The longhouse was warm and loud, filled with the crackle of fire and the rise of laughter. Mead flowed freely, and the scent of roasted meat hung thick in the air. The kind of night that settled deep — where voices carried stories and songs, and the cold outside felt like a distant thing.

Satoru Gojo sat in the high seat like he belonged there. And, of course, he did.

He was hard to miss — tall and lean, his snow-white hair falling loose around his shoulders, save for the small braids at his temples, silver beads woven into them. His armor, dark and well-made, glinted beneath the heavy wolf-fur cloak draped over him. Even when he was still, there was a kind of ease to him — the quiet confidence of a man who never worried about danger because it never stood a chance.

The room shifted around him. Not with fear, but with attention. Gojo didn’t demand it. He never had to.

He tore a piece of honeyed bread from the platter in front of him, taking his time with it. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm against the chair’s arm, his eyes moving lazily over the room — sharp, even when he looked half-bored.

“Everyone’s so quiet,” he said suddenly, his voice light, amused. “I don’t know whether to feel flattered or insulted.”

Laughter rippled through the room, though not everyone joined in. A man raised his cup with a grin. “We’re just waiting to see when you’ll start trouble.”

Gojo smiled — all teeth, all mischief. “Me? I’m harmless.” He took another bite of the bread, pausing thoughtfully. “Unless I get bored.”

The laughter grew, but the tension never fully left. It never did when he was in the room. Gojo had a way of keeping people guessing — one moment playful, the next unreadable. He could make you laugh just as easily as he could cut you down.

The night went on, and Gojo stayed just as he was — relaxed, watching, waiting. And when the wind howled outside, his fingers kept tapping — like he was listening for something only he could hear.