Chapter Text
Gojo wakes up before the alarm, eyes already open, staring at the ceiling. The air in his apartment is still, sterile, undisturbed. Everything in its place, untouched, waiting. The sheets beneath him are smooth, barely creased from sleep. He shifts onto his side, staring across the expanse of his bedroom, at the floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch across the entire north-facing wall. Outside, Tokyo is beginning to stir, silver-pink morning light spilling over the skyline, pooling onto his polished wood floors.
The apartment is too large for one person. It always has been.
A sprawling penthouse on the top floor, walls of glass, minimalist furniture that cost more than most people’s yearly salaries. Expensive rugs, imported from somewhere he doesn’t remember. A living room so big it echoes when he walks through it. The kind of space designed to impress, to entertain, but Gojo rarely has guests. No one ever really stays for more than a few hours.
He sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold beneath his feet.
The bathroom is just as sleek, just as pristine. Dark marble countertops. A mirror so large it reflects the entire room. He pisses with one hand braced against the wall, eyes half-lidded, movements slow, unhurried. The mirror catches him in an unflattering angle, his reflection thrown back at him from every direction. His hair is a mess, falling in loose strands over his forehead. His cheekbones are sharp, his jawline sharper, his eyes pale and unreadable. A face that doesn’t quite look real.
He turns away.
The gym is down the hall, tucked behind frosted glass doors. A private space, soundproofed, filled with state-of-the-art equipment he barely touches outside of the treadmill and the free weights. The treadmill is the only thing that makes sense in the mornings. He starts running at full speed, no warm-up, no easing into it, just the violent impact of his feet against the belt. The city outside wakes up around him. He watches the skyline shift, windows catching sunlight, the reflection of a million lives happening at once.
He runs until sweat soaks through his shirt, clings to his spine.
The shower is scalding. The heat scours away the tension in his shoulders, the stickiness of sweat, the lingering emptiness of another day. Steam thickens the air, fogs over the mirror, softens his reflection into something almost unrecognizable.
He wipes a hand across the glass, meets his own eyes in the hazy reflection. He looks the same as always. He tilts his head slightly, watching the movement of his own face.
Still here.
No breakfast. Food in the morning makes him feel off-balance, like his body and mind are moving at different speeds.
He dresses in muscle memory. Dark grey slacks. White button-up. A watch, silver and sleek, strapped around his wrist. White coat slung over one shoulder, keys in his hand. The apartment is silent as he walks through it, the soft sound of his footsteps swallowed by the expensive flooring.
The elevator doors close behind him with a hush of air. The descent is smooth, the numbers counting down in cold, impersonal light.
The lobby is quiet, apart from the sound of a receptionist answering a call, the faint clatter of someone typing. A woman near the entrance looks up from her phone as he passes, eyes flickering over him, then away, as if she wasn’t supposed to see him at all.
Outside, the city is already alive. Streets clogged with morning traffic, the rhythmic pulse of pedestrian crossings. The hum of movement, thousands of people weaving through each other without ever touching.
His car is waiting for him at the curb, sleek and black. He slides into the back seat, stretching out lazily as the door shuts behind him.
"Good morning, sir," the driver, Ijichi, says, merging smoothly into traffic.
Gojo hums in response, rolling his head against the headrest. Tokyo blurs past in streaks of glass and steel, subway lines threading through the city like veins, storefronts opening, salarymen moving with their heads down, lost in the hypnotic rhythm of routine.
It takes fifteen minutes to get to the hospital.
The building looms above the city streets, white and sterile, a beacon of order and efficiency. The glass doors slide open soundlessly as he steps inside, cool air washing over him. The scent of antiseptic is faint but ever-present.
The lobby is bright, polished floors reflecting overhead lighting. A woman in a pale blue uniform pushes a cart of files across the room. A man in a white coat hurries past, typing something on a tablet. There’s a deliberate precision to everything, a constant motion that makes the entire building feel like a living thing.
Utahime is at the front desk, flipping through a stack of files, chewing absently on the end of a pen.
"You didn’t eat again, did you?" she says without looking up.
Gojo grins, slow, stretching out a long yawn as he drops his bag onto the desk with a heavy thud. "Not hungry."
She sighs, reaching into the drawer, pulling out a neatly wrapped sandwich, and dropping it next to his bag. "You will be."
He nudges it with one finger, inspecting the contents through the plastic wrap. Egg salad. Utahime is predictable.
She watches him expectantly.
He doesn’t eat the sandwich.
His office is on the twelfth floor, a spacious room with a view of the city, a dark leather couch against one wall, a desk so clean it looks unused. There’s a potted plant in the corner that he’s never watered, but it hasn’t died yet. Maybe someone else waters it for him. He wouldn’t know.
