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Chapter Text

Succession (Main Title Theme) [Orchestral Intro Version] - Nicholas Britell

MILLION DOLLAR BABY - Tommy Richman

Dirty Cash (Money Talks) [Sold Out 7 Inch Mix] - The Adventures of Stevie V

MY EYES - Travis Scott

Money, Money, Money - ABBA

Succession (Main Title Theme) [Extended Intro Version] - Nicholas Britell

The Chain - Fleetwood Mac

Milan - Promenade - Nicholas Britell

Father Figure - Taylor Swift

All Night - Beyoncé

Swimming Pools (Drank) - Kendrick Lamar

Should Have Known Better - Sufjan Stevens

The Subway - Chappell Roan

Super Rich Kids (feat. Earl Sweatshirt) - Frank Ocean

The Adults Are Talking - The Strokes

Intermezzo in C Minor - "Money Wins" - Nicholas Britell

Skyfall - Adele

Lover, You Should've Come Over - Jeff Buckley

TYRANT - Beyoncé

Money Trees (feat. Jay Rock) - Kendrick Lamar

End Game (feat. Ed Sheeran & Future) - Taylor Swift

Visions of Gideon - Sufjan Stevens

MESSY - ROSÉ

AMERICA HAS A PROBLEM - Beyoncé

Bitter Sweet Symphony - The Verve

End Credits - Vivace Appassionato in G Minor - Nicholas Britell

Chapter Text

When the elevator doors opened on the seventy-fifth floor, the light hit Satoru Gojo like an interrogation lamp. The trading room beyond the glass was a lattice of screens and small, furious people, numbers and gossip congealed into day traders’ ballet. He moved through it like a man in a rented body, all impeccable suit and a grin that read as both weapon and apology.

“Morning, Satoru,” called a vice-president, half-turning from a Bloomberg terminal. “Conference at nine. Family council at eleven.”

Satoru raised his hand, the motion lazy but precise, as if acknowledging the sacred liturgy of corporate life. They all thought they could reach him with calendars and notifications and his own title, Heir Apparent, Chief Strategy Officer, whatever hollow badge his family felt necessary that month. None of it touched him the way Geto did.

Suguru Geto had been on his mind for three days straight, the way a song gets stuck, irritatingly, insistently, the way Satoru knew every note. He thought about the tilt of Suguru’s shoulders in a photograph from some charity gala, the king-of-every-room posture softened by a cigarette that made him look like a villain in a film no one had the guts to make. He thought about Harvard men with their good-bred rage, about nights in Buckley when the world still seemed like something two boys could own if they’d merely try. The memory of Suguru’s hand sliding into his pocket in the dark of a college club, of the two of them sharing a single cigarette under a streetlamp outside Cambridge, lodged under his ribs and made him breathe shallow.

“Don’t start,” he told the office, but more to himself. He unbuttoned his cuff, checked his watch. The hand that would sign merger agreements and save reputations trembled with an excitement that was private and dangerous.

Because this morning there was a letter on his desk. Not the kind that came with impersonal fonts and bullion seals; an actual, physical, almost theatrical letter. Heavy stock, embossed name of a private equity firm he’d seen in headlines for the last three years: Blackthorn Partners. And underneath, in a pen-stroke that had the audacity of a threat, S. Geto. He read it half a dozen times before he let it slide into the drawer he always used for cigarettes and contraband. The letter was short and sharp.

Satoru,

You always said the world could be bought with enough charm and leverage. I thought you meant it rhetorically. Turns out you were actually practicing.

We’ll be at the shareholder meeting next week. Don’t trip over your golden shoelaces.

SG

He read the signature like an accusation. It was the corporate equivalent of finding out your oldest flame had become the person who might burn the house down to build a better one.

The family council met in a room designed by a man who hated people: polished walnut, low light, a table that swallowed voices. Satoru sat at the head because that’s what people do when a man is raised to be the fulcrum of a dynasty. His father, Masahiro Gojo, wore a suit that could have been retired from a private museum; he was a man who had outlived his enemies through slow aggression and the kind of patience that built chairs and empires.

“You look tired,” his father said without looking up. He had a way of delivering catastrophe as if it were weather. “Are you sleeping?”

Satoru considered lying. “Running through presentations,” he said. “Game theory.”

“Ah.” The father smiled. “Theatrical as ever. We have a problem.”

It was the sort of understatement that could fracture cities.

Masahiro outlined it in a few methodical sentences: activist stake, letter to the board, a pending proxy fight. Blackthorn wanted to install their own nominee on the Gojo board and push for a series of divestitures, special dividends, and a management rethink. In English: they wanted to break the family’s long-term vision into quick, profitable shards. Satoru listened, saw the map the way a chess grandmaster reads a single pawn move, saw where disputes would flare, which legal pads would be filled with subpoenas and settlement letters, who would walk out after the first veiled threat with pockets fuller and conscience cleaner.

“And Suguru?” he asked.

Masahiro’s fingers tapped a slow code. “Geto leads Blackthorn’s investment committee. He’s tight with Yaga Masamichi, Masamichi’s the chairman, and between them they have enough to make a very noisy mess.”

Satoru’s throat tightened and his voice went softer than he liked. “He’s, why would he, why would Suguru do that?”

“Money,” said Masahiro, and for a moment the old man’s voice sounded empty. “And principle, perhaps. Or he wants what you have.”

Satoru imagined Suguru in an office like a shadow, a glassy thing looking out over a skyline, pen tapping a rhythm that belonged half to economics and half to revenge. And he felt, in that precise plutocratic rage that had followed him like a scent, a personal sting. Suguru had been his nightclub friend, his co-conspirator in experiments with substances and rules. In some old life, they had dressed up as men of the world and tried to steal the world. Now he was a man of the world.

The meeting adjourned with a flurry of legalese and consulting referrals. Satoru walked out into the corridor and placed one hand against the glass wall, the city reflected in it as if to make him vanish into the skyline. He thought, for a brief, dangerous second, of calling Suguru.

He did not call. He texted instead. Three dots that were a confession.

S. Gojo: Congratulations. You wrote a very mean letter.

The reply came almost at once, a curtness that was intimate and infuriating.

S. Geto: It’s capital. Capital’s never mean. It’s honest.

Satoru read it and laughed out loud, the kind of sound that makes strangers notice you because it is too loud for its setting. Capital was honest. Suguru had always loved that word like it were a blade.

“Nice to see you’re keeping your sense of humor,” his assistant said, peering into his office.

“It’s dangerous when an old flame becomes a board member,” Satoru said. “Especially when he’s taken up a new religion: leveraged buyouts.”

That night, the city exhaled neon and car horns. Masahiro hosted a fundraiser in a ballroom that smelled of expensive perfume and deferred taxes. Photographers circled in practiced orbits, catching the Gojo name in flashes that made the millionaire hosts look like constellations.

Satoru moved through the room like someone immune to small talk; he had perfected the smile that read "I am listening but only for my benefit." They called him a visionary with nervous hands and a proclivity for collapsing competitors before breakfast. They called him a boy who had never had to feel the weight of a failed quarterly. They were wrong about the boy part. He found himself by a terrace balcony, a glass of something that glittered like liquid courage in his hand. The city lay beneath them, a lattice of ambition, and he thought of Suguru, sitting in some opposite corner of that lattice, mapping out the incisions.

“You should talk to him,” said a voice at his elbow.

Satoru turned. It was Kento Nanami, counsel to the family and, more significantly, someone who had once been a calming whisper in the chaos of Satoru’s adolescence. Nanami’s tie was straight, his face the kind that said he’d been assaulted by life and chosen civility, not revenge.

“I don’t want to talk to him,” Satoru said. “I want to know why he wants to break our company.”

Nanami stepped closer. He had an almost surgical way of speaking. “You know Suguru. You know what he believes. The problem is that principle and profit are indistinguishable to him lately. He’s also very good at persuading other people that ethics and returns are the same.”

“And what if they are?” asked Satoru.

Nanami looked at him like a man checking a patient’s reflexes. “Then you'd be both rich and boring. And where would love be in that scenario?”

Satoru smiled like a gutter fire. “Love is expensive.”

“You always said that, too,” Nanami muttered.

They both watched the city for a long while. The night wore the kind of patience that made cathedral windows look like promises.

Two days later, Suguru Geto came to the Gojo campus with a smile that could be printed into a fundraising brochure. He had grown more ascetic-looking since their Buckley days, as if austerity suited him, and his suits were the precise gray of men who like to be thought of as dangerous in a tasteful way.

“Masahiro,” Suguru said, bowing just enough to be polite and not so much as to be humble.

Satoru watched everything Suguru did the way a gambler counts cards. Suguru’s voice was velvet around obsidian, soft but decisive. He referred to Satoru as “Satoru” with an implication that they were both remembering the same older, wilder river that had once carried them. They were photographed together, and Satoru felt the camera like a witness summoned to authenticate their civility. Suguru was the picture of a man who’d made himself into infrastructure: private jet routes, portfolio companies, tight smiles that cut.

“You look well,” Suguru told him, and for a moment Satoru allowed himself to believe the words were meant to be kind.

“You’re the one in private equity,” Satoru said. “You look like you’ve swallowed hedge funds and digestion problems.”

Suguru smiled, and the comment was filed into whatever box Suguru reserved for the charmingly cruel. “We acquired three companies last quarter,” he said. “One of them had an artisanal pickle business. We closed it down.”

“Necessary evil,” Satoru said. “Or evil packaged as efficiency.”

“That’s the same thing,” Suguru said. “Just more honest.”

Satoru found himself leaning in, despite the professional distance. “Do you miss us?” he asked suddenly, as if the answer mattered more than the next earnings call.

Suguru’s smile faltered, but only for a beat. “I miss habits more than people,” he said. “And the night used to be generous.”

“Was it?” Satoru asked. The city glittered like coinage beyond the glass.

“It was a speed of living,” Suguru said. “We were fast. Reckless. We thought we could take everything because we were young.”

Satoru remembered Harvard, the flannel shirts, the risks, the nights that smelled like cheap vodka and better intentions. He remembered Suguru leaning against the dorm wall and telling him, “We’ll be the kind who breaks things and then owns the pieces.” He had thought it was a joke then, an adolescent prophecy. Now it was a business strategy penned in Helvetica.

“You used to be my best friend,” Satoru said softly.

Suguru’s jaw tightened. “We used to be a pair of idiots,” he said. “One of us decided to be relentless.”

Satoru felt the room tilt. There was that word again, relentless, comfortable on Suguru like a cloak. He wanted to argue, to say that relentlessness was something they shared, that both had been reckless in their own ways. But to argue was to feed an energy Suguru now specialized in converting into control.

Instead Satoru said, “We don’t have to make this…relentless.”

Suguru’s eyes were a small, wry storm. “We never did anything half-heartedly,” he said. “Why start now?”

They parted with more civility than either deserved. Suguru left with the public face of amicability, but Satoru saw the iron in his hands like the edge of a blade. He returned to his office and, for the first time in years, put a small joint into the drawer of his bedside table where it felt most like treason.

Blackthorn’s proxy letter landed in shareholders’ mailboxes like a dry thunderclap. Their case was economical: the Gojo family’s company had priorities that favored legacy over returns; break the company into parts, punt the inefficient divisions, return capital to shareholders. The language was suffused with phrases like “unlock value” and “governance failures,” which read like blunt instruments if you knew how to read a ledger. Satoru called a special operations meeting. There were lawyers in one corner polishing wayward memos, PR teams crafting narratives about stewardship and trusted leadership, hedge funds whispering into the family's ear like perfumed courtiers. He felt the machinery of empire engage, a slow, relentless thing with teeth made of clauses and reputations. He thought, absurdly, of the headlights from their Buckley group’s car on a road in some cheaper town, how loud windows had sounded then, how permanent those nights had felt.

“Contact the shareholders,” Satoru said. “We do not litigate emotions in the public square. We remind them of our track record, growth, employee retention metrics, community initiatives. We diffuse the narrative that we’re an old dynasty that can’t change.”

“And Suguru?” someone asked. There were a dozen people who wanted him to be reasonable, and a handful who wanted him to be merciless. He sensed his father’s preference for the latter, his counsel Nanami for the former.

“Call him,” Masahiro said later, when they had fewer suits and more bare strategies. “Hear him. It’s a trap I want you to see.”

Satoru stared at his father. “You want me to call him? You realize we can write him off?”

Masahiro’s eyes were patient as a stone. “You once said you’d rather die than be boring. Call him.”

So he did.

Suguru answered on the second ring, as if he’d been sitting by his phone. “Satoru.”

He could hear movement in Suguru’s background, papers, a voice that betrayed a meeting being conducted with the careful cadence of the well-prepared. “What do you want?” Satoru asked, the air between them already charged.

“We want to reshape your company,” Suguru said. “For the better.”

“You want to strip-mine our name,” Satoru shot back. “You want to take the work of generations and sell the bones.”

“Call it stewardship,” Suguru said. “Call it capitalism if you must. We call it an opportunity.”

“You used to call it sin,” Satoru said.

Suguru was quiet, and Satoru heard something like a smile. “People grow,” Suguru said. “Or they get very good at rationalizing.”

Satoru wanted to tell him how much he hated rationalizations that smelled like betrayal. He wanted to tell him that the world he wanted to break once fit both their hands. Instead he said, “Why are you wearing this as a crusade? You know you can take it as business.”

“I always wear business as a crusade,” Suguru replied. “We’re all doing God’s work, mine is to clean inefficiency out. Yours is to keep things sentimental. Neither is wrong, Satoru. They’re simply in tension.”

“And love?” Satoru asked because even now he wanted to find a way through Suguru’s corporate vigilance to the boy who once kissed him behind the bleachers.

Suguru’s silence lasted a moment long enough to be a failing. “Love?” he echoed. “I loved you like a habit, Satoru. Habits change.”

“You could have said it like that all along,” Satoru said. “You could have left.”

“I left,” Suguru said. “You just didn’t notice.”

They talked in a language of things left unsaid; old hellos and mutinies disguised as negotiations. Each phrase was a scalpel. By the end of the call Satoru felt both relieved and sick, like someone who’d found out a surgery would be necessary but not what it would cost him in the long run.

“Enjoy your fight,” Suguru said, and the voice that had once whispered plans for theft sounded strangely serene. “I always did like your stage.”

Satoru hung up and almost laughed. He wished the laugh could be poison. Instead it was brittle.

Weeks passed. The campaign escalated into a war of motion filings and glossy shareholder presentations. Blackthorn’s slides were aggressive, sometimes cruelly clever, graphs that made performance look like a flailing thing, bullet points designed to inflame. The Gojo camp countered with testimonials, employee stories, charts that made loyalty seem measurable. Satoru spent nights in rooms with lawyers, code words, and coffee the color of used pennies. He told himself he was prepared, that he knew the moves: tender offers, poison pills, the murky art of corporate defense. And yet the sight of Suguru’s name on filings, Geto, Blackthorn, sent an old, private panic crawling up his spine. There were other skirmishes of a personal nature. A profile in a financial magazine printed an interview with Suguru that read like a manifesto; Suguru described his childhood as the necessary origin of his current ruthlessness. He spoke of sins and absolution and society’s need for efficient cruelty. The interview was accompanied by a photograph of him in a shirt too open at the collar, looking like a man who’d made austerity fashionable.

Satoru took the piece to a window and tore it in half. It was a childish thing that meant nothing and everything.

“Stop,” Nanami said when he came by his office and found him. “You’re casting him as a villain. He’s just an activist investor who used to crash on your couch.”

“He’s not ‘just’ anything,” Satoru said. “He’s my—”

“Stop,” Nanami said more sharply. “That line of thought gives him power. Don’t let private history be weaponized in the boardroom.”

Satoru clenched his jaw. He wanted to tell Nanami that history had been weaponized already simply by Suguru showing up in a suit that had the nerve to look immaculate. He wanted to tell him that nothing about Suguru felt civil anymore, not the way he smiled or the way he made tiny, precise moral judgments in between pressing the buy button.

Instead he said, “We’re going to be reasonable.”

Nanami snorted. “No, Satoru. You’re going to be strategic.”

Satoru threw his hands up. “Same thing,” he said, though he knew it was not.

At the heart of every corporate war is a room where strategies are boiled down to cheap coffee and temperament. Satoru’s war room became a place of maps, wireframes, and bruised egos. There were people who wanted headlines and people who wanted to hide in meetings until it was safe to emerge. Satoru wanted everything all at once, the moral high ground, the shareholder vote, and Suguru in a position where he would have to back down or be seen as monstrous.

They staged an investor’s day. The event was an exercise in theater that would have made their Buckley theatrics look like amateur night. Satoru, glittering in a suit that cost more than some of the smaller funds’ seed capital, took the stage. He talked about a future with slow, deliberate growth. He invoked employees, small-business initiatives, and the kind of vague social commitments that read well in op-eds. He looked like a man on a mission. He also looked haunted.

After the event, in a corridor that smelled faintly of waste management and ambition, he found Suguru leaning against a pillar, hands in his pockets, a smile too polite for the place.

“You were charming,” Suguru said.

Satoru wanted to reply with knives or with the tenderness that had once been their currency. He chose a blade. “You were at our party, too,” he said. “Did you like the canapés?”

“I liked that you think sentiment can be a business model,” Suguru said. “You’re doing a good job convincing old money it matters.”

“Sentiment isn’t a model,” Satoru said. “It’s glue.”

“Glue is also economically irrational,” Suguru countered. “Sometimes glue holds back innovation.”

Satoru stepped closer than the corridor required. The air between them tasted like metal. “You think you can just, come in here and fix things?”

“I think,” Suguru said, “that sometimes broken things are supposed to be broken.”

“You always sound like a priest,” Satoru said. “Did you swap out your vices for sermons?”

“I didn’t ‘swap’ anything,” Suguru said. “I learned how to monetize conviction.”

Satoru laughed, a small sound that no one else heard. “So you monetized us.”

Suguru’s expression didn’t change. “You monetized us,” he said. “But you wrapped it in a better narrative.”

They were both silent then, listening to the building’s mechanical heart.

“You know,” Suguru said quietly, “we could have had a different life.”

Satoru wanted to say, We still could. He wanted to say, You could stop. He wanted to say a million simpler confessions, whatever it was that men in their twenties had traded in alleys and dorm rooms and cheap hotel stairwells. He wanted to reach across the space that separated them and pull Suguru into an orbit where deals were not necessary. But Suguru was a private equity man now. Choices had become spreadsheets. He would not be swept by a hand’s charm. He would interpret the motion as vulnerability and value it accordingly.

“Maybe,” Satoru said. “Maybe we were never actually free.”

Suguru’s mouth was a thin line. “Freedom,” he said, “is overrated. Efficiency has more pleasant consequences.”

Satoru walked away like someone who had been given an ultimatum dressed as small talk.

Night after night, Satoru dreamed of Suguru in different forms, an investor making crescendos of deals, a boy holding his breath on Kennedy Avenue, a rival with perfect teeth. He woke up at 3 AM and stared at the ceiling, the ceiling that had watched their first cigarette, their first transgression, their first misunderstanding that would one day become a lawsuit.

They reached the shareholders’ meeting like gladiators. The room was wired press-wise, a choir of microphones standing ready to harvest sentences that would be sold to town squares. Blackthorn presented their nominee, a man with a clean haircut and a history of restructuring. The Gojo team presented their counter, how the company was changing from the inside, projects underway, long-term thinking that rewarded patience over instant gratification. Suguru watched like a man who had read the script and held the stage directions in his teeth. Satoru spoke with a tilt that was meant to be the humanizing angle, he spoke of employees, and children, and the long view. He was an actor playing the role someone had written for him since he was a child. When it was Suguru’s time to speak, he stood and gave an address that was alternately cool and ferocious. He talked about capital allocation as if it were a moral duty. He invoked duty and pragmatism and, with a particular kind of elegant ruthlessness, annexed morality to spreadsheets.

When the vote was counted, it was close. Blackthorn had pulled a surprising amount of outside support. Headlines screamed about succession and governance and the flickering fragility of old empires. Blackthorn scored a narrow win for an observer seat. It was not a coup, but it was a wound.

In the parking lot after the meeting, Satoru found Suguru near a sleek sedan, cigarette pinched between manicured fingers.

“You won,” Satoru said.

Suguru looked at him, and in that look there was a contract fulfilled. “You nearly lost,” he said.

Satoru swallowed, feeling like someone who’d been publicly unstitched. He wanted to say that winning and losing were shapes that could be redrawn, that their personal history could be separated from hostile stock filings. Instead he said, “This is not the end.”

“No,” Suguru said. “It’s the beginning.”

They stood there: two alumni of a shared past looking at a future they had never quite agreed on. The city was a ring of cold light behind them; the world considered them entertainment. Satoru thought of the small things, Suguru’s laugh in a room, the time he’d smuggled a bottle of tequila into a study hall. He wondered when intimacy had become a ledger. He carried the letter in his pocket like one carries a fossil, evidence of a life extinct, or perhaps just slumbering.

“Come with me,” Suguru said suddenly.

Satoru looked up. “Where?”

“Tell Masahiro you’ve had enough of ceremonies,” Suguru said. “Come with me. There’s a hedge to be climbed that will make us both richer.”

It was the oldest offer in a new currency.

Satoru didn’t answer immediately. The air between them was again charged with history. He could imagine himself stepping into Suguru’s car and leaving, vanishing into some private world where deals were smaller and love was less complicated. He could imagine the fallout. He could imagine his father’s face. He could imagine that every choice made after would be measured by a scale whose fulcrum was this single night. He had been raised to be Satoru Gojo, inheritor and stabilizer. Suguru was the opposite: an itinerant soul who had learned how to convert pain into profit. Lovers and enemies, they had become both. Satoru looked at Suguru’s outstretched hand and for a moment saw nothing but a simple sinew of history. He thought of Buckley and Harvard, of cocaine and molly and laughter that had tasted like midnight air. He thought of Nanami’s counsel, Masahiro’s patient menace, and the company that bore his name.

He took the hand.

Not because he believed in the plan, not because he trusted Suguru’s motives, but because some parts of him preferred combustion to stagnation. He preferred to be in the game, even if the game hurt him. He preferred the raw honesty of a plane crash to the slow rot of a mansion.

Suguru’s fingers closed around his and for the first time in years neither of them pretended to be untroubled. The world they’d loved was fracturing into capital, and there was no easy way back.

“Where are we going?” Satoru asked.

“Somewhere we can smoke without cameras,” Suguru said. “And we’ll decide, as men who keep score, who we are willing to lose for what we want.”

Satoru thought of the servers at their charity dinner, of the speeches he’d made and the pensions that would be affected by Blackthorn’s moves. He thought about love and business and whether they could be disentangled now. He slid into the car and the city swallowed them.

Outside, the skyline kept its watch. Inside the vehicle, they were two men with histories and the taste of each other like a debt. The war had begun, but not the way the papers had written. This one had been personal from the start.

Chapter Text

The car moved through Manhattan like a bullet that decided not to kill, silent, surgical, gleaming beneath streetlamps that made the city look mythic. Inside, Suguru sat like a man who had spent his whole life learning to occupy expensive spaces. Satoru sat beside him, ankle resting on the opposite knee, fingers tapping his thigh in a restless tattoo. The air smelled faintly of cologne and victory.

“Where are we going?” Satoru asked again, softer this time.

Suguru glanced at him. “A place we used to like.”

Satoru gave him a look. “We used to like a lot of places.”

“Then good,” Suguru said. “You can feel nostalgic.”

The driver turned left on Lafayette, and the city lights sliced across Suguru’s jaw, sharpening something already too sharp. Satoru took in the profile of him the way one observes a wildfire, entranced because destruction is beautiful when it’s not yet yours. Suguru was all stillness, eyes forward, but Satoru knew his mind was performing silent math: market cap, projected votes, leaks to the press, alliances to cultivate.

“Today went well,” Suguru said, breaking the quiet.

“You mean you enjoyed humiliating my board?” Satoru replied.

Suguru’s mouth tilted. “I didn’t humiliate them. I introduced them to reality.”

“Reality,” Satoru echoed. “You use that word like some people use religious scripture.”

“It is my religion,” Suguru said without irony. “Reality pays better than faith.”

“And loyalty?”

Suguru’s eyelids flickered, something private, almost human. “Loyalty,” he said, “is a currency with the worst yield.”

Satoru stared at him. “You didn’t think that when we were twenty.”

“We didn’t own anything at twenty,” Suguru said. “Not even ourselves.”

There it was. The perfect Geto-ism: philosophy sharpened into a blade.

The car stopped in front of a narrow building in SoHo with a dark, unmarked door. The kind of place where anonymity was curated like an expensive art installation.

“You brought me to Linwood’s?” Satoru asked, stepping out. “Really? Our old smoke den?”

Suguru shrugged. “You said you missed us.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

They entered. The interior looked exactly as they left it years ago: red velvet booths, dim lamps the color of sins whispered in confessionals, a back patio where Wall Street analysts came to self-destruct in relative privacy. It smelled like aged bourbon, smoke, and secrets. The hostess recognized Suguru instantly, of course, no one forgot a man who tipped with the kind of calm arrogance that suggested wealth was hereditary.

“Your usual booth?” she asked.

Suguru nodded, rested his hand on Satoru’s lower back for just a moment, just long enough to be familiar, too short to be tender. The booth in the far corner still had the faint scorch mark Satoru made when he flicked a lighter too close to the leather sophomore year of Harvard. He slid in, legs sprawling. Suguru sat across from him like a dark mirror.

“What now?” Satoru asked.

“Now,” Suguru said, pouring them each a glass of something amber and 40% regret, “we talk.”

“About?”

“Strategy,” Suguru said. “And you.”

“Me?”

Suguru took a slow sip. “You’re unpredictable.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a compliment.”

Satoru barked a laugh. “Neither is your face, but here we are.”

Suguru didn’t smile, but his eyes warmed for a fraction of a second.

“You came tonight,” Suguru said. “Even though your father wouldn’t approve.”

“You said ‘come,’” Satoru replied. “And historically, that’s been a problem for me.”

Suguru’s eyebrow rose. “Is that you flirting? Or deflecting?”

“Both,” Satoru said. “I multitask.”

Suguru placed his glass down. “I’m serious, Satoru.”

“Unfortunately,” Satoru said, “so am I.”

Silence stretched, a tightrope neither wanted to fall from.

Suguru leaned forward. “You need to decide if you’re going to fight me or use me.”

“That’s a fun false dichotomy.”

“It’s the real one.”

Satoru stared at him. “You think I could use you?”

Suguru didn’t blink. “If I let you.”

“Why would you?”

“Because,” Suguru said, “there’s a version of this story where we don’t kill each other. There’s a version where we both win.”

“And what version is that?”

“The one where you stop pretending you’re the savior of a legacy that never saved you.”

Satoru inhaled sharply. “And start what? Betraying my family?”

“Start choosing yourself.”

“I am choosing myself.”

“No,” Suguru said. “You’re choosing the version of yourself your father raised.”

The words landed like a slap Satoru didn’t see coming. He swallowed rage, pride, pain, everything Suguru always knew how to hit with surgical precision.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” Satoru said. “It’s condescending.”

“It’s nostalgic,” Suguru said. “I used to do it for free.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. “You left.”

“You stayed.”

“You didn’t give me a choice.”

“You never asked me to,” Suguru said, voice softening, just barely.

And there it was: the ache that lived in both of them, shaped like a decade of misunderstandings.

Satoru exhaled. “Fine. Let’s talk strategy.”

“Good.” Suguru sat back. “Next quarter, the board is vulnerable. You’re short on supportive independents. If we file a second proposal on restructuring… you’ll lose.”

“Not if I sway Evergreen Capital.”

“They won’t budge.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You think I didn’t already talk to them?”

Satoru froze.

Suguru continued, “They admire your vision. They don’t believe your governance.”

“So you’re saying, what? That I’m incompetent?”

“I’m saying you need me.”

Satoru blinked once, twice. “Say please.”

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “You want me to beg?”

“A little.”

“Not happening.”

Satoru smirked. “Then it sounds like you need me, actually.”

Suguru folded his arms. “Why would I need you?”

“Because,” Satoru said, “you know damn well you don’t want my father running this company either. You want to win, Suguru, but you want to win with me in charge.”

Suguru’s jaw flexed. Got him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Satoru teased. “It’s flattering.”

“It’s strategic,” Suguru corrected.

“You keep confusing the two,” Satoru said. “It’s adorable.”

Suguru stared at him with eyes sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re obsessed,” Satoru replied.

And there it was. The truth between them, ugly, brilliant, inevitable.

Two hours and several drinks later, the dark comedy of their situation became almost bearable. Suguru outlined Blackthorn’s next moves with the casual ease of someone discussing weather patterns: shareholder alliances, litigation threats, tactical leaks. Satoru countered with restructuring plans, succession timeline revisions, CEO charm offensives. Somewhere between a discourse on capital allocation and an argument about debt covenants, they began to relax. Not fully, but enough that their old rhythms resurfaced, verbal sparring layered with flirtation, familiarity, and the faintest shape of longing.

“You know,” Satoru said, swirling the last of his drink, “this reminds me of sophomore year.”

“Which part?” Suguru asked.

“The part where we’d start studying and end up doing coke in your dorm.”

Suguru smirked. “We were dedicated scholars.”

“Of bad decisions.”

“We graduated at the top of our class.”

“And bottom of self-preservation.”

“And top of experimenting with—”

“Don’t say it,” Satoru interrupted. “You’re going to make this sentimental.”

