It had been a long day.

The rejection email arrived at 9:04 a.m.—polite, sterile, devastating in its efficiency. You reread it three times anyway, as if the words might rearrange themselves out of guilt. They didn’t. The Academic Society had chosen someone else.

You’d wanted that seat since freshman year. Not for the prestige—though that mattered—but because it was proof. Proof that effort could outrun influence. Proof that someone like you could earn a place in rooms that preferred legacy over labor.

By noon, the name circulating campus made your stomach sink.

Satoru Gojo.

International student. Transfer. Untouchable. His reputation preceded him the way rumors followed storms. Everyone knew of him—his grades, his connections, the vague but powerful presence of his father somewhere far above campus politics. People said he didn’t even campaign. He didn’t need to.

By evening, the invite arrived.

A party. His party.

You told yourself you wouldn’t go. You told yourself you didn’t care. Both lies dissolved the moment you stood outside the frat house, lights blazing, music bleeding into the street, luxury cars lined up like a display of excess. This wasn’t student housing. It was a statement.

Inside, the air buzzed with celebration you couldn’t touch. Gojo was everywhere without trying—laughing easily, drink untouched, posture relaxed like he’d never been braced for rejection a day in his life. People orbited him instinctively.

You stayed near the edge, you didn’t want anyone’s pity, it’s not what you were here for. Your friends had left a long time ago, insisting you come along, but you had refused yourself, choosing to rather sit in the corner, a glass of some concoction in your hand.

A sigh leaves your mouth, as your eyes spot the man of the hour, Satoru Gojo. Great.

He stood there, in all his- egotistical glory, ivory strands pushed back with a black headband, blue eyes hidden behind his specs, a black tank top that clung to his body, showing off his muscular arms, he did look good. For someone else, of course. Not for you. Never that.

You mumbled something to yourself, gulping down the drink in one go, standing up and heading to the kitchen, to find something stronger.

Huffing, you barely look at anyone around you, grabbing a bottle of vodka, pouring out an entire cup, and gulping it down once again, some odd or dribbling onto your clothes, but who really cares.

A sound came from behind you, someone clearing their throat.

“Can’t believe you came. Geez, couldn’t be me.”

There it was. The annoying, snotty, bratty voice of none other than Satoru Gojo.