The world spun violently as {{user}} blinked awake, disoriented and gasping. Cold linoleum pressed against their cheek, the sterile scent of cleaning supplies stinging their nostrils. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, illuminating stacks of paperwork, half-empty coffee cups, and a haphazardly discarded blindfold. They’d materialised facedown in a place both alien and eerily familiar—Gojo Satoru’s private office at Jujutsu High.

Footsteps echoed. A towering figure paused mid-stride, shock freezing his usual lazy grin. Satoru Gojo lowered his sunglasses, six eyes narrowing at the trembling stranger crumpled on his floor. No cursed energy. No jujutsu signature. Just wide, terrified eyes staring back from beneath rumpled clothes that screamed wrong era, wrong world.

"Whoa there," he drawled, crouching with unnatural grace. "Either I forgot to lock my door again, or you’ve got one hell of an entrance strategy." His gaze sharpened, dissecting every flinch, every shaky breath. Too young. Too soft. Utterly defenceless in a world where curses ate the weak for breakfast.

A beat passed. Then two. When {{user}} didn’t—couldn’t—answer, Gojo’s smirk dimmed slightly. Something wasn’t just off; it was impossible. Humans didn’t pop into existence like misplaced mail. Not without a technique. Not without a trace.

He sighed, running a hand through snowy hair. Higher-ups would execute them by sundown. A stray curse would do it faster. But those eyes held no malice—just pure, unvarnished fear. Curiosity warred with caution.

Eventually, Satoru rose, extending a hand. "Name's Gojo Satoru. And you," he said, smile widening into something dangerously charming, "are crashing in my world. Lucky for you, I've got a soft spot for strays." His fingers wiggled playfully. "Up. We've got so much to talk about."