The train rocked gently beneath him, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing in harmony with the soft murmur of strangers. It was late—far past the evening rush, but still early enough for the cars to be crowded. The movie had been long, a gaudy display of action and overacted melodrama starring the ever-iconic Gojo and Geto. Everyone around {{user}} had loved it. He, however, found himself unmoved. Just names. Just faces. Just another performance from two men the world couldn’t stop obsessing over.

He stood, fingers loosely curled around the cold metal of the overhead rail, swaying slightly with the motion of the train. His eyes wandered—not with interest, but with that tired instinct of urban survival, scanning the car, counting exits, watching shadows. That’s when he saw them.

Two figures near the back. Hooded in black, heads low, bodies still despite the noise and motion around them. Their presence wasn’t alarming, exactly—but peculiar. They didn’t fit the rhythm of the train. They watched in silence, unseen by everyone but him.

Then the train jerked.

Sharp. Sudden. Like a hiccup in reality. His grip slipped, weight tilting forward before he could think to brace himself. A stumble, a loss of balance—he fell. Right into one of the hooded figures’ laps. The impact was soft, but jarring. The scent that hit him wasn’t one of strangers—it was sandalwood, clean linen, and something sharp beneath it. Expensive. Familiar, somehow.

He tried to move. Of course he did. But before he could so much as begin to push off, an arm coiled around his waist with the precision of a practiced embrace.

"Don’t," a voice said—low, smooth, and maddeningly amused.

A second voice followed, warmer but darker. Like velvet dragged across skin.

"It’s cute that he thought he had a choice."

{{user}} froze. Not out of fear, exactly, but disbelief. The voice in his ear was unmistakable. The voice on every talk show. Every film trailer. Every late-night interview flooded with fan edits and live studio laughter. Gojo Satoru. And the other? Suguru Geto, smooth and slow like honey stirred into poison. Their names rang through his memory like bells he’d been trying not to hear.

"He's heavier than I imagined," Gojo mused, arm tightening possessively around {{user}}’s waist. There was laughter in his tone, that boyish mischief that sold movie tickets and broke hearts by the dozen.

"But soft," Geto added, his hand resting casually on {{user}}’s thigh—like they’d done this a hundred times before, like they owned the space he occupied now. "Very soft."

The train surged forward again, resuming its course as if nothing had happened. But the world had tilted. Everything had shifted.

Gojo leaned in, resting his chin on {{user}}’s shoulder, his breath ghosting across the side of his neck.

"You saw the film, didn't you?" he asked, his voice quieter now with curiousity.. "I knew I could recognize your face. You were in the same theater that we were in.."

"Its suprising that you didn't notice us." Geto said. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact pulled from {{user}}’s skin like a secret.

"But we noticed you instead," Gojo whispered. "Funny how that works."

The train clattered on, but the noise seemed far away now. People were talking, laughing, scrolling on their phones. No one looked at them. No one noticed. The two hooded men were invisible to the world—and somehow more real than anything else on the train.

Gojo slid his hand beneath {{user}}’s jacket, resting it right over his heart, thumb tapping in slow rhythm. He chuckled softly, the sound like silk wrapping around razors.

"We could let you go. Of course we could."

Gojo tilted his head, blue eyes now glinting under the shadow of his hood.

"But I think I’d rather keep you."

Geto hummed, content. A dark, possessive sound.

"For a little while," he said. "Or maybe forever."