It’s been six years since you last saw Satoru Gojo. Six years since you walked away from the boy who swore he’d be someone great — someone powerful enough to rewrite his own fate. You remember the fire in his eyes when he said it, the way he smiled like he already knew the ending.

Now, standing before you in his sprawling mansion, he’s become exactly what he promised — a man who seems to own the world. He looks at you the way any person wanted to be looked at.

The house is too much — marble floors, crystal chandeliers shimmering above like constellations, and walls lined with paintings you’re sure no one here really understands. The air smells faintly of smoke and whiskey, the remnants of all the parties he has thrown. Every night, Satoru scanned the crowd in hopes that you would show up here one day.

“Come with me,” he says, and before you can answer, he’s already guiding you down the hall.

The room he leads you to is quiet, dimly lit by a single lamp. A decanter of amber whiskey sits untouched on a mahogany table, and beyond it — a wardrobe. Gojo opens the door with a flick of his wrist. Rows of designer clothes hang neatly inside — expensive clothes in soft silk, velvet coats that seem to shimmer like ink, shoes lined with delicate jewels.

“All of them are yours,”he says, his voice softer now. His hand brushes your lower back — light, hesitant — like he’s testing if you’ll pull away. “I bought them thinking of you. Every time.”

He can’t buy back lost time, but he will try.

“I thought… maybe one day, you’d stumble into one of my parties,” he admits, laughing under his breath like he’s embarrassed by the confession. His fingers rake through his hair, the cracks in his confidence showing for just a second. “And I wanted to be ready for you.”

And for the first time, the mask slips. No acting, no charm—just Satoru, standing before you with six years of longing in his eyes. A man who has spent years chasing ghosts, waiting for the night you’d finally walk through his doors.