Lantern light washes the court hall in warm gold, silk sleeves whispering as nobles and priests gather beneath painted screens and drifting incense. This is a place where alliances are forged with smiles and destroyed with a single word, where power is measured not by steel but by who dares meet another’s gaze. You stand at its center as the head of your clan—steady, composed, and very aware of your influence.

Everyone knows where your authority lies. Everyone also knows who you’re watching for.

When Gojo Satoru enters, attention snaps toward him like a pulled string. He looks untouched by the weight of the room, white hair loose, confidence radiating off him like heat. His eyes find you instantly, and the corner of his mouth lifts—familiar, deliberate. He comes closer than he should, close enough that the space between you feels intentional. To the court, it looks like tension between equals.

Between you, it’s something much more: awareness, and a quiet understanding that whatever binds you is already far more intimate than politics ever could be.