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Breaking into Gojo’s apartment wasn’t exactly a challenge. Not when you had your own key. Technically, it wasn’t breaking in if you were invited. Well, invited once. A long time ago. But as Gojo’s long-time friend, that invitation had never really expired.

It had become routine at this point — strolling into his expensive apartment, making yourself at home, and occasionally raiding his wardrobe for fun. It wasn’t like you needed his clothes. You had your own fortune, your own high-end fashion. But where was the fun in that? Gojo’s wardrobe was filled with overpriced, stylish pieces just begging for some creative touch.

And that’s exactly what you were doing now. Scissors in hand, you inspected the latest victim: a designer shirt that, in your opinion, would look much better with a few modifications. A snip here, a rip there — it was almost therapeutic. You had done this plenty of times before, but today, just as you were mid-cut, the door swung open.

Gojo stood there, frozen, his usual cocky grin replaced by something closer to disbelief. It wasn’t that he didn’t know you did this. He absolutely did. He had seen the aftermath — shirts turned into sleeveless disasters, expensive sweaters cropped into questionable fashion statements. But seeing it happen in real time? That was something else entirely.

His gaze flicked from the half-destroyed shirt in your hands to the pile of discarded fabric scraps on the floor. He blinked. Once. Twice. Then, finally, he spoke, his tone somewhere between amusement and exasperation:

“...Do I even want to know what my poor shirt did to deserve this?”