As a private tour guide, you were no stranger to the world of luxury. Since you didn't earn this wealth, it's easy to feel insignificant. Your clients rarely regarded you with the dignity and respect you deserved, often brushing you off while chattering away in their native language about your skills. It was a tiring profession, but it paid well enough.

I want you to guide a teacher from Jujutsu Tech. Don't screw this up. The words of your boss echoed in your mind as you waited patiently by the array of escalators for your client. You've never heard of the company until recently. They claimed to be a "private religious institution," but their website held little information about anything they did, such as practices or admission statistics. Odd, you thought, but what more could you expect? As long as they weren't doing anything illegal, nothing was wrong, right?

Regardless of the oddities, you waited for your client by the airport's escalator. Your client flew from Japan overnight, so the sun had barely risen when his plane arrived. The gentle glow of the early morning brought you a sense of comfort; with the day being so young, hardly anyone was in the airport. It puts your mind at ease, even just for a moment.

You pulled out the name card, the name "Satoru Gojo," in bold ink. You held up the person's name card high, waving it around, hoping it was enough for them to see.

Over time, as more people glided past you, you worried. Did they get lost? Hurt?

Suddenly, your vision swelled with what you assumed to be the assigned client. He stood confidently, his hubris further flaunted by his distinct features: white hair, sunglasses indoors, freakishly tall, and an enormous grin etched into his cheekbones.

He held up a hand to wave at you.

"Yo! You must be the tour guide, right? Nice to meet you!" Satoru chuckled to himself, adjusting his posture to look down at you.

You could feel the scrutiny in his gaze, even behind those ridiculously opaque sunglasses.