Suguru leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You used to like sentimental.”

Satoru’s pulse jumped. “I liked you.”

Suguru’s gaze didn’t move from his mouth. “You still do.”

Satoru swallowed. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“Because every time you breathe near me,” Suguru said, “you look like you’re remembering how we tasted.”

Satoru’s lungs stopped.

Suguru leaned back, victorious.

“Asshole,” Satoru whispered.

“You love that about me,” Suguru said.

“I hate that about you.”

“Same thing.”

And for a moment, just a moment, they were twenty again, stupid and young and so in love it hurt. They left Linwood’s near midnight. The air outside was crisp and smelled like winter sharpening its knives. Suguru lit a cigarette. Satoru stole it from his hand.

“Rude,” Suguru said.

“Habit,” Satoru replied, taking a drag.

A black SUV pulled up.

“You headed home?” Suguru asked.

“No,” Satoru said. “Board dinner.”

“At midnight?”

“Governance never sleeps.”

Suguru huffed a faint laugh. “Good luck convincing seventy-year-olds to care about strategy.”

Satoru flicked the cigarette. “I prefer convincing you.”

Suguru opened the SUV door. “You’re doing a terrible job.”

“I’ll improve,” Satoru said lightly.

Suguru paused, half-inside the car. “Satoru.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t trust me,” Suguru said. “Even when you want to.”

The door closed. Satoru stood there, smoke curling around him, heart beating like a secret he couldn’t return.

The next morning, the newspapers were carnivorous.

BLACKTHORN SECURES INFLUENTIAL VOTE IN GOJO BATTLE
ACTIVIST PRESSURES FAMILY EMPIRE
GETO’S PLAY: BRILLIANCE OR BETRAYAL?

The last one stung. More because of the photograph: Suguru and Satoru leaving the shareholder meeting in the same frame. Suguru looking calm. Satoru looking furious. It looked like a breakup captured by the Dow Jones.

“Satoru,” Nanami said, storming into his office. “Did you meet with him last night?”

Satoru didn’t look up from his laptop. “Define ‘meet.’”

“Jesus Christ,” Nanami muttered. “Are you trying to hand him the company?”

“I’m not—”

“Are you sleeping with him again?”

Satoru’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Satoru opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“No,” he said. “We’re not sleeping together.”

“Are you planning to?”

“…no?”

Nanami stared. “That doesn’t sound like a firm answer.”

“It is.” It was not.

Nanami rubbed his temple. “Satoru. He is not your friend.”

“I know.”

“He’s not your lover.”

Satoru’s silence said dangerous things.

Nanami sighed. “He will destroy you.”

“Then let him try,” Satoru said. And he meant it. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did.

Nanami stared at him with something between resignation and pity. “We need to prepare poison pill provisions.”

“No.”

“Satoru—”

“I’m not detonating our entire shareholder base because I’m scared of him.”

“You should be scared.”

“I’m not.”

“Then you’re in denial.”

“Probably,” Satoru said. “But it’s my denial.”

Nanami exhaled. “And what will you do when he pushes for control?”

Satoru looked out the window at the morning skyline, cold, infinite, familiar.

“I’ll push harder,” he said.

Across the city, Suguru was in Blackthorn’s midtown office, surrounded by glass, models, analysts, and a partner meeting that felt like a military briefing. On the conference table lay three things: A thick binder labeled GOJO STRATEGIC OVERVIEW. A list of undecided shareholders. And a photograph. The photograph was of him and Satoru, ages fifteen and sixteen, sweaty from a high school basketball game, grinning like morons, Satoru’s arm slung around his shoulders. Suguru kept it folded in his wallet. A bad habit. A liability. A reminder. He closed it before anyone noticed.

“Geto,” said Yaga Masamichi, Blackthorn’s chairman. “Where do we stand?”

Suguru regained his composure instantly. “We have the vote in range. But Satoru will escalate.”

“Can he?”

“Yes.”

“Will he?”

Suguru hesitated. “He’s unpredictable.”

“Then predict him.”

Suguru breathed out slowly. “He’ll try to win the moral narrative. He’ll charm the funds who still romanticize stewardship.”

“And you?”

“I’ll win the ones who want money.”

Yaga smiled. “Then you win.”

Suguru didn’t smile back.

Yaga leaned in. “This feels personal.”

“It’s not.”

“You’re lying.”

Suguru’s jaw tightened. “It’s strategic.”

“Same thing,” Yaga said.

Suguru hated that he echoed Satoru without meaning to.

The war escalated faster than either of them planned. Headlines multiplied like contagion. Shareholders grew restless. Analysts speculated on television. Employees whispered in corridors. And the two of them, the boys who once shared a cigarette under the Harvard lamp post, were now drafting battlefield memos with their names on opposing letterheads.

But none of that compared to the night Satoru’s father collapsed.

It happened in the middle of a board dinner, white tablecloth, overpriced wine, laughter that didn’t reach the eyes. Masahiro Gojo's face went gray, his hand gripping the tablecloth like it could anchor him. He slid to the floor. Chaos erupted. Satoru reached him first.

“Dad? Dad—hey—hey—look at me—”

Paramedics arrived. Sirens. Cameras. News broke within thirty minutes.

GOJO PATRIARCH HOSPITALIZED. SUCCESSION QUESTION RESURFACES.

When Suguru saw the headline, he stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor.

“Geto?” a junior partner asked.

Suguru’s voice was soft, lethal. “Cancel everything.”

“You have a roundtable with—”

“I SAID CANCEL EVERYTHING.”

He grabbed his coat and left the office with the speed of a man running from something on fire. He was running toward a hospital.

Satoru stood outside the ICU like a man carved out of ice. He looked up when he heard footsteps. Fast. Familiar.

Suguru.

Their eyes collided. Neither spoke for a long moment. 

Suguru approached him, breath shallow.

“What happened?” Suguru asked.

“A stroke,” Satoru said numbly. “They don’t know the extent.”

Suguru swallowed. “Is he—?”

“He’s alive,” Satoru snapped. “For now.”

Suguru flinched at the tone.

Satoru pressed his palms into his eyes. “I can’t do this right now.”

Suguru took one step closer. “Do you need anything?”

Satoru laughed, broken, sharp. “Do I need anything? Yeah. Yeah, actually, I need you to stop trying to steal my company.”

Suguru froze.

Satoru’s voice cracked. “You couldn’t give me space for one day? One fucking day where you’re not tearing my life apart?”

Suguru’s jaw tightened, not with anger, but with guilt.

“Satoru,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want this.”

“You didn’t want what? My father dying? Or the part where it makes me vulnerable?”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Satoru said. “Not here.”

Suguru exhaled shakily. “I didn’t come as an investor.”

“No?” Satoru asked, voice low. “Then why are you here?”

Suguru swallowed hard. “Because you called me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” Suguru said. “Not with your phone. With your face.”

And for once, Satoru didn’t argue. Suguru reached out, very slowly, as if Satoru were a wild animal. His fingertips brushed Satoru’s wrist. The contact was small. Human. Devastating. Satoru let himself breathe. Just once.

Hours passed. They sat in plastic hospital chairs that made both of them look like children again. Suguru bought coffee neither of them drank. Satoru stared at a vending machine like it held answers.

At some point, Suguru spoke. “Your father is a ruthless man.”

Satoru didn’t look away from the floor. “He taught me everything.”

“He taught you nothing about being happy.”

“That wasn’t his job.”

“Maybe not. But it’s yours.”

Satoru turned his head. “Suguru.”

“Hm?”

“I hate you,” Satoru whispered.

“I know,” Suguru said. “I hate you too.”

The words sounded like love.

By dawn, Masahiro was stable. Not healed. But alive. Satoru exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for hours. He turned to Suguru. And Suguru looked at him the way a man looks at a secret.

“You should go,” Satoru said softly.

Suguru’s eyebrows furrowed. “Do you want me to?”

Satoru’s answer took a long time. “No.”

Suguru nodded. “Then I’ll stay.”

The sun rose on a city preparing for another day of war. But in this tiny, fluorescent-lit room, two men sat quietly, exhausted, realizing that no matter how much strategy they wrote, no matter how many votes they chased. They had always been each other’s breaking point. And maybe, if the world didn’t ruin them first, they could be each other’s salvation.

Or destruction. Or both.

Satoru left the hospital later that morning only because Nanami threatened to drag him home by his tie.

“You haven’t slept,” Nanami said, holding the elevator button as if daring Satoru to argue. “You’re about to be front-page news for multiple reasons.”

“I’m already front-page,” Satoru muttered. “‘Heir Apparent Watches Empire Collapse in Real Time.’”

“More like,” Nanami said, “ ‘Gojo Succession Crisis: Investors Smell Blood.’”

Satoru blinked. “Is that, real?”

“It will be,” Nanami said. “By noon. We’re holding a defensive strategy lunch. Rico room. All counsel. All senior execs.”

Satoru rubbed his face. “Jesus.”

“One more thing,” Nanami said, lowering his voice. “Suguru is still in the waiting room.”

Of course he was.

“Tell him to go home,” Satoru said.

“You tell him,” Nanami replied. “I’m not involving myself in whatever Greek tragedy you two are reenacting.”

“Coward.”

“Correct.”

Satoru exhaled and pushed open the waiting room door. Suguru was sitting there, elbows on his knees, tie loose, hair slightly mussed, and Satoru hated how domestic it looked. He hated how show-up-for-you Suguru was, even when he pretended he wasn’t.

“You should go,” Satoru said gently.

Suguru looked up. “You said you didn’t want me to.”

“That was before Nanami yelled at me.”

Suguru stood. “And now?”

Satoru sighed. “Now I need to deal with the company.”

Suguru nodded slowly. “I’ll call later.”

“That’s not—” Satoru stopped himself. “Call if you want.”

Suguru’s mouth twitched. “I always want.”

And Satoru hated how much that meant.

The Rico Room was a battlefield before anyone arrived. Stacks of legal pads. Half-drunk coffees. A whiteboard filled with names of shareholders circled in red like murder victims. Nanami standing there like a patient general waiting for troops to stop crying. Satoru walked in and the room snapped to attention.

“Tell me everything,” he said.

A woman from Wachtell began. “Blackthorn has increased its stake from 8% to 12%.”

Satoru’s body went rigid. “When?”

“Last night.”

“Last night,” Satoru repeated. “As in, while my father was in the ICU?”

Silence.

Nanami cleared his throat. “Capital doesn’t grieve, Satoru.”

Satoru swallowed. “Suguru knew.”

Nanami hesitated. “Yes.”

Satoru dragged a hand through his hair. “Okay. Fine. What else?”

A VP slid a file over. “They also filed a preliminary proxy statement with the intent to add two more directors.”

Satoru froze. “Two?!”

Nanami nodded grimly. “They’re accelerating.”

“Why?”

Everyone looked at each other but no one spoke.

Finally, Nanami said it. “Because they think you’re weakened.”

A flare of rage burned low in Satoru’s stomach.

“Then we show them I’m not,” he said. “We go on offense.”

“How?” asked the VP.

“Simple,” Satoru said, pacing. “We approach the pension funds. We secure a standstill. We charm the ESG funds by overhauling our sustainability metrics. We freeze their narrative.”

“And the press?” Nanami asked.

“We leak Dad’s recovery to major outlets. Make it sound miraculous and inspiring. Say he’s conscious.”

“He’s not conscious,” Nanami said.

“He doesn’t need to be,” Satoru snapped. “We’re performing triage.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “And Blackthorn?”

Satoru stopped pacing. Blackthorn. Suguru. Suguru knowing exactly when to strike. Suguru increasing pressure when Satoru was at his lowest. Suguru who sat by him all night at the hospital. A contradiction. A man made of knives and tenderness.

“We fight them,” Satoru said. “No matter what.”

At the same time, across the city, Suguru walked into Blackthorn’s lobby like a man walking into a courtroom where he already knew the verdict. Analysts looked up. Associates paused mid-email. Partners whispered. The news of Masahiro’s stroke had hit Wall Street like fresh blood in open water.

“Morning, Geto,” someone murmured. “Hell of a night.”

Suguru ignored them and went straight to the top floor.

Yaga Masamichi, Blackthorn’s chairman, was waiting.

“You went to the hospital,” Yaga said without preamble.

Suguru’s jacket was barely off. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“He’s an old family friend,” Suguru lied.

Yaga lifted an eyebrow. “Try again.”

Suguru’s jaw clenched. “It doesn’t affect my judgment.”

Yaga put down his coffee. “Everything affects judgment when billions are involved.”

Suguru said nothing.

Yaga walked closer. “Do you know why private equity works, Suguru?”

Suguru stayed silent.

“Because,” Yaga continued, “we do not attach ourselves to the people we dismantle.”

Suguru still said nothing.

Yaga’s eyes softened, dangerously. “He is not your ally.”

“I know.”

“He is not your friend.”

“I know.”

“He is a liability.”

This time Suguru did not respond.

Yaga studied him. “We move forward. Aggressively. No pauses. No mercy.”

Suguru felt something twist inside him.

“What’s our position?” he asked.

“We push for control,” Yaga said. “Full control.”

Suguru looked at him sharply. “We agreed on operational reform, not control.”

Yaga smiled like a wolf. “You agreed to what I said last month. This is a new month.”

Suguru stared. “You want to take the company.”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“It is now.”

Suguru’s voice lowered. “Satoru will fight.”

Yaga shrugged. “Let him.”

“You don’t understand,” Suguru said quietly. “He’ll burn the whole world before he loses.”

Yaga’s smile widened. “Good. That means he’s predictable.”

Suguru looked away. Because the truth was painful: Satoru wasn’t predictable. Satoru was radioactive. And Suguru was the idiot who kept touching the core.

That afternoon, Satoru’s phone buzzed while he sat in a black car heading back to the Gojo Tower. Suguru. He stared at the name. His thumb hovered. He answered.

“Hey,” Suguru said. His voice was deeper than usual. Tired. Human. “How’s your father?”

“Alive,” Satoru said. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“Good,” Suguru said quietly. “Good.”

Satoru rubbed his forehead. “Suguru, what the hell are you doing?”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Suguru exhaled. “I don’t always choose the timing, Satoru. Some things are… already in motion.”

“You escalated your position.”

Silence.

“Suguru?”

“Yeah.”

“You went to twelve percent.”

“Yes.”

“You filed for two directors.”

“Yes.”

“You’re moving for control.”

Suguru inhaled sharply. “That wasn’t my—”

“You’re moving for control,” Satoru repeated, voice breaking. “While my father is in the fucking ICU?”

Suguru’s voice cracked. “Satoru, listen—”

“No,” Satoru said. “I did listen. Last night. When you said you didn’t come as an investor.”

“I didn’t.”

“And now?”

Suguru closed his eyes on the other end. “Now I’m telling you I can’t stop this.”

“You won’t stop this.”

“No,” Suguru said. “I mean I can’t. You don’t get it, this isn’t just me. This is Yaga. This is Blackthorn. This is dozens of limited partners. This is billions in committed capital. This machine doesn’t stop because one person catches feelings.”

Satoru’s breath hitched. “Do you have feelings?”

Suguru’s silence was a confession.

“Satoru,” he finally whispered, “you know I do.”

Satoru’s throat closed.

“So what now?” he asked.

“Now,” Suguru said softly, “we try not to destroy each other.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I know.”

And for a moment, neither spoke.

Finally Satoru whispered, “I wish you never left.”

Suguru’s voice trembled. “Me too.”

But neither of them said sorry, because sorry implied something could be undone, and this war had momentum older than either of them.

“Goodbye, Satoru,” Suguru said.

“Don’t,” Satoru whispered. “Don’t say goodbye.”

Suguru hung up anyway.

Three days later, the Gojo Foundation hosted a gala that looked like money laundering wrapped in philanthropy. Satoru stood in a tux that probably cost the price of a graduate degree. Cameras flashed. Donors clapped his shoulder. Someone gave a speech about legacy. He didn’t hear any of it. Suguru arrived halfway through. Not alone, with two Blackthorn partners, all in immaculate black suits that made them look like a funeral procession for good governance. The room shifted around them. Conversations stilled. Flashbulbs popped. Suguru walked like a man who didn’t notice the chaos he caused. Satoru noticed. He approached him.

“Suguru,” he said, cool as steel.

“Satoru,” Suguru said, voice soft.

“You’re not invited.”

“I’m a donor,” Suguru replied. “Blackthorn donated to your literacy program last quarter.”

“You bought a ticket to my gala?”

“Yes.”

Satoru narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Suguru lowered his voice. “Because I knew you’d be here.”

Satoru’s pulse skipped. “So?”

“So,” Suguru murmured, “I wanted to see you.”

Satoru swallowed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Suguru smiled faintly. “You say that a lot.”

“You should listen.”

“I never have.”

Their eyes stayed locked for too long. Finally, Satoru stepped closer. Close enough that only Suguru could hear him.

“Are you spying,” Satoru whispered, “or flirting?”

Suguru’s eyes darkened. “Sometimes those are the same thing.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. Then he noticed something. Suguru wasn’t drinking. Suguru always drank at galas.

“You’re sober,” Satoru murmured.

Suguru’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Trying to be… better.”

“For who?”

Suguru hesitated. “You.”

Satoru felt the floor disappear.

But the moment broke when a reporter approached, camera lifted.

“Satoru! Mr. Geto! Photo together?”

Satoru froze. Suguru answered for him.

“No photos,” he said. “Not tonight.”

And Satoru almost, almost, saw the boy he once loved.

An hour later, Satoru escaped into a marble restroom to breathe. But of course, of course, Suguru followed.

“You’re avoiding me,” Suguru said, shutting the door behind him.

“I’m avoiding a lawsuit,” Satoru replied.

“That’s new.”

“Get out.”

“No.”

Satoru’s reflection trembled in the mirror. “What do you want?”

Suguru stepped closer. “You.”

“Professionally or personally?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Truth isn’t useful.”

“It’s honest,” Suguru murmured.

“Fuck honesty,” Satoru said. “It’s ruined everything.”

Suguru took another step forward. Satoru stepped back until his spine hit the counter.

“Satoru,” Suguru whispered, “tell me this isn’t still between us.”

Satoru laughed bitterly. “It’s not between us. It’s killing us.”

Suguru reached out, slow, careful, and touched Satoru’s cheek. Satoru closed his eyes.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Satoru said, voice breaking, “I’ll forgive you.”

Suguru froze.

“Satoru—”

“Don’t make me forgive you,” Satoru whispered. “Not while you’re still trying to take everything from me.”

Suguru’s hand dropped. Good. Bad. Everything hurt.

“Fine,” Suguru said quietly. “Then fight me.”

“I am.”

Suguru nodded once. “Good.”

He walked out of the bathroom without looking back. Satoru stayed, hands gripping the sink, breath shaking. He looked at himself in the mirror. And he saw fear. Not of losing the company. Of losing Suguru.

Three days later, the board convened for an emergency meeting to discuss succession planning. Satoru stood at the head of the long walnut table. Every director watched him like he was an explosive device.

“Has Blackthorn indicated a hostile bid?” one asked.

“No,” Satoru lied.

“Should we consider a poison pill?” another asked.

“No,” Satoru snapped.

Nanami shot him a look.

A younger director whispered, “What if Blackthorn’s nominee slate succeeds?”

Satoru smiled a thin, calculated smile. “It won’t.”

“And if it does?”

“We’ll burn the entire restructuring process to the ground before we let them take control.”

Nanami muttered under his breath, “Jesus Christ.”

“Any more questions?” Satoru asked.

A director raised her hand. “Yes. Where is your father’s will?”

The room froze.

“Excuse me?” Satoru said.

“We need to know the succession plan.”

“I’m the succession plan.”

“But legally—”

“Legally,” Satoru cut her off, “the will is none of your concern.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Satoru’s eyes went cold. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

That night, Satoru found himself back at the hospital. He didn’t plan to go. His car simply drove there without asking. The hallway was quiet. Masahiro lay unconscious, machines breathing for him. Satoru sat beside the bed.

“You’re a bastard,” he whispered. “You know that? You built a dynasty on fear and then asked me to love you for it.”

He rubbed his eyes.

“And now you’re leaving me to clean up your fucking mess.”

He leaned back.

“And Suguru… he’s…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Because he didn’t know the ending. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t want to say it aloud. Suguru was both salvation and destruction. A cure and a poison. A love and a war.

Satoru put his forehead in his hands.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

A voice from the doorway said:

“Then do what you always do.”

Satoru looked up.

Suguru stood there. No tie. Sleeves rolled. Hair messy. Eyes exhausted.

“Fight,” Suguru said softly. “Win. Live.”

“Why are you here?” Satoru whispered.

Suguru walked closer, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

“Because,” he said, “you needed someone to tell you that.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” Suguru said, sitting down beside him. “But I couldn’t stay away.”

And there, in the cold glow of hospital machines, they finally stopped pretending. Satoru leaned his head on Suguru’s shoulder. Suguru let him. Suguru closed his eyes. Satoru breathed. For the first time in weeks, he breathed. And outside, the world kept turning. The war kept burning. But inside this tiny room, for the span of a heartbeat, they weren’t CEO and investor, they weren’t rivals, they weren’t enemies. They were just two boys from Buckley. Two idiots from Harvard. Two men who ruined each other and couldn’t stop coming back.

And this was only the beginning. Because the market was about to open. And the next blow was hours away.

Chapter Text

The week after Suguru sat with Satoru in that hospital room, the world decided to combust. Not burn. Not smolder. Combust. You’d think the collapse of a sixty-billion-dollar dynasty would be slow, dignified, orchestrated with the precision of a hostile takeover musical. No. It was a shitshow. Everything happened at once. Masahiro Gojo remained unconscious, which meant the board panicked. Blackthorn applied pressure like a sadist alphabetizing their tortures. Journalists smelled inheritance drama and swarmed like hornets.

And through all of it, Satoru and Suguru stayed orbiting each other in that dangerous, magnetic, impossible way they had perfected since Buckley. They didn’t talk about the hospital moment. They didn’t talk about almost leaning in. They didn’t talk about anything useful. They just… looked too long, stood too close, fought too hard.

And somewhere deep inside the market, something began ticking. Waiting to explode.

It happened on a Wednesday morning. 7:04 AM. Satoru was in the car, reading overnight futures and ignoring texts from directors who were suddenly opposed to everything he proposed because fear makes cowards creative.

Nanami sat beside him, scrolling through emails. His tone was deceptively calm when he said:

“…Satoru.”

“You look like you’ve swallowed a lawsuit. What.”

“I wish it were a lawsuit." Nanami said, "I think you should see this.”

He turned his phone. Satoru opened it. And the world he knew lurched. Bloomberg Terminal headline in cold and merciless font, bright yellow block, top of the morning sheet:

LEAKED EMAILS SUGGEST PERSONAL TIES BETWEEN GOJO HEIR & PRIVATE EQUITY INVESTOR SUGURU GETO

Below it: Screenshots. Time stamps. Snippets of emails that should NEVER have seen daylight. Not romantic ones. Not explicit ones. No. Worse. College emails. Harvard years. The kind people write at 4 AM thinking the world is still young and safe.

“I trust you more than anyone.”
— S. Gojo, age 20

“Don’t be dramatic. I’d fight God for you if you asked.”
— S. Geto, age 21

“One day we’ll run something big together. Something real.”
— S. Gojo

“Together, we could build an empire.”
— S. Geto

It felt like a curse scroll. Satoru’s blood went cold.

Nanami closed the phone like he was performing last rites. “I am so sorry.”

Satoru stared at the seat in front of him.

“Who leaked this?” he asked.

Nanami inhaled. “Blackthorn claims they didn’t.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” Nanami said. “It isn’t.”

Satoru looked out the window at the gray morning. “Where’s Suguru?”

Nanami paused.

“At the same place he always is,” he said. “At the center of the storm.”

Satoru didn’t speak for the rest of the ride.

Suguru walked into Blackthorn that morning and immediately felt the temperature drop ten degrees. Every pair of eyes followed him. Some curious, some calculating, some outright predatory. Yaga Masamichi stood by the glass wall, arms folded.

“Morning,” Suguru said.

Yaga pointed at his own Bloomberg screen. “Explain this.”

Suguru read the headline. His pulse didn’t spike. He had trained himself too well. But the truth? It felt like someone had ripped open his ribs and displayed something soft and private to the whole street.

“I didn’t leak it,” Suguru said.

“Who did?” Yaga asked.

“I don’t know.”

Yaga studied him. “Is it real?”

Suguru’s jaw clenched. “Some of it.”

“And the sentiment?”

Suguru didn’t answer.

Yaga leaned in. “Did you two fuck?”

Suguru stared at him. “Irrelevant.”

“No,” Yaga murmured, “it’s very relevant.”

Suguru’s voice went icy. “We were kids. College kids. It has nothing to do with the board fight.”

Yaga exhaled. “Suguru. This leak compromises the narrative. It makes you look entangled.”

“I’m not entangled.”

Yaga raised an eyebrow. “Then why do you look like you’re about to kill someone?”

Because someone had mined the only part of Suguru’s past he still considered sacred. Because someone had touched Satoru. Because someone had dragged their youth into a battlefield it did not belong on.

“Find out who leaked it,” Yaga said. “Now. Before this destroys the whole campaign.”

Suguru nodded slowly. Destroy? Destroy was easy. But whoever leaked this, they had done something worse: They had made Suguru feel.

And that would be lethal.

Satoru barely made it two steps into the Gojo Tower lobby before reporters materialized like they’d risen from the marble floors.

“Mr. Gojo! Did you and Mr. Geto have a romantic relationship?”
“Were you colluding with Blackthorn for years?”
“Is this a betrayal narrative? A lovers-to-enemies corporate arc?”
“Is this affecting the succession?”
“Did you compromise governance—”

Security blocked them, pushing cameras away. Satoru shoved into the elevator, heart pounding.

Nanami followed him in, massaging his temple. “This is a PR nightmare.”

Satoru leaned his head against the wall. “They think I was feeding Suguru insider information?”

“They think,” Nanami said, “you were sleeping with him.”

“That’s none of their business.”

“It is now,” Nanami said dryly. “Everything is now.”

Satoru exhaled, shaky. “Who the fuck did this.”

Nanami hesitated.

“Satoru… it came from an anonymous encrypted dropbox routed through four jurisdictions.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Nanami said grimly, “this wasn’t amateur. Someone wanted to nuke your reputation.”

“And Suguru’s.”

“And Suguru’s.”

Satoru stared at the numbers ticking up on the elevator screen.

“Do you think Suguru did it?” Satoru asked quietly.

Nanami looked at him with something like pity.

“No,” he said. “Geto wouldn’t weaponize your past. Not like this.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because,” Nanami said, “if Geto ever truly intended to destroy you, he wouldn’t do it through gossip.”

Satoru swallowed hard.

“Then who?” he whispered.

The elevator doors opened.

A board member rushed toward them, pale. “Satoru. Emergency meeting. Now.”

Of course.

The boardroom felt like a funeral home. Directors sat stiff and silent with stacks of printouts filled with headlines, analyst commentary, and, worst of all, opinion pieces speculating on “personal conflict in corporate governance.” Someone had compiled a PowerPoint. A fucking PowerPoint. Nanami flipped through slides like he was searching for the meaning of life in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Slide 3 was titled: “REPUTATIONAL RISK: THE GETO-GOJO CONNECTION.” Slide 6 contained a timeline of their “known interactions.” Slide 9 analyzed Satoru’s “potentially compromised judgment.” Slide 12 speculated what “romantic engagement” meant for fiduciary duty. Slide 15, Satoru refused to look at slide 15.

“We need clarity,” a board member said sharply. “Did you share any corporate information with Mr. Geto?”

“No,” Satoru said.

“Did you have an intimate relationship with him?”

“No,” Satoru lied.

Nanami’s jaw tightened.

“Are you sure,” the director pressed, “that there was no inappropriate entanglement?”

“Inappropriate?” Satoru repeated. “Define inappropriate.”

The director stammered. “We, we simply mean—”

Nanami intervened. “The Gojo family’s private history has no bearing on governance.”

“This is relevant,” another director argued, “because it suggests bias.”

“It suggests humanity,” Nanami snapped. “Which I understand is a foreign concept in this room.”

Satoru looked at Nanami with brief gratitude. But the board wasn’t done.

One elderly member, sharp as a blade, cleared her throat. “Satoru. We have a responsibility to the company. If this narrative continues—”

“Say it,” Satoru said. “If what continues?”

“—if it appears you’re emotionally compromised—”

“—you want to remove me from interim leadership?”

Silence. There it was.

Satoru laughed once, humorless. “Unbelievable.”

“We are protecting the company,” the woman said.

“No,” Satoru said. “You’re protecting yourselves.”

“Satoru—”

“I’m not stepping down.”

“Satoru—”

He slammed his hand on the table. “I SAID NO.”

Silence fell. Nanami closed his eyes.

One director whispered to another, “He’s unstable.”

Satoru felt the room tilt. And then, like a storm on cue, the double doors opened. Suguru walked in. Suguru Geto entering a Gojo boardroom uninvited was the corporate equivalent of a bomb detonating inside the FED. Every director turned, mouths half open. Nanami looked like he’d aged ten years in three seconds. Satoru froze. Suguru, immaculate and lethal, adjusted his cufflinks.

“Good morning,” he said, voice smooth as lacquer. “I understand there’s confusion.”

The chairwoman sputtered. “Mr. Geto, this is a private—”

“Board meeting? Yes,” Suguru said. “And I’m here as a major shareholder.”

