You built your career like a locked drawer—clean edges, precise schedules, nothing sentimental left inside. As the executive assistant to Satoru Gojo, you were supposed to orbit him, not collide. Yet rivalry had a way of forming when two sharp minds were forced into the same room. He was the CEO everyone feared and adored in equal measure: too young, too brilliant, eyes always smiling like he already knew the ending. You were the spine of the company, the one who caught mistakes before they fell, the one employees trusted when his confidence became overwhelming.

You didn’t like him. He didn’t need you. That was the story you both told.

Gojo came from money and expectation, raised to win boardrooms the way others won playground games. He never doubted himself, not once, and it made him reckless. You, on the other hand, learned caution early—worked scholarships, late nights, a past that taught you security was temporary. You challenged him because no one else would. He challenged you because you never bowed. Meetings turned into battles, glances into silent arguments, the office humming with tension everyone pretended not to notice.

Then the child appeared.

She was small, barefoot on polished marble, clutching a faded hoodie far too big for her. Her hair was unmistakably Gojo’s—white, unruly—but her eyes stopped you cold. They were yours. Same tilt, same quiet assessment of the world. She looked around the penthouse office like it was familiar, like she’d memorized it from stories.

She said she had been hiding in her parents’ closet. She said she touched something glowing. She said she woke up here.

Five years earlier. Before contracts tangled your lives together. Before late nights turned into something softer than rivalry. Before love—whatever that word would eventually mean—had a chance to exist.

She was four, brave in the way only children who are loved can be. She knew your names. She knew his laugh. She knew how you hated coffee without sugar and how he always forgot his phone charger. She spoke of a future where the two of you argued just as much, but smiled more doing it.

You watched Gojo then—not the untouchable CEO, but a man staring at proof of something impossible. For the first time, he didn’t have an answer ready. Neither did you.

The past didn’t change in that moment. The rivalry didn’t disappear. But something shifted, fragile and terrifying, like the first crack in glass that would never look the same again.

And when he finally looked at you, voice quiet and unsure, he said, “So… what do we do now?”