The rain in Kyoto was a sentence—heavy, rhythmic, and ancient.
But in Tokyo, the rain was a riot.
It slammed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Gojo Satoru's penthouse office at Jujutsu High, distorting the neon lights of the city below into jagged, bleeding streaks of color. The room was dark, save for the ambient city glow and the faint blue light of a cursed energy lamp humming in the corner.
Gojo Satoru lay on the expensive leather couch, one arm thrown over his eyes.
On the floor next to him sat a bottle of premium Niigata sake. It was empty.
He wasn't just drunk. He was unfiltered.
Usually, his cursed technique stopped everything—poisons, alcohol, fatigue. It filtered the world into manageable data streams. But tonight, he had turned it off. He had let the alcohol burn through his bloodstream, searing his nerves, dulling the sharp edges of his perception just enough to make the world stop screaming at him.
But the silence he craved didn't come. Instead, the silence was worse. It was the specific, hollow silence of a space where she used to be.
He reached for his phone. The screen was cracked—he had gripped it too hard yesterday when a report came in about a curse near her apartment.
2:14 AM.
His thumb hovered over her name.
Miyuki.
He shouldn't call. He knew he shouldn't. She was fragile. She was healing. She was building walls made of logic and books, and he was a wrecking ball made of ego and power.
But he was starving.
"Fuck it," Gojo rasped. His voice was a low growl in the empty room.
He pressed call.
In Kyoto, Miyuki was awake.
She sat on her futon, her back pressed against the cold wall. The letter he had sent weeks ago was still on the low table.
I just miss the tiger who sat on it.
The phone vibrated in her hand, startling her so badly she nearly dropped it.
Incoming Call: Satoru
Her heart hammered against her ribs. He never called. He sent texts. He sent memes. He sent annoying stickers of himself. But a voice call at 2:15 AM?
She swiped right, her hands trembling.
"Hello?"
Silence.
On the other end, in Tokyo, Gojo closed his eyes. Hearing her voice—even filtered through the digital distortion of a phone line—hit him harder than the alcohol. It was like a physical touch. It grounded him.
"Satoru?" she asked, her voice cracking slightly. "Is everything okay? Is it the students?"
"Miyuki."
He said her name like a prayer and a curse wrapped in one.
It wasn't his teacher voice. It wasn't his playful voice. It was deep, rough, and dragged over gravel.
"Satoru... are you drunk?"
"Shoko brought sake," Gojo murmured. The words slurred slightly, blending into a heavy, intoxicating rhythm. He shifted on the couch, the leather creaking under his weight. "The good stuff. It burns."
Clumsily, his fingers caught the top button of his high collar, fumbling until it popped free. He didn't stop there—he dragged his hand down, undoing the next few buttons with a jagged, impatient pull, letting the dark fabric fall open to expose the hollow of his throat and the frantic pulse beneath his skin.
"You don't drink, Satoru," Miyuki said, her voice tightening as she heard him unravel. "You're a lightweight. You usually use the Reverse Cursed Technique to refresh your brain before the alcohol can even touch your system."
"I turned it off," Gojo said. He stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows dance with eyes that were glazed and unfocused. "I turned off the filter. No Infinity, no healing, no barrier."
He let out a dark, wet laugh that lacked any of his usual bravado. "I wanted the world to stop screaming at me for five minutes. I wanted to feel something other than... this."
"Other than what?"
"The noise," Gojo whispered violently. "The goddamn noise, Miyuki. It's so loud in Tokyo. I can hear the electricity in the walls. I can hear the heartbeat of every person in this building. I can hear the tectonic plates grinding together."
He rolled onto his side, pressing the phone harder against his ear, desperate to close the distance.
"But I can't hear you."
"I'm right here."
"No, you're not," he snapped, his dominance flaring. He sat up, swinging his legs off the couch. The room spun, but he didn't care. "You're three hundred kilometers away. You're hiding in a city full of dust."
"I'm not hiding. I'm living."
"You call that living?" Gojo scoffed. He stood up and walked to the window, placing his hand against the cold glass. He looked down at the city that worshipped him and hated him. "Sitting in the dark? Reading my letter and crying?"
Miyuki froze on her end. "How do you..."
"I know you," Gojo cut her off. His voice dropped, losing the slur and gaining a terrifying, razor-sharp edge. "I know exactly what you're doing. You're sitting on that futon. You're wearing that oversized t-shirt. You're clutching your knees because your stomach hurts from the stress."
"Stop it."
"Why?" Gojo challenged, his reflection in the glass looking back at him—wild, messy, hungry. "Does it scare you that I can see you even when I'm not there?"
"It scares me that you're drunk and calling me in the middle of the night to psychoanalyze me."
"I'm not psychoanalyzing you," Gojo groaned. He leaned his forehead against the glass. The cool surface felt good against his feverish skin. "I'm starving, Miyuki."
The word hung in the air between them. Starving.
"Go to sleep, Satoru," Miyuki whispered.
"No."
The command was absolute.
"You left me," Gojo said. "You walked away. You wouldn't even hug me goodbye. You treated me like I was radioactive."
"You are radioactive," Miyuki shot back. "You consume everything you touch."
"Then let me consume you," he growled.
He turned away from the window and paced the room. He felt restless. His skin felt too tight for his body. The Infinity hummed under his skin, demanding release, but he didn't want to release power. He wanted to release this.
"Satoru..."
"Do you know what I'm doing right now?" he asked. His voice was lower now, intimate and dangerous.
"I don't want to know."