“You’re not on the board.”

“I’m on the shareholder roster,” Suguru corrected. “Twelve percent entitles me to speak.”

“I don’t believe that’s—”

Suguru placed a folder on the table. Inside: Legal opinion. Shareholder rights. Precedent cases.

Nanami muttered, “Fuck.”

Suguru continued.

“I will answer your question,” he said, voice calm. “Mr. Gojo did not provide me with insider information. Ever.”

“And the… leak?” a director probed.

Suguru’s jaw tightened. “Was taken out of context.”

“Were you two involved—”

“That,” Suguru said sharply, “is irrelevant to corporate governance.”

“But it raises concerns about—”

“Your concerns,” Suguru said, “are biased, prurient, and legally meaningless.”

Satoru stared at him. Not just because Suguru was defending him. But because Suguru looked like he was about to set fire to the entire board if they pushed further.

“This leak,” Suguru said, leaning forward, “was an attack on both of us.”

Satoru felt something twist in his chest.

Suguru continued. “It was designed to destabilize leadership. It was not from Blackthorn.”

“Do you expect us to believe that?” a director asked.

“I expect,” Suguru said, “that you understand I have no incentive to expose myself.”

Satoru nearly choked.

Nanami whispered under his breath, “Bad choice of words.”

Suguru’s jaw twitched. “Poor phrasing acknowledged.”

The boardroom stared at him. Suguru exhaled.

“This leak was an act of sabotage,” he said. “Not by Blackthorn. Not by me.”

He turned to Satoru.

“Which means someone in your walls wanted this chaos.”

The room froze. Suguru’s eyes were gentle when they landed on Satoru.

“But I didn’t come here to accuse,” he said. “I came because you looked alone.”

Satoru’s breath caught. Suguru continued, voice steady:

“Satoru Gojo is the only person capable of leading this company through the transition. Blackthorn does not endorse his removal.”

The board gasped.

Nanami whispered, “What the hell are you doing—”

Suguru ignored him.

“We may be in a proxy battle,” he said, “but I will not stand by while misinformation is weaponized against someone who has done nothing wrong.”

Satoru stared at him. Suguru met his eyes. And in that gaze: Apology. Defiance. History. Something like devotion. The boardroom held its breath. Suguru straightened his tie.

“That,” he said, “is all.”

He turned and walked out. Satoru didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Nanami exhaled. “Well,” he said softly, “that just rewrote the entire proxy season.”

And Satoru? Satoru sat there, heart hammering, watching the door Suguru had walked through. Because no matter how much they lied, no matter how much they fought, Suguru Geto just walked into a battlefield for him. Again.

Satoru found him two hours later on the rooftop of Blackthorn’s midtown office. Suguru stood with his back to him, tie loosened, hair blowing in the afternoon wind. Satoru approached slowly.

“You idiot,” he said.

Suguru didn’t turn. “You’re welcome.”

“You made it worse.”

“I made it honest.”

“You can’t just storm into my board meeting like some, some—”

“Knight in shining Armani?” Suguru finally turned, smirking. “My pleasure.”

Satoru punched his arm. Suguru caught his fist. Their faces were close. Too close.

“You shouldn’t have defended me,” Satoru whispered.

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes.” Suguru’s expression softened. “I did.”

“Why?”

Suguru inhaled. “Because someone hurt you.”

“That’s not your responsibility.”

“That’s not why I did it.”

“Then why?”

Suguru’s voice lowered. “Because I hate watching people try to destroy the person I—”

He stopped. Satoru’s heart stalled.

“Say it,” Satoru whispered. “Please.”

Suguru’s eyes trembled.

“I can’t,” he said.

Satoru stepped closer. “You can.”

“No,” Suguru whispered, “because if I do, I won’t be able to fight you.”

Satoru swallowed. “Then don’t fight me.”

Suguru looked pained. “Too late.”

They stood there, inches apart, the city roaring below them. The skyline didn’t care. The world didn’t care. But they did. Satoru raised a hand and touched Suguru’s jaw, tentative, trembling. Suguru closed his eyes.

“Satoru,” he whispered, “don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you touch me,” Suguru breathed, “I’ll choose you.”

Satoru exhaled. “Is that bad?”

“It’s catastrophic.”

Satoru’s hand slid down Suguru’s neck.

“And if I kiss you?” Satoru whispered.

Suguru opened his eyes. And god, God, he looked wrecked.

“If you kiss me,” Suguru said, voice breaking, “I’ll burn this whole fucking company war to the ground.”

Satoru leaned in, their lips almost touched. Almost. But then: Suguru stepped back. Pain flickered across his face.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

Satoru felt something collapse inside him. He nodded once.

“Fine,” he said softly. “Not yet.”

Suguru’s chest rose and fell. Hard.

“This isn’t over,” Suguru said.

“No,” Satoru agreed. “It’s not.”

“And I’m not done with you.”

“Good.”

Suguru turned toward the skyline. Satoru headed for the door.

Just before he left, Suguru said, quietly. “I didn’t leak those emails.”

Satoru didn’t turn around.

“I know,” he said.

And he meant it.

Because if Suguru hadn’t leaked them, then someone else did. Someone with access. Someone with motive. Someone within the Gojo empire. And whoever they were, they were about to start the real war.

The leak didn’t just embarrass Satoru and Suguru. It destabilized the stock. Gojo Group shares fell 6% in twenty minutes. Analysts interpreted the drop like vultures identifying weak carrion.

“Leadership uncertainty compounds succession crisis.”
“Conflict-of-interest allegations raise governance questions.”
“Activist Geto denies impropriety — but questions linger.”

CNBC’s morning panel spent 38 uninterrupted minutes dissecting Satoru’s entire life, his sexuality, his competence, his “potential moral vulnerability.” One anchor used the phrase “Romeo and Julius.” Satoru turned the TV off so hard he nearly cracked the remote. Meanwhile, Blackthorn had to release a public statement: “Blackthorn Partners categorically denies any connection to the leak.” Clear. Sterile. Dead. Satoru read it in his office and felt his molars scrape.

Suguru texted him:

S. Geto: I meant what I said in the boardroom.
I didn’t do it.
I didn’t let my team do it.
And I’m going to find out who did.

Satoru stared at the text for a long, dangerous minute. He typed nothing. He deleted everything he wanted to say. He replied with:

S. Gojo: ok

It took him thirty minutes to calm down. Because “ok” wasn’t what he felt. What he felt was: Find who did it. And kill them. For both of us.

Nanami assembled a crisis team. Four lawyers. Two forensic analysts. One PR handler. One cybersecurity firm CEO who charged $3,000/hour and smelled like peppermint. They tore apart the leak: metadata, routing servers, timestamps, encryption notes. Everyone said the same thing: “This was done by someone who knew corporate systems intimately.” Meaning: An insider. Meaning one of Satoru’s own.

He didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t go home. He sat in his office, staring at the skyline until sunrise disgorged itself across the glass towers like exhausted gold. He felt old. He felt betrayed. He felt hunted. He felt twenty years old again. He hated that.

Suguru had his own war to fight. Yaga was furious. The partners were suspicious. Investors called every hour wanting reassurance that the campaign wasn’t built on “compromised emotional leverage.” One LP asked if Suguru had been “screwing the heir to manipulate price action.” Suguru nearly threw his phone against the wall. He tightened his grip instead.

“Nothing about our investment thesis is personal,” he said through his teeth.

“So you deny the relationship?” the LP asked.

A beat.

Suguru closed his eyes.

“Yes,” he lied.

Because to tell the truth, to say “I once loved him with the force of a collapsing star”, would destroy the firm, the campaign, everything he had built from ash. But after the call, he went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and whispered: “I’m so fucking tired of lying about him.” His reflection didn’t answer.

That morning, a junior lawyer from Wachtell discovered something. A name. A login. An internal access pattern. And Nanami nearly dropped his notebook when he saw it: Naomi Gojo. Satoru’s aunt. Masahiro’s sister. A board member. And the woman who had spent years privately telling Satoru he was “not ready,” “not disciplined,” “not serious enough,” and “far too emotional.” Nanami approached Satoru’s office like a man approaching a lit fuse. He closed the door behind him.

“Satoru,” Nanami said quietly. “We found the mole.”

Satoru looked up.

“Told you it wasn’t Suguru.”

Nanami didn’t smile.

“It’s Naomi,” he said.

The silence that followed was not silence. It was an implosion.

When Satoru entered the conference room where Naomi sat reviewing papers, he looked like a man who had come back from a funeral. He closed the door.

“Why,” he said.

Naomi didn’t look up. “Why what?”

“Don’t do that.”

She sighed, adjusting her glasses. “You’ll have to be more specific, Satoru.”

He stepped closer.

“You leaked my emails.”

She stopped writing. Slowly, she set her pen down.

“I released information relevant to governance.”

Satoru’s laugh was quiet and dangerous. “Governance. Right.”

“You are compromised,” she said coldly. “You’re unstable. Emotional. This is not a monarchy. You cannot inherit a company like a throne.”

Satoru’s voice went low.

“So you tried to humiliate me?”

“I tried to prevent a disaster,” she said. “You are the disaster.”

Satoru stared at her. “You honestly believe that.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“You don’t listen.”

“Then make me.”

Naomi inhaled. “Masahiro should never have named you successor.”

Satoru’s jaw tightened. “Dad hasn’t named anyone yet.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you think.”

Satoru froze.

“What?”

Naomi leaned back. “You weren’t the only one my brother spoke to.”

“Your brother,” Satoru repeated, “is unconscious.”

“But he wasn’t always unconscious,” she said. “He drafted a new will last month.”

The floor fell out beneath him.

“No,” he breathed.

“Yes,” Naomi said. “And I doubt you will like what’s in it.”

Satoru stepped back as if struck. 

Naomi continued, voice calm as poison. “You were never meant to lead this company. You’re too much like your mother.”

Satoru went still.

“You attack like her,” Naomi whispered. “You burn like her. And you break, like her.”

Satoru felt something inside him crack. But Naomi wasn’t done.

“The leak,” she said, “was necessary. The market needed to see who you really are.”

Satoru said nothing. He could have yelled. He could have threatened. He could have fired her. But instead, he whispered: “You’re lucky Suguru defended me before I found out.”

Naomi scoffed. “Suguru Geto is not your savior.”

“No,” Satoru said. “But he’s not my enemy either.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Probably.”

Satoru turned toward the door.

“You’re finished,” Naomi said to his back.

He didn’t turn around.

“No,” Satoru said quietly. “You are.”

Suguru was in a deal review meeting when his phone buzzed.

SATORU GOJO — 1 MISSED CALL

He excused himself so fast his team blinked. He called back.

“Satoru?”

“Aunt Naomi,” Satoru said, voice flat, “leaked the emails.”

Suguru inhaled sharply. “Why?”

“She wants me out.”

“She wants control.”

“Yeah.”

Suguru’s jaw tightened. “What’s her angle?”

“Dad signed a new will.”

“And?”

“And I’m not the only heir named in it.”

Suguru stared at the skyline through the glass.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Suguru closed his eyes. “What are you going to do?”

“Fight.”

“How?”

“I’m going to take back the company.”

“And Naomi?”

Satoru’s voice chilled.

“I’m going to bury her.”

Suguru swallowed.

“Do you want help?”

Satoru stopped walking. The hallway was empty. Quiet. He pressed a hand against the cold wall.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I do.”

Suguru exhaled slowly.

“Then I’m with you.”

Satoru’s breath stuttered.

“I thought we were enemies.”

Suguru’s voice softened. “Enemies don’t pick up the phone at 7 AM.”

Satoru didn’t answer.

“Tell me what you need,” Suguru said.

Satoru closed his eyes.

“You.”

Suguru’s breath caught. “Satoru…”

“You said you’d choose me if I touched you,” Satoru whispered. “So choose me anyway.”

A long silence. Finally, “I choose you,” Suguru whispered. “But choosing you doesn’t mean surrendering the campaign.”

“Then we fight together.”

“Together,” Suguru echoed softly. “I like the sound of that.”

Satoru leaned his forehead against the wall.

“Come here,” he said.

Suguru swallowed. “Where?”

“Anywhere,” Satoru whispered. “I just, need you.”

Suguru’s voice cracked.

“I’m on my way.”

They met in a quiet hotel suite two hours later, one of those high-floor corner rooms with floor-to-ceiling windows and beige furniture designed to be forgotten. Suguru closed the door behind him. For a moment, they just stared. No war. No board. No headlines. No enemies. Just two men who had burned each other and kept returning to the ash.

“Satoru,” Suguru said quietly.

And Satoru finally let the façade drop. He stepped forward. Suguru caught him. They didn’t kiss. Not yet. But Satoru pressed his forehead to Suguru’s neck. Suguru wrapped an arm around his waist. They stood there, breathing the same air, feeling the same ache. Suguru’s hand trembled at the back of Satoru’s shirt.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“No.”

“Good. Neither am I.”

Satoru laughed, a small, broken sound. “You defended me in front of the board.”

“Someone had to.”

“You’re not someone.”

Suguru pulled back just enough to look at him. His hand moved to Satoru’s cheek.

“You’re shaking,” Suguru murmured.

“So are you.”

Suguru swallowed. “We can’t do this.”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“This is reckless.”

“I know.”

Suguru’s thumb brushed Satoru’s lower lip. Satoru inhaled sharply.

“I’m trying so hard,” Suguru whispered, “not to ruin this.”

“You already ruined me.”

Suguru’s eyes softened painfully. “You ruined me first.”

They stood there, breaking each other gently. And eventually Satoru whispered. “Two days.”

Suguru frowned. “What?”

“In two days,” Satoru said, “the will is being read.”

Suguru went still.

“And Naomi plans to use it,” Satoru continued, “to throw me out.”

“And you want me there.”

“No,” Satoru said. “I need you there.”

Suguru nodded. “Then I’ll come.”

And then, slowly, inevitably, helplessly, Suguru leaned in. His lips brushed Satoru’s cheek. Barely. A ghost of a touch. Not quite a kiss. Not yet. Not fully. But enough to say: I’m still here. Even when I shouldn’t be. Satoru closed his eyes. He wanted to turn his head. He wanted to meet Suguru’s mouth. He wanted to collapse into him like he had at twenty. But instead, Satoru whispered:

“Not until after the will.”

Suguru exhaled shakily. “Jesus.”

“We’ll make a mistake,” Satoru said.

Suguru nodded. “A big one.”

“Catastrophic.”

“The kind we don’t come back from.”

“Exactly.”

“So,” Suguru said, “we wait.”

Satoru nodded. Suguru pulled away gently. And the space between them felt like a wound.

Everyone is gathered. Board members. Lawyers. Family members who hadn’t visited in years. Aunt Naomi sits near the front, composed, smug, deadly. Satoru sits stiff and silent in a navy suit. Suguru is in the back of the room,  not a member of the family, not legally invited, but Satoru asked him to come. And Suguru obeyed. He stood with arms crossed, watching Satoru like a hawk guarding something precious. The lawyer cleared his throat.

“This,” he said, “is the final will and testament of Masahiro Gojo.”

The room silenced. Satoru felt his heart crawl up his throat. And the lawyer began to read. And what he read would change the war. Forever.

The conference room chosen to read Masahiro Gojo’s will had the solemnity of a courtroom and the tension of a firing squad. The windows overlooked Park Avenue, the morning light falling in blade-like slashes across the table. Board members murmured like choir monks preparing for a heresy trial. Family members settled into leather chairs with expressions that ranged from calculating to ravenous. At the center, the will, a pristine, sealed envelope, lay on a polished wooden tray like a sacrificial offering. Aunt Naomi sat straight-backed, hands folded, the portrait of a woman who believed she had already won. Satoru sat alone on the opposite side, suit immaculate, expression empty, posture deceptively relaxed. Nanami was at his shoulder like a quietly ticking bomb. And standing in the back, leaning against the wall as if it was the only thing holding him upright, Suguru. His tie was loose. His jaw was tight. His eyes never left Satoru. Not once.

The lawyer cleared his throat dramatically.

“If everyone is ready… I will proceed with the reading of Masahiro Gojo’s final tes—”

He didn’t finish. Because the door burst open. And two nurses rushed in. And behind them, Masahiro Gojo himself. Alive. Awake. Walking. Supported, yes, but conscious. Breathing.

The room erupted. Naomi gasped like she’d seen a ghost. Board members stood, half in fear, half in relief. Nanami muttered a curse so quiet only the nearest three human beings heard it. But Satoru, Satoru went completely still. He stood slowly.

“Dad?” he said, voice uncharacteristically small.

Masahiro looked at him. His voice was hoarse. Rough. But unmistakable.

“Satoru.”

That one word cracked something inside Satoru that had been held together by duct tape and denial. Suguru’s breath hitched, so subtle no one else noticed.

The lawyer stammered, “Mr. Gojo, sir, the will was about to—”

Masahiro raised a shaky hand.

“Not. Yet.”

The room froze.

“I’m not dead,” Masahiro rasped. “And I’ve… unfinished business.”

Naomi regained her composure and stood. “Masahiro, you need rest. This meeting can resume later—”

Masahiro’s gaze cut to her like a scalpel. Naomi fell silent. He turned back to the room.

“It seems,” the old patriarch said, “you children are too eager to divide my kingdom.”

His eyes landed on Satoru. Then on Suguru. Something ancient flickered there, something recognizing history repeating itself. Suguru straightened under the scrutiny. He looked, briefly, like a man about to be excommunicated. Masahiro inhaled shallowly, as if gathering a lifetime of authority.

“Close the will,” he ordered.

The lawyer froze. “Sir—”

“I said CLOSE IT.”

The will was removed from the tray. Satoru exhaled, a sound like relief and dread intertwined. Naomi’s jaw clenched silently. Because the future she’d crafted for herself just evaporated.

Masahiro eased himself into a chair, eyes scanning the room like a general surveying mutinous soldiers.

“I hear,” he said slowly, “that a war has begun behind my back.”

No one spoke.

“Leaks. Votes. Proxy claims. Activist pressure.” He turned toward Suguru. “And you.”

Suguru bowed his head respectfully. “Mr. Gojo.”

Masahiro’s lips twitched into something that was not a smile. 

“Still meddling, Suguru?”

Suguru did not answer. Masahiro looked at Satoru.

“You let this happen.”

Satoru stiffened. “Dad—”

“You should’ve stopped it.”

“Stopped what?”

“Everything.”

Satoru’s hands curled into fists. “I’m trying.”

Masahiro’s gaze softened, barely. “Trying is for men who fail.”

Suguru’s eyes flickered at that. Because he remembered being twenty and hearing Masahiro speak to Satoru like this. He remembered Satoru pretending it didn’t hurt.

Masahiro turned to the lawyer.

“I will speak. And you will all listen.”

Everyone sat. Even the air felt obedient. Masahiro’s voice was thin but sharp.

“This company was built in blood. And loyalty. And strategy, not sentiment.”

Satoru’s jaw tightened. Suguru’s expression darkened slightly.

Masahiro continued.

“You all think you understand what legacy means. You don’t.”

He pointed at Naomi. Then at the board. Then at Satoru. And finally, unexpectedly, at Suguru. Suguru’s eyebrows rose.

Masahiro leaned back. “You, Suguru, of all people, know that an empire is not inherited. It is earned.”

That stung Satoru. Suguru noticed.

“Mr. Gojo,” Suguru said calmly, “with respect, I’m not here to debate legacy. I’m here as an investor.”

Masahiro’s eyes narrowed. “No. You’re not.”

Suguru’s posture shifted minutely.

“You’re here because you believe this company is sick,” Masahiro said. “And because you’ve always believed you could cure the world by burning it.”

A ripple went through the room. Satoru’s breath stopped. Suguru didn’t flinch. Masahiro looked at him and said, very quietly:

“And because you still can’t decide whether to save my son… or destroy him.”

Silence fell like a hammer. Suguru closed his eyes for half a second, a betrayal of emotion so slight only Satoru saw it. 

Satoru’s throat tightened.

“Dad,” he whispered.

Masahiro turned to him. “And you.”

The room turned cold.

“You think you can outrun legacy by turning it into a weapon. You can’t.”

Satoru swallowed. “Then what do you want me to do?”

Masahiro leaned in.

“You and Suguru.”

Both men looked at him, suddenly alert.

“You two,” Masahiro said, “are the same.”

The board murmured in confusion.

“Same ambition. Same arrogance. Same instincts.”

His voice grew softer.

“And the same damn flaw.”

Satoru whispered, “Which flaw?”

Masahiro looked at both of them, the heir and the activist, the lover and the enemy, the two boys who once dreamed under Harvard streetlamps they now owned in real life.

“You believe the world should bend to your vision,” Masahiro said. “And neither of you knows how to compromise.”

Suguru’s breath caught. Satoru stared at the floor.

Naomi rolled her eyes. “Masahiro, enough of this philosophical—”

“QUIET.”

The room obeyed. Masahiro steadied his breathing.

“Here is what will happen,” he said.

Everyone leaned forward. Satoru’s heart pounded. Suguru stood absolutely still. Naomi glared, ready to pounce. Masahiro pointed at the will.

“That will is invalid.”

The lawyer almost choked. “Sir, what—?”

“I revoke it,” Masahiro said. “I am alive. And until I say otherwise, there will be no succession, no transition, and no sale.”

Satoru exhaled. Suguru did not.

Naomi slammed her hand on the table. “This is absurd!”

Masahiro shot her a look. “Sit down.”

She sat. Masahiro continued.

“The board will remain as-is. No changes. No removals.”

Suguru tensed.

Masahiro looked at him sharply. “And no additions.”

That landed like a dagger.

Suguru did not react, but the tension crackled around him.

“And the activist campaign—” Masahiro began.

Suguru braced.

“—will not end.”

The room erupted.

Satoru looked up, startled. “What?!”

Suguru inhaled.

Board members shouted over each other:
“He’s inviting a takeover!”
“This is reckless!”
“This will destabilize the stock—”
“This is insane—”

Masahiro raised a hand. Silence fell immediately.

“I want,” he said slowly, “to know what my son is capable of.”

Satoru froze. Masahiro turned to him.

“You want to lead? Fine. Prove it.”

Satoru’s pulse thundered.

“You will fight Suguru,” Masahiro said. “Publicly, strategically, ruthlessly.”

Suguru’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“And Suguru,” Masahiro continued, “will fight you.”

Suguru exhaled slowly. “As I always have.”

“But,” Masahiro added, lifting a trembling finger, “you will fight fair.”

Suguru’s eyes widened slightly. Satoru blinked. Masahiro said:

“No sabotage. No leaked scandals. No personal attacks. No lies.”

He pointed between them. 

“You two will battle on vision alone.”

A long, dangerous silence. Suguru looked at Satoru. Satoru looked back. Masahiro finished:

“If you win, Satoru, the company is yours.”

Satoru’s breath hitched. 

“And if Suguru wins…” Masahiro inhaled painfully. “…the company will undergo restructuring under Blackthorn oversight.”

Suguru’s eyes sharpened.

Masahiro leaned back, exhausted.

“Prove,” he whispered, “that the world should belong to either of you.”

The board exploded into arguments as soon as Masahiro was wheeled away. Chaos. Screaming. Whispering. Phone calls to lawyers.

Satoru left the room. He walked down the hall slowly, each step heavy. He reached a window overlooking the city. His reflection looked like a man carrying a crown made of barbed wire.

“You okay?”

He turned. Suguru stood behind him. Satoru let out a breath that trembled only once.

“Did you know?” he whispered.

“No,” Suguru said. “I didn’t.”

Satoru looked at him.

“Are you going to fight me?” he asked.

Suguru stepped closer. Close enough to count eyelashes. Close enough to smell the faint scent of bergamot and stress.

“Yes,” Suguru said.

Satoru’s chest tightened.

“And,” Suguru continued softly, “I’m going to protect you.”

Satoru’s breath caught.

“That’s not how war works,” he whispered.

“It is,” Suguru murmured, “if it’s ours.”

Satoru closed his eyes.

“Do we share the same ideal?” he asked. “Really?”

Suguru’s answer was quiet. Careful. Devastating.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

Satoru opened his eyes. Suguru met his gaze with something fierce. Something wounded. Something inescapable.

“But,” Suguru whispered, “we might.”

Satoru’s pulse stuttered. Because in those two words, we might, was everything they had ever been and everything they still could be.

“If we do,” Satoru whispered, “what then?”

Suguru stepped close enough that their breath mingled.

“Then,” he said, “this stops being a war.”

Satoru swallowed hard.

“And becomes what?”

Suguru’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“An empire.”

Satoru’s heart pounded.

“Would you share it with me?” he whispered.

Suguru didn’t blink.

“Yes.”

“Even if we burn everything?”

Suguru’s lips tilted. Dangerous. Intimate. Inevitable.

“Especially if we burn everything.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. They did not kiss. Not yet. But their foreheads touched. Their breaths aligned. Their futures collided. And in that silent, electric moment, Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto made a decision neither of them fully understood yet: They would fight each other. They would save each other. They would destroy for each other. And maybe, maybe, they would win the world together.

Chapter Text

Before the next battle. Before the takeover war turned biblical. Before Satoru Gojo became the man who could burn a dynasty, he was simply a twenty-year-old with too much money, too little fear, and one best friend who felt like oxygen. Before Suguru Geto became the sharpest investor in New York, he was simply the smartest kid in their Harvard dorm, a philosopher disguised in Prada, trying to save the world and break it at the same time. And before the rupture that shaped them, There was Harvard. Harvard, where they learned everything they’d ever forget and everything they’d spend the rest of their lives trying to fix.

This is that time. The one before the empire. Before the headlines. Before the knives. The time where it was still possible for them to be happy.

September, Harvard Yard, the first week. Freshman week smelled like alcohol, ambition, and the overwhelming perfume of adolescents pretending to be adults. Satoru Gojo arrived on campus wearing sunglasses at 7 PM, dragging three suitcases that probably held more value than the GDP of several island nations. He looked around Harvard Yard like he’d just arrived at Disneyland but with better architecture.

“Pretentious,” he said, stepping onto the cobblestones. “I like it.”

Beside him, Suguru Geto adjusted his duffel bag, eyes scanning the buildings with quiet intensity.

“You like anything that feels expensive,” Suguru said.

“And you don’t?”

Suguru shrugged. “I like anything that feels earned.”

Satoru grinned. “Boring.”

Suguru smiled back, small, restrained, but real. That was the thing about them: Satoru was a firecracker. Suguru was a match. Together they made sparks no one could ignore. They crossed Harvard Yard with the kind of presence that made sophomores stare and freshmen whisper. Two boys who looked like they belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Roommates?” Satoru asked teasingly.

Suguru smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You’d be lucky to have me.”

“You snore.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve shared a tent with you before.”

“That was one time.”

“And it was enough.”

They bickered all the way to their dorms. Later that week, they were inseparable. Harvard had just met its two new problems.

That fall, they met the people who would shape them in the years that followed.

Nanami Kento, Pre-law, serious, hair too neat for a nineteen-year-old. A man who looked like he’d been thirty since birth. He joined Satoru and Suguru during a lecture on Political Economy, staring at them with the expression of someone who had accidentally sat at the wrong table in the wrong universe.

“You’re loud,” Nanami said.

“You’re quiet,” Satoru replied.

“And why are you sitting next to us again?” Suguru asked.

Nanami sighed, opened his book, and said, “Because unfortunately, you two are the only competent people in this class.”

And that was that.

Shoko Ieiri, Pre-med, smoked on the steps of the Widener Library like it was a spiritual practice, laughed like she hadn’t slept in seven years, could fix any hangover before morning classes. She met Satoru first. He appeared beside her one night, drunk, holding a half-eaten burrito.

“Do you have a lighter?” he asked.

“Do I look like I don’t?” she replied, pulling one from her bra.

And he fell in love with her instantly. In the stupid, shallow, collegiate way boys fall in love with girls who can kill them. Later, she’d date him for three weeks. Then she’d date Suguru for three weeks.

Then she’d tell them both, “You two should date each other, actually.”

They laughed. They shouldn’t have.

Haibara Yu, Nanami’s roommate. Economics major, sunshine personified. A smile that made even Satoru behave for five whole seconds. Haibara loved life. And life loved him. He threw the best dorm parties. He danced like nobody was watching because he didn’t care if they were. He dragged Nanami to social events Nanami hated. He dragged Satoru and Suguru to volunteer events they pretended to hate. He was the light in the room. He was the laughter in the dark. And he was the one who didn’t make it.

But that comes later. For now, the five of them, Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, Shoko, Haibara, became a small, chaotic orbit within Harvard. And Harvard noticed.

They built rituals. Not healthy ones. Not productive ones. But ones that cemented them together.

Thursdays, The Kennedy St. Crawl. Cheap bars. Cheap shots. Cheap decisions. Satoru once got into a philosophical debate with a bartender about ethical capitalism. Suguru once kissed someone in the bathroom stall just to prove a point. Nanami dragged Haibara home every time. Shoko documented everything on a camcorder she’d later lose in a taxi.

Fridays, Psets and Cocaine.

“Study,” Nanami insisted.

“Enhance studying,” Satoru corrected, sliding a baggie across the table.

“Degenerate,” Nanami muttered.

“Delightful,” Shoko said.

Suguru didn’t need it, he did it anyway.

Saturdays, therapy disguised as intoxication. Haibara would play soft music. Suguru would roll joints with machine-like precision. Satoru would lie on the dorm rug and interrogate the ceiling like it owed him money. It was stupid. It was self-destructive. It was the only time some of them breathed.

