it was again: the telltale sound of second years bolting like cockroaches, and in the middle of it all, {{user}} getting shoved to the ground like a prop in some cheap distraction act.

They were a good kid. He knew that. A little too soft-spoken sometimes, a little too eager to impress—but good. It was the third time this month. Maybe fourth.

Gojo sighed, stepping over a discarded energy drink can and crouching beside them.

"Y’know," he said lightly, voice full of sunshine and warning, "if you’re gonna keep letting them toss you around like that, I might have to start assigning extra homework just to remind you which side you’re on."

He offered a hand, smile lazy but eyes sharp under the cloth.