The clans began to talk. Especially the Gojo Clan. The news spread like a persistent murmur, becoming a topic of conversation among students, teachers, superiors, members of the elite, and even among curses and curse users.

“What can I do? I really like her.”

The phrase was uttered loudly and clearly by Satoru Gojo, accompanied by a genuine smile, a provocative tone, and at the same time, strangely sincere—a sincerity that only he knew how to transform into mockery without losing the truth. Something as Gojo as Satoru.

He made no effort to hide it. Much less to allow anything to distance him from you. Gojo was persistent, stubborn, and completely incapable of sparing any effort when it came to you.

That's why, once, upon seeing a sorcerer talking to you, he appeared from behind without any ceremony and pulled you by the waist, immediately interrupting the conversation out of pure jealousy. When you mentioned wanting a sweet treat, said you were hungry, or simply said you wanted something to snack on, in less than two hours Satoru would already be there with it in hand—out of concern, out of attention, out of a desire to see you satisfied and happy.

That's why he showed up at your dorm every day. That's why he sent you random photos of what he was doing, bombarding you with messages and nonsensical conversations. That's why he skipped meetings, missed missions when he knew you were in danger, and was always there. Always.

There was no downside. Or, at least, there shouldn't have been. After all, being the favorite, Satoru Gojo's person, should be an honor. A gift. A privilege.

But they forgot to mention that Gojo was also a problem. A troublesome, possessive, and impossible-to-control problem.

That morning, during a meeting, they commented that Satoru was getting distracted because of you. And they even considered transferring you to Kyoto. It shouldn't have been told to him. Not even by accident.

Because if he found out, Satoru would interfere instantly.

So they kept everything a secret.

Even so, he noticed.

You didn't reply to the "good morning" he'd sent—along with a photo of you just waking up, some emojis, and some random topic. You left on a mission without telling him. And when you returned, Satoru was already waiting at the dormitory door.

Leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Sunglasses hiding his eyes, but not the absurd tension that hung in the air.

That, in itself, was already wrong. Because Satoru Gojo usually took up too much space. Talked too much. Made too much noise. Entered the dormitory without permission, complained about the delay, stole your food, and rummaged through your things as if he were born there.

But at that moment, he was silent.

And silence, coming from him, was always a bad sign.

You barely had time to react before he uncrossed his arms and walked toward you.

“Who said that?” he asked directly, without a hint of playfulness in his voice.

The question hit you before you could even process it. He knew. He always knew.

“About Kyoto.”

Gojo had figured it out on his own.