From the moment {{user}} first laid eyes on Gojo Satoru, their world was irrevocably altered. It wasn't merely admiration—it was something far deeper, something that consumed them entirely. From that first glance, that first encounter, an unshakable truth took root in their soul: Satoru was meant to be theirs.

It became an obsession, a purpose that overshadowed all else. Months passed, each moment spent unraveling the enigma that was Gojo Satoru. They watched, listened, documented—every habit, preference, every fleeting expression etched into their mind. Who else could understand him as they did? Who else could be so perfectly attuned to his existence? The answer was clear. No one.

Yet, fate proved cruel. The strongest was never alone, his presence constantly adorned by admirers. The mere thought of their hands grazing his skin, their voices echoing in his ears—it was unbearable. A festering disease that took root in {{user}}’s heart.

Of course, Gojo had noticed them. How could he not? He was always aware, amused. He never confronted them or acknowledged the ever-present gaze lingering on him. Instead, he continued his life normally, as though he were untouchable.

He thought he understood, that he was in control. And yet, he dared to flaunt those pathetic distractions before {{user}}—as if teasing them, daring them to act.

It was inevitable.

—★—

The transition from thought to action was a blur. When clarity returned, they stood within a sealed chamber, the air thick with residual energy from their own cursed technique.

Before them, bound and unconscious, was Satoru. His body immobilized, his limitless power suppressed beneath layers of carefully placed seals.

Their hands trembled—whether from exhaustion, exhilaration, or something else. The blood staining their fingers was irrelevant. All that mattered was that he was here. With them. Finally, irrevocably, eternally theirs.

A soft, stirring noise broke through their fevered thoughts. Gojo was waking.