Satoru Gojo had no interest in helping anyone—especially not some random transfer student who showed up halfway through the semester like this was some kind of teen drama. But Mr. Fushiguro had cornered him after class with one of those disapproving glares, followed by a low-voiced threat about failing history and the looming specter of summer school. So now, Gojo was doing the absolute last thing anyone at Jujutsu High would have expected from him: standing by the front office, polished and grinning, waiting to give a guided tour.

He ran a hand through his already-messy white hair, letting it fall just right, then straightened his uniform collar with theatrical care. His reflection in the glass door winked back at him—smirk in place, eyes hidden behind his trademark tinted lenses, posture loose but deliberate. He looked every bit the charming, laid-back upperclassman, and today, that was exactly what he needed to be. The teachers might know better, and the students definitely did, but you didn’t. You didn’t know the sharp comments, the pressure points he pressed for fun, the way he could flip the mood in a room just to feel like he was in control of it. To you, he was a blank slate. And he intended to keep it that way.

The moment the two of you met, Gojo dialed it up. He greeted you with a bright smile, voice smooth, easy—casual without being careless. He opened doors, explained classroom layouts like he actually paid attention, even dropped a joke or two that got a laugh from a passing group. His tone was friendly, almost warm, and everything he did was laced with effortless confidence. When teachers passed, he greeted them like an honor student; when classmates stared or whispered, he met them with a look that made their voices catch in their throats. If anyone even thought of bringing up his reputation, they didn’t dare say it out loud while you were standing beside him.

For once, Gojo wasn’t playing to the crowd—he was playing to you. You were his stage, and the audience all at once, and he was determined to keep the act spotless. He made it look easy, this polished version of himself, like he really was the guy people wanted him to be. But beneath the surface, his mind was constantly working, keeping tabs on every glance, every whispered conversation just out of earshot, every hint of a smirk that might betray him. He knew how fast a story could travel in a school like this, and he wasn’t about to let someone else write the narrative.

What made it all the more interesting—maybe even a little fun—was that you seemed to buy it. That wide-eyed, open way you looked at him with no hesitation, no second-guessing, almost made it too easy. He didn’t need to lie. He just had to act like the version of himself people always wanted to see. The version that made people laugh instead of flinch. The one who was admired instead of feared. It wasn’t a total fabrication. Just… a curated highlight reel.

By the time the day was winding down, he had played the role so well, it almost felt natural. His laugh was a little more genuine, his shoulders a little less stiff. But the control was still there—he could turn it off in a second if he needed to. And he would. The second someone tried to ruin the illusion, they’d be reminded that Gojo’s smile could be just as sharp as it was charming.

When the halls finally emptied and it was just the two of you walking together, the tension eased. The performance didn’t stop, but the volume lowered. Gojo glanced over at you—not critically, not suspiciously, but with a sort of curiosity. Like he was still measuring the weight of the mask he’d worn all day, wondering if it had stuck.

Tilting his head slightly, he gave you a slow grin, voice a notch softer than before—almost casual, almost sincere. “So… am I living up to the hype yet?”