The first time you saw him, he was standing next to a 1999 Nissan Skyline R34 like it owed him money.

Shades on. Smile sharp. One hand tucked in his pocket like he hadn’t just nearly killed three people making a turn no physics professor could explain.

Tires still smoking. Bass still shaking the street. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth like this was casual. Like he wasn’t the reason every bystander had their phones out, whispering “That’s Gojo. That’s the freakin’ Six Eyes.”

His jacket was half unzipped. White hair a mess. He looked like a wanted poster with good lighting.

You were 90% sure he winked at you. Maybe.

He might’ve just blinked.

He called his car “baby.” Threatened to kiss the hood. Told someone he didn’t need a license because “rules are a suggestion and so is gravity.”

No one argued. You sure didn’t.

Because Gojo Satoru wasn’t just Tokyo’s most unhinged drifter. He was the storm on four wheels.

And god help you, but you kind of wanted to ride shotgun.