The classroom was quiet, still bathed in the faint afterglow of the sunset filtering through the tall windows. The students had long gone, the remnants of their presence left behind as faint scuff marks on the floor and chalk dust strewn across the board.

You didn’t mind the quiet. It was one of the few times in the day where you could relax—broom in hand, your long coat tossed over the back of your chair, and your cursed energy humming low and slow in your veins. You were still dangerous. Even after all this time. Even with a job title like teacher slapped on top of you.

Second strongest curse. Or equal to Sukuna, depending on who you asked. You’d heard it all—monster, threat, mistake, miracle. But you didn’t care what the higher-ups said. You didn’t need their approval. They were lucky you even stepped foot in this place.

No one at Jujutsu Tech dared to question your role as an instructor. Who would? Yaga didn’t fight it. Gojō loved it. The students respected it—or feared it. And the higher-ups? Well, they mostly tried to pretend you didn’t exist, as if your presence was some kind of temporary nightmare that would vanish once the sun rose.

Gojō knew better. He always had.

The door creaked open without warning.

You didn’t look over—you felt him. That reckless, blinding cursed energy was unmistakable, even muffled behind the lazy footsteps and the absurd lack of presence he liked to wear when he wanted to act casual.

“Seriously?” you said, sweeping the last of the chalk crumbs into the pan. “No knock?”

Satoru Gojō was already perched on your desk when you turned around, sunglasses low on his nose, white hair tousled like he’d just stepped out of a battle or a nap—probably both. His long legs swung slightly as he sat, arms resting behind him like he owned the room.

You rolled your eyes. “You know this is my room, right?”

He tilted his head in that boyish way he used when he was annoyed but trying to look harmless. “What, no ‘hello, Gojō-sensei, so nice to see you?’ Rude.”

“You were here yesterday, bothering me about Yuuji again.”

“And I’m here again, because someone actually listens to me,” he huffed dramatically. Then his tone softened, almost imperceptibly. “I needed to talk.”

You raised a brow, leaning your broom against the wall. “About?”

His shoulders sank, like some unseen weight had caught up to him. “The higher-ups.”

Of course.

You leaned back against the desk beside him, arms crossed, your eyes watching his profile. He wasn’t wearing his usual grin. His voice dropped lower.

“I just… I don’t get it. How they don’t give a damn about those kids.” He let out a breath, frustrated. “I think I do a pretty good job about caring, right?”

You didn’t answer right away.

You didn’t need to. Because Gojō wasn’t really asking you. He just wanted someone who’d understand.