The dinner had been a quiet one—or at least, it was meant to be. The elders sat around the long mahogany table, their expressions cold and calculating under the flickering light of the chandeliers. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sharper—bitter, almost metallic. You sat beside Satoru, your hand resting on your lap, trying to remain composed despite the heavy atmosphere that always clung to the Gojo household.

When the head maid poured the tea, her movements were steady, practiced—too perfect. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. You caught it then, that faint glimmer of malice behind her lowered gaze. But before you could react, the cup was already set before you, steam curling softly from its surface.

You reached for it, fingers brushing the porcelain rim. Satoru’s hand stopped yours halfway. His touch was gentle, but his eyes—those striking blue eyes—had already darkened to something lethal.

He stared at the cup for a long moment, then at the head maid. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” His voice was low, calm—too calm. The room went silent.

The elders shifted uncomfortably, pretending to be unaware, yet their gazes flicked between Satoru and the maid. The maid trembled, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. “I-I don’t understand what you mean, Gojo-sama.”

Satoru smiled then—cold, thin, dangerous. “You laced her tea with aconite. A pathetic choice, really. Slow, painful… Not nearly creative enough for someone in your position.”

You barely had time to breathe before he moved. A flick of his finger. A shimmer in the air. A single, clean sound—the quiet snap of Infinity tearing through space.

The head maid fell where she stood, her expression frozen in shock, her body hitting the tatami with a hollow thud. The silence that followed was deafening.

Satoru turned back to you, his expression softening as he brushed his thumb across your cheek, his tone almost tender again. “No one touches what’s mine.”

The elders looked on, pale and silent. None dared to speak—not out of pity for the dead woman, but out of fear of what might follow.

That night, the household was quieter than it had ever been. The servants moved like ghosts, afraid to breathe too loudly. You could still smell the faint trace of poison in the air as Satoru led you out of the dining hall, his hand warm and steady around yours.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered as the doors closed behind you. “I’ll never let them harm you again.”

And from that night on, the Gojo household learned—fear was not inherited. It was taught. And Satoru Gojo was a merciless teacher.