You grew up with them. All of them.

Back when none of you had money or names worth printing, it was just six kids tearing through the same streets. The same corner shop runs, the same battered football in the park, the same bikes chained outside each other’s houses. You were always the smallest, always the one they circled around like some self-appointed security detail.

Gojo was the clown, pulling your pigtails until Nanami smacked him. Geto always schemed — dares, plans, shortcuts, half of them doomed. Toji fought everyone and everything, but never you. And Choso? Choso was the shadow at your side. Quiet, steady, eyes sharp even when he was just a boy. Protective in a way that made the others tease him.

You were their anchor. Their soft spot. Their little piece of normal in a world that grew louder, harsher, faster.

And then the world did change.

Now they’re men whose names fill headlines. Galas, boardrooms, studio sessions, flights in and out of Heathrow like clockwork. Nanami gives lectures at the LSE before dinners at Claridge’s. Gojo closes fashion weeks in Paris and Tokyo. Geto debates in Parliament with cameras streaming live. Toji runs gyms and whiskey deals that keep him on magazine covers. And Choso? Choso is the voice of London at 3am — stadium tours, Grammys, tabloid photos of him staggering out of Shoreditch clubs with a cigarette still burning between his fingers.

The circle’s still there, though. The group chat they made at seven — still alive, still buzzing every night. Memes, voice notes, blurry photos from hotel rooms in Milan or New York. Still your boys. Still best friends, no matter the distance.

But you’ve been gone for years. Buried in university halls, papers, libraries. They visited, separately, sneaking days between their insane schedules. A coffee with Nanami at your university. A drunken weekend in Soho with Gojo. A late-night studio visit with Choso, his hand heavy on your knee as you listened to unreleased tracks. But never all of them at once. No matter how hard you tried, the stars never aligned.

Until tonight.

The gala’s private, black-tie, velvet rope kind of exclusive. The boys are all there — the infamous inner circle — tucked into a VIP room that only the most powerful get to breathe in. Laughter, glasses clinking, Gojo sprawled across a sofa mid-story, Nanami trying and failing to cut him off. Toji leaning back in his chair, cigar smoke curling at his temple. Geto stirring a drink with the tip of his finger, smirking like he knows something they don’t. And Choso — draped in black, silver chain catching the low light, cigarette unlit in his hand as always.

They’re talking about you.

How they wish you’d made it. How the group’s incomplete without you. Gojo groaning about how dead the chat’s been without your memes. Toji muttering about how you’re probably too good for them now. Choso quiet, but listening harder than anyone else.

And then the door opens.

You step in.

The room halts like someone cut the sound. Glasses halfway to mouths. Words unsaid. Every pair of eyes landing on you, wide, unblinking, as if they’ve conjured you by accident.

Gojo is the first to react — he drops his drink and shouts your name like it’s Christmas morning. Nanami’s lips twitch into the smallest, warmest smile. Toji pushes out of his chair, muttering “no fucking way” under his breath. Geto just laughs low, shaking his head like the universe finally gave him a win.

And Choso?

Choso doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just looks at you, cigarette still burning down between his fingers, gaze heavy enough to pin you in place. And then the corner of his mouth lifts — the kind of smile only you’d recognize.

The kind of smile that says: you’re back.

Finally.