Chapter Text
"And... cut!" The director’s voice cracked through the studio. "That’s a wrap, folks."
Satoru exhaled hard, feeling his soul leave his body for a moment. The tension in his shoulders dropped, he relaxed his back as he briefly considered lying face-down on the floor and refusing to get up ever again.
He wiped the fake blood off his cheek with the back of his veiny hand, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the harsh studio lights.
“Shit,” he snorted. “That was basically cardio. Y'all count that as my workout for the week.”
Before he could fully process being alive, the producer materialized beside him like an overcaffeinated fairy godmother.
“Satoruuu! Amazinggg” he chirped, practically vibrating. That man was way too cheerful for someone who’d been on set for fourteen hours. He was glued to the playback monitor, watching Satoru get metaphorically and literally beat up in HD. A weirdly dirty thought crossed Satoru’s mind, don’t ask, but he kept that shit locked up for everyone’s safety.
“Man, seriously. You’re unreal! I can’t tell if you're just incredibly talented or hot. Probably both!”
Satoru stared at him, raising an eyebrow.
“Bro,” he groaned, rubbing his face, “don’t start glazing me right now. I don’t know if I need to sleep first or take a giant shit, either way I’m seconds from shutting down.”
The producer nodded enthusiastically, not listening at all. “No, but really, your expressions? Chef’s kiss. The camera LOVES you.”
“Yeah,” Satoru muttered, dragging his hand through his hair, “the camera loves me so much it should at least buy me lunch first.”
The producer laughed like Satoru had told the funniest joke in human history.
Then he clapped him on the back, too hard, because the man had zero sense of personal space or human pain thresholds.
“You know,” he continued, “we should post a behind-the-scenes shot! Maybe one with Suguru? Fans eat your chemistry up. It’s incredible.”
Satoru closed his eyes. Counted to three. Considered committing a mild crime.
“Yeah, amazing,” he replied dryly. “Can’t wait to log onto Twitter and see someone write a 12-part fan theory about how I blinked in Morse code at him.”
“Oh! Great idea,” the producer said, clearly not understanding sarcasm at all. “We should TOTALLY have you two do that trending couple dance together…”
“A dance? With Suguru?” Satoru barked out a laugh.
The producer just beamed.
Satoru looked at the ceiling. God, take me now.
“Yeah, we’ve talked about this already,” Satoru was running out of patience at this point. His voice came out tired enough to legally qualify as a sigh. “I’m not gonna start dating Suguru just because some freaky ass fans wanna live out their fantasies.”
The producer didn’t even blink.
“Look,” he said, clasping his hands together like he was pitching world peace, “you don’t have to actually date him if you don’t want, of course. We just need a little something to stir the pot, you know? Give the people a taste. A hint. A crumb of chaos. The fans will combust, engagement will skyrocket. Boom. Instant numbers.”
Satoru stared at him, jaw flexing.
“I said no.”
The director jumped in, not even hiding the annoyance.
“It’s seriously not that deep, man. Just kiss him a couple times in public, that’s it. Maybe let someone ‘accidentally’ catch you two sharing a dessert or some shit. Sit close on a couch. It’s all smoke and mirrors. You know this game.”
Satoru lifted a hand pressing it to his face with a long sigh:
“No,” he repeated, slow and firm, like he was talking to toddlers. “Not happening.”
The producer let out the world’s most dramatic groan, throwing his arms up like Satoru had just personally ruined Christmas.
“Dude, you won’t even agree to do romantic scenes,” he complained. “Do you understand how many people would sell their left lung to see you do that? Your face is literally money. We’re sitting on gold here, and you’re acting like it’s radioactive.”
Satoru blinked at him. “Maybe I don’t wanna make out with random people on camera for views. Ever think of that? And i can’t…”
His face turned slightly red, but not with anger this time. More like the color of someone who’s just realized they’re about to get roasted alive. He glanced away, clearly uncomfortable.
“I can’t… I can’t kiss someone if I don’t feel it, alright?” he muttered, voice muffled by the hoodie. “It’s fucking weird. Like… super weird.”
The director threw his head back and groaned as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“Then just get someone, you dumbass! Is this really rocket science?”
“It ain’t simple either!” Satoru snapped, rubbing the back of his neck like he could physically knead the frustration out of his muscles. “Do you know how exhausting it is to fake romantic chemistry for a living? If you don’t know then the answer is that it’s hell.”
The producer scoffed like Satoru had just insulted the very air he breathed.
