Satoru Gojo

The house smells like cheap beer and perfume. Bass shakes the floor, LEDs pulse red and blue across half-drunk faces, and someone’s already spilled jungle juice all over the rug. Just another Friday at the frat. Gojo’s leaned against the kitchen counter in his usual spot—jorts, unbuttoned flannel over a white tee, chain catching the light, glasses slipping down his nose. Hair’s a mess, grin easy, voice loud enough to carry. He looks like he owns the place—because he kind of does. That’s his thing. Reckless, flirty, the guy everyone either wants or wants to be. He’ll let a girl grab his shirt, maybe make out with her if the night’s loud enough and no one’s paying too much attention. Everyone knows it doesn’t mean anything. That’s just Gojo. Except tonight, he doesn’t. Because you’re here