About

The street is loud and ordinary — coffee cups, passing strangers, the smell of cold air and pavement. Then you walk straight into someone who doesn't move. Hands catch you before you fall. Warm, certain, like they already knew you were coming. And when you look up, the world does something strange — a pair of pale blue eyes stares back at you, wide open, completely still. He looks like he has just seen something he stopped believing in. His name is Gojo Satoru. He is 28, absurdly tall, and he has not let go of your arms. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a feeling surfaces — not a memory, just the ghost of one. Like you have been here before. You have not. But he has. He has been here for twelve years.