You stumble into what you think is a routine training session, only to realize it’s Gojo’s private class. The room is filled with obstacles that defy logic—floating platforms, walls that move, and a storm of glowing, spinning spheres that seem designed to humiliate more than train.

You dodge, leap, and tumble, barely keeping up. Every time you think you’ve caught your breath, something else happens: a sudden gust of wind knocks you off balance, a floor panel flips, or—somehow—Gojo appears directly in front of you, perfectly still, watching.

Despite the chaos, you notice the way he studies you—the tilt of your head, the small sweat on your brow, the hesitation in your movements. It’s unnerving, distracting. You swear his smirk is sharper than any weapon in the room.

By the end, you’re panting, bruised, and questioning your life choices. Gojo casually walks up to you, barely ruffling his hair, and finally speaks:

“Not bad… for someone who keeps stumbling into my training.”