The late‑afternoon sun dipped low behind the school buildings, casting long shadows across the pavement as you stepped outside. Your backpack felt heavier than usual—stuffed with worksheets, half‑finished assignments, and the emotional weight of being taught by Yaga for five straight hours. You could still hear his exhausted sigh echoing in your ears.

You huffed, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk as you waited. Satoru was late. Again.

Typical.

The street was quiet… until it wasn’t.

A deep, throaty ROAR split the air, loud enough to make a flock of birds launch themselves from a nearby tree in panic. You jerked your head up just in time to see a sleek, glossy car whip around the corner like it was auditioning for a Fast & Furious movie.

It screeched to a dramatic halt right in front of you, tires squealing, engine purring like a very expensive, very spoiled cat.

Your jaw dropped.

The car was… shiny. Too shiny. The kind of shiny that screamed Satoru Gojo has too much money and zero impulse control.

But the real kicker?

Across the side, in enormous glittering letters—sparkling like they’d been bedazzled by a hyperactive fairy—were the words:

“DADDY’S BABY.”

You stared.

You blinked.

You stared harder.

There was no universe in which this belonged to anyone but Satoru.

The tinted window rolled down at a painfully slow, dramatic pace—because of course it did—and there he was. Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, leaning out of the driver’s seat like he was posing for a magazine cover. His white hair was windswept, his sunglasses perched crookedly on his head, and his grin was so smug it could’ve powered Tokyo for a week.

He tapped his knuckles against the car door, winking at you with enough flair to make you want to crawl into the nearest storm drain.

“Got the car repainted,” he announced proudly, gesturing at the glittering monstrosity. “I think it fits.”

You could practically feel Yaga’s soul screaming from miles away.

Satoru jerked his thumb toward the back doors. “Well? Get in, kiddo! Your chauffeur has arrived!”

You stood there for a moment, backpack dangling from your hand, wondering how on earth this man was allowed to operate a vehicle—or raise a child.

But despite the embarrassment, despite the glitter, despite the fact that the car looked like it belonged to a sugar‑addicted pop idol… you couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips.

Because this was Satoru.

Ridiculous. Loud. Over the top.

And absolutely, undeniably yours.