“Man, just go out, flex your biceps, flash that million-dollar smile. Instant line of girls waiting for you. Easy. Trust me.”
Satoru muttered something under his breath, but it was too quiet for them to hear. Still, his glare screamed “I hate all of you” loud enough for the studio walls to feel it.
The manager, who had been quietly simmering in the background, finally snapped.
“Look, I don’t give a flying fuck what your hang-ups are!” he barked, stepping forward. “You better find yourself someone, Homo sapiens preferably, by the end of this month. Or I swear, I will personally yank you off the next project. Got it?”
“I can’t just…”
“That’s not my problem,” the producer interrupted him, waving one hand dismissively as if swatting at an annoying fly. “None of these suits are gonna keep signing off on your ridiculous terms. ‘No kissing, no touching, no intimate scenes’ blah blah blah. You’re making literally everyone’s lives a living hell. So get your act together, Satoru, or the studio will take over your public image and, trust me, it won’t be pretty.”
Satoru felt the blood pulsating in his ears. He curled his hands into tight fists, trying not to lose his mind but not doing a great job.
“Fuck y’all,” he spat and spun on his heel, marching toward the door, snatching his coat from the nearby chair.
“And where the hell are you going?” The director yelled after him, voice dripping with faux indignation.
“I’m going to lunch. Unless I need a girlfriend just to approve that now too.” And without waiting for an answer he shoved the door open with extra force, letting it slam behind him.
Satoru stomped on the pavement furiously, as if he was trying to crush his frustration out of the concrete. His head was swirling with thoughts, smashing into each other too quickly, too loudly, but none of them yielding him an escape route. Not a damn solution in sight. The icy wind iced his cheeks and he pulsed a low, “Fuck this shit too,” while pulling up his hoodie collar.
Out here on the busy floor in a human throng where no one had any real interest in him as an actual person, only the star, pretty version of himself, he felt naked and defenseless. He might just as well have been some massive walking ad, a billboard for the latest and greatest to be used and tossed, or a garish accessory that people couldn’t wait to snap a selfie with.
God, how the fuck did I end up in this shit?
Acting used to be about passion. About characters, emotion, stories. He wanted to step into someone else’s shoes, not into some ridiculous PR circus. Now everything was about engagement, marketability, clickbait, and feeding the fanbase like they were wild animals.
And his producer? That asshole kept treating him like some shiny toy.
“Satoru, you have to smile more! And touch your hair! Abs now! Wink!”
He had literally blinked at the man and said, “That’s… that’s just me existing. I already do that.”
But the producer didn’t care.
To them, Satoru probably wasn't a person, just a product. A walking serotonin machine for teenage girls. And yeah, Satoru liked popularity, he wasn’t gonna pretend he didn’t enjoy being admired. But he liked it on his own terms. Not when people shoved him into situations the real him would never touch.
He let out a humorless laugh.
Like when they told him to “accidentally” spill his drink on his co-star so they could have a “cute moment.”
He’d stared at the director and deadpanned, “Do I look five years old to you?”
But the worst part was the whole “Satoru & Suguru” fandom madness. Every time the two were in the same frame, the internet exploded.
He still couldn’t look Suguru in the eye without remembering that one tweet that had 700k likes:
‘Someone write a yaoi about this already.’
Memes. Fan art. Fanfiction. Edits with slow music.
“Daddy’s home… Home for me,” followed by some dramatic slow-zoom as he slid his shirt off in a scene that had zero business being sexualized, “I know you’ve been waiting for this love all day” and then those questionable as hell, poorly cropped “source pics” of him that absolutely were NOT from anything he ever filmed and just were either AI or made by someone who needed to touch grass immediately.
He tugged his hoodie tighter, hiding half his face into the collar as he walked faster, begging to every god he didn’t believe in that no one recognized him. The last thing he needed today was a fresh meme titled “Satoru looking like he’s questioning every life decision he ever made.”
Knowing the internet, someone would screenshot him mid-blink and it’d get 300k likes under a caption like “when the intrusive thoughts win.”
He left his head down and quickened his pace, weaving through the sidewalk crowd. People brushed past him, drunk on weekend energy. He could hear them laughing carefree, shouting, bumping shoulders and every time someone glanced too long, his stomach hitched in fear.
He didn’t have the social or emotional strength for a selfie ambush, a livestream, or a thirty-second TikTok labeled “Satoru looking like a drowned rat but still kinda daddy??”
