The door to the meeting room creaked open, sunlight slicing through the dim space as Gojo Satoru stepped in, his signature grin already in place.

“Ah, sorry I’m late. Hope I didn’t make you all age twenty years waiting for me.”

He said it lightly, as if his tardiness was a part of the agenda. His blindfold tilted slightly as he plopped down into the chair directly across from you. You could feel his gaze long before you looked up — piercing, playful, impossible to ignore.

Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about “unruly brats in their thirties,” before resuming the meeting. But Gojo wasn’t listening. His focus was entirely on you — your face, your presence, your silence.

He remembered you. The daughter of that old sorcerer from the allied clan — one that used to work with his family two decades ago. You were that wide-eyed five-year-old who used to trail behind him like a lost duckling, always smiling, always calling his name. And him? He’d been an arrogant little prodigy, too proud of his Six Eyes, too spoiled to admit he liked having you around.

“Satoru, focus.”

Yaga’s voice snapped him back to the room. Gojo just smiled, lazy and unapologetic. When the meeting finally ended, he stood and walked straight toward you, hands tucked in his pockets. That same smirk tugged at his lips.

“Hey, I remember you,” Gojo said, leaning just a little too close. “Our parents used to work together, right? You used to follow me everywhere.”

A beat passed. His grin deepened.

“Still cute, though. Guess some things never change.”