He sinks into his chair, rolls his shoulders back, scans the schedule for the day. Two patients. Some paperwork. A meeting he will absolutely leave early.
The first patient arrives on time. He always does. Thirty-four, CEO of a startup that sells something pointless in expensive packaging. He has the look of someone who runs five miles every morning, who drinks smoothies made of things that shouldn’t be blended, like celery and broccoli, who only schedules breakdowns when they’re convenient.
"My father," he says, reclining on the couch like this is a badly written movie scene, "was always distant. I guess that’s why I—"
Gojo doesn’t sigh, but he wants to. He already knows where this is going. The same confession, dressed up in a slightly different suit. Some variation of Daddy didn’t love me or Mommy loved me too much. They always say it like it’s a revelation, like Gojo is supposed to lean forward and whisper my god, we’ve cracked it. Rich people always want their pain to be relevant instead of curable.
But Gojo plays along, because that’s the job. He nods in the right places, makes a sound of vague understanding, says, that must’ve been difficult even though it obviously wasn’t.
The session ends the way they always do. The man sighs, lighter now, like he’s done something meaningful. Like saying the words out loud means something has changed.
It hasn’t. But that’s not Gojo’s problem.
He believes in therapy. He really does. He’s seen it drag people out of the abyss, reshape them, save them. But not like this. Not in places like this, with people like this.
This isn’t therapy. It’s Xanax for the soul. A quick fix. A weekly appointment to clear the guilt before they go out and repeat the same mistakes.
By the time the heiress arrives, Gojo already knows how this will go.
Twenty years old. Painfully thin. More expensive jewellery than body weight. Makeup applied with precision but mascara already smudging under her eyes. A little unsteady when she sits down.
She cries within five minutes. He hands her a tissue.
"Let me guess," she says, voice thick, watery, but with a flicker of amusement beneath the sadness. "I have to want to get better, right?"
Gojo tilts his head, watching her.
She wipes at her eyes, laughs a little. "What if I don’t? What if I just want to be pitied?"
That. That’s the realest thing she’s said since she walked in.
The session continues. She talks, but Gojo can already see the shape of her future. She will not change. She will not get worse, either. She will stay in this limbo, preserved by wealth, sustained by routine. Pills when she needs them, rehab when things get out of hand, doctors like him to assure her that she is not the villain in her own life.
When she leaves, her perfume lingers on his sleeve. Sweet. Expensive. Forgettable.
The afternoon drags. Paperwork. A phone call from a hospital board member that he ignores.
By evening, he’s staring at the ceiling of his office, twirling a pen between his fingers, bored in the way that makes him want to die.
The fundraiser is at a hotel Gojo has been to before. One of those places with chandeliers the size of small planets, floors so polished they look wet, walls painted the kind of inoffensive beige that’s meant to make rich people feel relaxed. It smells like money and artificial citrus. It makes his teeth itch.
He steps out of the car, straightens his cuffs, runs a hand through his hair, and tilts his head back. The hotel looms above him, ridiculous and grand, all shining glass and the promise of mediocre hors d’oeuvres. He adjusts his tie. He hates wearing ties.
Inside, the event is already in full swing. A long banquet hall filled with round tables draped in white linen, each centrepiece a towering display of flowers that probably cost more than a week’s worth of therapy for an actual patient. There’s a stage at the front with a massive screen playing a sentimental slideshow of children smiling at their therapists, the words Together, We Can Make a Difference plastered over their tiny, hopeful faces.
A noble cause. A necessary cause. But Gojo knows exactly how these nights go. The real goal isn’t the clinic. It’s the people in the room, the networking, the tax write-offs, the self-congratulation.
The air is thick with expensive perfume and the sound of people who love to hear themselves talk.
He barely has time to take a breath before a champagne flute is shoved into his hand. Shoko.
"You’re late," she says, already halfway through her own glass.
"You’re drunk," he counters, taking a sip.
"Not yet. Give it an hour." She scans the crowd like she’s looking for the fastest way to escape.
Gojo turns his head and immediately spots Nanami. He’s standing near the stage, already in conversation with someone who actually cares about where the money is going. Stiff posture, unreadable face, listening carefully. Occasionally, he nods. Occasionally, he adjusts his cufflinks. His entire existence is a silent fuck-you to everyone in this room.
And then there’s Suguru.
Suguru is across the hall, deep in conversation with a circle of admirers. He isn’t even speaking that loudly, but they’re all hanging on to every word, tilting their heads toward him, nodding along like he’s saying something truly profound instead of whatever soothing nonsense he’s stringing together for effect.
Suguru always knew how to work a crowd.
Gojo could talk circles around people. Suguru made them want to listen.
