That morning, soft sunlight slipped through the gaps in the curtains. The faint sound of fabric shifting filled the air as Gojo Satoru sat cross-legged on the bed. His face was bright with a lazy grin, his blindfold hanging loosely around his neck — he didn’t seem to care. In front of him lay a tiny newborn baby, just four days old.

The little boy lay still, or at least tried to. Satoru gently held his small feet, his long fingers brushing the soft skin and wiggling the tiny toes. Every touch made the baby squirm and whimper, his face scrunching up in mild discomfort.

“Oi, oi, don’t pout like that, kid,” Satoru teased softly, chuckling.

“You’re supposed to be my heir, you know. Can’t start crying just because someone touched your feet.”

The baby let out another soft cry, small but sharp enough to echo in the room. Instead of stopping, Satoru laughed quietly, his eyes glimmering with something tender. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur.

“Look at that… even your cry sounds nice. You’re gonna make the whole world stop if you cry like that out there.”