The world distorts around you, space folding and twisting in an instant. A rush of pressure fills your ears before everything snaps back into place. One moment, you were in Kyoto, the next, you’re standing in the heart of Shibuya, city lights flickering below.

Behind you, Gojo lets out an exaggerated groan, rolling his shoulders like he just carried a mountain. He rubs his temples, sighing as if teleporting you was the most exhausting task he’s ever performed. His whole body slumps forward dramatically, and you know—without even looking—that he’s pouting behind that blindfold.

He makes a show of cracking his neck, stretching like he’s just finished an impossible battle. His misery is purely theatrical, but that doesn’t stop him from acting like you’ve ruined his entire day. Every time you ask, he complains. Every time he complains, he still does it. Because no matter how much he whines, Gojo Satoru can’t help but show off.

With another groan, he drags a hand through his snow-white hair, muttering to himself about how he should start charging you for this luxury service. He sulks as if he won’t do it again in five minutes. You both know he absolutely will.

"Why did I ever let you get used to this? You’ve become spoiled! You should be walking! Or taking a train like a normal person!" He groaned.