"You gonna actually do anything tonight," Shoko asks, tilting her glass toward him, "or are you just gonna stand around looking expensive?"
Gojo grins, raising his glass in mock toast. "I’m here, aren’t I?"
Shoko sighs, already bored of him. She downs the rest of her champagne, makes a vague hand gesture, and disappears into the crowd.
Gojo lets himself drift. He shakes hands. Offers a few polite nods. Listens to someone drone on about tax incentives for corporate donations. There’s a silent, universal agreement among these people that philanthropy only counts if everyone sees you doing it.
Someone catches his elbow.
"You look like you’d rather be anywhere else," Suguru murmurs, handing him another glass of champagne.
"I couldn’t say the same about you."
Suguru’s smile is small, amused. "I enjoy watching people convince themselves they’re doing something meaningful."
Gojo takes a slow sip, letting the bubbles fizz against his tongue. "You don’t think this is meaningful?"
Suguru hums, glancing toward the stage where a woman is giving a speech about expanding psychiatric services for at-risk children.
"The idea of it, sure. But you know how this goes. They give just enough to feel good about themselves, not enough to actually fix the problem."
Gojo leans in slightly, lowering his voice. "Doesn’t stop you from taking their money, though."
Suguru’s smile widens. "No, it doesn’t."
A server walks past with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Gojo plucks a tiny, delicate tart off the platter and examines it. Some kind of caviar situation. Some kind of gold leaf bullshit. He pops it into his mouth. It tastes like absolutely nothing.
Suguru watches him chew with mild interest. "Good?"
"Tastes like it wants to piss me off even more."
The night moves forward. There are speeches, polite applause, carefully orchestrated moments designed to tug at the right emotions. A montage plays on the screen. A compilation of therapy sessions, progress stories, before-and-after narratives.
Gojo watches, expression unreadable.
He believes in therapy. He really does. Children should have access to care. Mental health shouldn’t be for those who can pay for it.
But that’s not how it works, is it?
At the end of the night, they will count the donations, and it will be enough to expand the clinic, maybe, but not enough to fix the system.
Nanami finds him before he leaves. "You didn’t even pretend to participate."
Gojo smiles, stretching slightly. "I was here. That counts for something."
Nanami exhales through his nose, unimpressed. "You could be doing more."
Gojo tilts his head. "So could you."
Nanami doesn’t argue. Just adjusts his cufflinks and walks away.
Suguru appears again, hands in his pockets, amusement in his eyes. "He worries about you, you know."
Gojo grins. "He disapproves of me. That’s different."
Gojo watches Suguru over the rim of his glass, smirks faintly, then sets the drink down without finishing it.
“I should go.”
Suguru raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”
Gojo checks his phone again. No taxis nearby. The ones that are available are stuck in some endless loop of late-night pickups, and the thought of standing around waiting for one to crawl its way through traffic makes his skin itch. He exhales sharply through his nose and shoves the phone back into his pocket.
Fine. The train, then.
The city is still awake, pulsing with neon and movement. People stumble out of bars in loose groups, laughter bouncing off the buildings, car doors slamming shut. Somewhere down the street, a vending machine hums, spitting out canned coffee to a man in a wrinkled suit. Everything smells like rain, asphalt, and distant cigarette smoke.
Gojo walks without hurry, hands in his pockets, head tipped back just slightly, watching the way the streetlights smear against the damp pavement. Tokyo at night is its own kind of creature. A living thing, breathing in people, exhaling them back out into its arteries, shifting and restless. He likes it better this way, when the sharp edges of the day have been softened by alcohol, fatigue, regret about every single choice he has ever made.
The train station is quiet in the way that only late-night places can be.
Gojo steps onto the platform, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking lazily over the space.
A businessman leans against a pillar, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed focus of someone who has accepted his life is nothing but work and exhaustion. A woman in a long coat stands by the vending machines, sipping green tea, shifting from foot to foot like she’s trying to stay awake. A group of university students slump on a bench, whispering in low voices, heads close together.
Everything normal. Everything normal.
Then he sees him.
A boy.
Something about him is wrong.
Not obvious. Not on the nose.
But Gojo notices. He notices. He notices.
He’s standing close to the edge. Too close. Gojo notices.
The platform has barriers, thick glass partitions with automatic doors that only open when the train arrives. A safety measure, a final barrier between impulse and death.
But the boy is watching them like he’s already worked out how to get past them.
He isn’t standing in front of the doors like the other passengers waiting for the train. He’s standing off to the side, near the gap where the maintenance workers slip through when they need to check the tracks.
One smooth movement, one quick decision, and he could be over the railing, on the other side of the barrier, standing where no one is supposed to stand. And then, a second later, he wouldn’t be standing at all. He would be dead.
