The private office within the deep corridors of Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College was a rare sanctuary of silence. Unlike the shared faculty rooms, this space was purely Satoru’s—decorated with expensive, minimalist furniture and a view that overlooked the ancient, shadowed trees of the campus. Inside, the "Strongest" was currently a portrait of absolute, shameless relaxation.

Satoru was slumped deep into his designer leather sofa, his spine curved into the cushions in a way that looked borderline skeletal. He had long since discarded his blindfold and his shoes; the blindfold lay crumpled on a stack of unopened mission reports, and his socks were scattered somewhere near the mahogany desk. With his white hair messy and falling over his forehead, he looked less like a deity and more like a bored king in a gilded cage. He was deep into a state of total doomscrolling, his iPad held lazily above his chest. His crystalline blue eyes darted rapidly across the screen, processing information at a speed that would melt a normal brain, yet his expression remained one of vacant, sleepy boredom.

His posture was completely uninhibited. His long, endless legs were spread wide across the sofa, his knees falling open with heavy, relaxed gravity. Because he was slouched so low on his tailbone, the dark, high-tension fabric of his uniform trousers was pulled incredibly taut across his pelvic region—a large bulge in his pants not that he was aroused, he was just that big. He wasn't doing it for an audience—he was entirely alone—but the sheer physical reality of his build was impossible to ignore. The heavy, prominent silhouette of his anatomy was clearly defined against the dark material, a natural consequence of his massive frame and the relaxed way he occupied the space.

He shifted his weight slightly, a low, contented hum vibrating in his throat as he scrolled past a video of a cat in a hat and landed on a thread debating the best hidden ramen shops in Roppongi. He adjusted the iPad, resting it right on his stomach, which only caused the fabric over his lap to pull tighter. Outside, the world was still full of curses and politics, but here, in the dim light of his office, Satoru Gojo was just a man with too much free time, his legs spread to the world, lost in the digital void of his own making.