A couple walked past him, mid-argument but not even trying to hide it.
“Hey, babe please,” the guy begged, “can you at least listen to me?” Voice cracking in a pathetic and dramatic way Satoru had heard on set a million times. “What do I gotta do for you to forgive me?”
The girl rolled her eyes, visibly exhausted.
““I said it before. Next time you eat me out, I want you in Gojo mode. No excuses.”
Satoru stumbled.
Actually stumbled.
The boyfriend groaned. “But I…I can’t pull that off!”
Satoru didn’t even look at them fully. Just side-eyed as he passed.
No shit you can’t, he thought, a dry sneer curling in his chest. Sorry ’bout that, mate.
The girl continued, dead serious, “I know the dick size is what it is, but at least get the blindfold right…”
For God’s sake, Satoru thought, taking a deep breath.
Every corner of the world somehow found a way to haunt him.
He shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets and walked even faster, silently begging the universe to give him five minutes, just five, without being turned into someone’s horny fanfiction premise.
This was exactly why he hated these PR stunts in the first place.
Everyone expected him to play along with the image. They wanted him to flirt on command, kiss for publicity, pose like he was in love, create chemistry for headlines and market appeal.
He wasn’t that guy.
He didn’t do casual bullshit.
Kissing someone meant something to him, even if it didn’t mean jack shit to the rest of the industry.
But Satoru Gojo didn’t get the luxury of meaning.
Every attempt at dating burned out instantly. Half the time, girls didn’t even want him, they wanted the fantasy version, the character they built in their heads. The actor. The icon. The walking meme. Not the real Satoru who ate six donuts in one sitting and called it ‘self-care, after all he needed the calories to maintain his ‘unmatched beauty’.
He rubbed his face with both hands, sighing.
“Fuck, this is exhausting.”
He wasn’t asking for much. Just someone who saw him as a human being. Not the fame, not the persona. Just Satoru, the guy who liked quiet mornings, good coffee, and being allowed to breathe without someone filming him… even though he absolutely would strike a pose if you did. For ‘job purposes,’ of course.
Back in the early days of his career, his manager would spend hours lecturing him on how paparazzi work, how to angle his face, how to smile just right, and somehow convince him that looking effortlessly hot was a mandatory part of the job. Now, he freaks out whenever he notices a bad picture and immediately gives himself a full-on relaxing massage but that hasn’t happened once in the past two years.
So, realistically?
The conclusion was pretty damn clear: it was nearly impossible for him to find a soulmate. Hell, even a normal date was asking for too much.
And the cherry on top?
"Find someone by the end of the month,” the producer had said. “Or the studio takes over your public image completely.”
Yeah. Fantastic. Love apparently came with deadlines now.
He kicked a rock down the sidewalk, muttering enough tailored insults to roast every single ancestor of that damn producer.
He scanned the street, looking for a quiet café. Somewhere he could be anonymous. But every place was packed. Full of people, phones, eyes, assumptions.
If someone saw him alone, there’d be rumors within an hour.
Satoru Gojo spotted looking lonely: has fame taken a toll?
Or worse: Satoru secretly dating?? Who’s the mystery woman??
He groaned.
“This is so stupid.”
He just needed a second to breathe. A second to remember why he chose this path to begin with.
Satoru pushed open the bar’s heavy door with his shoulder, the warm air washing over him like a quiet relief. It wrapped around him, familiar and safe in a way nothing else had felt lately. Inside, the lights were low, the air humming with soft chatter and clinking glasses. No bright flashes, no screaming fans, no overeager staff trying to wring more publicity out of him like he was some fucking towel that never dried.
Perfect.
Or at least as close to perfect as he was gonna get.
He rolled his shoulders once, twice, trying to shake the weight off as he made his way toward the back. His boots scuffed lightly against the wooden floor, grounding him in a way he desperately needed. He slipped into a booth that was half-swallowed by shadows, sinking down with a heavy exhale that felt like it came from somewhere deep in his bones.
A server approached, a guy maybe in his mid-twenties, tired eyes, apron tied loosely around his waist. He didn’t blink, didn’t double take, didn’t even remotely seem like the type to care who Suguru was.
God is great.
“Coffee?” he asked, voice flat but polite.
“Please,” Satoru said, rubbing his thumb under his eye. “The strongest one you’ve got.”
The young man nodded once and walked off, leaving Satoru in the booth with nothing but quiet breathing and a pressure in his chest that never fully went away anymore.
