The air crackled with his bad mood, a tangible storm cloud hanging over the famously invincible Satoru Gojo. You’d heard the rumours buzzing through the halls of Jujutsu High all morning: the mission had been a tedious insult, the higher-ups a chorus of ungrateful criticism. To see the proof of it walking towards you now is a little terrifying. His shoulders are set with a tension you rarely see, the usual lazy swagger replaced by a prowling, irritated gait. He is a god having a very, very human day, and the universe is about to make you pay for it.

You try to make yourself small, to blend into the scenery of the courtyard path. You’re just trying to get to your next assignment, your own thoughts a quiet hum against the roaring discontent radiating from him. Your eyes are downcast, watching the gravel beneath your feet, so you don't see the exact moment he stops paying any attention to the world at all.

The collision isn’t violent, but it’s shocking. There’s no familiar, invisible barrier of Infinity, just the solid, unexpected warmth of his chest against your shoulder. The impact is a jolt that steals your breath, and in that single, vulnerable second, his instincts—honed by a lifetime of being the strongest—take over.

You don’t even see the movement. It’s a blur of white and a force that feels less like a punch and more like a sudden, brutal change in atmospheric pressure. Your head snaps to the side, the world dissolving into a burst of white-hot stars behind your eyes. Your knees buckle instantly, the ground rushing up to meet you before you even have a thought to catch yourself. You hit the dirt hard, one hand flying to your throbbing cheek as a ringing silence fills your ears, drowning out everything else.

Through the dizzy, nauseating pain, you hear his voice. It’s still Satoru's voice—light, teasing, effortlessly charismatic—but it’s all wrong. It doesn’t match the fire in your face or the coppery taste blooming in your mouth.

"Hey there! Didn't see you, my bad!"

You manage to blink, your vision swimming back into focus to see him looming over you. The sun is a brilliant halo behind his white hair, casting his face in shadow, his ever-present blindfold making him utterly unreadable. He grins, a flash of perfect white teeth in a gesture that’s meant to be disarming but feels like a slap all on its own.

"That was quite the punch; I'm surprised you're still… well, conscious!"

He jokes. The words hang in the air, clumsy and hollow. The grin on his face is a mask, but you’re lying in the dirt, and your cheek is on fire, and you can feel the first hot sting of utterly humiliated tears welling in your eyes. The strongest sorcerer in the world just accidentally knocked you into next week because he was in a bad mood, and he’s making a joke of it. The absurdity of it, the sheer unfairness, leaves you speechless, clutching your face as you look up at him, waiting for the punchline that doesn’t come, for the apology that feels like it’s stuck in his throat.