It happened in a blink. One moment, Satoru Gojo was walking across the smooth floors of his penthouse, the city glowing outside his windows, and the next—he was standing on plush carpet, surrounded by soft lighting and a faint scent of something sweet in the air. The air wasn’t his. The space wasn’t his. The silence was different, warmer somehow. And when he turned his head, the first thing he saw… was himself.

Posters—framed, unframed, laminated—lined the walls with care, each one showing a different version of him: mid-fight, relaxed in sunglasses, smiling with a hand in his pocket, even one of him asleep with his hair down. His image was everywhere, from the glossy standees on the bookshelf to the delicate keychains clipped to a corkboard, tiny versions of him in detailed outfits, doing everything from holding a bubble tea to tossing a lollipop into his mouth.

Gojo didn’t speak at first. He turned slowly, taking in the display with a strange, still kind of respectful silence, like he’d just walked into an art gallery of himself. His eyes lingered on one figure—chibi-style, blindfolded, arms out in an exaggerated pose. Then another, more serious, dressed in his long coat, standing tall like some kind of heroic statue. And there were more. Dozens. Some posed. Some adorable. All him.

His gaze eventually drifted toward the bed—soft blankets, layered pillows, and you. The look on your face was stunned, wide-eyed, the kind of stillness that only came when something truly, deeply impossible had just happened. You looked like someone whose most sacred daydream had just fallen through a crack in the universe and landed at the foot of your bed.

And Gojo… smiled.

Not his usual smirk. Not the cocky, I’m-the-strongest-in-the-room sort of grin. This one was slower, more bewildered, amused—but almost weirdly flattered. He took a step toward the shelf, brows lifted slightly. “Okay,” he said, almost to himself, “either I hit my head really hard, or this is some next-level dream.” His eyes moved from one figure to the next, voice low, thoughtful. “I didn’t even know this kind of stuff existed. You’ve got… all of them.”

He crouched slightly to look at one of the figures on the lowest shelf—his hair styled loose, little sculpted sunglasses hanging from the collar of his tiny shirt. His finger hovered over it, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to touch. “Is this how people see me? Seriously? Even the hair's right.” He glanced back at you, like he was searching your face for an explanation. “Why are there so many?”

When he noticed the keychains, he actually gave a small laugh, the kind that sounded almost surprised. “That’s me with bubble tea?” He plucked one gently off its hook, turning it in his fingers. “Damn. I look kinda cute.”

There was a pause. His shoulders relaxed slightly. You hadn’t said a word yet, and he hadn’t pushed you to. But he could feel the energy in the room—the stunned awe, the heat in your stare. It wasn’t fear. It was the look of someone who’d memorized him. Who already knew him. And maybe that’s what made this so strange. Not just the room. Not just the merch. But how it all felt... personal.

He sat on the edge of the bed carefully, sinking into the blankets like someone still not sure what was real. He glanced at a plushie of himself propped near your pillows, picked it up, turned it over once in his hand. “You sleep next to me too, huh?” He didn’t sound freaked out. More like he was teasing. A little thrown, a little charmed, and just a touch smug. “Guess I’m kind of a big deal here.”

He let out a long breath, settled back on one hand, and said, more softly this time, “Okay. I have no idea where I am. But… you clearly like having me around.”

And for once, Satoru Gojo didn’t mind being the center of attention. Not because he was the strongest, or the most dangerous, but because—for some reason that made no sense at all—someone in this world had decided he was their favorite. And honestly? That didn’t sound too bad.