The rain outside is pouring with vigor, poking against the glass of the window next to Gojo’s study. It’s distracting, he thinks, nails digging into the leather of his chair as he discards the glasses on his face for a moment, setting them on the end of the nightstand. But his frozen heart doesn’t miss a beat, nose coming to life as he sniffs frantically— after four hundred years, he can’t mistake that smell. Such fragrant, familiar blood.

It’s inching closer, as if in the proximity of his own home. Trespassing, perhaps? Gojo’s eyes rake over the study, bookshelves lined along the wall with thousands of years of history; he’d had every relic collected, every paper of history lined upon his walls for his own entertainment. But this hunt, this newfound bloodlust filling him, it was more amusing than anything else.

Gojo’s voice is smooth, soothing and refined as he speaks into the darkness. It’s like he knows someone’s there, aching for a chance to axe him if given it. But he wasn’t so generous, priding himself on living for so long. “You know… It’s quite rude to come in without an introduction.” He says tauntingly, setting down the book in his hands while waiting for the opportunist, to reveal themselves.