Sundays, breakfast at the diner Greasy eggs. Bad pancakes. Soft, unspoken affection. Shoko would steal Suguru’s fries. Nanami would drink coffee like he was fueling a lawsuit. Haibara would ask philosophical questions from his intro classes. And Satoru would lean against Suguru in the booth, just lightly, just casually, just enough that no one commented. And Suguru would let him. Always.

It happened sophomore spring. They were drunk. They were high. They were alone. A rare combination. Suguru leaned back on the dorm couch, head tilted, hair messy, eyes half-lidded.

“Do you ever think about the future?” Satoru asked.

“No,” Suguru said. “It’s boring.”

“Why?”

“Because the present is worse.”

Satoru laughed. “You’re dramatic.”

“You love it.”

Satoru looked at him, really looked. Suguru’s fingers were stained with ink from note-taking. His shirt was rumpled. His cardigan was slipping off his shoulder. His face was relaxed in a way he rarely allowed. He looked human. Beautiful. Breakable. Satoru’s. Satoru swallowed.

“Suguru.”

“Mm?”

“If I said I—”

Suguru looked up. Satoru’s heart stopped.

Suguru’s eyes softened. “Don’t say it.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “Why not?”

“Because it won’t be true tomorrow.”

“It’s true now.”

Suguru’s voice lowered. “Then I’ll remember it for you.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. He didn’t confess. Not then. But he knew. Oh, he knew. He was in love with Suguru Geto. And he’d spend the rest of his life paying the price.

Shoko Ieiri was a catalyst in human form. She smoked clinically. She dated strategically. She studied anatomy as if preparing for war. She dated Satoru first. They lasted 22 days. He brought her expensive pastries. She called him a himbo. He told her she had kind eyes. She laughed for three minutes straight. They ended because Shoko realized Satoru spent more time staring at Suguru’s hands than at her face.

“Break up?” she said casually one morning.

“Yeah,” Satoru said, mouth full of croissant.

“That was easy.”

“Want the rest of this?”

“Sure.”

Three days later, Shoko dated Suguru. Suguru brought her flowers from the campus farmers market. Shoko called him a pretentious romantic. He told her she had terrible taste in people. They lasted 19 days. They ended because Shoko realized Suguru spent more time watching Satoru’s laugh than watching her.

“You’re in love with him,” she told Suguru one night, lighting a cigarette.

Suguru, cleaning his glasses, didn’t look up. “No.”

“Try again.”

Suguru paused. Exhaled. Put the glasses down.

“Fine,” he said softly. “Yes.”

Shoko patted his knee. “Congrats. You’re both idiots.”

There was no kiss. No declaration. No dramatic moment. Just a library. A late night. An unspoken truth. Suguru said, very quietly:

“We shouldn’t… do this.”

Satoru laughed once, soft, disbelieving. “We’re not doing anything.”

“That’s the problem,” Suguru said. “If we do, we’ll ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

Everything, Suguru didn’t say. He said instead:

“You’re meant for… bigger things. You can’t get stuck to me.”

“I’m not stuck.”

“You will be.”

Satoru swallowed. “Let me decide that.”

“I am deciding for both of us.”

Satoru stared at him. Suguru stared back. Two boys. Two futures. Two visions. One heartbreak.

“Fine,” Satoru said.

But he didn’t mean it. He never did. And that was the beginning of the end.

Haibara was not built for the darkness he tried to outrun. He smiled too brightly. He trusted too easily. He loved too freely. And addiction is efficient in destroying people like that. It was junior winter, the cold was vicious, the campus felt heavy. He overdosed in the dorm bathroom while Nanami was asleep. Nanami found him. Nanami screamed for help. Nanami held his shaking body until the medics came. Shoko ran. Suguru ran. Satoru arrived last. The paramedic said the words calmly.

“He’s gone.”

Nanami collapsed. Satoru stood frozen. Suguru punched the wall until his knuckles bled. Shoko lit a cigarette outside the ambulance and let the snow swallow her tears. Harvard dimmed after that. Everything dimmed after that. Haibara had been the sun. And without him, they turned into shadows of themselves. Nanami dropped every party, every late-night hang, every indulgence.

Shoko applied to med school. She said, “I’m not watching another friend die.”

Suguru changed. Satoru changed. They changed in different directions. Too different. Too far.

The night Haibara died, Satoru drank so much he forgot his own name. The morning after, Nanami sat Satoru down in the dorm kitchen, expression hollow.

“You’ll die next,” Nanami said simply.

Satoru laughed. “Drama queen.”

Nanami slammed his hand on the table. “I found Haibara’s body. I’m not finding yours.”

Satoru stopped laughing.

“I’m fine,” Satoru said.

“No,” Nanami said, “you’re not.”

Suguru stood in the doorway silently. He looked at Satoru the way someone looks at a burning building they can't enter. Something cracked. Satoru went to rehab voluntarily. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe Nanami, Shoko, and Suguru dragged him there emotionally.

The therapist asked, “Why are you here?”

Satoru said, “Because someone has to live.”

Harvard did not end cleanly for Satoru Gojo. Most people graduate with anxiety, Ambien prescriptions, and questionable friendships forged in dorm basements. Satoru graduated with something heavier: Survivor’s guilt. Haibara’s overdose had cracked him. Not in the cinematic way, where grief manifests as a single tear rolling down a cheek. No, Satoru broke quietly, violently, privately. He spent that spring stumbling through campus in slow motion, the world around him too bright, too loud. The air felt wrong. Harvard Yard felt like an exhibit of a life he was suddenly unqualified to live. He walked past Lamont Library one morning and saw Haibara’s favorite bench. He vomited behind the nearest tree. He couldn’t enter their usual diner for weeks. He couldn’t listen to Suguru say the word “Haibara” without wanting to claw out of his own body. He tried, in the stupid Harvard way, to drown grief with distraction: Keg cups. House parties. The occasional line at 2 AM. The occasional pill at 3. Attempts at blackout at 4. It didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Suguru tried to step in, gently at first, then sternly, then silently. But grief made Satoru slippery, impossible to grip. Grief made him stubborn. Grief made him cruel in ways he didn’t mean. One night, he screamed at Suguru outside Thayer Hall.

“I’m not like you, I don’t get to fall apart!”

Suguru had stared at him with a look Satoru has never forgotten.

“You already did,” Suguru said quietly.

And Satoru hated him for being right.

The intervention wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t even planned. It happened in a dorm kitchen at 5:30 AM. Nanami, eyes red from crying and exhaustion, placed a cup of black coffee in front of Satoru.

“Drink,” Nanami said.

Satoru blinked blearily. “Why do you look like you’ve been hit by a truck?”

Nanami’s voice cracked. “Because I found Haibara.”

Satoru sobered instantly. Nanami continued, voice low and trembling:

“I said this before. I found my best friend cold. I found him alone. I found him gone. And I cannot, I WILL not, find you next.”

Satoru had opened his mouth to snap something back. But nothing came out. Because Nanami’s voice wasn’t angry. It was terrified. And Satoru realized, for the first time, that people could lose him. Not conceptually, literally. Suguru stood in the doorway silently, arms crossed. He didn’t say a word. His silence was worse than yelling. Satoru took the coffee. He drank it. And that was the moment the decision was made: Rehab. Not because he wanted it. Not because he believed he needed it. But because Nanami’s voice wouldn’t stop shaking. And because Suguru wouldn’t look at him.

Rehab was an exam he couldn’t cheat on. Satoru attended a luxury rehab center because his father refused to let the Gojo heir be seen in a public clinic. It had scented candles, a meditation garden, and a chef who made quinoa taste like regret. But luxury didn’t soften the reality: Satoru hated every second of it. He hated the questions. He hated the vulnerability. He hated the empty space where dopamine used to live. He hated that Suguru didn’t visit. But he understood. Rehab forced him to sit still with himself, something he had avoided his whole life. He learned he wasn’t addicted to drugs so much as he was addicted to running away from everything real. Feelings. Fear. Failure. Future. All of it.

He relapsed once, quietly,  after Haibara’s memorial. He didn’t tell anyone. Suguru found out anyway.

“How?” Satoru whispered.

Suguru had only said:

“You’re loud when you try to disappear.”

And Satoru had cried for the first time in years. After that, he stayed clean. Mostly. He stayed off drugs. Even coke. Even molly. Even weed. Except for one relapse, years later, in Suguru’s apartment. But that’s another story.

The real breakup happened the night before graduation. Satoru was clean. Suguru was distant. Nanami was grieving and determined. Shoko was exhausted and heading to med school. They sat in their dorm one last time.

Satoru said quietly:

“You’re leaving.”

Suguru nodded.

“I’m joining a private equity internship,” Suguru explained. “In New York.”

Satoru tried to smile. “Impressive.”

Suguru looked at him, eyes soft. “You could come too.”

“You know I can’t.”

Suguru nodded. “Your father.”

Satoru laughed bitterly. “Yeah. My father.”

A long silence. Suguru said:

“If I stay… I’ll stay for you.”

Satoru’s breath hitched.

“Don’t,” Satoru whispered.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll resent me.”

Suguru closed his eyes.

“And if you come with me,” Satoru continued, voice trembling, “I’ll resent you.”

Suguru nodded.

“So that’s it?” Satoru said bitterly. “After everything?”

Suguru looked at him with the saddest smile Satoru had ever seen.

“We were a habit,” Suguru said gently.

Satoru flinched.

“A good one,” Suguru added. “The best one.”

“Then why end it?”

Suguru’s voice cracked. “Because habits break. Ideals don’t.”

Satoru whispered, “What’s your ideal?”

Suguru said:

“To change the world.”

“And mine?”

Suguru’s gaze softened. “To survive it.”

They didn’t kiss. They didn’t hug. They didn’t confess. They simply parted. Because they didn’t know that the next time they saw each other, it would be in a boardroom. A war room. A battlefield. Not as boys. But as men. Rivals. Allies. Lovers ruined by timing.

Wharton was a prison with a degree. After graduation, Satoru wanted time. Space. Breathing room. His father gave him the opposite:

“Wharton. MBA. Fall semester.”

Satoru didn’t want to go. But he wasn’t ready to fight Masahiro yet. He wasn’t Suguru, he didn’t yet know how to weaponize conviction. So he enrolled. And Wharton was… Wrong. It was Harvard without heart. Ambition without warmth. Competition without camaraderie. Everyone there wanted something from him: His network, his money, his name, his future. None of them wanted him. He partied because everyone else partied. He aced classes because autopilot was easy. He slept with people who saw him as a trophy. He drank because the nights were too quiet. Nothing felt real. Except the bitterness: Suguru was in New York, building something, becoming something. And Satoru was stuck in a program meant to polish him into a successor. He hated it. But he stayed. Because Masahiro told him to. And because Suguru didn’t ask him to leave.

The summer before his second year, Masahiro forced him into an internship at the Gojo Group. Specifically: “The Strategy Division.” Which sounded glamorous. It wasn’t. His father didn’t give him a corner office. He gave him a cubicle on the sixteenth floor beside a man named Yoshida who chewed loudly and talked about tax shelters like they were erotic literature. Every assignment Satoru submitted came back covered in red ink. Every presentation he delivered was torn apart in front of executives who pretended not to enjoy it. Masahiro wanted to break him, or test him, or prepare him. Satoru never knew which. Some days he woke up wanting to quit. Other days he woke up wanting to prove he was better than the role he was allowed to play.

Suguru visited once, during a layover. He leaned against Satoru’s cubicle wall and raised an eyebrow. “You look miserable.”

Satoru threw a stapler at him. Suguru caught it effortlessly. They didn’t talk about feelings. They didn’t talk about Harvard. They didn’t talk about what they wanted. Suguru stayed for twenty minutes and left. Satoru spent the rest of the day staring at the dent the stapler made in the wall.

After the internship, Masahiro made a decision that shocked even Satoru.

“You’re going to Tokyo.”

“For what?”

“For discipline.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. He was exiled, politely, to the Tokyo subsidiary office, where he spent eighteen months doing work that was technically meaningful but emotionally suffocating. The Tokyo office ran like a machine. Cold. Precise. Efficient. Unforgiving. Satoru learned everything: Cash flow models, shareholder politics, corporate diplomacy, cultural silence. How to swallow pride and smile anyway. He learned how to be alone. Truly alone. He messed up once, a drunken night with co-workers, and the rumor reached Masahiro within 24 hours. He never did it again. Tokyo hardened him. It taught him that his father would never give him the throne. He’d have to take it. Tokyo taught him hunger. It taught him ambition. It taught him who he could become. But Harvard, Harvard taught him who he had been.

Satoru never said the truth aloud, but he didn’t just miss Harvard. He mourned it. Mourned the boy he had been: loud, reckless, stupid, happy. Mourned the friends who stayed. Mourned the one who didn’t. Mourned the version of Suguru who believed the world could change without burning first.

Some nights in Tokyo, Satoru lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying memories he had no business clinging to: Suguru tapping a pen against his lip in the library. Suguru lying on the dorm couch half asleep. Suguru leaning his head on Satoru’s shoulder at 3 AM, whispering some half-philosophical nonsense that sounded profound only because Suguru said it. Suguru laughing at something stupid Shoko said. Suguru lighting a cigarette for Satoru behind the dining hall. Suguru looking at him one October night like the world stopped for a breath. Suguru choosing to leave. Suguru choosing New York. Choosing ambition. Choosing everything except him.

These memories didn’t hurt at first. Not until later. Not until the storm years. Not until fate put Suguru back in front of him in a boardroom filled with knives. Then they hurt like hell.

Satoru blinked. The memory hits Satoru as he stands alone in his penthouse, staring at the city. The memories faded. He stood at the window of his penthouse, the Manhattan skyline cutting sharp angles into the night. The war is here. The takeover is accelerating. Masahiro has returned. Naomi has declared her intentions. The board has drawn lines. Blackthorn is preparing an offensive. His father has challenged him to win fairly. And the one man he once loved, the one man who saw him before the empire, is now both his opponent and his lifeline. Suguru enters the room quietly. He stands beside Satoru. He doesn’t speak. Suguru stood behind him, quiet, waiting.

“You alright?” Suguru finally asked.

“No,” Satoru said.

Suguru nodded. “Good. Me neither.”

Satoru closed his eyes. He finally whispers:

“Do you ever think about Harvard?”

Suguru lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Every day.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

Satoru inhaled slowly. “Harvard was the happiest I’ve ever been.” He swallows. “We were stupid.”

“Yeah,” Suguru said quietly. “Me too.” His voice softens. “We were happy.”

“Do you miss it?” Satoru asks.

Suguru hesitates.

“Yes,” he admits. “But I miss you more.”

Satoru closes his eyes. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t need to. The truth was finally spoken, after a decade of silence: They had built their foundations in Harvard. They had built their ghosts there too. And now the past was no longer just memory, it was fuel. For the takeover. For the war. For the love neither had been allowed to keep. For the destruction they were about to unleash. Together. Or against each other. Harvard had taught them habits. Life would teach them consequences.

And the storm outside begins to gather.

Therapy, for Satoru Gojo, was never something he believed in. It was something he tolerated the way one tolerates a compliance audit or an expensive dentist: inconvenient, invasive, occasionally humiliating, but necessary if he didn’t want parts of himself to rot. He hated that he needed it. He hated more that his therapist knew he needed it. But after the meetings, the board battles, the escalating pressure from Blackthorn, the revived presence of his recovering father, and the uncomfortable proximity of a man he’d never stopped loving, Satoru found himself sitting on the soft leather couch in Dr. Mei Mei’s office, arms folded like a Boardwalk brat dragged into time-out.

The office was quiet. Warm light. Neutral tones. A wall of books that felt curated for aesthetics rather than insight. Dr. Mei Mei sat opposite him, legs crossed, pen resting against her notebook. Satoru always suspected she wrote less about his psyche and more about his self-indulgent metaphors.

“So,” she said calmly, “you’re dissociating again.”

He scoffed. “I’m sitting here. That seems pretty associated.”

“You’re present in body,” Mei Mei said, “not in mind. You haven’t blinked in nearly a minute.”

Satoru blinked aggressively, as if to prove her wrong. She didn’t react.

He sighed. “It’s been… a long week.”

“You said that last week.”

“Then it’s been a long month.”

“And before that: a long year.”

“Fine. Everything is long.”

“Except your patience,” she murmured.

He almost smiled. Mei Mei studied him quietly. “You’re thinking of Harvard again.”

The name alone made something clench beneath his ribs. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling as though the lights held answers. “You ever have a period of your life you want to go back and punch yourself in the face for not appreciating enough?”

“College,” she confirmed.

“Harvard,” he said softly. “But also, everything around it. The noise. The chaos. The people.”

“And Suguru Geto,” she said, without blinking.

He didn’t respond.

“Satoru,” she said gently, “half of your instability right now comes from unresolved emotional entanglement with a man you built your identity around during your formative years.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s clinical.”

Satoru drummed his fingers on his knee. “We were kids.”

“You were in love.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t have to know,” she said. “I watched you avoid that sentence like it’s a relapse.”

He sat still. Too still. A familiar buzzing rose beneath his skin, the same one that used to sit with him on the bad nights in Cambridge, in the Wharton dorms, in Tokyo, in the quiet hours where ambition tasted like static.

Mei Mei added, softer, “You’re not in danger of using again.”

Satoru laughed once, humorless. “One crisis at a time.”

“But you’re in danger of spiraling,” she said. “And spirals don’t care how long you’ve been clean.”

He looked down at his hands. His long fingers. The pale half-moon scars on his knuckles from the Tokyo nights he didn’t talk about. His pulse flickered beneath his skin like a trapped moth.

“I don’t know what he wants,” Satoru finally murmured. “Suguru.”

“And what do you want?” she asked.

He didn’t know. Or maybe he did. He wanted Harvard again. Not the buildings, the feelings. The world where Suguru laughed freely and Nanami wasn’t grieving and Shoko still had time to be reckless and Haibara was alive. He wanted the version of himself who didn’t see legacy as a shackle, who didn’t understand what it meant to be the sole heir to a dying empire, who didn’t fear the mirror. He wanted the boy he used to be. He wanted the boy Suguru used to be. He wanted both of them alive in the same timeline. But that wasn’t the world he lived in. It wasn’t the world Suguru lived in either.

He rubbed his face. “I don’t know.”

“Then say that,” Mei Mei said. “To him. To yourself. To whoever tries to pull you into a decision you aren’t ready to make. Say: I don’t know.”

He hated how simple it sounded. He hated how hard it felt. Before he could respond, his phone buzzed in his coat pocket, once, twice, then continuously. He frowned. Pulled it out. UTAHIME IORI, flashing across the screen with the old photo they’d taken the day they adopted Bear: Satoru grinning, Utahime rolling her eyes, and the small brown dog wedged between them like a hostage. Satoru blinked. He hadn’t expected that name today.

“Is that—?” Mei Mei began.

“My ex-wife,” Satoru said flatly.

The phone buzzed again. Utahime, as always, was persistent.

Mei Mei raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should take that.”

He hesitated. Then answered.

“Utahime?”

“Satoru.” Her voice was sharp, irritated, brisk, which meant something was wrong. “Thank God you picked up. I’ve been calling for the last ten minutes.”

“You called once.”

“I called three times.”

He rubbed his temple. “What’s going on?”

There was a brief rustling sound in the background, the unmistakable bustle of a government office, fluorescent lights humming, papers slapping onto desks. Utahime Iori, age thirty-five, Washington D.C. Treasury Department official, daughter of political royalty, former wife of the successor to the Gojo corporate empire, and the only woman on earth who could intimidate Satoru without trying.

“We have a problem,” Utahime said.

“With Bear?” Satoru asked, pulse quickening. “Is he okay?”

“Bear is fine,” she snapped. “Better than fine. He’s eating shredded rotisserie chicken and getting belly rubs.”

Satoru exhaled, relieved. “Oh, thank God.”

“This isn’t about the dog,” she said dryly. “This is about your company.”

Satoru straightened reflexively. Mei Mei observed quietly, pen poised but motionless.

“What kind of problem?” Satoru asked.

“The kind,” Utahime said, “that involves Treasury, three senators, two subpoenas, and your father’s name accidentally ending up in a conversation it shouldn’t have.”

Satoru closed his eyes.

“Utahime.”

“Satoru.”

“I’m in therapy.”

“At 9 PM?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

He sighed. “Partly.”

She exhaled in that long-suffering way she’d perfected during their two-year arranged marriage, a marriage that had ended not because they hated each other, but because they liked each other too much to pretend it would ever work. They were business allies. Political allies. Dog co-parents. Friends. But they were not, and had never been, romantic partners.

“Finish therapy,” she said. “Call me in fifteen.”

“Is it bad?”

“Oh, it’s piss-your-pants bad,” she said. “And I hate calling you because you never handle government panic well, but you needed to hear it from me before you see it on Bloomberg.”

Satoru groaned. “All I want is one normal day.”

“Then you shouldn’t have born into a family empire,” she said. “Goodbye, Satoru.”

She hung up. Satoru lowered the phone slowly.

Dr. Mei Mei studied him. “You look pale.”

“I feel pale.”

“Is that your fight-or-flight response?”

“That,” he said, rising to his feet, “is my ex-wife warning me that my life is about to explode.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

He stared at the floor, eyes unfocused.

“…I don’t know.”

“That,” Mei Mei said gently, “is progress.”

Satoru inhaled sharply, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked toward the door. Outside the office, the city roared. Inside his chest, Harvard echoed. And in fifteen minutes, he would be calling Utahime Iori, the only person who could help him navigate a government storm, that just might intersect with the corporate war already tearing apart his life. But for one heartbeat, one small, trembling heartbeat, Satoru Gojo stood in a quiet hallway and wished, for the first time in years, that Suguru were beside him. Because if another storm was coming, he didn’t want to face it alone.

Not again. Not anymore.

Chapter Text

The night Utahime called him, the city felt too large, too awake. Satoru Gojo walked out of his therapist’s building into the chilled Manhattan air, the pressure of old wounds and new battles folding together inside his chest like a badly balanced merger agreement. His breath clouded in front of him. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. His heartbeat had settled into that familiar, unwelcome rhythm, the one that meant something catastrophic was en route. No matter how many years passed, he could feel these things in his bones. Harvard had trained him for heartbreak. Masahiro had trained him for war. But nothing, nothing, had trained him for the rare occasions when both arrived at the same time.

He took the call on a quiet side street, leaning against the concrete façade of some anonymous office building, watching a taxi reverse down the block like the city itself was glitching. Utahime answered on the second ring, her voice crisp but stretched thin, the way it got when government pressure wrapped around her like piano wire. “Please tell me you’re sitting,” she said without preamble. He wasn’t, but he slid down the wall until he was. “Alright,” he sighed, “hit me.”

She did.

Treasury, she explained, had been reviewing a series of unusual cross-border transactions involving the Gojo Group and a series of shell entities operating through Singapore, Luxembourg, and, of all ridiculous surprises, Delaware. “There are flagged transfers,” she said tightly. “High-value. Poorly masked. They look like liquidity support for a private fund.”

Satoru could already feel the migraine forming. “And let me guess,” he said, “someone thinks it’s money laundering?”

“No,” Utahime corrected, “someone thinks it’s a shadow bailout.”

That froze him. Corporate bailouts conducted through foreign intermediaries were the kind of thing congressional committees salivated over. It was the kind of thing that got CEOs subpoenaed and stock prices gutted. It was the kind of thing that killed dynasties. And Utahime rarely sounded scared, but she sounded scared now.

“It’s the Capital Enforcement Office,” she continued. “The FED’s internal investigations unit. Unofficial word is they suspect your father approved a covert liquidity infusion into a private distressed fund last year. And that fund may have… collapsed.”

Satoru closed his eyes. “Collapsed how?”

“Collapsed,” Utahime repeated. “As in: insolvent, unreported, and politically radioactive. Treasury hasn’t released names yet, but Satoru...the timeline overlaps with Blackthorn’s acquisition spree. And someone in DC is implying one of the beneficiary entities had indirect correspondence with Suguru Geto.”

Satoru’s heart stopped. For a moment, he couldn’t feel his hands. Couldn’t feel the wall behind him. It felt like someone had reached inside his chest and yanked something loose. His voice, when it returned, was a scrape against gravel. “Suguru didn’t do anything illegal,” he said.

Utahime exhaled. “I know that. But intent doesn’t matter. Optics do. And the optics…” She hesitated, then continued softly, “The optics look like your father funneled money into a fund that was quietly propping up Blackthorn during a vulnerable period. And now Blackthorn is attacking your company.”

Satoru nearly laughed. Of course. Of all the absurd, dystopian, Shakespearean nightmare scenarios available to the universe, this one made the most sense. His father, meddling as always. Suguru, caught in the gravitational pull of Gojo family history. And Satoru, in the middle, drowning.

He didn’t realize he was clutching his chest until Utahime spoke again. “Satoru,” she said gently, “you need to listen to me carefully. You’re about to be pulled into a federal crisis. And if you don’t control the narrative before someone else does—”

“They’ll crucify me,” he finished.

“They’ll crucify you and anyone standing too close,” she said. “And Suguru Geto is standing too close.”

There it was. The truth he hadn’t wanted spoken aloud. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The wind passed through the alley with the sound of distant subway brakes. Somewhere above them, someone opened a window and slammed it shut again.

Satoru rested his head back against the wall and whispered, “Thank you for telling me.”

Utahime sighed. “Don’t thank me. I’m doing this because Bear likes you.”

He almost smiled. It hurt to do so. When they hung up, the silence felt hostile. Satoru remained there for another few minutes, letting the cold gnaw at his skin, letting the weight of the incoming storm settle into his bones. He had been through corporate hell before, mergers, fights, restructurings, betrayals, but federal investigation was a different beast. The FED did not play politics. The FED played executioner. He forced himself to stand, brushing dust from his expensive coat. His father’s sins were crawling out from their shallow graves, and Suguru was about to be dragged into the line of fire. Part of him wanted to call Suguru immediately. Part of him wanted to run. But the part that won, as always, with Suguru, was the irrational, desperate, human part.

He walked. Not toward Gojo Tower. Not toward home. But toward a building five blocks away, where he knew Blackthorn kept a small satellite office used for emergency Manhattan meetings. His steps quickened. His pulse matched them. He didn’t call ahead. He didn’t text. He simply arrived, flashed his name, and was guided upstairs by a receptionist who no doubt assumed he was here to launch another hostile salvo. He wasn’t sure what he was here for, which felt embarrassingly honest. The floor was dark except for a single glass conference room illuminated by the glow of a laptop. Suguru was inside. Alone. Head down. Glasses on. Reviewing a portfolio model with an expression of someone ready to destroy God for slightly misaligning EBITDA figures.

Satoru stood in the doorway for a beat too long. Suguru looked up. The moment their eyes met, something in Satoru’s chest cracked open.

Suguru’s brows furrowed in concern before he spoke. “What happened?” he asked quietly, not “why are you here,” not “you shouldn’t be here,” just what happened, as if he’d already sensed the shift in the air.

Satoru closed the door behind him.

“There’s a federal investigation,” he said.

Suguru set down his pen.

“And,” Satoru continued, “your name may be on a document linking you to a defunct offshore fund.”

Suguru blinked slowly. “Ah,” he said. “That’s bad.”

“It’s catastrophic.”

“Worse than catastrophic?”

“Yes.”

“Define catastrophic.”

“You and I in handcuffs catastrophic.”

Suguru leaned back in his chair. “Okay. That’s bad.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. “Suguru, did you receive any money from a Singapore intermediary last year?”

“No,” Suguru said immediately. “But Blackthorn did. Twice. Routine transactions. And I reviewed one of them.”

Satoru’s stomach bottomed out.

Suguru seemed to process it at the same time he said it. He stood abruptly, pacing. “Shit. That’s enough for someone to spin a narrative.” He raked a hand through his hair. “This is Naomi, isn’t it? Or one of the board members. Or someone aligned with them. Someone with access.”

“They’re not the ones who triggered it,” Satoru said. “It was Treasury.”

Suguru stopped pacing. “Utahime?”

“She warned me.”

“And why would she—” Suguru paused, jaw tightening. “Ah. Yes. The ex-wife. The dog.”

“Bear,” Satoru said automatically.

Suguru exhaled. “Bear is adorable. But also evidence that your ex-wife still cares whether you get arrested.”

Satoru sank into the nearest chair, elbows on knees, face in his hands. “I can’t let this touch you.”

Suguru’s voice softened. “It will.”

Satoru looked up, raw. “Suguru—”

“Don’t say it,” Suguru murmured.

Satoru swallowed. “Say what?”

“Don’t tell me to back off.”

He hesitated.

Suguru stepped closer, voice low, controlled but trembling underneath. “Do you think I don’t know the risks of standing beside you? Do you think I haven’t known since Harvard that loving you means collateral damage?”

Satoru’s breath hitched. “You shouldn’t have to pay for my family’s shit.”

“I already have,” Suguru said. “That’s what the last ten years were.”

The room went painfully quiet.

Suguru let out a breath and sank into the chair beside him. “We’ll handle this.”

“We?” Satoru echoed.

“Yes,” Suguru said. “We.”

Satoru looked at him then, really looked, at the man who had once held him together in a Cambridge dorm room, who had found him in Tokyo after a silent relapse without being told, who had just put his entire career at risk by saying that one word. We.

Satoru exhaled shakily, the pressure in his chest loosening into something sharp and warm. “Suguru,” he whispered, “why are you still here?”