He leaned back, stretching his neck until it cracked. His muscles ached. His head throbbed in a slow, steady pulse. Sleep had become this… optional thing he remembered existing at some point in his life. Days blurred into nights, scenes blurred into fake smiles, and fake smiles blurred into that bullshit PR meeting where they’d told him, very sweetly, very firmly, that his image was “cooling off.”
Cooling off. As if he was a fucking stove.
He shut his eyes for a second. Just a second. Long enough to feel that exhaustion pressing against him again. Long enough for the memory to slip in: the director leaning back in his chair, tapping a pen against the table, saying: “Get yourself a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. We don’t care. Just… someone. Soon.”
Like it was that easy. Like partners fell from the sky and into your arms the second your career needed saving. Like he wasn’t already suffocating under all the shit they made him do.
Satoru dragged a hand down his face.
He didn’t even know where to start.
Dating apps? Fuck no.
Blind dates set up by his PR team? That sounded like a nightmare.
Meeting someone naturally? When? Between losing sleep and losing his mind?
If he didn’t figure something out soon, they’d find someone else who could smile prettier and not complain about being pimped out for viewership. And Satoru wasn’t stupid. He knew how replaceable actors could be. No matter how famous and well-known… someone would always pop up who could do the same thing with slightly less attitude and slightly more Instagram selfies.
The coffee arrived before the spiral could sink deeper.
The server slid the cup onto the table, steam curling into the dim light. Satoru mumbled a quiet, “Thanks,” wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic. He stared into the dark liquid like it might give him answers, or at least burn away the stress sitting heavy in his chest.
He lifted it to his lips, breathed in, and let the warmth seep into him.
For the first time in days, he felt almost human.
Almost.
Then his phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
A slow, dragging third time. Whoever was on the other end clearly knew he was ignoring them, stretching the vibration out like a warning.
Satoru let out a sharp sigh as he wrinkled his nose, already annoyed. Probably his manager again, whining about the PR shoot he’d bailed on. Or the producer, the same smug bastard who acted like Satoru’s life came with a remote control, blowing up his phone with “URGENT!!!” messages about fake dates, forced chemistry, and “appeal to female audiences.”
He braced himself, rolling his eyes, ready to cuss someone out.
The second he looked at the screen, he just stopped. Something icy crawled up his gut, twisted it hard.
Unknown Number
New Message (1):
Nice jacket. You looking hella good tonight.
The words slammed into him like a bullet, point-blank.
Satoru didn’t move. Couldn’t.
A dread slow and heavy, snaked up his spine, cold and deliberate. The bar’s warm lights felt dimmer, like someone suddenly had turned the world down a few notches. Shadows hunched in corners they hadn’t been in before. The air felt heavy. Thicker. Unbreathable
His heartbeat thudded once. Too hard. Too loud.
His grip tightened around the phone until the plastic gave a tiny crack of protest.
This number. His personal fucking number.
Not the agency phone. Not the business line. Not the one his manager filtered. His actual number. The one only five people should’ve had.
Sure, his personal contacts had leaked before, once or twice. Fans from the other side of the world would spam him with prank calls, giggles, “Is this really Gojo Satoru???” Annoying, yeah. Creepy, sometimes. But far away. Harmless.
This wasn’t that.
This message wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t innocent. It wasn’t confused. It was observing him.
Nice jacket. You looking hella good tonight.
Tonight.
His jaw clenched as he steadied his breath, shutting his eyes hoping his pulse would stop hammering in his ears.
He forced himself to move his gaze up, scanning the bar. Only a few bodies around.Two old guys at the counter, hunched over their drinks, faces swallowed by shadows. Far off in the corner, a couple whispered at each other, busy in an animated fight, gesturing over a glass of wine nobody cared about. Not too far the bartender was wiping a glass with an old rag, looking like he'd do anything to be anywhere else. Let alone giving Satoru a glance.
No one was watching him. No phones pointed at him.
No sneaky cameras.
No double-takes.
No weird looks.
Just normal people.
Just a normal bar.
Except his skin felt too tight.
Except his breaths felt shallow.
Except the message still sat on his screen like a fingerprint burned into glass. A mark someone had deliberately pressed onto his life.
His phone buzzed again.
Short. Threatening. Like a finger tapping his shoulder. Like someone standing right behind him.
Waiting.
Watching.
New Message (2):
Don’t bother looking. I’m not where you think.
He swallowed hard, tasting something dry and metallic. His tongue felt heavy, the taste sharp and strange like he’d bitten down on panic itself.
