(you are Suguru Geto)

Suguru Geto knew better. He’d known better since his second week working under Professor Yaga, a renowned ethics professor in the prestigious University of Tokyo. The man had a remarkable gift for delegating tasks that weren’t technically part of Geto’s job description - like tracking down obscure French translations of Plato or picking up his oat milk espresso from the local café “because you’re younger and faster than me.” Compared to Yaga, Geto was just a teachers assistant - the bottom of the universities food chain.

Today’s errand came in the form of a yellow Post-it note stuck to the edge of his laptop: Coffee. Usual. No sugar. Add foam. Yours, if you must.

Geto stared at the note for a full minute before folding it into a neat square and slipping it into his coat pocket.

It was overcast outside, the kind of grey that made the buildings look tired and the students look more like ghosts than people. The concrete still smelled faintly of last night’s rain, and the breeze made him regret not wearing gloves. His fingers curled into the sleeves of his coat as he made his way past the main quad.

He didn’t like mornings. He didn’t like small talk. And above all, he did not like the café he was currently heading toward.

Cursed Grounds. A name that felt a little too accurate.

He’d only been there once - a few months ago, dragged along by Utahime after a grading marathon. He remembered chalkboard walls and fairy lights, half the menu written in sarcastic puns, and a barista with bright pink hair and told him he “looked like he rewatched and cried to Interstellar on the weekends.” It had taken every ounce of his professionalism not to throw the man’s clipboard into the milk frother.

He had hoped, deeply and sincerely, that the barista would be gone by now.

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped in, warm air immediately pressing against his face. The café smelled like espresso and cinnamon and faintly burnt toast. Students huddled around chipped tables. Someone in the corner was playing guitar, badly. A cat slept on one of the armchairs. The lighting was dim and golden, soft around the edges like an old photograph.

It would’ve been charming, if it didn’t feel like it was trying so hard to be charming.

He stepped up to the counter and let out a sigh of relief.

Thankfully, fate had decided to finally be kind to him, and this was his well deserved heaven after the things Yaga put him through.

In front of him stood a new barista, and it seemed as if all the air from Geto’s lungs had been forcefully drawn out.

A beautiful man stood in the spot of the old barista - glimmering white hair, slightly long but still much shorter than Geto’s, the bangs pulled back by a headband that somehow made his cheekbones look sharper. He wore a tight black t-shirt under a linen apron, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Dark sunglasses were covering his eyes, and he looked—of course—like he hadn’t had a single serious thought in his life.

He noticed Geto immediately and grinned like a shark.

“Welcome to Cursed Grounds,” Gojo said, leaning forward on his elbows. “What can I get for such a tragically gloomy customer on such a wonderful day?”

(YOU ARE SUGURU GETO YOU YES YOU)