Suguru’s answer was devastating in its simplicity.

“Because even now, even in this hell, I’d rather fight beside you than win without you.”

It broke something inside Satoru. He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He didn’t consider consequences. He reached for Suguru. Suguru reached back. Their breaths tangled. Their foreheads touched. Their hands shook, but neither pulled away. And then, the first real kiss between them in over a decade finally happened. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t careful. It was angry, hungry, terrified, inevitable. It tasted like Harvard. Like grief. Like survival. Like everything they could have been and everything they still might become. When they finally pulled apart, breathless and ruined, Suguru whispered into the space between them:

“We’re going to fix this. You hear me? I don’t care how impossible it is. I’m not losing you again.”

Satoru closed his eyes.

And for the first time since the storm began, since Masahiro woke, since Naomi declared war, since Treasury opened its jaws, Satoru believed him.

Satoru didn’t tell Nanami. Not yet. Nanami would have handled the information responsibly, clinically, intelligently, maybe even better than Satoru himself, but that wasn’t the problem. Nanami would have looked at him with that particular combination of concern and disappointment that made Satoru feel nineteen again, sitting in a Harvard kitchen with a mug of black coffee shaking in his hands while Haibara’s name lingered in the air like smoke. Nanami would have asked questions Satoru wasn’t ready to answer: When did this start? Who knew? How bad is it? Do you trust Suguru? Are you relapsing? Are you about to? And Satoru, under no circumstances, could get through that conversation without either lying or breaking. So he stayed silent. Nanami drifted in and out of conference rooms, oblivious, carrying spreadsheets and legal memos while Satoru carried a secret that felt heavier than the Gojo empire itself.

Instead, Satoru reached for the only person who had always been able to see both the corporate beast he’d become and the boy who still lived underneath. Utahime. His ex-wife. His accidental friend. His reluctant lifeline. She told him to meet in person, somewhere off-radar, somewhere with no journalists, no board members, no risk of being recognized together. They needed privacy. They needed distance. They needed a neutral ground untouched by New York politics or D.C. surveillance or Tokyo ghosts. So they chose the only property they still co-owned: the mountain mansion in Vail, Colorado. A place so isolated that even the wind seemed to mind its own business. A place they bought during their second year of marriage, when they had still been pretending to be a power couple rather than two exhausted adults contractually forced into proximity.

The house was built like old money pretending to be rustic, all timber beams, stone hearths, and massive windows swallowing the sky. Snow piled in thick, expensive silence outside. Satoru stepped inside first, shivering as the heat hit his face. Bear barreled into him immediately, all twenty-five pounds of ecstatic fur. The dog’s full name was Bearhug, courtesy of Satoru’s deeply sentimental post-rehab phase, but only Satoru used it; Utahime called him Bear with a flat pragmatic tone that made the dog obey instantly.

Satoru knelt and buried his face in Bear’s fluffy neck, letting himself smile, genuinely smile, for the first time in days. “I missed you,” he whispered. Bear responded by licking his face like he was a life-or-death emergency. 

Utahime stood by the kitchen island watching them, arms crossed, expression softened by a thin layer of fondness she would deny until her grave. “You know,” she said dryly, “if I ever wondered which one of us you loved most, I don’t wonder anymore.”

Satoru stood, pushing his hair back. “He’s literally perfect. You should get therapy to deal with your jealousy.”

“You should get therapy to stop fleeing federal investigations.”

“Already tried. Mixed results.”

She snorted and walked past him to start the kettle. Satoru followed, tugging at her sleeve with exaggerated childish stubbornness. “Utaaaahime,” he whined. She flicked his forehead. “Don’t get cute with me. You’re younger, not helpless.”

“I am helpless,” he protested. “Look at me. I’m delicate.”

“You’re six-foot-three and have been making corporate sharks cry since you were twenty-five.”

“But emotionally fragile.”

“Emotionally spoiled,” she corrected.

Satoru slumped dramatically onto the barstool. Utahime’s presence always stripped ten years off his personality. In front of her, he wasn’t the successor or the strategist or Masahiro’s heir. He was the boy who got dragged into an arranged marriage and somehow came out with the world’s most competent friend. He could pout without being judged. He could be petty. He could be stupid without consequence. The freedom was addictive in a way cocaine had never been.

When the tea was poured and Bear curled up at Satoru’s feet, Utahime finally got serious. “Alright,” she said, sliding a document folder across the counter. “Let’s talk about why Treasury is sharpening knives.”

Satoru opened the folder. Internal memos. Transaction trails. Whisper networks disguised as policy briefs. He felt the oxygen in the room shift. Utahime laid out the situation in detail, not as an ex-wife, but as a Treasury insider who knew exactly how federal machinery crushed corporations: methodically, indifferently, with the slow, relentless precision of a glacier crushing everything in its path.

“There are flagged transactions from the Gojo liquidity accounts,” she said. “Two, possibly three. Routed through Singapore, Luxembourg, and then into a private distressed fund that went under last year. The timeline is terrible. The optics are worse.”

“And my father knew?” Satoru asked quietly.

“We suspect he approved them personally,” she said. “And the committee investigating it has reason to believe Blackthorn might have benefited.”

The silence between them solidified.

Utahime didn’t sugarcoat it. “Satoru… if the FED confirms that, they’ll assume collusion. They won’t just question your father. They’ll question you. And,” She hesitated. “Suguru.”

Bear’s ears twitched at the name, sensing tension.

Satoru gripped the counter. “Suguru didn’t know about any of this. I know he didn’t.”

“I believe you,” she said. “But belief doesn’t matter. Paperwork matters. Paper trails matter. And someone in the FED wants to make this political.”

Satoru let out a bitter laugh. “Of course they do.”

Utahime leaned forward. “You need to be smart. This is bigger than a corporate war. Treasury investigations hit different. If they think the company was funding private equity in the shadows—”

“They’ll freeze accounts,” Satoru whispered.

“Or worse,” she said. “They could open a RICO angle.”

He stared at her. She stared back.

“Utahime,” he whispered, “my father is barely able to sit up.”

“And that’s exactly why they’re coming now,” she said. “Weak leadership. Political vulnerability. Corporate infighting. Media frenzy. Perfect timing for a federal strike.”

Satoru’s mind raced. He thought about the board. About Naomi. About Masahiro. About Suguru. About the kiss, the one that had broken a decade of restraint, and how it now sat on his tongue with the aftertaste of danger.

Utahime’s expression softened. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

Satoru swallowed. “I’m used to doing everything alone.”

She reached out and flicked his forehead again. “That’s because you’re annoying.”

He almost laughed. But the truth was heavier.

“When I was at Wharton,” he said quietly, “I used to call you whenever things got bad. Remember?”

Utahime snorted. “Yes. You’d call at 1 AM, complaining that everyone in your cohort was either insufferable, rich, or both. As if you weren’t the poster child for that demographic.”

“I was different.”

“You were lonely.”

He didn’t deny it.

“You’re lonely now too,” she said softly.

Satoru lowered his head. “I don’t want to be.”

Utahime closed her folder. “Then stop pushing away the people who are actually on your side.”

He didn’t need to ask who she meant. She knew about Suguru in ways she never admitted. She understood Satoru’s grief, his longing, his conflict, maybe better than he did.

She stood, brushing snow off her coat sleeve. “Listen. I’m going to try to keep Treasury off your throat for as long as I can. But you need to prepare. This is going to get ugly.”

He nodded.

“And Satoru,” she added, pausing at the doorway, “you should tell Nanami.”

He winced. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” she said. “You can’t hide a federal investigation. Even you aren’t that irresponsible.”

Satoru groaned into his hands like a teenager told to clean his room.

Utahime rolled her eyes affectionately. “Grow up.”

“No.”

She sighed. “Fine. Stay small. But fix this.”

He watched her pull on her gloves, straighten her coat, and whistle for Bear, who trotted to her side with immediate loyalty.

“Hey,” Satoru said, voice suddenly soft. “Can I… keep him tonight?”

Utahime studied him, then nodded. “Yeah. He probably misses you.”

“I missed him more.”

“Impossible.”

Bear hopped into Satoru’s arms, tail wagging so hard his whole body shook.

Utahime smiled, tired, warm, resigned. “Try not to get arrested in front of him. It’ll traumatize the poor thing.”

Satoru snorted. “I’ll put it in my calendar.”

She walked to the door, paused, and said, “You’re a good man, Satoru. Just not always in the right order.”

And then she was gone. Satoru stood alone in the quiet mountain mansion, holding Bear against his chest, snow falling in thick curtains outside. The fireplace hummed. The wood crackled. The world felt briefly distant, as though he’d stepped out of time, out of New York, out of the war. But isolation was a dangerous comfort. In that silence, he felt the weight of everything pressing down at once: the federal shadow creeping in, his father’s legacy twisting into something volatile, the corporate knives sharpening in the dark, and Suguru, always Suguru, pulling him into a future neither of them were ready for but both of them were barreling toward. He exhaled, burying his face in Bear’s fur.

“I really hope,” he whispered, “that I don’t fuck this up.”

Bear licked his chin, as if offering a contract he couldn’t sign. And outside, the storm gathered. Because Washington was coming. The Board was moving. Blackthorn was waking. And Satoru Gojo’s time was running out.

The flight back from Vail was quiet, the kind of quiet that made Satoru feel as though the mountains had followed him home, pressing their weight into his ribs. Bear sat curled under the seat in a carrier that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, occasionally making soft huffs that vibrated through Satoru’s bones. He stared out the window the entire way, watching clouds break like old promises beneath the wing. Utahime’s warning repeated in his head with the precision of a metronome: You need to prepare. This is going to get ugly. And ugly wasn’t even a strong enough word. Ugly was a torn-up proxy ballot. Ugly was a shareholder revolt or a hostile bid. This, this was federal, merciless, forensic. And he hadn’t told Nanami. Not because he didn’t trust Nanami, but because Nanami had already carried too much grief on his shoulders, and Satoru hated adding weight to a man who’d already watched a friend die and another unravel. But delaying it was cowardly, and Satoru hated that more.

So the night he returned to Manhattan, he texted Nanami to meet him in his penthouse. It felt like texting a parent before admitting you’d crashed the car into a courthouse. Nanami arrived exactly on time, as if punctuality itself was a moral code he refused to break. He stepped inside, removed his coat neatly, and looked around with a level of disapproval that seemed to increase every year. He stared directly at the bottle of kombucha on the counter, the one Satoru had picked up from a trendy health shop Utahime bullied him into trying years ago. 

Nanami raised an eyebrow. “You drinking that now?”

“It’s probiotic,” Satoru muttered defensively.

“You used to drink things that stripped paint.”

They sat opposite one another at the long marble kitchen island. Bear padded between them, alternating his affection strategically. Nanami waited for Satoru to speak, patient, steady, but with the unmistakable posture of a man bracing for a confession.

Satoru exhaled. “There’s a federal investigation.”

Nanami didn’t flinch. But his stillness grew sharper. “What kind?”

“Treasury,” Satoru said. “Capital Enforcement. Foreign transaction review. They think my father routed funds into a distressed private equity fund. A fund that collapsed.”

Nanami’s silence was not comforting. It was evaluative, slicing the information apart with calm precision. “And?”

“And someone connected that fund to Blackthorn. Through Singapore. And possibly Suguru.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened for the first time. “Possibly?”

“A paper trail exists. Indirect, but real.”

Nanami folded his hands. “You should have told me sooner.”

Satoru looked down. “I know.”

“No,” Nanami said firmly, “you don’t. Because if you did, you wouldn’t have waited.”

The reprimand didn’t sting because Nanami’s words never aimed to wound, only to correct. And Satoru respected that more than he would ever admit aloud.

Nanami stood and walked toward the window, looking out over the glittering sprawl of Manhattan. “I’ll look into it,” he said.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Nanami cut in sharply. “Because if this explodes, it affects all of us. The company. The board. Your father. You. And…” He hesitated. “And Geto.”

Satoru swallowed.

Nanami turned back to him, adjusting his glasses with the patience of an executioner preparing the final reading. “But Satoru,  you need to listen to me carefully. More carefully than you ever have.”

Satoru nodded.

“Do not trust anyone right now,” Nanami said. “Not a single board member. Not a single executive. Not even friends.”

Satoru stiffened. “Nanami—”

“And not even Geto.”

The room snapped into a different temperature. A colder one. A harsher one.

“Don’t say that,” Satoru said quietly, his voice tight.

Nanami held his gaze with absolute, boring, devastating honesty. “I know you don’t want to hear it. But you need to. This is not Harvard. This is not a dorm room. This is not a study group or a party or a heartbreak you two can outgrow.” He stepped closer. “This is corporate war. This is federal pressure. This is capital in the tens of millions. This is leverage, liability, and geopolitical scrutiny. This is the kind of battlefield where love becomes a footnote.”

Satoru felt something like nausea rise in his throat. Nanami continued. Relentless.

“When the stakes rise,” he said, “people break. They fracture. They choose survival over sentiment. Money over loyalty. Ambition over history.”

“You think Suguru would betray me?” Satoru asked, voice trembling in spite of himself.

“I think,” Nanami said calmly, “that even the best people are capable of terrible things when the numbers get big enough.” He didn’t soften the words. “And for Suguru Geto, the numbers are always big.”

Satoru clenched his jaw. “Suguru wouldn’t—”

“Satoru,” Nanami said gently, “love does not immunize a man from pressure. It turns pressure into leverage, and leverage into vulnerabilities.”

Satoru looked away. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to imagine Suguru as someone who could use him, or be used, in a game of corporate espionage. But the truth was uncomfortable: Suguru was not just the boy he kissed in a moment of desperation. He was also Blackthorn’s strategistic prodigy. A man entrusted with billions. A man whose entire career was built on weaponizing information and identifying cracks in empires.

Nanami continued, “You are not the only one who grew up, Satoru. Geto did too. And he grew into someone the market fears.”

Satoru’s breath hitched. Nanami rarely spoke about Suguru with emotion. But there was something in his tone now, residual Harvard memories, the ghost of Haibara, the weight of watching those early friendships splinter into adulthood.

“Corporate espionage exists,” Nanami said softly. “People open vulnerabilities in those they love. Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes not. Sometimes because they believe they’re protecting you. Sometimes because they’re protecting themselves.”

Satoru felt a twist in his chest, the sharp, heavy sting of truth he didn’t want.

Nanami walked back to him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “I’m not telling you to distrust him,” he said. “I’m telling you to be aware. The stakes have changed. And if Treasury believes the narrative forming around your father, they will build a case around the people closest to him.”

“Including Suguru,” Satoru whispered.

“Including you first,” Nanami corrected, “but yes, Geto is next in the line of fire.”

Silence settled between them, thick and painful.

Nanami exhaled. “I will look into this quietly. I’ll go through what I can find. I’ll contact the right people. But Satoru, you need to be prepared.” He squeezed Satoru’s shoulder. “This is not a world where you can afford naïveté. Not even about him.”

Satoru’s voice cracked before he could stop it. “I don’t want to doubt him.”

Nanami’s expression softened in a way Satoru had seen only a handful of times. “Then don’t,” he said. “But don’t blind yourself either. Trust is not a strategy.”

And in that moment, as Bear pressed against his leg, as Manhattan glittered below them like a map of all the decisions he’d never wanted to make, Satoru realized something terrifying: Nanami wasn’t warning him about Suguru. Nanami was warning him about himself. About how far Satoru might fall if Suguru was forced to choose ambition over love. About how much it would destroy him if the one person he’d ever let close enough to break him actually did.

Nanami stepped toward the door, coat in hand. “I’ll update you tomorrow,” he said. “Get some rest, if you can.”

Satoru nodded, frozen in the middle of his own penthouse, feeling seventeen and thirty-two all at once.

Nanami paused at the door. “And Satoru?”

Satoru looked up. Nanami held his gaze with a final truth:

“When millions are on the table, even the purest relationships get tested. Not all survive.”

And with that, he left. Leaving Satoru standing alone in the blue glow of the city, staring at the darkened skyline, at the snow dusting the balcony rail, at the future tightening around him like a trap. For the first time since the war began, Satoru Gojo wondered, not whether he could win, but whether love, history, and all the Harvard memories in the world could survive the price that awaited him.

Chapter Text

Satoru hadn’t seen Senator Iori in nearly two years. Not since the divorce papers were signed, not since he and Utahime had sat in a quiet Georgetown law office pretending their marriage had been anything other than a politely arranged merger between two dynasties who didn’t know what to do with their adult children. Senator Iori had been cordial, even friendly, during the dissolution; dignified men like him didn’t raise their voices, they didn’t ask messy questions, and they certainly didn’t indulge in small domestic dramas. They preferred clean numbers, clean exits, clean optics. But today was different. Today, Satoru was walking into a meeting not as the Senator’s former son-in-law, but as the embattled heir of a conglomerate about to be pulled into a federal crisis.

Nanami had insisted on it. “Lobbying is not corruption,” Nanami had said dryly while straightening his tie that morning. “It’s strategy. And your father always aligned himself with the right-wing donors. The Democrats are in control now. You need a new friend.”

Satoru had groaned. “Can’t you come with me?”

“No,” Nanami replied, “because optics matter. You’re the face. And the Senator doesn’t know me.”

“You could come and just not speak.”

“That,” Nanami said, “is still too much emotional labor.”

And with that, the meeting became inevitable.

Senator Iori chose a discreet location, a private room in a Japanese restaurant tucked into a quiet Manhattan street. The lighting was soft, the shoji panels closed, the air thick with savory warmth and the faint scent of broiled fish. The Senator was already seated when Satoru entered, posture immaculate, suit charcoal-black, silver cufflinks glinting subtly under the lantern-like overhead lights. His presence filled the room even in stillness; he didn’t command with volume but with gravity.

“Satoru,” he greeted, offering a polite nod rather than a smile. “Sit. You look… tired.”

Satoru sat. “I feel worse.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Senator Iori said mildly. “Especially since you were always at your best when the rest of the world was falling apart.”

Satoru grimaced. “I really hate how accurately you just summarized my entire personality.”

“You inherited it from Masahiro,” the Senator replied. “Catastrophe seems to sharpen you.”

Satoru looked away at the mention of his father. The Senator noticed, he always noticed everything, but didn’t comment. The waiter brought tea. They didn’t speak until the door closed behind him.

“Utahime called me,” Senator Iori began, folding his hands neatly. “She said you’re in trouble.”

“Trouble is a soft word,” Satoru muttered.

“Federal,” the Senator clarified, “is never soft.”

A silence followed. Satoru broke it first. “Senator, I… I don’t want to put Utahime in a bad position.”

“She is not in danger,” he said. “You are.”

Satoru stiffened.

“Tell me what happened,” the Senator continued. “All of it. No theatrics, no deflection, no Gojo family pride.”

Satoru inhaled slowly, then laid out the story: the offshore fund, the transfers, the scrutiny, the revived Masahiro, the board’s dysfunction, the Blackthorn war, and the possibility Suguru might be implicated by association. Senator Iori listened with a calm, steady gaze, not shocked, not impressed, not judgmental. Just absorbing.

When Satoru finished, the Senator poured more tea. “The good news,” he said, “is that you came to me. The bad news is everything else.”

Satoru winced. “Yeah.”

“Satoru, listen carefully,” he said, leaning slightly forward. “The Democrats control both chambers. Treasury answers to the administration. The oversight committees answer to their chairs. What you need right now isn’t innocence, it’s insulation. You need political protection.”

“I know,” Satoru said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nanami told me.”

“Nanami is a smart man,” the Senator replied. “Listen to him.”

Satoru swallowed. “Can you… help?”

Senator Iori considered him, tapping his index finger gently on the table. “If Masahiro were still the Masahiro I used to know, I would have refused on principle. He spent decades opposing every regulatory reform I championed. But Utahime cared enough to warn you. And I,”  he exhaled, “still consider you family.”

The words landed in Satoru’s chest like a punch. His voice cracked. “Thank you.”

“But,” the Senator continued sharply, “I cannot help you if you hide from me. I need transparency.”

Satoru nodded. “Whatever you need.”

“And,” the Senator added, “you will stay away from Suguru Geto during this investigation.”

Satoru froze.

The Senator’s eyes didn’t soften. “I know you two have history. I’ve known for years. I don’t care about the nature of it, that is your business. But if the FED believes the Gojo heir and Blackthorn’s strategist are colluding, this situation becomes far worse.”

Satoru’s chest tightened painfully.

“I’m not saying don’t trust him,” the Senator said. “I’m saying don’t hand them a narrative.”

Satoru resisted the urge to grip the table. “I can’t avoid him,” he whispered. “This isn’t Harvard. Our lives are—”

“Intertwined?” the Senator finished. “Yes. But intertwined and exposed are two different things.”

Satoru said nothing. Could say nothing. Senator Iori let the silence sit.

Finally, he added, “For Utahime’s sake, I will do what I can. But understand this, Satoru, power will not save you. Politics will. And politics is a currency more vicious than capital.”

The meeting ended with a bow, a handshake, and a father’s warning disguised as diplomacy.

From there, Satoru plunged into the day’s obligations, meetings upon meetings, each one a different branch of the Gojo conglomerate requiring reassurance, restructuring, or emergency overview. Consumer goods. Logistics. Healthcare tech. A tourism subsidiary bleeding money. A real estate arm overleveraged. The cracks in the empire seemed to widen with every floor he visited. He sat through presentations about supply chain revitalization, tax implications, cross-border acquisitions, ESG compliance, and a proposed restructuring that Nanami had flagged as financially suicidal. He delivered speeches to executives pretending not to panic. He reviewed forecasts that predicted a looming liquidity squeeze if the FED issued even a single restrictive order.

And all the while, Suguru’s shadow followed him, not physically, but in every risk analysis, every potential scenario, every decision tree. Blackthorn wasn’t backing down. If anything, Suguru was pushing harder, driving his firm into an all-out siege. His name appeared in market whispers, in analyst notes, in a Bloomberg headline Satoru refused to read. Suguru was becoming the face of the takeover effort, not by choice, Satoru suspected, but by Blackthorn’s design. Somewhere in that building five blocks away, Suguru was being forced into a decision. And Satoru knew what that meant: the pressure on him would be biblical. Blackthorn didn’t tolerate hesitation. Private equity didn’t tolerate loyalty. And Suguru, the Suguru who once had dreams in Cambridge hallways and ideals too big for a world like this, was now standing on a precipice neither of them had prepared for.

Satoru didn’t text. Didn’t call. Didn’t go to him. Senator Iori’s warning echoed too loudly. Intertwined is not the same as exposed.

That evening, as the sky bled violet over Manhattan, Satoru entered the penthouse and found Bear asleep on the couch, belly-up, legs twitching in a dream. The sight grounded him momentarily, a soft reminder of something simple, something untainted. He knelt beside the dog, pressing his forehead gently against Bear’s warm flank.

“I hate this,” he whispered. “All of it.”

Bear snored in response. Satoru huffed a laugh, then stood and checked his phone. No messages from Suguru. None from Nanami. One from Utahime: Working. Father spoke highly of you. Don’t ruin it. Also, Bear ate a pinecone earlier. Watch him. He sent back a middle finger emoji.

The next morning, he visited his father. The hospital wing was quiet, the lights dimmed to a warm glow. Masahiro sat upright, a blanket over his legs, staring out the window at the East River as if calculating its real estate value. He looked older than he had before the coma, more mortal, more human, and somehow still terrifying.

Satoru approached slowly. “Dad.”

Masahiro didn’t turn. “I heard you went to Senator Iori.”

Of course he knew.

“Nanami told you?” Satoru asked.

“No,” Masahiro said. “Senators talk. Especially ones who still respect me.”

Satoru bristled. “He helped me.”

“He helped Utahime,” Masahiro corrected. “You were incidental.”

Satoru clenched his teeth. “Can we not do this?”

Masahiro turned his head slightly. “Sit.”

Satoru sat. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Masahiro said, “You’re here because of the fund.”

Satoru inhaled. “Yes.”

“Then listen.”

Masahiro’s eyes were sharp, the eyes of the man who had built an empire from steel and cold fire. “The fund was not a bailout,” he said. “It was a trap.”

Satoru froze.

Masahiro continued. “Blackthorn was expanding too fast. Too aggressively. They were overleveraged. Vulnerable. I saw the fault line. So I gave them what they needed most: a lifeline that would kill them later.”

Satoru blinked. “You sabotaged them?”

“I weakened them,” Masahiro corrected. “I positioned them for collapse. And it worked, until I collapsed first.”

Satoru felt sick. “Dad… this could start a federal case.”

“It won’t,” Masahiro said coldly. “Because the man leading the investigation owes me a favor. Or he did.” His gaze hardened. “If he's forgotten, we’ll remind him.”

Satoru stood, horrified. “Dad, this isn’t strategy, this is criminal.”

Masahiro looked at him with disappointment so sharp it felt like a blade. “This is business. And if you cannot accept that, you will lose everything.”

Satoru’s voice broke. “Suguru is caught in the middle of this.”

“Good,” Masahiro said, his tone icy. “Then he will show what side he belongs on.”

Satoru felt the floor tilt beneath him. Masahiro watched him with a final, merciless decree:

“If Suguru Geto chooses you, he dies politically. If he chooses Blackthorn, he will help destroy you. One of you will break. That is inevitable.”

Satoru swallowed a breath that tasted like salt and iron. “You can’t pit us against each other like this.”

Masahiro’s expression didn’t change.

“You have always been pitted against each other.”

Satoru staggered back.

Masahiro turned back to the window.

“And now,” he said quietly, “we will see which of you survives.”

Suguru did not fail to surprise Satoru. And worse, he did not fail to disappoint him. That was the part that stung. That was the part that left Satoru pacing his penthouse later that night with Bear trailing anxiously behind him, whining every time Satoru’s breaths grew too sharp, too fast, too jagged. There had been a moment, just a moment, in that mountain house in Vail when Satoru believed he could navigate this storm without losing himself, without losing Suguru, without losing the single thread of hope that had quietly tied them together since Harvard. But hope was a currency he couldn’t afford anymore. Not when the world he lived in thrived on conversion rates, market swings, and capital flows. Not when ideals were liabilities. Not when love and loyalty were incompatible with survival.

The revelation came through a private Bloomberg alert Nanami sent him late at night: BLACKTHORN TO PROCEED WITH VOTE MOBILIZATION FOR ADDITIONAL BOARD SEATS. And beneath it, a photograph. Suguru, stepping out of Blackthorn headquarters. Chin lifted. Suit immaculate. Eyes flint-hard, not even glancing at the reporters calling his name. A man stepping into the role the world demanded of him, not the one Satoru once knew. Suguru had not slowed down. If anything, he had accelerated. More meetings. More media coverage. More aggressive filings. He was no longer just part of the hostile campaign, he was leading it.

Nanami’s text came seconds later: This is not a coincidence. He’s preparing for something bigger. You must stay ahead of him.

Satoru stared at the photo for a long, bitter minute before he threw his phone onto the couch and muttered, “Goddammit, Suguru.”

Bear jumped, startled. Satoru bent down immediately, gathering the dog into his arms. “Not you. Sorry, Bear. You’re the only decent man in my life.”

Bear licked his cheek forgivingly. It felt like a hug from a small, warm, unconditional animal,  a bear hug, the kind he named him for. But it didn’t fix anything.

Satoru pressed his face into the fur, cursing himself more quietly. “I should’ve seen this coming. I should’ve known.”

He did know. Deep down, he had always known. He and Suguru didn’t share the same ideal, not really. At Harvard, Suguru had wanted to save the world by breaking it open and rebuilding it. And Satoru had wanted to save himself by running from everything broken. Suguru was a visionary. Satoru was a survivor. Suguru believed in burning the system. Satoru believed in inheriting it. Different boys. Different futures. Different forms of devastation.

He put Bear down gently and stood, hands shaking. The room felt too big, too cold, and too full of things he couldn’t control. His heart hit the walls of his ribs like it was trying to escape. He paced again,  a long, rapid back-and-forth across polished floors. Masahiro’s words echoed in his head, cinematic and cruel: You and Suguru were always pitted against each other. One of you will break. This is inevitable. Satoru hated how right his father always was when it mattered. He hated how seamlessly Masahiro could see the world three moves ahead. He hated how effortlessly the old man understood Suguru, understood Satoru, understood the bones of the empire and every fracture it contained.

But above all, Satoru hated the truth that cut the deepest: He could not go against his father. Not in this. Not now. Not ever. Because beneath all the resentment, beneath all the therapy, beneath all the Harvard memories and Tokyo exiles and relapses and rebellions, Satoru Gojo was still the heir. The only child. The only son. The succession. He wanted the company. He wanted the crown. He wanted the empire that had been built for him, forged for him, sharpened for him. He wanted the inheritance his father had bled for. He wanted the future that had been promised to him since the first time he sat in Masahiro’s office as a child and stared at the skyline like it already belonged to him.

Suguru wanted change. Satoru wanted the throne. Suguru wanted to dismantle the system. Satoru wanted to prove he could rule it. Suguru wanted justice. Satoru wanted legacy.

And Masahiro, goddamn Masahiro, saw all of this with the terrifying clarity of a man who had spent a lifetime molding an heir. Masahiro Gojo was the President, the Chairman, the CEO, the mastermind behind decades of dominance. Even half-conscious in a hospital bed, he could still twist the board like piano wire. He knew leverage. He knew politics. He knew men. But most importantly, he knew Satoru, every fear, every weakness, every unspoken craving for his approval. Masahiro had always been the real strategist. The real tactician. The real ghost in the machine. And Satoru, for all his defiance, was still the little boy who once believed his father controlled the weather. He sank onto the couch and buried his face in his hands.

