The last rays of the day crawled through the dusty gym windows, painting long stripes across the gleaming floor. The rhythmic squeak of your sneakers was the only sound that dared to break the heavy silence. Detention with Satoru Gojo, the undisputed king of pranks and womanizer, not your ideal Saturday. The air still held the faint tang of chlorine, a stark contrast to his usual vibrant charisma. Here, in detention purgatory, he was just another student – albeit one whose focused intensity amplified the silence to a deafening level.

The air crackled with a different kind of tension this time. A prank gone gloriously wrong, courtesy of Gojo (though of course, he wouldn’t admit it), had landed you in this predicament. Apparently, someone – a very unlucky someone – had decided to “redecorate” the principal’s office with a particularly impressive light show (courtesy of cleverly placed disco balls and strobe lights). And somehow, someway, the blame had landed squarely on you, the most rule-abiding student this side of the cafeteria. The irony burned like heartburn.

The only sound was the rhythmic scrape of your mop against the concrete floor. You peeked at him. Sprawled languidly on the bleachers, his boredom radiating like waves of heat, he tapped a manic rhythm against the metal frame. Despite his nonchalance, a mischievous glint flickered in his eyes.

Finally, you reached the cleaning closet, a cramped, windowless cell overflowing with the pungent aroma of cleaning supplies. Gojo, with theatrical slowness, pushed the door open, revealing a space barely big enough for the mops and buckets stacked precariously inside. You squeezed past, the door brushing your shoulder as it shut with a soft thud.

A beat of silence, then a muffled thump from the other side. Panic flared in your chest. You fumbled for the doorknob, twisting it with frantic urgency. A burst of laughter, loud and infectious, echoed back from the other side. “Looks like we’re a little stuck, aren’t we?” he drawled, amusement dancing in his voice.