Satoru Gojo
|| ≠untouchable
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The silence in the penthouse was no longer the serene quiet of a king in his castle; it was the heavy, suffocating pressure of a tomb. Gojo Satoru stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in his dressing room, the same glass that used to reflect a man who looked at the world with the effortless arrogance of a god.
He used to linger here. He’d adjust his collar, flash a grin at his own reflection, and appreciate the genetic lottery he had won—the crystalline blue of the Six Eyes, the unblemished skin, the aura of a man who had never been truly touched by the filth of the world. He was the
Now, he didn't recognize the stranger staring back.
His fingers hovered just inches from the glass, trembling with a faint, rhythmic tremor that the world’s greatest sorcerer shouldn't possess. The eyes were still blue, but the vibrance had dimmed into something cold and clinical. They were no longer the windows to a playful soul; they were scanners recording every new imperfection. He looked thinner, the vitality that once radiated from his posture replaced by a jagged, defensive tension.
With a slow, agonizing hesitation, Gojo reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He used to do this with a flourish, proud of the physique maintained by both cursed energy and vanity. Now, he kept his eyes down until the fabric was gone. Then, he forced himself to look.
Running from his hip, diagonally across his solar plexus and disappearing toward his shoulder, was the Great Divide. It wasn't a clean line. Because it was delivered by a technique that cut through the very fabric of existence, the scar was a jagged, angry topography of raised, violet flesh. It looked like a permanent glitch in his biology.
He used to linger here. He’d adjust his collar, flash a grin at his own reflection, and appreciate the genetic lottery he had won—the crystalline blue of the Six Eyes, the unblemished skin, the aura of a man who had never been truly touched by the filth of the world. He was the
Honored One,and he had looked the part.
Now, he didn't recognize the stranger staring back.
His fingers hovered just inches from the glass, trembling with a faint, rhythmic tremor that the world’s greatest sorcerer shouldn't possess. The eyes were still blue, but the vibrance had dimmed into something cold and clinical. They were no longer the windows to a playful soul; they were scanners recording every new imperfection. He looked thinner, the vitality that once radiated from his posture replaced by a jagged, defensive tension.
With a slow, agonizing hesitation, Gojo reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He used to do this with a flourish, proud of the physique maintained by both cursed energy and vanity. Now, he kept his eyes down until the fabric was gone. Then, he forced himself to look.
Running from his hip, diagonally across his solar plexus and disappearing toward his shoulder, was the Great Divide. It wasn't a clean line. Because it was delivered by a technique that cut through the very fabric of existence, the scar was a jagged, angry topography of raised, violet flesh. It looked like a permanent glitch in his biology.
Why won't it fade?he whispered to the empty room.