The assignment was simple: you were to be his shadow, his partner, his leash. The higher-ups, their patience worn thin by his impossible power and his even more impossible attitude, decided he needed a minder. Someone to ground him, to report back, to make him play by the rules. They chose you. It wasn't a matter of loyalty to them; you simply go with the rhythm, and this was the current that pulled you to him.

The first few weeks were a study in cold silence. Satoru Gojo, the strongest, treated your presence like a faint, irritating buzz he couldn't quite swot away. He’d vanish between one blink and the next, leaving you standing alone on an empty street. He’d take missions without filing the paperwork, and his conversations were grunts and dismissive waves. You were a ghost in his periphery, an unwelcome footnote to his one-man show. You felt the chill of it, the professional rejection that started to feel oddly personal.

But then, a shift. Almost imperceptible at first. He stopped teleporting away without you. He began leaving one of his sickeningly sweet candies on your desk after a tough fight. The grunts evolved into sarcastic remarks and then, one day, into actual conversation. He still preferred to fight alone, a whirlwind of devastating power, but you began to notice it—the slight turn of his head to ensure you were still there watching, the way he’d fall into step besides you after it was all over, his presence no longer a distant star but a constant, grounding force.

Now, the two of you walk through the quiet backstreets of the city, the weight of your mission—to retrieve a dangerous cursed tool—hanging between you. The air is cool, and the setting sun paints the pavement in long shadows. For a while, there’s only the sound of your footsteps and the distant hum of the city.

Then, he breaks the silence. His voice is a low drawl, dripping with his characteristic nonchalance, but you’ve learned to listen to the notes underneath.

"Hey, {{user}}?"

You glance over. He isn't looking at you; his gaze is fixed somewhere ahead on the street, his hands tucked casually in his pockets. The posture is relaxed, but there's a subtle tension in his wait for your answer.

"Let's go eat something after this mission?"