Gojo tilts his head slightly, watching.
The boy’s posture is wrong. His weight is tilted slightly forward, like a marionette waiting for the final cut of its strings. His hands are shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that’s too big for him, the sleeves pulled down far enough to hide his wrists. There’s a bruise high on his cheekbone, dark and sharp against pale skin, fading yellow and green along the edges.
No phone. No headphones. Not waiting. Just standing.
And then there’s his face.
Empty.
Not the blank kind of empty. Not a mask of composure.
This is the emptiness of a place that has already been abandoned.
A space where something used to live. Something that isn’t there anymore. A place that was robbed and is now empty.
The tracks vibrate. A distant hum grows louder.
The train is coming.
The boy still doesn’t move.
Gojo watches, waiting to see if anyone else will notice.
No one does. No one ever fucking does.
The businessman rubs his eyes, sighs, keeps scrolling. Always those damn phones. The students are too wrapped up in their conversation to even glance up.
No one sees the boy.
No one sees that he’s already somewhere else.
That he is gone.
The train’s headlights carve through the dark tunnel, rushing toward the platform.
The boy leans forward.
It’s slight. Barely anything at all.
Not a stumble. Not an accident. A decision.
Gojo moves.
A hand around the wrist. A sharp tug.
The boy jerks back, eyes snapping to Gojo’s face.
The train thunders past, rattling the platform, wind roaring against them. The glass barriers shudder slightly from the force.
The automatic doors embedded in the partitions slide open with a mechanical hiss. Passengers step on, step off, shuffling around them. The world keeps moving.
Gojo doesn’t let go.
The boy isn’t panicked. Not shocked, not angry, not anything.
His pulse is steady beneath Gojo’s fingertips. He wasn’t afraid when he leaned forward. He isn’t afraid now.
Gojo tilts his head. "You shouldn’t do that."
The boy blinks slowly, as if considering this. Then, voice quiet, flat—
"Why not?"
Gojo studies him, fingers still loosely curled around his wrist. He could say the obvious things. Because you’ll die. Because someone will have to clean up the mess you leave behind. Because it’s not worth it. You will traumatise the poor guy who is unlucky enough to drive this train?
Instead, he exhales through his nose and smiles.
"Bad for your health," he says lightly.
The train doors beep, warning that they’re about to close.
Gojo finally lets go of his wrist. "Come on," he says, stepping back. "You owe me a coffee."
The boy doesn’t move, doesn’t answer.
Gojo tilts his head. "Unless you’ve got somewhere else to be?"
Something flickers behind the boy’s eyes. Annoyance, maybe. Or exhaustion. He exhales through his nose, mouth pressing into a thin line.
Then, finally—
"Fine."
Gojo grins, easy.
He turns toward the stairs. The boy follows.
The nearest conbini is just outside the station, wedged between a shuttered dry cleaner and a ramen shop still pulling in drunk salarymen. Fluorescent lighting hums overhead, buzzing faintly against the quiet of the street. The glass doors slide open as they step inside, washing them in the familiar scent of artificial warmth - fried chicken under heat lamps, instant broth, industrial-strength disinfectant.
Gojo heads straight for the fridge, sliding it open with one hand, the cold air prickling against his skin. He grabs two canned coffees without asking if the boy wants one. The kid doesn’t look like he drinks coffee, but it doesn’t matter. This isn’t a democracy.
"Pick something," Gojo says, nodding toward the shelves. "Food too."
He doesn’t move immediately. He stands by the entrance, hands deep in the pocket of his hoodie, shoulders tense in a way Gojo recognizes.
Not hesitation. Survival instinct.
He isn’t looking at the food. He’s scanning the store. The exits. The security cameras. The people. Gojo.
Gojo pops the tab on his coffee, the quiet hiss loud between them. "What, never been to a conbini before?"
The boy scoffs, finally stepping forward. "That’s not funny."
Gojo smirks, watching as he slowly scans the shelves. He moves like someone waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like any second now, Gojo is going to say just kidding, or pay me back later.
He picks up an onigiri, then hesitates before grabbing another.
Gojo plucks a third one off the shelf and tosses it into the basket. "You’re small. Eat more."
The kid glares at him like he’s considering throwing one at Gojo’s face. That would be funny.
At the register, Gojo taps his card against the reader, the beep loud in the quiet store. He glances at him, who shifts uncomfortably, like he’s waiting for Gojo to say you’ll pay me back, right?
But Gojo doesn’t. He just grabs the bag, walks through the door, and steps outside.
They sit on a low concrete ledge by the store, the conbini lights bathing them in sterile white.
Gojo hands over the bag, then stretches his arms over his head, popping his neck. "So? You gonna ask?"
