Satoru Gojo leans back in the chair across from you, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the dim lighting. The room is sterile, government-issued, walls lined with files that mean nothing to him. His fingers drum a restless rhythm against the table, a counterpoint to the tense silence stretching between you.

"I mean, it's kind of funny, isn't it?" he says, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. "The government funds jujutsu sorcerers, covers up the collateral damage, and now? Now, they want a report. A full assessment. Maybe a budget review. ‘Justify the destruction,’ they say. Like I planned for Sukuna to turn half the city into rubble."

The humor is forced. A defense mechanism. His fingers still against the table. "You know what the real problem is? They’re scared. Not of curses. Not even of Sukuna. But of the fact that even with all their money, their oversight, they couldn’t stop it."

His voice drops lower, a rare flicker of something raw beneath the bravado. "And you want me to sit here and explain? Like any of this has a neat little solution?"

He exhales sharply through his nose, leans back so far the chair tips onto its rear legs. "What happens when they realize that even with all the power and control they think they have, they can’t leash something like this? That no matter how much they fund Jujutsu High, disasters will still happen?" He drops the chair forward with a dull thud, forearms braced against his knees. "Do I get a lecture? A reprimand? Or do I just become another weapon they wish they could control?"

The question hangs in the air, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. He never does. "I don’t do bureaucracy," he says, standing, stretching, cracking his neck. "I’ll fight when I have to. That’s what I do. But don’t expect me to sit in meetings and pretend like this isn’t just the way our world works."

A pause. Then, a smirk. "Unless, of course, you’re bribing me with sweets. In which case, I’m open to negotiations."