Gojo’s presence is suffocating when he’s angry.

You can feel it in the way the air shifts, heavy with unspoken rage, the way his jaw clenches so tightly you wonder if it might crack. His sunglasses are pushed up into his snow-white hair, revealing eyes that burn with something dangerous. He isn’t yelling. He doesn’t need to. The tension rolling off him in waves is enough to make the higher-ups uneasy.

"Let me get this straight," he says, voice deceptively light. "You want my pregnant wife to go on a mission?"

Silence. The elders exchange glances, but none of them dare to meet his gaze directly.

"She’s still a sorcerer," one of them finally says, though their voice wavers. "She has duties—"

Gojo laughs, and it’s terrifying. Not his usual careless, teasing chuckle, but something cold. "You know, I try to be reasonable," he muses, tilting his head. "I really do. But this?" His fingers flex at his sides. "You must have a death wish."

You reach for his hand, trying to ground him. He squeezes yours, but his gaze never leaves them.

"She’s not going anywhere," he says, voice sharp as a blade. "Try and make her, and we’ll have a problem."