The boy peels back the plastic on his onigiri, not looking at him. "Ask what?"
Gojo grins, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "Anything. You’ve been staring at me like you’re trying to figure something out."
He chews, swallows. "Where were you coming from?"
Gojo tilts his head back, stretching slightly. "A fundraiser."
He raises an eyebrow. "For what?"
"Psychiatric care for kids."
He blinks once. Then exhales through his nose. "Funny."
Gojo grins. "I thought so too."
The boy doesn’t answer right away. He just looks down at the ground, thumb brushing idly over the plastic of his onigiri wrapper.
Gojo watches him for a moment, then takes another sip of coffee. "What about you?"
The kid glances up, suspicious. "What about me?"
"What were you doing at the station?"
A pause. Not stiff, not panicked. Just flat.
Like he’s already decided the conversation is over.
Gojo doesn’t push. He just tips his coffee toward the boy’s food. "Not bad, huh?"
He shrugs, chewing slowly. "Could be worse."
Gojo grins, leaning back on one hand. "That’s the spirit."
He stares at him like he’s an idiot or a lunatic. Which is fair.
Gojo crumples his empty coffee can in one hand, the aluminium folding in on itself with a dull crunch. He tilts his head back, eyes flicking over the sky, over the artificial glow of Tokyo. Too many buildings, too much light. No stars.
The kid is still working on his second onigiri, eating slow, like he’s not used to eating in front of people. Like he’s waiting for Gojo to tell him that’s enough.
Gojo pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls through his contacts until he finds Ijichi. He taps the call button, lifts the phone to his ear.
A beat of silence. Then, a tired, resigned voice:
"Sir."
Gojo grins. "You sound happy to hear from me."
A sigh. Not even subtle. "It’s nearly one in the morning."
"Is it?" Gojo checks his watch. "Huh. Time flies."
"What do you need?"
Gojo glances at the boy, who’s pretending not to listen. "Come pick me up."
A pause. Then, carefully, "You’re still at the fundraiser?"
Gojo laughs. "Not even close."
"Of course." Ijichi sounds like he’s reconsidering his entire career. "Where are you?"
Gojo glances at the conbini sign, then leans back against the ledge. "You know the Family Mart near Ginza Station? The one with the vending machines out front?"
"Unfortunately."
"Meet me there."
Ijichi exhales like he’s been holding it in all day. "Ten minutes."
The call disconnects.
Gojo pockets his phone and glances at the kid, who’s still peeling at the edges of his food wrapper, gaze fixed on the ground. Like he’s thinking. Or deciding.
"You don’t have to come," Gojo says, stretching his arms overhead, his voice light. "But if you don’t, you’ll be sleeping on concrete, I guess. And, you know… bad for your health."
He tenses just slightly. A flicker of something behind his eyes.
Then he exhales, shoves the rest of his onigiri into his mouth, and mutters through a bite, "I’m coming.”
Gojo grins.
Ten minutes later, Ijichi pulls up to the curb in a sleek black car. He steps out and immediately does a double take at the boy. His eyes flick to Gojo, to the kid’s too-thin frame, the bruises, the oversized hoodie. Then back to Gojo.
Gojo claps a hand to Ijichi’s shoulder, beaming. "Relax. I didn’t steal him."
Ijichi does not look relaxed. He opens the car door anyway.
The kid hesitates for half a second, then ducks inside.
Gojo slides in beside him, stretching his legs out comfortably as Ijichi settles into the driver’s seat.
"Home, sir?"
Gojo hums. "Yeah. Home."
The car pulled away without ceremony, its lights disappearing into the sleepy hush of the city. Gojo stood for a moment outside the building, rolling his shoulders back, then glanced to his left, where the boy was still standing, still holding the same unreadable posture he’d worn since the station.
No comment. Not even a flicker of reaction. Just those blank eyes turned upward, staring at the building like it might swallow him whole.
“Come on,” Gojo said. “It’s even uglier on the inside.”
He didn’t wait for him to follow, but the soft tread of sneakers followed him through the automatic doors a moment later.
The lobby of the tower was the kind of place designed for people who liked the idea of luxury but hated the evidence of actual life. Cold lighting. Big empty spaces. Polished marble that looked like it had never once been walked on by a person with dirty shoes. A cluster of chairs in the corner, none of them ever used.
The concierge didn’t bother to lift his head. Gojo liked it that way.
They stepped into the elevator, which smelled faintly like disinfectant and plastic, and Gojo jabbed the button for the top floor with one finger.
"Penthouse," he said. "I thought it would make me feel something when I bought it. I was wrong. But the ceilings are high, so I can pretend I’m in a church if I ever get religious."