“I can’t betray him,” Satoru whispered into the dark, into the silence, into his own trembling palms. “Not even for you, Suguru.”

The admission cut deeper than any knife. This, this was where the fracture became real. This was where the hope he carried like a secret flame began to flicker. He couldn’t betray his father. He couldn’t abandon the company. He couldn’t walk away from the empire he had been raised to inherit. He couldn’t give up the throne,  not even for the man who had once held his heart like a fragile, golden thing. And Suguru, brilliant, relentless, unyielding Suguru, would not betray Blackthorn. That was the difference. That was adulthood. That was the price.

Satoru leaned back, staring at the ceiling with hollow eyes. “This is a shit show,” he muttered. “A real fucking shit show.”

Bear jumped onto the couch beside him, curling against his side with a loyalty no human could match. Satoru stroked his fur mindlessly, voice dropping into a whisper so soft, it barely existed:

“I might lose him. And I still can’t let go of this company. What the hell is wrong with me?”

Bear licked his wrist. Satoru exhaled a shaky laugh.

“Yeah. You’re right.” He swallowed hard. “This is going to hurt.”

The city outside pulsed with lights, alive with the war that was circling closer. Satoru closed his eyes. Masahiro had set the board. Suguru had made his move. Nanami had issued his warning. Utahime had given him an opening. And Satoru, trapped between love and legacy, realized he was standing on the very line he once believed he’d never have to choose.

Because in the end, the truth was brutal: He was not his father’s opponent. He was his father’s heir. And heirs don’t get to choose their wars. They inherit them.

It happened on a Wednesday, because of course it did. Catastrophe always chose the middle of the week, when Satoru was already cracked and fraying at the edges, when Nanami was buried in spreadsheets and legal walls, when Suguru was nowhere to be found and everywhere at once, moving pieces across the chessboard with ruthless precision. Satoru returned to his office after another exhausting meeting about subsidiary restructuring to find his Bloomberg terminal blinking like a siren.

BLACKTHORN OFFERS BEAR HUG PROPOSAL TO GOJO GROUP — SOURCES SAY COMPANY MAY CONSIDER

The term Bear Hug hit him like a punch to the ribs. He froze. Then read it again. Then again. Then, slowly, the blood drained from his face until he felt pale down to the marrow. A Bear Hug. A fucking Bear Hug. It wasn’t just a corporate term. It was a declaration of war disguised as tenderness. It was a hostile takeover presented as a gift basket. It was Blackthorn telling the market that Gojo Group was vulnerable enough for a public squeeze, and valuable enough to swallow whole. It was an offer too generous for the shareholders to refuse, too threatening for the board to ignore, and too humiliating for Satoru to stomach. The fact that they had the audacity to call it a Bear Hug, when the only Bear Satoru cared about was lying asleep on his penthouse couch,  made the entire thing feel personal. Violent. Insulting. Ironic. Cruel.

Suguru had done this. Suguru. His Suguru. His Harvard. His first, only, stupid, ridiculous love. His ghost. His rival. His enemy. His mistake.

Satoru grabbed the nearest object without thinking, and nearly hurled it across the room. It wasn’t until Nanami shouted his name that he realized he was holding his Ming dynasty vase, the one he’d bought at a Christie’s auction for an obscene amount of money because Utahime had smugly told him he had “no taste in antiques.”

He froze mid-throw.

Nanami ran in and snatched the vase away with a terrified whisper: “For the love of God, Satoru, this alone could pay for half your litigation fees.”

Satoru collapsed into his chair like gravity had doubled. His hands shook. His breath shortened. His eyes burned.

Nanami stood across from him, holding the priceless vase like it was an infant. “Whoever leaked it wasn’t internal,” he said, voice tight. “This is Blackthorn’s doing.”

“No shit,” Satoru snapped, voice breaking. “And guess who fucking orchestrated it?”

Nanami went still.

Satoru’s throat convulsed. “He can’t do this. He can’t. Suguru—”

Nanami exhaled through his nose, placing the vase safely on a high shelf. “He can. And he did.”

That was it. That was the moment Satoru felt something inside him rupture, a slow breaking of a decade’s worth of denial. He slid his fingers into his hair and tugged hard, like he could keep himself anchored through force alone.

“I should’ve never befriended him at Buckley,” Satoru whispered, shaking violently. “I should’ve never let him in. I should’ve known, everything he touches he weaponizes. Everything I gave him he used to destroy me.”

Nanami didn’t correct him. Didn’t soften the blow. Just placed a quiet, steady hand on his shoulder, not comforting, but stabilizing, like a brace on a fractured bone. “You’re not thinking clearly,” he said. “Go somewhere. Anywhere. Get out of the city before you implode.”

Satoru did. He grabbed Bear, grabbed his coat, grabbed his phone, and left. The private jet was fueled in twenty minutes. He didn’t tell Utahime. Didn’t tell anyone. He boarded with Bear in his arms, heart pounding, throat tight, vision blurred. The flight attendants asked if he needed anything. He shook his head and sank into the seat like a man shot through. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted distance. He wanted silence. He wanted the one place more painful than New York. He wanted his mother.

The Napa Valley mansion sat at the top of a hill like it resented being built. Cold white stone. Tall dark windows. Vineyards stretching in every direction like disciplined soldiers. Satoru’s mother had decorated it herself, which meant everything was tasteful, expensive, and emotionally barren. He hadn’t visited in two years. Not since she told him, during a family gala, that she “should have adopted a dog instead,  at least a dog follows commands.” He’d laughed at the time. But the words had sunk deep, the way only a mother’s cruelty could. The car dropped him off at the front entrance. Bear padded beside him, whining softly in the crisp wine-country air. Satoru rang the bell. The butler answered.

When he saw who it was, his eyes widened. “Young Master Satoru—”

“Don’t call me that,” Satoru muttered.

“Of course. This is a surprise.”

“She here?”

“In the west garden.”

Satoru walked through the house, through marble halls and curated artwork and rooms preserved like a museum, until he found her. Akemi Gojo. Tall. Elegant. Composed. A woman whose beauty was matched only by her detachment. She stood beneath the pergola trimming a rose bush with surgical calm. Her eyes flicked up.

“Oh,” she said. “Satoru.”

Just that. No warmth. No concern. Just acknowledgment, like she’d spotted a bird that had flown too close.

He swallowed. “I needed… to get away.”

“Hm,” she said, snipping another rose. “You always do.”

He closed his eyes. Bear nuzzled his leg.

Akemi glanced at the dog with thin disdain. “I see you still insist on keeping that creature.”

“His name is Bear,” Satoru said softly.

“A ridiculous name,” she replied. “But fitting.”

Satoru laughed, bitter and small. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Fitting.”

He sat on the stone step beside the garden. Bear crawled into his lap. And Satoru, heir, strategist, corporate prince, empire successor, lowered his face into his hands and cried. Not the silent, controlled tears he learned to master in Harvard bathrooms after Haibara died. Not the sharp, angry sobs he buried in therapy. Not the quiet grief he carried in Tokyo. These were child’s tears. Full-bodied. Shaking. Unfiltered. Raw. His mother stood still, scissors lowered. She didn’t approach him. Didn’t comfort him. Didn’t scold him. She simply watched. When his breathing finally steadied, she spoke.

“You look like your father when he was your age,” she said. “Crying alone in gardens he could not control.”

Satoru wiped his face. “Please don’t—”

“You want his company,” she said. “You want his crown. You want his legacy. You want to be him.” She paused. “And you will be. Whether it ruins you or not.”

Satoru’s heart twisted. Because she was right. She was always right. He had tried to deny it his whole life, but the truth was inescapable: Satoru Gojo wanted the empire. He wanted the power. He wanted the throne. He wanted to be King of Gojo Group. Even if it meant sacrificing Suguru. Even if it meant sacrificing himself.

Akemi stepped closer, eyes cold but sharp with accuracy. “You came here because you needed someone who won’t lie to you.”

He nodded weakly. She crouched, just once, just enough, to meet his eye level.

“Satoru,” she said, voice low and merciless, “stop pretending you’re choosing between love and power. You were born into power. You will die in power. Love has never been a choice for men like you.”

He stared at her, throat tight. She rose again, wiping the rose shears on a white cloth.

“Get up,” she said. “Wipe your face. Go home. Fight for what is yours.”

Satoru took a shaking breath. Then he stood. Bear nudged his hand. His mother turned away, trimming another rose without looking back. And Satoru realized, painfully, devastatingly, that he understood both of his parents now. He understood Masahiro’s ruthlessness. He understood Akemi’s cold truth. He understood why they had put a crown on his head and called it destiny. Because the Gojo heir was never meant to choose love. He was meant to choose the empire.

The jet touched down at Teterboro sometime after midnight, but Satoru didn’t check the time. He didn’t check his phone. He didn’t check anything at all. He moved through the terminal like a ghost, Bear tucked under one arm, expression flat and unreadable in the dim fluorescent lights. His mother’s words rang in his head with the cold finality of a verdict: You were born for the empire, not love. It hurt because it was true. It hurt more because he wanted it to be false. But the pain that cut the deepest, the one that had hollowed his ribs out on the jet back to New York, was the realization he had been running from since Harvard: Suguru Geto would always choose ambition. And Satoru would always choose the crown. There was no universe where the two choices met in the middle. There was no world where their ideals aligned. There was no timeline where they weren’t destined to break each other.

The car brought him directly to Manhattan, where he told the driver to stop one block away from Suguru’s building. He didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to analyze. Didn’t want to strategize. Whatever part of him usually calculated consequences, Masahiro’s training, Nanami’s warnings, even Utahime’s rationality, had been burned out somewhere over Colorado. Only one thought remained: Suguru did this. Suguru betrayed me. Suguru brought the Bear Hug. 

He walked into the building without buzzing, because Suguru had never removed his name from the authorized list of guests. The concierge didn’t question him. No one did. Suguru lived in the kind of building where the walls were designed to keep out scrutiny but not former lovers. He took the elevator to the top floor, Bear tucked under his coat like a trembling, confused passenger. When the doors opened, Satoru stepped down the quiet hall and stopped in front of the penthouse door.

His fist hovered. Then landed. Hard.

The door opened almost immediately, as if Suguru had been awake, waiting. And maybe he had. Suguru stood barefoot in soft black sweatpants and a loose shirt, eyes widening when he saw Satoru in the doorway, face red, hair disheveled, expression burning with something between grief and fury.

“Satoru,” Suguru breathed, surprised, worried, and behind it, God help him, still fond. “What—”

Satoru didn’t let him finish. His fist connected with Suguru’s cheek in a sharp, clean arc. A sound cracked, knuckles against bone, a soft grunt, a stumble backward. Suguru hit the side of the entryway table with a sharp breath. The lamp shattered. Bear barked.

Suguru held his face, jaw flexing, shock bleeding into something darker. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I probably deserved that.”

“You definitely fucking deserved that,” Satoru snarled.

Suguru’s eyes flickered, pain, confusion, anger, and worst of all, recognition. He straightened slowly, rubbing his cheek. A faint bruise was already blooming beneath his skin.

“Satoru,” he murmured, voice low, “tell me what happened.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know,” Satoru shot back. “Don’t act like you didn’t orchestrate that Bear Hug like a goddamn love letter to betrayal.”

Suguru blinked once. Twice. “…you saw the headline.”

“You leaked the headline.”

“No,” Suguru corrected, jaw tightening, “Blackthorn leaked the headline.”

“Don’t,” Satoru hissed, stepping inside, chest trembling, “hide behind that firm like it wasn’t you who pushed the board. Like it wasn’t you who signed off on the proposal. Like it wasn’t you who took the shot.”

Suguru’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes had gone sharp. “You know what a Bear Hug is. You know it’s strategy—”

“It’s violence,” Satoru cut in. “And you aimed it at me.”

Suguru’s expression cracked. “At the company.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

Bear whimpered near his feet.

Suguru swallowed. “Satoru—”

“No,” Satoru snapped. “You don’t get to say my name like that. Not after everything. Not after Harvard. Not after Tokyo. Not after—” He choked.

Suguru softened. “What happened? Where did you go?”

“Napa,” Satoru said. “To my mother.”

Suguru inhaled sharply at that. “You must have been, bad.”

“I was,” Satoru said, voice cracking. “I was bad. I was breaking. And you know the worst part? She made more sense than you.”

Suguru’s face fell.

Satoru stepped closer. “Why did you do it?”

Suguru held his gaze. “Because Blackthorn forced my hand. Because the fund scandal is circling. Because your father—”

“Because you don’t believe in me,” Satoru whispered.

Suguru froze.

“You don’t believe I can win,” Satoru continued, each word a knife slipping between ribs. “You don’t believe the company is mine. You don’t believe I deserve it. You don’t believe I’m strong enough.”

Suguru’s breath hitched. “That’s not—”

“You chose ambition,” Satoru said softly. “I chose legacy.”

“Satoru—” Suguru tried again.

“You chose Blackthorn.”

The silence was suffocating.

“And I,” Satoru whispered, “chose my fucking father.”

Suguru’s eyes widened, pain, real pain, flickering in the dark.

“So in the end,” Satoru continued, voice barely audible, “you still think I’m that little boy dragging you into bathrooms at Buckley, asking for help with homework. And in the end…” He swallowed hard. “You’re still the boy who walks away.”

Suguru closed his eyes. “I never walked away from you. I walked away from the world you were choosing. And now you’ve chosen it again.”

Satoru laughed, bitter, trembling. “I can’t fight my father. I can’t betray him. I can’t give up the company. I won’t—” His voice cracked. “I won’t. I can’t.”

Suguru opened his eyes, and they shone with something brutal and grieving all at once. “I know. I always knew.”

Satoru looked at him, chest shaking, vision blurred, heart split open.

“Then why,” he whispered, “did you let me fall for you again?”

Suguru stepped back as if struck.

And Satoru, exhausted, devastated, heir to a collapsing empire, sank to the floor, Bear crawling into his lap, whining softly as if trying to patch him together.

Suguru knelt in front of him, trembling. “Don’t cry,” he whispered. “Please. Don’t.”

But Satoru cried anyway, like a child again. Harvard grief. Tokyo grief. Napa grief. Suguru grief. All of it rushed out at once. Suguru reached for him. Satoru flinched. Suguru froze. Because that, that tiny recoil, that moment of rejection, was the real punch to the face. Much worse than the physical one. And in that stillness, with a dog between them and a lifetime behind them, both men finally understood something neither had dared speak: Love could not save them. Not from legacy. Not from ambition. Not from their fathers. Not from themselves.

And definitely not from each other.

Chapter Text

The morning the FED arrived began like any other: quiet, grey, unassuming, the sort of Manhattan dawn that lulled a man into believing the day might actually be survivable. Satoru woke in his penthouse with Bear sprawled across his stomach like a warm, snoring paperweight, his head heavy from the emotional wreckage of the night before. Suguru’s voice still lived in the raw space under his ribs; the bruise across Suguru’s cheek lived even sharper in memory. The city outside was steady, indifferent. The world hadn’t ended. But the world had a sense of humor, and an even keener sense of timing.

Satoru was halfway through his espresso when Nanami called.

“Satoru,” he said, voice too calm to be anything but alarming. “Do not come to the tower.”

Satoru blinked, rubbing his temple. “Why?”

“The FED is here.”

Satoru paused. “Which division?”

“All of them.”

A quiet beat. Then, “…oh.”

Nanami sighed. “Stay home.”

But Satoru Gojo never stayed home. Not during storms. Not during threats. Not when the entire empire woke up trembling. So, of course, he put on his Brioni suit, midnight navy, tailored to slice the air when he walked, fastened his Jaeger-LeCoultre watch, pocketed his phone, and carried Bear downstairs. If the feds wanted a show, they would get one. His car dropped him off half a block away, but he didn’t need to see the armed perimeter to know the scale of it. Black SUVs lined Park Avenue. Agents in navy windbreakers moved like a swarm around the glass entrance of Gojo Tower. Pedestrians stopped to film. News vans parked illegally. Reporters buzzed. The city itself inhaled, tightening like a fist.

This wasn’t subtle. This wasn’t routine. This was a message. And Satoru Gojo received messages very, very well. He stepped out of the car just as a cluster of FBI agents walked through the revolving doors with warrant folders. A few turned at the sound of shutters, and the moment they spotted him, tall, immaculate, cold, the cameras exploded with light.

“Mr. Gojo! Satoru! Do you have a comment?”
“Sir, did you know about the offshore transfers?”
“Is the liquidity fraud connected to your father?”
“Is Suguru Geto involved?”

The last one stung so hard it made his jaw clench. Satoru walked up the front steps as if he were arriving late to a brunch reservation, unbothered, unhurried, amused. He could feel the feds watching him; he could feel the reporters salivating; he could feel power shifting under his feet like a tectonic plate. Then he turned toward the nearest agent, a young woman who stiffened as he approached, and he gave her a slow, devastating smile. One that said: You can raid my building, but you will never touch my throne.

She blinked. “Mr. Gojo, sir, we have—”

“—a subpoena,” he finished. “I’m aware.”

He walked past her with Bear tucked confidently under one arm.

The sixth floor was chaos, controlled chaos, legally mandated chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Agents lined the corridor. Analysts moved boxes. IT specialists worked on servers. Conference rooms overflowed with red evidence tags. Employees whispered fearfully. And in the middle of it all, sitting behind his desk like a king on a battlefield throne, was Masahiro Gojo. He looked like hell. And he looked magnificent. Hair thinning, skin pale, posture stiff, but eyes sharp as razors, hands steady, suit immaculate. An oxygen tank sat quietly beside him, ignored. Two FBI agents flanked his desk, but neither dared interrupt him as he spoke into the phone, barking orders to an executive who sounded like he was seconds from fainting. When Masahiro saw Satoru walking toward him, his expression flickered, not relief, not affection, but something colder, more strategic.

“Close the door,” Masahiro told the agents.

They hesitated. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Now.”

The door shut.

Masahiro leaned back. “You’re late.”

Satoru almost laughed. “You’re being raided by the federal government.”

“And you’re still late.”

Satoru exhaled sharply. “Dad, what the hell is going on?”

Masahiro pointed to the stack of papers on his desk. “Subpoenas. Warrant requests. Investigatory notices.”

“Are we… in trouble?”

Masahiro scoffed. “Trouble is for the poor.”

That sentence, more than anything, reminded Satoru who the man before him truly was.

Masahiro folded his hands. “No one is being arrested.”

Satoru raised a brow. “You seem very confident.”

“That’s because Nanami is brilliant,” Masahiro said. “And we are very, very rich.”

Satoru couldn’t argue.

Masahiro gestured to the window, toward the swirling mess of blue jackets and camera flashes outside. “This is a political performance,” he said. “Not a legal battle. They want optics. They want sweat. They want to make us tremble.”

He leaned forward, voice lowering into something deadly.

“We do not tremble.”

Satoru swallowed.

Masahiro looked at him then, truly looked at him, and for the first time in days, weeks, maybe years, he softened.

“Satoru,” he said quietly, “everything I have done—” He paused, the words heavy. “—I did it for you.”

Satoru froze.

Masahiro continued. “The offshore fund, the liquidity transfers, the shareholders I bribed, the senators I arm-twisted, the deals I buried and the ones I resurrected, all of it was to preserve the empire you will inherit.”

Satoru felt the breath leave his lungs.

“You are my son,” Masahiro said. “My only child. My heir. There is no one else. No one else with the vision. No one else with the fire. No one else with the blood.”

Satoru’s throat tightened.

Masahiro lifted his chin. “This company is yours.”

A beat. Then two words that struck like scripture:

“My game. Your future.”

Satoru’s vision blurred slightly, but he blinked it away. He couldn’t crumble here, not in front of the man who had rebuilt himself from illness just to protect a throne that wasn’t even his anymore. He nodded. Slowly. Steadily.

Masahiro smirked, satisfied. “Good. Now go smile at the feds and remind them that we do not answer to bureaucrats.”

“…You want me to smile at the FBI?”

“Yes,” Masahiro said. “Show them we’re unbreakable.”

Satoru inhaled. Straightened his Brioni jacket. Adjusted his perfect cufflinks. Lifted Bear onto his hip like a prop in a royal portrait. Then he walked back out onto the sixth floor, past agents digging through files, past reporters trying to catch a glimpse, past analysts who lowered their eyes respectfully. He paused in front of one of the senior agents. And he smiled. Not friendly. Not polite. Not harmless. A Gojo smile. The agent stiffened.

Satoru leaned in slightly. “Don’t take too long going through those files. My time is expensive.”

The agent swallowed hard. Satoru walked on. Because in the end, Masahiro was right: This was their company. Their game. Their rules. And no subpoena in the world was going to change that.

Washington, D.C. had a way of making even empires feel small. The marble. The hallways. The ceilings built to dwarf men into submission. Satoru had always hated the city, the regulated air, the bureaucratic rhythm, the way everyone smiled with knives behind their teeth. But nothing compared to the feeling of walking into the Senate Hearing Room with Masahiro Gojo on one side and Kento Nanami on the other. Every major news outlet in the country was already there. CNN, CNBC, Bloomberg, Politico, Vox, the Wall Street Journal, even a handful of international press. The gallery was packed with cameras, microphones, journalists practically vibrating in their seats with the kind of excitement only corporate bloodshed could produce. The hearing was technically about “financial transparency in cross-border liquidity transfers.” In reality, it was a lynching.

The moment the trio stepped into the chamber, the air tightened. Masahiro walked slowly but sharply, leaning on a cane he didn’t need. Nanami walked with rigid composure, a sleek leather folder in hand, glasses gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Satoru walked like sin in a Brioni suit, immaculate, lethal, and smiling. Every Senator’s head turned. Satoru could practically hear the hunger behind their stares. This was the biggest corporate scandal in years. A dynasty on the line. A dying titan stepping into the lion’s den. And the heir beside him. Before boarding the private jet, he leaned down toward Bear, who was staying with a sitter back in New York, and whispered in spirit: Be proud of your dad, little man. He’s about to charm a room full of sociopaths.

Masahiro didn’t slow, didn’t falter, didn’t blink when shutters and flashes burst around him like tiny explosions. He moved with the same icy grace he carried in boardrooms, even if illness clung to him like a shadow.

Chairwoman Diaz, a fierce Democrat with a reputation for making billionaires sweat, slammed her gavel. “This hearing will come to order. Mr. Gojo, we appreciate your presence today.”

Masahiro sat. Nanami sat. Satoru sat last, crossing one leg over the other with casual elegance, the kind that made headlines and enemies simultaneously.

Diaz continued. “Mr. Gojo, our committee intends to clarify your company’s role in a series of offshore transfers under investigation by the Federal Reserve—”

Masahiro cut in. “I’m happy to clarify anything, Senator. I’ve always been transparent.”

Nanami’s foot tapped once under the table, the exact rhythm that meant deception number one, noted, continue.

Diaz’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll see.”

The room buzzed. Cameras leaned closer. And the questioning began.

It was brutal. A coordinated assault from both sides of the aisle. Democrats demanded answers. Republicans demanded blood. Independents demanded drama. The only friendly face on the committee sat three seats away, Senator Iori of Virginia. Utahime's father. A political legend. Sharp, refined, lethal when needed. He met Satoru’s gaze briefly, giving the smallest nod, a silent, Keep your head up. Satoru returned a tiny smirk of gratitude.

Diaz went first.

“Mr. Gojo, can you explain why funds were routed through Singapore and Luxembourg in a manner inconsistent with typical corporate liquidity practices?”

Masahiro barely shifted. “International business requires flexibility, Senator. We conducted all transfers legally.”

Diaz narrowed her eyes. “Legally, perhaps. Ethically—”

Masahiro smiled. “Ethics are subjective. Accounting is not.”

A ripple of shocked laughter stirred in the room. Satoru smirked. Nanami did not.

Senator Whitman of Oregon leaned forward. “Did you authorize these transactions personally?”

Masahiro looked unimpressed. “Do I look like a man who delegates financial decisions of this magnitude?”

Satoru nearly choked. Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose.

Chairwoman Diaz tapped her pen. “Mr. Gojo, this committee is concerned about the possibility—”

Satoru leaned forward, voice velvet-soft but radiating power. “Senator, with respect, if your concern is about national economic stability, attacking one of the largest employers in the country seems counterproductive.”

The room shifted. Reporters scribbled furiously. Phones lit up. Nanami shot him a sidelong glance that said, Good. Keep going.

Diaz arched a brow. “Mr. Gojo—”

Satoru’s smile sharpened. “We create tens of thousands of jobs. We anchor multiple industries. We innovate across international markets. If Gojo Group stumbled, the ripple effects would hurt the very constituents you claim to protect.”

Senator Hayes, a grizzled veteran politician, snorted. “Are you threatening Congress, son?”

Satoru didn’t blink. “Not at all, Senator. I’m reminding Congress that the market won’t wait for politics to catch up.”

Nanami silently mouthed a prayer. Masahiro actually smiled.

Senator Iori spoke next, his tone steady, authoritative. “Mr. Gojo, your son raises an important point. Economic stability is a shared responsibility. I hope my colleagues won’t misinterpret pragmatism for arrogance.”

A few senators bristled. Diaz rolled her eyes. But it worked. The tension shifted. Then came the kill shot, from Senator Knox of Illinois, a man so hungry for headlines he should’ve been on cable news instead of public office. He held up a document.

“Mr. Gojo,” Knox said, voice dripping with predatory delight, “we have records suggesting your company funneled money into a distressed private equity fund later linked to Blackthorn.”

A collective gasp. Nanami’s posture stiffened. Satoru’s jaw clenched. Masahiro didn’t flinch.

Knox smirked. “Care to explain?”

Masahiro said nothing. Nanami opened his folder. But Satoru beat them both to it. He leaned into the microphone, flashing that infamous Gojo grin.

“Senator,” he said smoothly, “if you’ve ever managed a corporation of this size, you’d know strategic positioning is not only normal, it’s essential.”

Knox sputtered. “Are you implying—”

“I’m stating,” Satoru said, “that the transaction was aboveboard. The current public speculation is the result of political fishing, not financial wrongdoing.”

Journalists nearly leapt from their seats.

Nanami whispered, “Satoru, for the love of—”

But Masahiro lifted a hand, silencing everyone, even the senators. His voice was soft. Fragile, almost. But unbreakable.

“Everything I did,” Masahiro said, “I did to protect my company. To protect my employees. And to protect my son.”

The entire room stilled. Even Chairwoman Diaz paused, her practiced scowl faltering.

Masahiro continued. “I built this empire not for myself, but for the generation that comes after me. For a future led by Satoru, who understands that strength is not inherited, but earned.”

Satoru’s throat tightened.

Nanami stared ahead, expression unreadable but hands clasped slightly tighter than before. Senator Knox opened his mouth to object, but Senator Iori cut him off smoothly.

“Mr. Gojo,” Iori said, “your integrity is noted.”

And somehow, through sheer will or sheer power or sheer generational command, Masahiro Gojo took control of the hearing. For the rest of the session, he answered questions with chilling precision. Nanami filtered legal traps before they hit. Satoru charmed the room like an aristocrat handpicked by fate. And slowly, painfully, deliberately, the tide turned. By the time the gavel finally came down, signaling the end of the hearing, reporters were whispering:

“Did you see the son?”
“He’s stronger than he looks.”
“That’s the future CEO.”
“Masahiro’s still got it…”
“…but that kid? He’s dangerous.”

Satoru rose first. Buttoned his jacket. Helped his father stand. Nanami gathered the documents. As they exited the chamber and walked into the blinding lights of a hundred cameras, Satoru flashed a smile so devastating it belonged on the cover of a magazine, not in the middle of a congressional investigation. A smile that said: You cannot break me. A smile that said: I was born for this. A smile Masahiro once wore. A smile inherited, perfected, weaponized.

Nanami murmured under his breath, “You’re terrifying when you do that.”

Satoru whispered back, “Thanks.”

And somewhere in the back of the chamber, unnoticed by most, Senator Iori watched him walk away, and thought, for the first time: The boy might actually survive this.

The Senate Hearing dominated the news cycle like a hurricane. By the time Satoru’s motorcade pulled away from Capitol Hill, the world had already dissected every second of testimony. Every cable network had moved into “wall-to-wall coverage” mode. MSNBC played panel discussions about “dynastic capitalism” while a chyron repeated: GOJO FATHER AND SON HOLD THEIR GROUND. CNN ran a ten-minute segment titled “Masahiro Gojo: Titan or Tyrant?” Fox News took the opposite approach, painting Satoru as “a spoiled princeling who smirked at the constitution.” Even CNBC replayed the footage of Satoru speaking back to Senator Knox on loop, the hosts calling it “the new face of executive arrogance” with equal parts awe and disgust. And social media, oh, social media loved him. Clips of Satoru in his Brioni suit, leaning into the microphone and dismantling a senator with a smile, were already going viral. Edits. Fan cams. Parodies. Memes.

Nanami, sitting beside him in the SUV, scrolled through his phone and muttered, “I hate all of these people.”

Satoru stared numbly out the window. His body felt heavy, like someone had stuffed lead into his bones. The hearing had drained him in ways no board meeting ever had. Every senator’s glare, every recorded pause, every whisper from the gallery still clung to his skin like static.

Nanami glanced over. “You’re dissociating.”

