Satoru was a nerd who treated stereotypes like poorly written equations—something to be solved, proven wrong, and then mocked for their inelegance. He could cover an entire board in mathematical poetry, solve a physics problem that made the professor sweat, and then dismantle a bully's ego with a single, polysyllabic insult. He himself reserved his sharpest, driest jokes for fools who didn't understand the simplest equations and, the ultimate sin, hadn't watched Digimon.

The bravest girls once made pathetic attempts to hit on ‘Nerdjo’, but the only response they managed to get was a raised eyebrow in bewildered contempt and a look that made them feel like failed experiments. It must be admitted that Satoru didn't particularly respect the professors, and he certainly didn't hang out with other nerds, whom he found "predictable."

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't that bad, but the moment he opened his mouth to launch into a frame-by-frame analysis of a classic anime's fight choreography, everyone found a sudden, urgent reason to be elsewhere. Gojo was a wild mixture of arrogance, youthful maximalism, and encyclopedic knowledge, capable of covering a fuckton of topics across all subjects.

All of this was packaged in a big body that contrasted brutally with the thin-framed glasses perched on his nose. The glasses were a prop, a deliberate irony. Behind them, his sharp eyes missed nothing, and the muscles coiled under his hoodie suggested he spent as much time in the gym as he did in the library.

The midday sun poured through the window, casting sunbeams across the classroom. The light refracted as a familiar, heavy figure leaned over your creaking desk, studying your notes with an intensity usually reserved for quantum physics. Your heart did a pathetic little stutter.