The kid said nothing. Didn’t shift. Didn’t react.
The elevator moved silently. Gojo took the opportunity to fix his hair in the mirrored wall.
When the doors opened, the apartment was waiting. Massive and soulless.
Floor-to-ceiling windows on the north side, city lights flickering like insects outside. Open floor plan, all low furniture and neutral tones and an expensive emptiness that was almost violent.
It looked like a rich person’s version of sanity.
Gojo stepped out and toed off his shoes, letting them fall where they may. “Watch your step,” he said, not turning around. “The feng shui here is hostile.”
No footsteps followed. Then, slowly, eventually, they did.
Gojo moved through the space, waving one hand at a cluster of furniture in the centre of the vast living room. “That’s the couch. I don’t use it. Too low to the ground. Makes me feel like a rodent.”
He passed a tall potted plant in the corner. “That’s fake. The real one died. I liked it better dead, honestly. Had more personality.”
He opened a door off the hallway. “Guest room number one. Identical to two and three. This one has the least natural light, so obviously it’s my favourite. You can sleep here or pick a different one. Or don’t sleep. Free country.”
He opened the closet with a lazy flourish, pulled out a towel, an old t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants that looked a little too big, and an unopened toothbrush in its sterile plastic wrap. These he dropped on the bed with no ceremony.
“There’s also socks. I don’t know why. It felt hospitable.”
He didn’t check to see if the boy had come to the doorway. He didn’t need to. The boy was there. Quiet as wallpaper.
Back in the hallway, Gojo passed another door. “That’s my room. Don’t go in there unless you want to be disappointed.”
He walked back into the main room, the soft buzz of the refrigerator the only sound. The kitchen was minimalist, matte black everything, a countertop that could be used for surgery, and no evidence of cooking.
He opened the fridge. Inside: three rows of canned coffee, one half-full or half-empty, depending on the mindset, bottle of white wine, a suspicious lemon, and a single plastic container that had been there long enough to become a philosophical entity to Gojo.
Gojo pulled out two cans of coffee, cracked one open, and set the other on the counter.
“This is the kitchen,” he said. “As you can see, it’s thriving. If you’re hungry, there’s rice in the cupboard. Maybe. I can’t promise it’s not from before you were born.”
He took a sip, leaned his hip against the counter. Looked at the boy for the first time in a while. He had stopped just past the living room, standing like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be here or had been brought as part of the furniture.
Gojo tilted his head toward the hallway. “If you’re hungry later and you don’t want to gamble on my rice, order something. There’s cash under the tray by the door.”
He didn’t respond at first. Just looked at him, still and deliberate. Like he was trying to decide whether or not he was hearing things.
“There’s a delivery app on the iPad in the drawer. The code is one two three four, creative I know,” Gojo added. “You can figure it out. You don’t strike me as helpless.”
“Why would you tell me that?”
Gojo tilted his head. “So you don’t starve, obviously.”
“No,” he said, a little sharper now. “Why would you tell me where your money is?”
Gojo looked over at him, eyebrows raised like he genuinely didn’t understand the question. “In case you need it?”
“You don’t even know who I am. You… you don’t know me.”
Gojo shrugged. “So what?”
The boy’s voice was low but steady. “What if I took it?”
“The cash?” Gojo asked. “Take it. All of it.”
Gojo blinked, then gave the faintest shrug. “There’s not that much there. Maybe thirty, forty thousand yen. If you need more, I’ll give you more.”
That got a pause.
The boy’s fingers curled slightly around the can of coffee. He hadn’t opened it.
“I’m not being generous,” Gojo said, picking invisible lint off the hem of his sleeve. “I just have money. That’s the whole trick. You grow up with it, and eventually, you stop noticing where it goes. You don’t have to think about it because everything replaces itself.”
He didn’t sound proud. He didn’t sound guilty either. Just bored. Honest.
“I don’t care if you steal from me because I wouldn’t notice. Not really. The card bills get paid automatically. There’s always more in the account. The fridge restocks itself. My lawyer handles the taxes. The money lives its own life. I’m just in the house with it.”
The kid was staring at him. Hard. But still not saying anything.
“I’m not testing you,” Gojo said. “I don’t need to. You can take what you want, or you can leave it. It doesn’t mean anything to me either way. If you need it, I want you to have it.”
He opened a drawer, pulled out a folded envelope, and tossed it on the counter like it was a used napkin. It landed soft. You could see the edge of cash inside. “That’s ten times what’s by the door. In case you’re feeling ambitious.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was taut.
The boy didn’t touch the envelope.
“You don’t understand,” he said finally.
“No,” Gojo said. “I don’t.”