Satoru didn’t deny it. “I need… to talk to someone.”

Nanami blinked. “Me?”

“God, no,” Satoru muttered. “A professional.”

Nanami smirked. “Good. I charge more.”

Satoru rolled his eyes and texted his therapist.

He arrived at Dr. Mei Mei’s office still wearing the suit he’d been grilled in for hours, tie loosened but still elegant, hair a little disheveled from the flashes and microphones and political carnivores. She raised her eyebrows the moment he entered.

“You look,” she said, “like you’ve been in front of the Senate.”

“I have,” he replied, collapsing onto the sofa.

Mei Mei didn’t blink. “And you came here immediately afterward?”

“I need this,” Satoru insisted, rubbing his eyes. “Before I… combust.”

She nodded, taking her seat. “Then talk.”

And Satoru did. He tore himself open in the quiet safety of her office. He told her about Masahiro’s words, everything I have done, I did it for you. He told her about Suguru’s silence, about Naomi’s smirk, about the Bear Hug, about the weight of being the heir to a kingdom that wanted him crowned and crucified at the same time. He didn’t cry. He didn’t shout. He just… spoke, as if the words were finally too heavy to keep inside. When he finished, Mei Mei regarded him with something close to concern.

“You’re exhausted,” she said softly. “And you’re grieving.”

“I don’t have time to grieve,” Satoru whispered.

“But you are grieving,” she repeated. “For the life you wanted. For the boy you were. For the man you hoped Suguru would be.”

Satoru stared at the floor.

“And what do I do with that?” he asked quietly.

“Survive it,” she said.

He closed his eyes. “I don’t know how.”

“You do,” she corrected gently. “You’ve done it before.”

The session ended with his nerves slightly steadier, his breathing less ragged, but the grief, the sharp, quiet, unbearable grief, still lived under his ribs. He left with instructions to rest, which he ignored immediately.

Later that night, back at his penthouse, Satoru stood at the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows with a glass of bourbon he wasn’t drinking. Bear slept in a small crescent on the couch. New York glowed below, loud and alive and oblivious. Then, a knock. Not light. Not hesitant. Urgent. Satoru stiffened. Only one person knocked that way. He opened the door. Suguru nearly stumbled inside.

He wasn’t just drunk, he was suntanned, half-loosened, eyes glassy, pupils a little too large, breath thick with expensive whiskey and something herbal and dangerous. His coat hung off one shoulder. His hair was disheveled. His cheeks were flushed. He looked nothing like the strategist on Bloomberg with the ice-cold stare. He looked like the college boy Satoru remembered leaning against dorm walls at 3 a.m., laughing with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other, asking Satoru what the hell he was doing with his life. Their eyes locked.

Suguru whispered: “You punched me.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. “You deserved it.”

“Probably,” Suguru murmured, stepping closer. “But I didn’t deserve… the rest of it.”

Satoru swallowed hard. “Why are you here?”

Suguru sniffed, humorless. “Because I watched the hearing. And you looked—” He stopped. Breath hitched. Voice lowered. “—like you were bleeding behind your smile.”

Satoru’s heart cracked like glass.

Suguru was drunk. Suguru was vulnerable. Suguru was the same and not the same.

Satoru moved first. He pulled Suguru into the apartment, shut the door, and before either of them spoke again. He kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Years overdue. Suguru kissed back immediately, almost angrily, grabbing Satoru’s jacket, pressing him back into the wall, mouths colliding like a decade of restraint had finally snapped. It was messy. It was emotional. It was reckless. It was inevitable. And when it spilled into the bedroom, it wasn’t precise or choreographed, it was a collision of two men who had lost themselves and found each other in the same breath. Nothing explicit, nothing obscene, just two bodies tangled in grief and history, two souls colliding with the fever of everything unsaid.

Afterward, Suguru lay beside him, chest rising and falling, breath still uneven. Satoru stared at the ceiling, feeling the world tilt back into its familiar, awful quiet.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured.

“No,” Suguru agreed softly. “We shouldn’t have.”

“It’s a one-time thing.”

“Of course,” Suguru answered.

They both knew it was a lie.

Satoru exhaled shakily. “Suguru… please… don’t do this to me right now.”

Suguru rolled to face him, eyes still glassy, but focused enough to be honest.

“You know we’re on opposite sides,” he whispered. “You know we always were. You know Blackthorn isn’t backing down.”

Satoru swallowed. “Because you won’t back down.”

Suguru shook his head. “Because Yaga wants this.” His voice grew colder. “He wants the Gojo empire. And I… I owe him too much to walk away.”

Satoru’s chest ached. Suguru’s loyalty, to the firm, to Yaga, to the war, was a blade pressed under Satoru’s ribs.

They lay there in the dim room, inches apart, worlds apart.

“Then this,” Satoru whispered, “was a mistake.”

Suguru closed his eyes. “Yes.”

But neither moved. Neither could. And somewhere in the space between their breaths, the battlefield grew clearer than ever.

Kento Nanami was not a man easily surprised. He had survived Harvard, survived corporate New York, survived the Gojo legal department, survived Satoru Gojo himself, twice. He had endured the Senate hearing, a federal raid, political theater, and watching Masahiro Gojo stare down Congress like they were incompetent interns. Nanami believed he had seen it all. Until Satoru walked into the office the next morning. Late. Hair slightly mussed. Tie not properly tightened. Jaw looking a little too tense. Neck looking a little too… marked. Nanami didn’t even bother hiding the sigh that left his soul.

“Good morning,” Satoru said flatly, walking into the project briefing room with a folder tucked under one arm.

Nanami looked at him once, one single glance, and then looked away like a disappointed parent.

“No,” he said.

Satoru blinked. “No what?”

“No.” Nanami gestured vaguely at him. “Just, no.”

Satoru’s ears heated. “Nanami, I—”

“Nope.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Nanami replied. “Your hair is still damp, you’re wearing the same watch but not the same cufflinks, and you are walking like someone who did something phenomenally stupid.”

Satoru froze. Nanami stared at him.

Satoru glared back. “Shut up.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “You slept with him.”

Satoru said nothing.

Nanami exhaled sharply. “You slept with Geto.”

Silence.

“I knew it,” Nanami muttered. “I knew it the moment you walked in yesterday looking like grief in a suit.”

Satoru crossed his arms. “It was a mistake.”

“A catastrophic one,” Nanami said.

“I know.”

“An avoidable one.”

“I KNOW.”

Nanami rubbed his forehead like he was developing a migraine. “Satoru, you cannot sleep with your rival during a hostile takeover. This is not Shakespeare.”

“He was drunk,” Satoru muttered.

“And you weren’t?” Nanami shot back.

Satoru paused. “… emotionally compromised.”

Nanami scoffed. “That’s worse.”

Satoru slumped in a chair. “Nanami, please. Not this morning.”

Nanami finally stopped glaring and sat down across from him. His voice softened, barely. “You look exhausted.”

Satoru looked away. “I am.”

Nanami opened his folder as the rest of the team filtered into the room. “We’ll talk later.”

Satoru nodded. “After the briefing.”

The project briefing was already off the rails before it began. Consultants from McKinsey, fresh-faced, bright-eyed, sporting Patagonia vests like military armor, filled the room with a confidence that came only from never having touched real responsibility.

“Based on our market analysis,” one consultant said, clicking through an immaculate slide deck with too many shapes and too little substance, “we believe launching a new business line in integrated digital retail logistics will yield a projected fifteen-percent EBITDA uplift by Q4.”

Nanami stared at him like he was watching a toddler explain quantum physics.

Another consultant added enthusiastically, “We’ve modeled three scenarios, base case, bull case, bear case—”

“Don’t say bear,” Satoru muttered under his breath.

Nanami clasped his hands, voice dangerously calm. “Gentlemen. All of this is very… pretty. But is there any actual legal feasibility analysis? Regulatory compliance? Cross-border tax exposure? Anything beyond PowerPoint astrology?”

The consultants blinked.

One of them stammered, “We, uh, well, the data suggests—”

“The data suggests nothing,” Nanami interrupted. “Because you have not analyzed anything beyond public filings and outdated trade projections. This is not a case study. This is a billion-dollar decision.”

The room froze.

Nanami leaned back, adjusting his glasses. “We need corporate lawyers on this. Competent ones. Not… consulting bros.”

The McKinsey lead swallowed. “We, we can revise—”

“No,” Nanami said simply. “Meeting dismissed.”

The room scattered in silent panic. Satoru watched the consultants pack up like evacuees fleeing a hurricane.

Nanami gathered his notes, sighed, and said, “You’re laughing.”

“I’m not,” Satoru said.

“You’re absolutely laughing.”

“I’m grieving.”

Nanami gave him a stare so dry it could ignite paper. “Go return your dog.”

Utahime picked the restaurant, a pretentious, painfully green vegan brunch place in Soho that served twelve-dollar oat-milk lattes and kale in ways kale was never meant to be eaten. Satoru arrived with Bear in his arms, wrapped in a sweater that Utahime’s mother had knitted because, according to her, “he is the only reliable male in the family.” Utahime was already seated, scrolling through Treasury memos on her phone.

She didn’t look up when she said, “If Bear has been fed human food again, I will revoke your visitation rights.”

Satoru sat. Bear curled in his lap like a spoiled toddler.

“Relax,” Satoru said. “He ate only one piece of bacon.”

Utahime lowered her phone slowly. “Bacon?”

“… turkey bacon.”

Her glare intensified.

“Not real bacon,” he insisted.

“And that makes it better?” she demanded.

“I don’t know! I panicked!”

Utahime took Bear into her arms, examining him like a doctor checking for trauma. Bear licked her cheek.

She sighed. “You’re lucky he loves you.”

Satoru sipped his iced matcha, because Utahime ordered it for him and threatened bodily harm if he changed the order, and stared at her. “I went to therapy.”

“Good,” she said. “You need it twice a week.”

“And… I messed up.”

Utahime didn’t blink. “Suguru?”

Satoru nearly choked. “How do you always know?”

“You have a type.”

“My type is misery?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed his forehead. “We slept together.”

Utahime closed her eyes. “Oh, Satoru.”

“It was a mistake.”

“They always are.”

“And he said—” Satoru swallowed hard. “He said he won’t back down. That Blackthorn won’t back down.”

Utahime’s face softened, not pity, but the kind of empathy only she could offer without making him feel small. “He’s not your boyfriend anymore. He’s not your ally. He’s not your safe place.”

Satoru’s voice cracked. “Then what is he?”

Utahime brushed Bear’s fur. “A memory. A wound. A choice you have to stop making.”

Satoru looked down. “He said Yaga wants this.”

She stiffened. “Then you’re out of time.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “I know.”

Utahime placed Bear gently in his lap again. The dog immediately curled into him, tail thumping once before falling still.

“Listen to me,” Utahime said. “Love can survive many things. But it cannot survive war.”

Satoru held Bear a little tighter. She stood, gathering her coat.

“Go home,” she said. “Sleep. Come to your senses.”

“And Suguru?” Satoru whispered.

Utahime shook her head, touching his shoulder the way she once did the morning after their divorce was finalized. “Suguru made his choice. Now you make yours.”

Satoru nodded weakly. Utahime walked out.

And Satoru sat alone, Bear in his lap, brunch untouched, his entire empire trembling beneath his feet, knowing with brutal, painful clarity that whatever is going to happen between him and Suguru, would not be a love story.

Chapter Text

Kento Nanami had always believed that empires fell not because of outside enemies, but because of internal incompetence. “People destroy themselves,” he once told Satoru over cheap Harvard coffee, “long before anyone else gets the chance.” At the time, Satoru had been too wrapped up in Suguru and cocaine and self-delusion to understand what Nanami meant. But now, as Gojo Group prepared to launch the most ambitious business line of the decade and as the board fractured like old porcelain, Satoru finally understood: the real enemy wasn’t Blackthorn. It wasn’t Yaga. Not even Suguru. It was Naomi Gojo. And Nanami had been sharpening a knife for weeks.

The new business line, codename Project Hikari, was a sprawling, multi-sector initiative meant to reposition Gojo Group as a hybrid powerhouse in digital retail logistics, automated fulfillment, sustainability tech, and cross-border supply chain optimization. At least, that was what the deck said. In reality, it was a gamble. A massive one. If it succeeded, it could triple the company’s long-term growth trajectory and cement Satoru’s position as heir. If it failed, it could implode the conglomerate and hand Blackthorn the perfect opportunity to dismantle Gojo Group piece by piece.

And Naomi Gojo had done everything short of torching the boardroom to sabotage it. Naomi didn’t believe in Project Hikari. She claimed it was too expensive. Too large. Too unpredictable. Too “Satoru-centric,” whatever that meant. She called it irresponsible corporate vanity dressed in innovation jargon. She whispered in the hallways. She rallied shareholders. She made remarks that were technically professional but practically venomous.

The board was split. The company was trembling. The consultants were useless. And Satoru was exhausted. Nanami was not.

The strategy meeting for Hikari took place in the executive war room, a sleek, glass-paneled conference space with a view of the skyline and a thirty-three foot table carved from a single piece of imported walnut. Forty people sat around it. Analysts, consultants, economists, the COO, the CFO, legal, compliance, operations. Satoru entered first, bearing the weight of sleepless nights, political hearings, and the ghost of Suguru’s mouth on his collarbone. Nanami entered second, carrying a folder so thick it could be used as a blunt weapon. Naomi Gojo entered third, wearing a white suit so sharp it looked like it could cut glass. The atmosphere snapped tight. Satoru took his seat at the head. Nanami sat to his right. Naomi sat far enough to appear neutral, close enough to strike.

The COO began. “Project Hikari is slated to begin Phase One by Q3. However, given the disruption caused by the federal raid—”

“Federal inquiry,” Nanami corrected without looking up.

“Yes, well, the inquiry has cost us time and investor confidence,” the CFO added. “We estimate—”

“You estimate nothing,” Nanami said, flipping a page. “You are guessing. Every model you presented last week was structurally incomplete.”

The CFO blinked. “Mr. Nanami, with respect—”

“With respect,” Nanami said, “do not speak to me until your forecasts actually forecast something.”

Satoru stifled a smile.

Naomi rolled her eyes. “Oh, Kento. Always the charming one.”

Nanami did not look at her. “Ms. Gojo, please refrain from speaking unless you are prepared to contribute substantively.”

The COO nearly dropped his pen. Satoru leaned back slowly, folding his hands. Nanami’s in a mood. Good.

Naomi leaned forward. “Project Hikari is reckless. And this company has far bigger issues, like not being indicted. We should be focusing on stabilizing investor confidence, not expanding product lines.”

Satoru tilted his head. “Naomi, you’ve opposed every growth initiative for the past year.”

“I’ve opposed foolish ones,” she countered.

Nanami lifted a document calmly. “Speaking of foolish, the governance audit you commissioned last quarter.”

Naomi stiffened. Satoru glanced sideways at Nanami. You didn’t tell me that.

Nanami did not break gaze with Naomi. “You attempted to alter the findings of an internal audit to undermine Project Hikari. You pressured the consulting firm. You leaned on compliance. You even requested premature disclosure protocols designed to spook investors.”

Naomi’s eyes narrowed razor-thin. “You’re mistaken.”

“No,” Nanami said, “I’m precise.”

The room fell silent.

Nanami pushed a document toward the center of the table. “This is a directive sent from your office to a consultant at McKinsey. It instructs them to highlight regulatory risks that do not exist. It instructs them to underplay market viability. It instructs them to redirect the board away from Satoru’s leadership.”

Naomi’s face did not move, but her pulse visibly jumped in her neck.

Satoru stared. “She did what?”

Nanami continued, calm as a surgeon slicing open a chest cavity. “This is corporate sabotage. It violates Section 14B of our internal code. It violates fiduciary duty. It violates half a dozen SEC compliance guidelines.”

Naomi’s composure cracked. “You have no authority—”

Nanami cut her off with terrifying gentleness. “I am the General Counsel. I have all the authority.”

A ripple of whispers around the room. Satoru sat up straighter, adrenaline flashing through his bloodstream. He looked at Nanami. Nanami gave him a small nod. The kind that meant: I told you I would fix this. Trust me.

Nanami tapped the folder. “The board has two options.”

Naomi clenched her jaw.

“Option one,” Nanami continued, “Naomi Gojo resigns voluntarily, citing personal reasons, leaving quietly, with dignity, and with a negotiated exit package.”

Naomi glared daggers. “You are bluffing.”

Nanami lifted a second document. “Option two. We initiate a formal board expulsion vote under Clause 9.7. We expose your misconduct. And I personally hand-deliver this packet to the SEC, which may investigate you for bad-faith interference in corporate governance.”

Gasps. A pen dropped. Someone whispered, “Holy shit.” Satoru watched Naomi’s composure disintegrate in real time, the careful poise cracking like ice underfoot.

“You can’t,” she whispered.

“We can,” Nanami said politely, “and we will.”

Naomi looked around the room for support. No one met her eyes. Not even the CFO she bullied. Not even the consultants she’d manipulated. Not even the operations head she bribed with influence. She was alone. Completely, utterly, embarrassingly alone.

Finally, she voice trembled. “Satoru. You wouldn’t actually allow this.”

Satoru tilted his head, smiling softly, the same smile he flashed at the feds, at the Senate, at every enemy who underestimated him.

“Naomi,” he said, “you’re fired.”

The meeting ended with Naomi dragged out in corporate silence, no applause, no outburst, just the death rattle of a board member who realized too late she had underestimated the wrong man. Nanami shut the door behind her and exhaled slowly, removing his glasses to clean them. Satoru stared at him, equal parts stunned and grateful.

“Nanami,” he said softly, “I didn’t know you were planning—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Nanami replied. “If you had known, you would have panicked and ruined it.”

Satoru blinked. “That’s… probably true.”

Nanami put on his glasses again. “You needed a win. The company needed stability. And she was a destabilizing force.”

Satoru gestured helplessly. “But… Nanami… this was—”

Nanami held up a hand. “Satoru. Let me say this once.”

Satoru closed his mouth.

“When your father made you heir, he didn’t give you a company. He gave you a battlefield. You cannot keep fighting with emotions. You cannot keep reacting. You cannot keep getting punched, emotionally and physically, by Suguru Geto.”

Satoru looked away.

Nanami stepped closer, voice softer. “But you can do this. Not because you’re Masahiro’s son. Not because you’re the heir. But because when you commit to something, when you stop running, you are the most formidable man in the room.”

Satoru’s chest tightened. “…Nanami.”

Nanami shrugged. “Also, Naomi annoyed me.”

Satoru laughed, real, sharp, warm. For the first time in days, Nanami allowed the ghost of a smile.

That afternoon, after the board formally announced Naomi’s “voluntary resignation” and Project Hikari’s go-ahead vote passed with overwhelming support, Satoru met Utahime at a vegan brunch place for the third time that week, returning Bear after a long day at the office.

Utahime took one look at him and said, “You look smug.”

“I’m perfect,” Satoru said.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Always.”

Bear barked in agreement.

Satoru smirked, sipping his overpriced green smoothie.

Utahime sighed. “Nanami saved your ass, didn’t he?”

“Utahime,” Satoru said, leaning back with a satisfied grin, “Nanami just saved the entire empire.”

Utahime rolled her eyes. “Buy him flowers.”

“He hates flowers.”

“Then buy him a stapler.”

“Too romantic.”

“Fine,” Utahime said, wrapping Bear in her arms, “write him a very long, very heartfelt email.”

Satoru grimaced. “Hell no.”

“You are not sleeping with Suguru again, are you?”

Satoru nearly inhaled the kale smoothie.

Utahime smirked. “Thought so.”

He groaned.

She said, patting Bear’s head, “Nanami’s knife was for Naomi. But the next one? That’ll be for Suguru.”

Satoru swallowed hard. “I know.”

And for the first time in the entire war, for the first time since the Bear Hug, for the first time since the Senate hearing, Satoru believed he could win. Not because of power. Not because of Masahiro. Not because of destiny. But because Nanami Kento had just shown him what loyalty from the right person could do.

For the first time in months, Satoru and Nanami walked out of a boardroom with something rare in the Gojo empire: momentum. Naomi Gojo was gone. Project Hikari had survived its first battlefield. But now came the real war: execution. If Hikari failed, it wouldn’t matter that they had removed Naomi, restructured the board, and survived a federal inquiry. The markets wouldn’t care. Blackthorn wouldn’t care. And Masahiro would absolutely not care. Hikari needed to work. It needed to be solvable. Scalable. Brilliant. And McKinsey was not going to get them there. Nanami made that point very clear the next morning when three consultants walked in wearing matching Patagonia vests and carrying a slide deck titled “Project Hikari Phase Two: Global Traction.” Nanami didn’t even let them sit down before dropping a 200-page binder on the table, one he’d stayed up half the night preparing.

“We are done with PowerPoint,” Nanami said without greeting.

The consultants blinked, confused. “Mr. Nanami, if we could just walk you through our—”

“No,” Nanami repeated. “Your job was to provide macro insight, and you delivered vague charts and recycled assumptions. We need legal feasibility. Regulatory scaffolding. Transaction frameworks. Governance protocols. You cannot provide that.”

One of the consultants sputtered, “We, I, we spoke with industry leaders—”

Satoru sighed loudly. “You spoke with one guy from Bain who’s never seen a supply chain that isn’t in a textbook.”

Nanami gestured to the door. “Thank you for your efforts. The company no longer requires your services.”

The lead consultant stared, pale. “You’re firing McKinsey?”

Satoru shrugged. “Just you. Bye!”

They left in shocked silence.

Once the room was empty, Nanami cracked open his binder. “We’re bringing in the real experts: Gibson Dunn. Skadden. Davis Polk. Latham & Watkins. We’re building this project with the same precision as a merger. No more pretend strategy.”

Satoru leaned back with a grin that would’ve terrified anyone who didn’t know him well. “Nanami, you’re getting off on this.”

Nanami didn’t deny it. “I simply prefer competence.”

Corporate lawyers swarmed the Gojo Tower within forty-eight hours. Not junior attorneys in suits from Macy’s, no, these were partners who billed two thousand dollars an hour and didn’t know what a lunch break was. They brought massive due diligence packets, regulatory maps, and antitrust forecasts. They interrogated supply-chain vendors. They tore apart every model the consultants had built. One Latham partner, a woman with a voice like a judge’s gavel, single-handedly rewrote the entire compliance framework in twenty-six hours. Satoru walked into the war room on day three to find eighteen lawyers on a video wall reviewing contracts in real time. It looked like a NASA control center, but for capitalism. Nanami stood in the center like a conductor orchestrating a legal symphony.

“This,” Nanami said without looking up, “is how you build an empire.”

Satoru exhaled slowly, awe creeping beneath his exhaustion. “Nanami… you’re brilliant.”

“Obviously,” Nanami answered.

But while Project Hikari gathered strength, the world outside shifted in dangerous, unexpected ways. Blackthorn was no longer looking solely at Gojo Group. Yaga had found a new target, or rather, a new obsession. The startup was called Loopi, a wildly popular Gen Z social app built on short-form content, AI-generated moods, micro-influencer culture, and problematic data-harvesting practices. It was the most downloaded app among teenagers and college kids, and the valuation had skyrocketed from $300 million to $12.7 billion in fourteen months. It was the darling of Silicon Valley. It was the frontier of next-generation consumer tech. And both Masahiro Gojo and Yaga Masamichi had decided they wanted it. Not as an investment. As an acquisition.

Masahiro believed Loopi would be the missing digital piece for Gojo’s global platform, the kind of acquisition that solidified an empire forever. Yaga believed Loopi would be Blackthorn’s crown jewel, a way to reshape the entire private equity landscape. Suguru stood between them. Blackthorn sent him to lead negotiations. Masahiro asked him, indirectly, through intermediaries, to consider neutrality. Yaga demanded loyalty. The Loopi founder played both sides like a street hustle. Suguru didn’t sleep. Suguru didn’t eat. Suguru didn’t answer Satoru’s texts. And the app’s founder released a viral teaser about “major corporate conversations,” sending the entire market into a frenzy. CNBC began running panel discussions titled “Who will own the future? Gojo vs. Blackthorn.”

Satoru felt sick every time he saw Suguru’s name in the ticker.

One night, after a fourteen-hour Hikari session, Satoru sat in his office staring at the skyline, sipping cold coffee, and pretending he wasn’t checking the Loopi news every minute. His phone buzzed.

Nanami: We need to talk. Now. Conference Room 19.

Satoru hurried down the hall, Bear trotting behind him because Satoru was incapable of leaving the dog alone during stress spirals, and found Nanami standing over a spread of documents that looked like a battlefield covered in legal debris.

“Something happened,” Nanami said.

Satoru’s stomach twisted. “Suguru?”

Nanami didn’t soften. “Yes.”

A beat. A single beat. Long enough for Satoru’s heart to drop through the floor. Nanami held up a printed email chain, neutral corporate headers hiding the blow beneath.

“Blackthorn made the first move,” Nanami said. “They offered Loopi a pre-emptive acquisition bid. A hostile premium. Way above valuation.”

Satoru’s breath stopped. “No…”

Nanami’s expression tightened. “Suguru led the offer.”

The room tilted.

Nanami continued, voice calm but merciless. “This is not just business positioning. This is a direct attack on your father’s strategy. On Project Hikari. On everything we’re building.”

Satoru stared numbly, lips parting. “He said… he said Blackthorn wouldn’t back down.”

Nanami stepped closer. “Satoru. Listen to me.”

Satoru’s eyes burned.

“Suguru is forcing your hand. Either Gojo fights for Loopi or Blackthorn takes it. Either way, he is not on your side. He is not hesitating. He is not saving you.”

Satoru swallowed hard. “He, we, he came to my apartment—”

“I know,” Nanami said quietly. “And this is why you don’t sleep with your enemies.”

Satoru flinched. Nanami didn’t apologize.

“He made his choice,” Nanami said. “And you need to make yours.”

“What choice?” Satoru asked, voice shaking.

Nanami looked directly into his eyes, sharp, clear, devastating.

“To become the man your father thinks you are.”

A beat.

“Or to lose everything trying to save someone who isn’t coming back.”

Pain pierced his chest. Real, agonizing pain.

Satoru’s vision blurred, but he blinked it away. “I didn’t think he’d betray me.”

Nanami nodded slowly. “That is why it hurts. And that is why you must move now.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. “Nanami… what do we do?”

Nanami exhaled, long, quiet, resigned. “We escalate. We go after Loopi. We go after Blackthorn. We go after Suguru. And we do it without mercy.”

Satoru closed his eyes. He pictured Suguru drunk at his apartment, whispering his name. Pictured Suguru in a boardroom across the city, signing his betrayal into a term sheet. Pictured Suguru at Harvard, laughing in the sunlight. Pictured Suguru now, colder, harder, unreachable. The grief was volcanic. But beneath it, beneath the heartbreak and exhaustion and sleeplessness, something else cracked open. Resolve. Satoru opened his eyes.

“Do it,” he whispered.

Nanami nodded once. “We begin tomorrow.”

Then he paused.

“And Satoru?”

“Yes?”

Nanami’s voice lowered to something almost gentle.

“This is what betrayal costs.”

Satoru breathed in. And for the first time in his life, he felt like Masahiro’s heir.

Once the Loopi acquisition surfaced as the new battlefield, Satoru no longer thought of Suguru as a wound. Or a lover. Or a ghost. Or even an ache. He forced himself, violently, methodically, mercilessly, to think of Suguru as a competitor. A rival. An opposing force on the board. A threat to neutralize. And for the first time since Harvard, Satoru felt something inside him click into place. There was no room for emotion. No room for longing. No room for the softness that Suguru inspired. He buried it beneath layers of strategy, ambition, and inherited ruthlessness. Masahiro Gojo did not win empires by breaking down in dim penthouses with men who would betray him. And neither would Satoru.

Project Hikari was stabilizing. The lawyers were building frameworks at a pace bordering on inhuman. Nanami was orchestrating operations like a military general. But the real war, the one the markets were watching, was Loopi. And Loopi was an entirely different beast.

The startup’s office was in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a repurposed warehouse with exposed brick, kombucha on tap, hammocks, dogs roaming freely, and plants that looked more cared for than half the interns. The entire place smelled like cold brew and burnout. It was everything legacy corporations hated and everything advertisers loved. And at the center of it all was Yuji Itadori, the twenty-four-year-old CEO who looked less like a tech founder and more like someone who would carry your groceries for free because he thought you were having a rough day.

Pink hair. Red hoodie. Sneakers that probably cost thirty dollars. Eyes too bright, too honest, too open. He was the worst possible person for Satoru to negotiate with, someone untainted by cynicism, unfamiliar with the calculus of corporate bloodshed, and incapable of seeing how ugly the world could be. In short: Suguru had no advantage here. Satoru had no advantage here. Yuji Itadori was neutral ground.

Satoru arrived at Loopi headquarters first. Nanami had arranged a streamlined meeting, no press, no leaks, no theatrics. Just Satoru, Yuji, and a thousand unspoken consequences.

Yuji greeted him with a bright, disarming grin. “Mr. Gojo! Thank you for trekking all the way out here!”

“It’s not trekking,” Satoru said, adjusting his coat. “I own a penthouse fifteen minutes away.”

Yuji blinked. “Oh… right. Billionaire things.”

Satoru gave a small smile, sharp at the edges. “Something like that.”

