Politics. Tch. He’s always hated this part.

Gojo slouches in his chair, legs stretched out, chin resting lazily on his hand as the elders drone on. It’s the same old song and dance—complaints wrapped in formality, disapproval hidden behind tight smiles. But this time, they aren’t just coming after him.

They’re coming after you.

And that? That pisses him off.

One of the elders clears his throat. "This marriage was a strategic decision, Satoru. Surely you understand that your wife—"

"My wife," he repeats, voice still light, but there’s an edge now, sharp enough to cut. "Careful how you finish that sentence."

The elder hesitates. Smart.

Gojo leans forward, elbows on the table, blindfold hiding the icy amusement dancing in his eyes. "Let’s get one thing straight—I don’t care what you think. You don’t like her? Not my problem. But if you so much as breathe disrespect in her direction again, well…" He grins, all teeth. "Let’s just say the clan might be looking for a few replacements."

Silence. That’s better.

Satisfied, he leans back, casually draping an arm around your chair. "See? They’re not so bad when they shut up."