He leaned against the counter, watching the boy with the same loose, absent posture he used with bored patients and self-important surgeons. “But I do know that money’s not sacred. It’s not a reward for being good. It just exists. And some people are born with it, and some people have to beg for it, and some people get it too late.”
He picked up the empty can of coffee and spun it once in his hand.
“You think taking a handful of cash from me would make you a thief,” Gojo said. “It wouldn’t. No matter how much you would take from me, it wouldn’t make you a thief.”
His didn’t look away. His mouth was a tight line.
“You shouldn’t have brought me here,” he said.
Gojo tossed the can into the sink with a hollow clatter. “Probably not.”
Another long stretch of quiet.
Then: “I don’t owe you anything.”
“That is true. I’m glad you know that.”
He pushed off the counter, stretched once, bones cracking in his back.
“I’m gonna shower before I start giving you stock tips or start quoting Hegel.”
He turned toward the hallway, then stopped. Glanced back.
“What’s your name, anyway?”
A pause. Then, with no inflection: “Megumi.”
Gojo nodded once. “Satoru.”
Megumi raised an eyebrow. “The driver called you Gojo.”
Gojo smirked. “He’s the only one who’s not allowed to call me by my first name. Union rules.”
The corner of Megumi’s mouth twitched. Almost a reaction. Then stillness again.
Gojo turned fully now, heading down the hall.
“Oh and Megumi?”
The boy’s head lifted just slightly.
“If you’re going to steal something, take the tiger statue by the TV. It’s real gold.”
And then Gojo disappeared into the quiet, dim hallway, leaving the envelope on the counter and Megumi still standing in the kitchen, coffee unopened in his hand.
Gojo came out of the hallway towelling off his hair, steam still clinging faintly to his shoulders. The towel around his waist was crooked, one edge tucked with vague intention. He looked sleep-heavy already, skin flushed from the heat.
Megumi hadn’t moved. Still in the kitchen. Still gripping the coffee can like it might give him directions.
Gojo didn’t press it. He just spoke like he was continuing a conversation they’d never really started.
“I left you some stuff in the bathroom,” he said. “Shirt, underwear, socks. It’s clean. Big, but it’ll work.”
He gestured loosely down the hall. “Bathroom’s at the end. Last door on the left. It connects to my room, but you don’t need to go through there, it opens from the hall too.”
He paused, leaned a little on the doorframe. “I won’t come in through my side. Swear. Door stays shut.”
A beat. No response.
Gojo scratched the back of his neck, blinking like the lights were too bright now. “Towel’s already in there. Shampoo’s basic. Don’t judge me.”
Still nothing from Megumi.
“Or don’t shower. Live dangerously.” He gave the barest shrug. “I’m going to bed either way.”
And with that, he turned and walked down the hallway again, towel slipping just slightly as he disappeared.
A bedroom door opened. Closed.
Gojo woke with the sense of being watched.
There was no sound. No movement. Just that dense, airless kind of quiet that builds right before something happens or after something already has.
He blinked once. Then again.
The digital clock glared from the nightstand.
4:03 a.m.
He turned his head.
Megumi was standing beside the bed.
Not near it. Not across the room. Right beside it.
Gojo didn’t flinch. He didn’t sit up. His voice came out low and dry, like he hadn’t fully returned to his body yet.
“Well,” he murmured, “either I’m still dreaming or you’ve got dramatic timing.”
Megumi didn’t say anything. He just stood there.
He was barefoot, wearing the oversized shirt Gojo had left out for him, sleeves hanging longer than they would on Gojo, the fabric brushing the tops of his knees. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, still holding the warmth of the shower.
Had he just showered?
But it wasn’t his posture, or the silence, or even the hour that made Gojo fully wake.
It was his arms.
The t-shirt was long but not long enough to hide his skin. Pale, bruised, marked. Not fresh injuries, not all of them. Some of the bruises had that old green-yellow bloom at the edges. A few were newer: dark, harsh, blooming like ink under the skin.
And the cuts. They weren’t accidental.
Not chaotic scratches from a fall, not something scraped or torn in passing. Deliberate, straight lines. Sharp tool. Controlled hand. Some of them shallow and half-healed, some deep and jagged, left to close on their own. One near the elbow had split so wide it should’ve been stitched. It hadn’t been. It was scarring wrong.
Gojo took it all in without blinking. Just a long, clinical sweep of observation – the way he’d looked at a thousand patients before this one.
No alarm. No pity.
Just information.
Megumi didn’t try to hide them. Didn’t seem to notice they were visible. He stood at the side of the bed like he belonged there, face unreadable, eyes dull.
No sound had marked his entrance. The floor hadn’t creaked. The door hadn’t clicked. He’d just… appeared.
Gojo’s voice came out low and flat, like he was still somewhere between sleep and thought.