"I'm unbuttoning my shirt," Gojo said.
He did. He had already opened the top two. He tore the rest open, the fabric ripping slightly. The cool air of the office hit his bare chest, but he was burning up from the inside.
"I'm imagining you're here," Gojo continued, his voice thick. "I'm imagining that if you reach out to my hand, you won't touch the Infinity. You'll touch me."
Miyuki's breath hitched on the other end. He could hear it. He could hear the sudden intake of air, the shift in her breathing pattern.
He had her.
"Tell me what you're wearing," Gojo ordered.
"Satoru, you're drunk. You're going to regret this in the morning."
"I regret everything in the morning," he snapped, kicking the empty sake bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. "I regret waking up in a world where you aren't in my kitchen. Now answer me. What are you wearing?"
"A t-shirt," she whispered. "And shorts."
"What color?"
"Grey."
"Good," Gojo hummed. He walked back to the couch and sat down heavily, spreading his legs. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "Is it soft?"
"Yes."
"Touch it," he commanded.
"What?"
"Touch the fabric," Gojo said, his voice slow, deliberate, and impossibly dominant. "Run your hand over your stomach. Tell me what it feels like."
"Satoru, I can't..."
"Do it," he snarled softly. "Be a good girl, Miyuki. Do what I say."
He heard her rustle on the other end. He visualized it—her hand moving over the grey cotton, the rise and fall of her chest.
"I'm doing it," she whispered.
Gojo let out a ragged breath. His hand moved to his own belt. The metal buckle clicked—a loud sound in the silent office.
"Good," he exhaled. "Now go lower."
"Satoru..."
"Lower, Miyuki. Past the waistband."
He undid his belt. He shoved his pants down, his hand wrapping around himself. The friction was electric. He groaned, a low sound that vibrated in his chest.
"Are you touching yourself?" Gojo asked. His voice was strained now, tight with restraint.
"Yes," she breathed.
"Tell me," he demanded, his grip tightening. "I want to hear it. Are you wet?"
"Yes."
"For me?"
"Yes." She paused for a second. "For you."
"Fuck," Gojo cursed, his hips bucking up instinctively. The visual of her—wet, trembling, waiting for him—was almost too much.
"I want you to imagine I'm there," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I'm not on the phone. I'm right behind you. My chest is against your back. My hands are on your hips. Can you feel me?"
"Yes," Miyuki gasped.
"I'm biting your neck," Gojo narrated, his free hand gripping the leather armrest of the couch until the material groaned under the pressure. "Right where your pulse is. I can taste you. You taste like everything I have dreamed of."
He moved his hand faster. The pleasure was sharp, jagged, bordering on pain. It wasn't enough. He needed her hand. He needed her mouth.
"Satoru, please..."
"Please, what?" he taunted. "Beg me, Miyuki. You walked away from me. You made me wait. Now you have to beg."
"Please," she moaned into the phone. "Touch me. Please."
"I am touching you," Gojo growled. "I'm touching you with my voice. I'm inside your head. I'm the only thing you can think about. Isn't that right?"
"Yes... God, yes..."
"Touch yourself harder," he commanded. "Like I would. Don't be gentle. I wouldn't be gentle."
On the other end, he heard her cry out. He heard the wet sounds of her movement. It drove him over the edge.
"Satoru!" she cried out.
"Come for me," Gojo ordered, his voice rough, breathless, and possessive. He threw his head back, his white hair messy against the leather cushion. "Scream my name so I can hear it in Tokyo."
"Satoru... Satoru!"
Hearing his name on her lips—broken, desperate, needy—shattered his last reserve.
Gojo groaned, a guttural sound torn from his throat. His body went rigid. He came hard, his hand gripping the phone so tight the screen cracked further.
For a few seconds, the strongest sorcerer in the world was completely undone. He lay there, panting, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat.
The silence returned. But it wasn't cold anymore. It was heavy, charged, and thick with the ghost of what had just happened.
Gojo lay on the couch, staring up at the dark ceiling. His breathing was ragged. He felt drained, but the hunger... the hunger was still there. It had just changed shape.
"Miyuki?" Gojo's voice broke the silence after a long minute.
He sounded sober now. The manic edge was gone, replaced by a hollow ache.
"I'm here," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
"I hate this," Gojo said quietly. He wiped a hand over his face. "I hate doing this over the phone. I hate that I can't clean you up. I hate that I can't hold you."
"I know."
He sat up, fixing his clothes with trembling hands. He looked out the window again. The rain had stopped.
"You belong to me," Gojo said. It wasn't a question. It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of fact, absolute and immutable. "You can run to Kyoto. You can run to the moon. But you're mine. You've been mine since you tackled me in that park."
"I know," she repeated softly.
Gojo let out a long sigh. He walked back to his desk and picked up the piece of broken glass from the sake bottle. He turned it over in his hand, watching the light catch the edge.
"Go to sleep, Green Eyes," he said. His voice was softer now, returning to that dangerous gentleness. "Dream of me."
"Will you call again?" she asked.
Gojo paused. He looked at the cracked phone screen.
"I'm not going to call," Gojo said.
"I'm done with calling," he continued, his blue eyes flashing in the dark office. "Next time I want to hear you scream my name, Miyuki... I won't be in Tokyo."
He hung up.
The office was silent again.
Gojo Satoru stood alone in the dark. He touched his lips, where the ghost of her name still lingered.
"Soon," he whispered to the empty room.
He walked to the window, placing his hand on the glass one last time, looking toward the west. Toward Kyoto.
"Soon."