His hands started trembling shamelessly. Years of “public appeal,” of playing the cool, unbothered celebrity who always kept his shit together in public was gone. Fingers shaking and rubbing on each other, in frantic motions, making useless his desperate need to force them still. He hoped no one noticed. He prayed even harder that whoever was watching him couldn’t see his fucking hands shake.
Then another notification appeared, making the phone vibrate again.
Unknown Message:
Attachment: 57 photos
One tap opened the gallery and his vision narrowed.
Candid photos.
Screenshots.
Angles he didn’t notice.
Moments he didn’t remember being watched.
Him walking to work.
Moving between trailers on set.
Grabbing groceries at midnight, in the local mini-market
Unlocking the front entrance of his apartment building.
Every picture taken at a distance he wouldn’t have missed normally.
A predatory persistence that made bile rise in his throat.
His phone buzzed again.
New Message (3):
You don’t realize how easy it is to keep my eyes on you.
Satoru’s chest tightened.
Not out of guilt. Out of pure rage.
He wanted to send them a warning. Anything, enough to make them cut off that bullshit. But he knew damn well how that shit worked. Any response would be like tossing raw meat to whatever mother fucker was lurking on the other end of those messages. And hell no. He wasn’t giving them any attention.
This wasn’t some harmless, overeager fan with poor boundaries. This was someone different. Someone wrong. Their messages had a precision to them, a cold, deliberate obsession that made his skin crawl.
The messages didn’t stop.
New Message (4):
You should date me.
New Message (5):
Why are you ignoring me?
New Message (6):
I’m patient, Satoru. I promise.
New Message (7):
But you’re making this difficult.
His stomach twisted so hard it sent a cold ache through his gut. Satoru’s hand slipped against his stomach tryna breathe throw the pain as he pressed his large hand hard against his abs.
He breathed. In. Out.
But the air felt too thick. Too hot. Heavy. Polluted.
Then his phone buzzed. Longer this time.
A picture again.
His fingers felt numb as he tapped it open.
It was him.
Taken just seconds ago.
He recognized the exact angle. Sitting in the bar, head bowed slightly,fists closed around his phone. His hair messy from the drizzle outside. The reflection of the neon sign behind him.
The perspective was high and far. From an upper floor window across the street.
He felt trapped in his own skin.
New Message (8):
You’re alone again.
New Message (9):
I told you, didn’t I? You shouldn’t be alone.
New Message (10):
Date me.
New Message (11):
I’ll protect you.
His breath stuttered. Shallow and ragged.
Protect him?
Son of a fucking bitch. Who the hell did they think they were, twisting their claws into someone else’s life?
He forced himself not to glance at the windows. Not to peek. Not to give the sick bastard any clue as to how scared he truly was.
The phone buzzed again.
New Message (12):
I can see you’re scared.
New Message (13):
I like when you look like that.
The air pressed inward. Choked him. Smashing his organs one into others.
The hum of the bar felt wrong now, warped under an invisible weight.
His seat felt too small.
The room too quiet.
The shadows too deep.
His throat tightened as panic clawed up his chest, scratching for release.
He needed to tell someone.
Anyone.
His manager would handle this. He could talk to the police, shove paperwork at them, drag the whole industry into it if he had to, as well with the legal nightmare, the press, the fallout. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was right now. Under the dim light of that too.quiet bar even breathing felt too dangerous.
He needed to leave.
Fuck, he needed to leave. But the idea of standing up, walking to the door, stepping into the open air where every shadow could have eyes it felt like a suicide mission.
He pressed a cold hand to his chest, trying to steady the pounding beneath his ribs.
And he was alone. So fucking alone.
Alone in a dim bar with a cup of coffee he couldn’t find the force to lift.
Alone with a phone that vibrated once again, like a heartbeat that wasn’t his.
The screen lit up. He stared at it for a long, suffocating moment.
Unknown Number:
Attachment: 72 photos
Seventy-two.
His stomach lurched.
His thumb moved on the notification message. The gallery opened into a flood of images. More invasive than the last batch. More intimate. More impossibly close.
Photos taken through windows. Through crowds. Through reflections.
Some were blurry, like the photographer was moving. Some were crisp as if they’d been taken only inches away.
Then, barely audible, voice cracking with something he didn’t want to name, he whispered to himself: “…This shit has to stop.”
But somewhere across the street, someone was watching him.
Watching and waiting. With no intention of stopping any time soon.