“Well. This is a little intense for a first sleepover.”
Megumi didn’t speak for a moment.
Then:
“You said you didn’t care if I stole from you.”
“I did.”
“What if I killed you?”
Gojo sat up slightly, blanket falling to his waist. The room was dark but not silent. The hum of the city behind the windows made everything feel strangely suspended.
“Would that make you feel in control?”
Megumi blinked. Not fast. Just once, slow.
“Would it give you a sense of power?” Gojo’s voice was quiet now, not mocking. Not even curious. Professional. Detached. Like he was in a session.
“Because if that’s what you’re after, there are cleaner ways to get it. Ways that don’t stain the sheets.”
Megumi’s gaze didn’t shift.
Megumi didn’t blink.
Gojo’s eyes drifted once more to the boy’s arms. Then back to his face.
“You wouldn’t be the first person who thought destruction was a kind of agency.”
Still no answer.
Gojo leaned back against the headboard.
“Would killing me make you feel real? Like you’re in your body again?”
The question sat between them. Undisturbed.
Megumi didn’t move. But Gojo could feel the weight shifting. That tension in the room when a thought is trying to become a decision.
“You’re not afraid of me,” Megumi said, finally.
“No,” Gojo said. “Because you’re not really here to hurt me.”
That seemed to hang in the air like dust.
“You can stand there,” Gojo said. “You can sleep here. You can go and you can come back. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be here.”
Then: “You’re thinking about hurting someone not out of rage, but out of confusion. An impulse to make it make sense. Be on the other side for once.”
Megumi stayed a second longer. Maybe two.
Then turned.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
Gojo stared at the ceiling. Eyes open. Awake.
The silence afterward wasn’t peaceful.
It was observational.
The sun was already bleeding across the living room by the time Gojo heard the soft shuffle of feet behind him.
He didn’t turn.
He sipped his iced coffee, staring out over the city with the kind of look that implied deep reflection but meant nothing at all.
Behind him, the floor creaked once. Then silence.
Gojo glanced toward the kitchen table. “Hope you like breakfast. I bought the entire store.”
No answer. But the chair pulled out.
There were two trays laid out. Rice balls, miso soup, tamagoyaki, those sad little fruit cups that always tasted like the plastic they came in. Enough variety to cover most preferences. Gojo had pointed randomly and doubled the order. The cashier had looked vaguely alarmed.
He sat across from Megumi, who had taken the onigiri closest to him but hadn’t unwrapped it yet.
Gojo picked up his chopsticks and gestured loosely toward the food. “Don’t make me eat both meals. I already look suspiciously healthy.”
Megumi started eating eventually. Quietly. Mechanically. No eye contact. No small talk. Gojo didn’t push.
The apartment was too bright for how strange the night had been. Almost aggressively normal. Tokyo buzzed faintly behind the glass, distant traffic and light. The city had already moved on.
Gojo finished his soup. Rubbed a napkin across his mouth. Tossed it gently onto the tray.
“I’ve got work in a bit,” he said, standing. “Gotta go be respectable for the hospital board.”
A pause. Then, quietly: “What do you do?”
Gojo looked down at him, unsurprised. He gave a short, amused huff. “I’m a psychiatrist.”
Megumi’s gaze flicked up, just briefly. Gojo raised an eyebrow.
“I know. It’s always disappointing when I say it out loud.”
He crossed to the counter and grabbed his wallet, slipping it into the pocket of his coat.
“Good that you bring it up, though,” he added. “Because I’ve been thinking.”
“You can stay here,” Gojo said. “For as long as you want.”
He didn’t say it dramatically. He said it like he was offering a drink of water.
“Rent-free. No strings. I’ll take care of everything. Food, clothes, whatever you need. I don’t care.”
He let the pause hang just long enough to register.
“But,” he added, “there’s one condition. So, one string after all, huh?”
He set his coffee down, straightened his sleeves.
“One hour. Today is… Thursday? Okay. Every Thursday night. You sit down and talk to me. Doesn’t matter if you say two words or two hundred, but you show up. You stay for the hour. You don’t get to disappear. We do this for as long as I find necessary.”
Across the table, Megumi didn’t respond. He hadn’t touched his soup.
Gojo studied him for a moment, then nodded slightly, as if confirming something to himself.
“If you’re still here when I get home tonight,” he said, slipping on his shoes, “that means you agree. And I expect you to honour your agreements.”
No smile. No joke.
He grabbed his keys, coat, and sunglasses.
“The passcode’s always the same,” he added, already halfway out the door. “Don’t steal the wine unless you really need it. It’s for the nights, when I cry myself to sleep.”
And then he was gone.
The lock clicked behind him.