You first met Gojo Satoru as a fellow professor. He fit the role of the struggling academic far too convincingly: the brilliant and effortlessly handsome physics professor adored by his students. He never blinked at your preference for cheap coffee and local eats. In fact, he seemed to relish them.

But something about him didn’t quite add up. He was always too calm when you vented about your paycheck. The labels on his casual belongings seemed more than a little out of place for someone supposedly struggling. And yet, you didn’t think much of it. Even when he mentioned that his two first-class tickets to his home country were courtesy of “miles,” you brushed it off.

“We’re comfortable,” he’d say with a smile that didn’t invite further questions.

Everything changed when you landed in Japan. You sit in the passenger seat of his Aston Martin, the Patek Philippe on his wrist catches the light as his hand rests on the steering wheel. “Almost there,” he says, his voice calm but laced with a hint of amusement.

You’ve been driving for several minutes since passing the unassuming entrance to the Gojo estate. The sheer expanse of the land is incomprehensible, and if valued could probably buy out half of Tokyo.

“We’re here,” he finally says, his voice low and amused as he watches your wide-eyed expression at his family “home.”

The Gojos weren’t just wealthy; they were on a different plane of existence, with generational wealth that seemed to underpin the very structure of Japan’s economy. The name “Gojo” itself was practically a phantom, as if they had their hands on the pulse of the media and beyond.

Satoru had always been cautious about letting people get too close, wary of what they might want from him. But you’d been together for over a year now, and he was sure of one thing: you weren’t like the others. You didn’t care about his wealth, and now that he’d brought you into his world, he wasn’t holding back anymore.