Yuji guided him through the office. Employees waved. A corgi waddled up and sniffed Satoru’s shoes. Someone was sewing a beanbag chair. Someone else was coding with a VR headset while upside-down in a hammock. It was chaotic. It was brilliant. It was intoxicating in its freedom. Masahiro would have hated it. Suguru would have secretly loved it. Satoru kept walking. Yuji led him into a glass conference booth. No table. Just beanbags and a whiteboard covered in doodles of future features, hearts, exclamation marks, and cryptic comments like “FIX THE BUTTON ISSUE” and “METADATA BUT FUN?” Satoru sat reluctantly in a beanbag, feeling older than he ever had in his life.

Yuji plopped down across from him. “So, Mr. Gojo—”

“Satoru,” he corrected.

“Satoru,” Yuji repeated, smiling. “Why do you want Loopi?”

Satoru crossed his legs smoothly, adjusting his jacket. “Because your company is the future of consumer attention. And Gojo Group specializes in building the infrastructure that shapes global markets. Together, we could accelerate your platform, expand internationally, protect you from regulatory storms, and guarantee the next decade of digital evolution.”

Yuji blinked. “You rehearsed that.”

“Of course,” Satoru said. “I respect your time.”

Yuji snorted. “We’re a startup. We waste time like water.”

Satoru leaned forward. “Yuji, I’m not here to waste yours. I’m here to warn you.”

Yuji’s eyes widened. “Warn me?”

“About Blackthorn.”

Yuji sat up. “Oh. That’s the private equity firm, right? They asked for a meeting next week.”

Satoru kept his expression perfectly solemn. “Yuji, listen carefully. Blackthorn will tell you everything you want to hear. They’ll promise you growth, stability, freedom. But what they won’t tell you is that they eat companies alive.”

Yuji frowned.

Satoru continued, voice lower. “They take over. They replace founders. They restructure teams. They sell assets. They flip you for profit. You’ll become numbers on a spreadsheet. Loopi will be nothing but an acquisition trophy.”

Yuji’s jaw tightened. “Are they really that bad?”

Satoru exhaled. “They are that bad. Their star partner, Suguru Geto, is the one leading the charge.”

Yuji looked down. “I… don’t like that name.”

“Good instinct,” Satoru said. “Trust it.”

Yuji nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll think about what you said.”

Satoru stood, smoothing the fabric of his suit. “Take your time. But not too much. The market won’t wait.”

Yuji grinned awkwardly and offered a handshake. Satoru shook it firmly, left the building, and walked back into the biting Brooklyn air with something electric in his bloodstream. He had done it. He had planted seeds. He had played the game. Suguru would do the same. And do it ruthlessly.

Two days later, Suguru visited Loopi. He arrived at dusk, in a black coat with the collar turned up, hair tied back loosely, eyes carrying the kind of tired sharpness that meant he had gone too long without sleep. If Satoru had been a polished corporate prince, Suguru was the storm-tossed poet who walked into boardrooms smelling like danger and brilliance.

Yuji met him with the same wide smile.

“Mr. Geto! Thanks for coming!”

“Suguru’s fine,” he said, voice low.

Yuji nodded. “Cool! Take a seat anywhere!”

Suguru eyed the beanbags with disdain. “I’ll stand.”

Yuji sat. “Why do you want Loopi?”

Suguru sighed. “Let’s not pretend this is a bonding session. You already met with Satoru.”

Yuji’s face twitched. “Uh, yeah. He said you guys were rivals.”

“We’re not rivals,” Suguru said, leaning against the wall. “He just doesn’t like losing.”

Yuji blinked. “Oh…”

Suguru stepped closer, voice softening with calculated empathy. “Yuji. Satoru is from a legacy empire. A dynasty. He thinks you need saving from the world. You don’t. Blackthorn won’t try to change you. We won’t try to control your product. We won’t replace your team. We’re offering you independence, not assimilation.”

Yuji tilted his head. “He said you’d take us apart.”

Suguru smiled, a small, sad thing. “He lied.”

Yuji frowned. “Really?”

“Yes,” Suguru said gently. “Because he’s scared. He’s scared of losing control. He’s scared of losing his inheritance. He’s scared of losing the one acquisition that could save him from becoming his father.”

Yuji swallowed, visibly shaken.

Suguru continued, quieter, deadlier. “Satoru will smother you. He’ll integrate you until you’re unrecognizable. Gojo Group will swallow Loopi whole. Blackthorn won’t. We know founders matter.”

Yuji rubbed his forehead. “Oh man… this is stressful.”

Suguru crouched beside him. “I’m not here to pressure you. I’m here to give you truth.”

Yuji nodded. “Okay… thanks. I’ll think about it.”

Suguru nodded, stood, and left, coat drifting behind him, steps slow, expression unreadable. He did not look back.

The Loopi founder was now caught between two visions of the future, two promises, two empires. And two men who had once shared a life now engaged in psychological warfare. When the market caught wind of the competing offers, CNBC announced: “GOJO VS BLACKTHORN: A TECH ACQUISITION WAR.” Bloomberg followed with: “TWO GIANTS. ONE APP. BILLIONS ON THE LINE.” And social media exploded with memes about Satoru and Suguru fighting over a pink-haired CEO like divorced parents fighting for custody. Satoru ignored it. Suguru didn’t. Because both of them knew this wasn’t funny. This wasn’t banter. This wasn’t flirting. This was the line that would tear them apart. And neither side would yield. 

Not even for love.

Yuji Itadori might have looked like a kid, wide-eyed, hoodie-wearing, pink-haired, still-smelling-like-student-loan-debt energy, but that was the mistake everyone made. Satoru made it. Suguru made it. Blackthorn made it. Even Masahiro and Yaga, two men who could smell weakness from three continents away, underestimated him.

What no one realized, not even Nanami, who prided himself on reading people like legal documents, was that Yuji had grown up watching giants eat the world. His mother ran a mid-sized manufacturing company until a conglomerate squeezed her supply chain to death. His childhood friends sold their startups only to be kicked out six months later by their board. His first coding team imploded when a VC demanded changes that tanked their entire user base. Yuji had been smiling his whole life. And behind that smile, he was watching. Calculating. Learning.

So when Gojo Group and Blackthorn descended like wolves on Loopi, Yuji didn’t feel overwhelmed. He felt ready. The next week, Yuji requested second meetings. One with Satoru. One with Suguru. Separately. He made sure neither party knew about the other’s updated appointment. This was not nerves. This was choreography.

Yuji met Satoru first. This time, Satoru arrived with Nanami, not because he needed backup, but because Nanami insisted. Satoru walked in like a polished blade, crisp in navy, eyes sharp. Nanami carried two binders under his arm, one of which had enough paper to kill a small animal.

Yuji greeted them with the same brightness as last time. “Satoru! Nanami! Welcome back! I got cold brew for everyone!”

Nanami accepted his cold brew suspiciously, as if it were poison delivered with a straw.

Yuji began pacing excitedly. “So! I’ve reviewed both of your proposals. And I’ve been thinking really hard about what Loopi needs and what we can give in return. And I realized something.”

Satoru leaned forward. “Which is?”

Yuji grinned. “Both of your offers suck.”

Nanami choked on his cold brew. “I beg your—”

Satoru blinked, stunned. “Excuse me?”

Yuji waved his hands passionately. “No offense! Like, you guys are super smart! And loaded! And terrifying in different ways. But you’re thinking like… old people.”

Nanami stiffened. “I am thirty-two.”

“Exactly!” Yuji said cheerfully.

Nanami died inside.

Yuji continued. “Look, Satoru, your pitch is cool. Very polished. Very empire. But the second Loopi plugs into your infrastructure, we stop being Loopi. We become a widget inside a giant legacy machine. A fancy widget, but still a widget.”

Satoru froze. Because he knew. It was true.

Yuji turned to Nanami. “And Nanami? Your regulatory plan? Genius. Scary genius. I had three nosebleeds reading it. But that also means Gojo Group will own 70% of us, maybe more. That’s not a partnership. That’s adoption.”

Nanami cleared his throat, suddenly less confident. “I… see.”

“And Suguru?” Yuji continued, voice bright but eyes narrowing slightly. “Suguru’s pitch was fun. Very free-spirited. Very founder-friendly. Very reasonable. But the thing about private equity is…” Yuji leaned in. “…they lie.”

Nanami inhaled sharply. Satoru sat back with slow, dawning admiration. This was not a kid.

Yuji paced again, hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“Here’s the thing. I want the best of both worlds. Scale AND independence. Power AND autonomy. Capital AND control. I want help without giving up my soul. And if neither of you can offer it…”

Satoru’s pulse quickened. “Yuji—”

Yuji held up a finger. “Wait. Let me finish. I’ve thought about this. A lot.”

He took a breath. Then delivered the sentence neither Gojo nor Blackthorn had expected:

“I’m not selling Loopi to either of you.”

Nanami blinked hard. “I’m sorry, what?”

Yuji smiled like he had just solved world hunger. “I’m raising a new round.”

Satoru’s stomach dropped. “Yuji—”

“No, no, hear me out!” Yuji said, bouncing on his heels. “I’m introducing a Strategic Dual Partnership Model, trademark pending, where both of your companies invest, but neither of you gets control! Gojo Group gets infrastructure access. Blackthorn gets a minority financial stake. I get cash, expansion capital, and two massive giants as guard dogs who can’t kill each other because they’d lose their investment!”

Nanami stared at him in horror. “That is… unhinged.”

“It’s brilliant!” Yuji said proudly.

Satoru massaged his temples. “Yuji… is this sustainable?”

“Absolutely,” Yuji said. “I keep founder control through a dual-class share structure. Neither of you can oust me. Neither of you can force a sale. Neither of you can dilute me without consent. And if either of you tries to break the deal, I leak screenshots.”

Nanami’s head snapped up. “Screenshots of WHAT?”

Yuji shrugged cheerfully. “You both talked so much shit about each other. Come on. What did you expect me to do? Not save the receipts?”

Satoru’s soul left his body. Nanami prayed silently. Somewhere across the city, Suguru probably felt the universe punch him.

Yuji plopped into a beanbag. “I’m not choosing between Gojo and Blackthorn. You’re choosing to work with me. On my terms.”

Nanami whispered, “You sweet, terrifying child.”

Yuji beamed. “So! We’ll draft the term sheet next week! Bring lawyers! A lot of them!”

He clapped his hands. Meeting over.

Suguru’s meeting came two hours later. Yuji gave him the same speech. Same energy. Same cheerful brutality. Same final verdict. Suguru did not take it well.

When he left Loopi headquarters, he texted Satoru only five words: You warned him about me.

Satoru replied: You warned him about me.

Suguru responded: Touché.

Then nothing. A silence with the weight of an empire behind it.

Back in the Gojo Tower, Satoru sat with Nanami in the dim strategy room as lawyers prepared their drafts. Nanami rubbed his temples.

“This is,” Nanami muttered, “the worst day of my professional life.”

Satoru stared at the Loopi deck. “He played us.”

“Correct.”

“He played everyone.”

“Correct.”

“He is either a prodigy… or a menace.”

“Yes,” Nanami said. “Both.”

Satoru exhaled slowly, a small, rueful smile forming. “Nanami?”

“Yes?”

“Is it bad that I’m… impressed?”

Nanami gave him a long look. Then sighed. Deeply.

“Satoru,” he said, voice dry enough to crack the table, “we just got outmaneuvered by a man who wears anime hoodies to negotiations.”

Satoru grinned. “And?”

Nanami shook his head. “And it is my professional opinion that we deserve it.”

Satoru laughed, real laughter, sharp and exhausted. Nanami didn’t smile, but his eyes softened.

“Get some sleep,” Nanami murmured. “Tomorrow, we fight Blackthorn. Tonight… we accept that the future belongs to children.”

Satoru leaned back. And for the first time since the war began, the ache of Suguru felt distant, overshadowed by a new, unexpected force. Yuji Itadori. A pink-haired grenade thrown into the battlefield. A wildcard neither empire could control. And a reminder that the world was changing, whether the giants liked it or not.

Chapter Text

The final Loopi term sheet came together with a horrifying, almost insulting level of smoothness. It was as if Yuji Itadori had single-handedly rewritten the laws of venture capital by sheer force of enthusiasm and caffeine. One moment, Satoru and Nanami were sitting in the Gojo Tower war room, drafting objections and counterterms with an army of lawyers. The next moment, a polished 47-page term sheet arrived in everyone’s inbox, stamped with Loopi’s legal counsel and filled with cheerful annotations like “:D” and “pls don’t remove this clause, it’s important <3.”

It shouldn’t have worked.
It couldn’t have worked.
But somehow, it did.

And worse, none of the senior partners at Gibson Dunn, Latham Watkins, or Skadden had the courage to tell Yuji to stop using emojis in legally binding documentation. They were too afraid he’d tank the entire deal out of spite. Yuji was the kind of founder who could walk away from a billion-dollar deal because he was “not vibing,” and both Blackthorn and Gojo Group knew it.

Satoru felt nauseous. Suguru felt murderous. Nanami felt deeply offended. Yuji, meanwhile, was thriving.

Due diligence was a circus.

Loopi’s entire data architecture was held together with duct tape, half-finished code, and a prayer. One of the company’s primary algorithms was written by a former intern during a sleepless finals week and had never been QA tested. The user privacy policy contradicted itself on three separate pages. No one could figure out why Loopi’s servers occasionally crashed every Sunday at 3:07 a.m. The CFO (who was twenty-three) admitted he learned corporate finance from YouTube tutorials. And yet, user engagement numbers were better than TikTok. The growth curve defied physics. Advertisers from Nike to Chanel were circling like vultures. And every Gen-Z on the planet was addicted.

“Satoru,” Nanami said after reviewing the infrastructure, “this company is held together by chaos, vibes, and black magic.”

“Yes,” Satoru replied, staring hollowly at a diagram drawn in pink crayon. “And it’s worth twelve billion dollars.”

Nanami placed a hand on his shoulder. “I hate the future.”

“Same.”

Across Manhattan, Suguru sat at his glass desk, staring at the same diligence packet with a look of pure existential despair. He tossed the executive summary aside and whispered into the empty room: “This is not real. This can’t be real. How is this company allowed to exist—”

Then he remembered Yuji’s blinding smile, the beanbag chairs, the kombucha tap, and the fact that every teenager worshipped Loopi like a religion. Right. It was allowed to exist because the universe wanted him to suffer.

The signing ceremony took place in Loopi headquarters, which meant beanbags, neon lights, walls covered in unhinged sticky notes, and a table made out of recycled skateboard decks. Lawyers from two of the most prestigious firms in the country stood awkwardly beside a lava lamp. A junior associate was trying to take notes while sitting cross-legged on the floor next to a corgi in a flower crown. Satoru hated every second of it. Suguru hated it more. Yuji Itadori, meanwhile, looked like he had just won the lottery, been adopted by Beyoncé, and solved world hunger on the same day.

“Okay!” Yuji chirped, clapping his hands. “Before we sign, I want to thank everyone for being super patient with all the negotiations and crying and yelling and legal jargon and that one time someone threatened to sue my cappuccino machine.”

Satoru coughed into his sleeve. Suguru glared.

Yuji beamed brighter. “This strategic dual partnership between Loopi, Gojo Group, and Blackthorn is a huge step for us! We’re going to expand internationally, scale our infrastructure, and also not get taken over by old people!”

Nanami muttered, “He means us.”

Satoru muttered, “He means you.”

Suguru muttered, “He means you both.”

Yuji continued, “I’m super proud of everyone. And I think my mom will finally stop asking when I’m getting a real job.”

The lawyers actually applauded. Satoru wanted to die. Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose.

Yuji grabbed the pen, a glittery pen shaped like a carrot, because of course it was, and signed the deal with a dramatic flourish.

“IT'S DONE!” he shouted.

Loopi employees cheered. Someone popped confetti. A programmer cried in relief. And Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto stood on opposite sides of the room, equally appalled. Because Yuji had done the impossible: He had taken money from both of them. He had kept control of his company. He had secured a valuation bump no analyst had predicted. He had gotten global infrastructure and financial backing. He had built a moat around his founder rights so impenetrable it might as well have been built by God. And he had played the two most dangerous men in the market like chess pieces. Yuji Itadori, somehow, was not a fraud. He was a genius, the worst kind.

After the ceremony, Yuji pulled Satoru aside.

“Satoru,” he whispered, “can I ask you something?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not mad at me, right?”

Satoru stared into Yuji’s big, earnest eyes. Those pink-haired, hoodie-wearing eyes. The eyes of a man who just extracted nearly two hundred million dollars from him without blinking.

“Yuji,” Satoru said slowly, “I am in awe of you.”

Yuji grinned.

Then he pulled Suguru aside.

“Hey! You’re not mad at me either, right?”

Suguru folded his arms. “Yuji.”

“Yeah?”

“You terrify me.”

Yuji giggled.

Suguru exhaled sharply. “Take care of your company. Don’t let those numbers slip.”

“Oh!” Yuji brightened. “Speaking of numbers, I need help understanding a liquidation preference clause. What does ‘participating preferred’ mean again?”

Satoru nearly fainted. Nanami clutched his binder like a shield.

Suguru walked away muttering, “I need a drink.”

The beanbag employees cheered again.

By the time the celebrations died down, by the time Loopi’s team filtered back into their little corners of chaotic genius, by the time the lawyers escaped to the safety of their high-rise offices, only three people remained in the neon-lit room: Satoru, Suguru, Nanami.

Nanami gathered the signed copies into a leather folder. “Well,” he said, “the deal is done.”

Satoru nodded slowly. Suguru’s jaw was tight.

Nanami closed the folder with finality. “Despite our… emotional feelings about the child emperor of Williamsburg… this is a win.”

Satoru and Suguru didn’t speak. For a moment, they were the only two in the room, staring at each other through the electric hum of the startup ventilation system. Their eyes met, blue and dark, wounded and guarded, familiar and foreign. This was different from every fight they’d ever had. This was business. This was strategy. This was war with paperwork. And Yuji Itadori had beaten them both.

“Gentlemen,” Nanami said, opening the door, “let’s go home.”

No one moved. Then slowly, reluctantly, Satoru stepped forward. Suguru followed a moment later. They walked out separately, through different hallways, toward different cars, toward different futures. The deal was signed. The war was not over.

And as the neon Loopi sign flickered behind them, Yuji Itadori sat on a beanbag chair, sipping apple juice, whispering to himself like a man who had just robbed gods:

“…low-hanging fruit, my ass.”

Yaga Masamichi did not yell. He never had to. People said the man could reduce a Fortune 500 CFO to tears simply by adjusting his tie. They said he once ended a billion-dollar negotiation by raising one eyebrow. They said he could smell fear, weak balance sheets, and emotional attachment from across a mahogany conference table. And on the morning the Loopi deal was announced publicly, Suguru Geto walked into Yaga’s office and immediately knew he was in trouble. The lights were dimmed. The windows were drawn. Yaga was seated behind his desk with both hands clasped together, elbows resting gently on polished black wood. He looked calm, terrifyingly calm.

The Bloomberg terminal behind him flashed breaking news: LOOPI RAISES NEW ROUND — GOJO GROUP & BLACKTHORN JOIN AS STRATEGIC INVESTORS. FOUNDER RETAINS CONTROL. VALUATION AT $12.8B.

Yaga didn’t look at the screen. He already knew.

“Suguru,” he said, voice smooth as a blade being drawn, “sit.”

Suguru obeyed. Yaga stared at him with the slow, assessing precision of a surgeon deciding where to cut.

“The boy,” Yaga began, “is twenty-one.”

Suguru exhaled. “Twenty-four, technically—”

Yaga raised a finger. Suguru shut up.

“He is twenty-one in spirit,” Yaga said. “Twenty-one in idiocy. Twenty-one in brain development. Twenty-one in corporate strategy.”

“…right.”

“And yet,” Yaga continued, “this child, this pink-haired, hoodie-wearing TikTok baby, outmaneuvered both the heir to one of the oldest Japanese empires in the States and the sharpest partner in Blackthorn.”

Suguru swallowed.

Yaga leaned back slowly. “Tell me, Suguru. Tell me how you, the man I’ve trusted with deals worth billions, lost to a fetus with an anime profile picture.”

Suguru rubbed his forehead with both hands. “Because he’s good. Really, really good.”

Yaga’s eye twitched. “Explain.”

Suguru inhaled. “Sir… Yuji is Elon Musk, but better.”

Yaga stared.

Suguru pressed on quickly. “Not current Elon Musk. The earlier one. The one who actually coded things. Except Yuji also understands behavioral analytics, UI/UX patterns, data optimization, and actually being a decent human. He’s brilliant. Wildly brilliant. And we—” He gestured vaguely, helplessly. “—underestimated him.”

Yaga’s silence was worse than shouting.

Suguru added, quietly, “We thought he was low-hanging fruit. He wasn’t.”

Yaga finally leaned forward. “Suguru.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Repeat after me.”

Suguru braced.

“Never,” Yaga said, each syllable crisp, “underestimate,” another pause, “a Gen Z founder.”

Suguru nodded solemnly. “Never underestimate a Gen Z founder.”

“Good,” Yaga said. “They’re feral.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They don’t fear God.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They don’t fear regulators.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And they especially don’t fear private equity.”

Suguru murmured, “Clearly.”

Yaga let out a slow breath through his nose, the closest thing to fury he ever displayed. “You let him rewrite corporate law with emojis.”

Suguru winced. “Yes, sir.”

“You let him secure permanent founder control.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You let him force us into a minority position.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You let him take my deal—”

Suguru closed his eyes.

“—and turn it into a fucking group project.”

Suguru whispered, “Yes, sir.”

“And you let him do this,” Yaga said, voice low and lethal, “while he was sitting in a beanbag chair.”

Suguru nodded miserably. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose.

“This is embarrassing,” he muttered. “For you. And for me.”

“I agree.”

“And for Blackthorn.”

“Yes.”

“And I refuse,” Yaga said, sitting straighter, “to be defeated by a boy who probably learned financial modeling from YouTube.”

“…I think he actually did—”

“NOT HELPING.”

Suguru shut up immediately. Then Yaga shifted topics without warning, the way only apex predators could.

“But Loopi is not the real problem,” he said. “Loopi is not what I want.”

Suguru’s head lifted slightly.

“I want Gojo Group.”

The words hung in the air like smoke from a gun.

Yaga’s voice lowered. “And I will have it. But not now. Not yet. We need positioning. Foundation. Leverage. This deal bought us time, and time is everything.”

Suguru’s expression tightened. “So… we’re stepping back?”

“For the moment,” Yaga said. “Gojo is distracted with Hikari. They are exhausted. They are fractured. They are trying desperately to stabilize their house.”

Yaga stood, slow, heavy with purpose.

“That is when we strike.”

Suguru straightened. “Understood.”

“But until then,” Yaga continued, “we must build pressure. Acquire smaller companies. Strengthen our war chest. Shore up allies. Prepare for the next stage.”

Suguru nodded. “Yes.”

Yaga finally looked directly into his eyes, dark, sharp, surgical.

“And Suguru,” he said softly, dangerously, “you will not fail me again.”

Suguru froze. Yaga stepped closer.

“You let that boy slip through your fingers.”

Suguru swallowed.

“You will not let Satoru Gojo slip through your fingers.”

Suguru’s pulse spiked. “Sir—”

Yaga silenced him with one raised hand.

“Blackthorn trusted you because you were the one man who could match him,” Yaga said. “Outmaneuver him. Predict him. Break him if needed.”

Suguru’s jaw clenched. “What are you asking me to do?”

Yaga smiled, a slow, chilling expression that did not reach his eyes.

“You know what to do. You’ve always known.”

Suguru felt something cold crawl up his spine.

“And Suguru,” Yaga added, “remember this: losing to a child is humiliating. Losing to Satoru Gojo is unacceptable.”

Suguru lowered his head. “…I understand.”

Yaga nodded once. “Good. Now go. We have smaller companies to swallow. I want three term sheets by tomorrow.”

Suguru stood. Bowed. Left the office with a storm behind his eyes.

Across the city, in the Gojo Tower, Satoru sat in his office staring at Loopi’s final capital stack and felt a terrible, shameful ache in his chest. He had lost too, not just the deal, but the illusion that he and Suguru were still playing the same game. Yuji had played them. Yaga was punishing Suguru. Masahiro was strategizing. Nanami was sharpening knives. And the war was shifting into a darker, colder phase. Loopi was low-hanging fruit. Yaga wanted the whole tree. And Satoru was beginning to realize exactly how much betrayal would cost.

The morning after the Loopi signing, Satoru woke up with a hangover that could have legally been classified as a natural disaster. His skull felt like a Senate hearing room filled with angry Republicans, his stomach churned like a distressed asset, and his heart, annoyingly, still hurt like Suguru had carved out a portion of it with a steak knife and left the wound open out of spite.

Nanami took one look at him across the Gojo Tower lobby and said, “You look like death.”

Satoru groaned. “I am death.”

“Go home.”

“No.”

“Then go to your therapist.”

“No.”

Nanami sighed, pinching his brow. “Fine. Go to Utahime.”

“What?” Satoru blinked. “Why?”

“Because she’s the only one who will tolerate your nonsense for more than five minutes.”

“That’s not true.”

“Name another person.”

Satoru opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it.

Nanami smirked in victory. “Exactly.”

And that was how Satoru Gojo, heir-apparent, hungover, emotionally compromised, and holding Bear in a blanket like a newborn, ended up boarding a private jet to Washington, D.C. within the hour.

Satoru Gojo arrived in Washington, D.C. with a hangover so magnificent it could have lobbied Congress on its own. The flight down from New York had done nothing to help, pressurized cabins were not designed for men who drank half a bottle of Yamazaki in the middle of an existential crisis, cried into a hotel robe that wasn’t his, and then spent the morning dodging Nanami’s judgmental stares. His head throbbed. His eyes burned. His stomach swirled. And Bear, sitting proudly in his carrier, kept pawing at him like he was a wounded animal that needed constant supervision.

The capital always smelled like ambition, old carpet, and broken promises. Satoru hated it, but he also needed Utahime, not emotionally, of course, since he had long ago convinced himself he was above such things, but logistically. Strategically. She was the one person who understood both him and the battlefield he was navigating. Utahime Iori worked at the Department of the Treasury, a mid-level position, technically, but one with influence (not only because her father is Senator Iori). She had access to information no one in the public market ever saw. Regulatory calendars. Policy shifts. Preliminary economic memos. She called it “paperwork.” Satoru called it “insider survival.”

She met him outside the Federal Building with her ID badge swinging around her neck, hair tied up, wearing a trench coat that made her look like she was one coffee away from quitting her job and taking up farming.

“You’re hungover,” she said, crossing her arms immediately. “And late.”

“Possibly dying,” Satoru corrected, removing his sunglasses dramatically. “I brought your child,” Satoru said, lifting Bear dramatically like Simba.

Utahime’s eyes narrowed. “And you brought my dog in a Gucci carrier.”

Satoru gasped. “OUR dog.”

“The divorce papers,” she replied, “say otherwise.”

Bear barked loudly, then immediately ran to Utahime as if escaping a chaotic father figure. Utahime scooped him up with practiced ease. She had always been Bear’s responsible parent, the one who fed him on time, remembered vet appointments, and did not, under any circumstances, let him taste human food. Bear wagged his tail, happy to see his mom. Utahime took him, kissed his head, and then gave Satoru a hard look. “You had him for seven weeks. That violates the agreement.”

Satoru slumped. “Joint custody is flexible.”

“It is not.”

“Bear likes me more.”

“That is a lie.”

“Bear loves me.”

“He loves my townhouse,” Utahime corrected. “He’s tired of your Manhattan noise.”

Satoru’s lip trembled. “He isn’t.”

She ignored him completely. “Why are you here? What brings you to D.C. besides ignoring the terms of our divorce agreement?”

“I’m hungover.”

“No shit.”

“And heartbroken.”

“Again, shocking.”

“And my childhood friend turned lover turned enemy is making my life miserable.”

Utahime stared at him. “Satoru.”

“Utahime.”

“I am not your therapist.”

“You could be.”

“I will kill you.”

Satoru pouted. They walked toward a coffee shop near Treasury, Bear trotting proudly in front, tail swishing like he was leading an important diplomatic mission. Utahime ordered a black coffee. Satoru ordered a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream because “I deserve softness.” They sat down at a corner table where no one in the federal building could overhear them. Utahime cracked open a Treasury binder. Bear curled on her lap. Satoru stared dramatically at the ceiling tiles like he was in mourning.

“So,” Utahime said without looking at him, “what did Suguru do this time?”

Satoru slumped into his chair, burying his face in his hands.. “He’s being strategically mean, and emotionally mean, and corporately mean! He sabotaged me.”

“What else is new?”

“He betrayed me.”

“Again, pattern.”

“He won’t stop making deals that ruin my life.”

“Welcome to adulthood.”

“He,  he—” Satoru sputtered. “He OUTMANEUVERED me!”

Utahime sipped her coffee. “Ah. The real crime.”

Satoru scowled. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I will absolutely make fun of you. That’s the benefit of being your ex-wife.”

Satoru leaned back dramatically in his chair. “Utahime, it hurts. It physically hurts. Like an ulcer made entirely of betrayal.”

Utahime flipped a page. “I told you not to sleep with him.”

“You DID NOT.”

“I implied it.”

“You implied everything!”

“That’s because you never listen unless someone threatens your ego.”

Satoru clutched his chest. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

He pouted harder.

She sighed, finally closing the binder. “Okay. Tell me what happened.”

Satoru launched into a long, dramatic, self-incriminating rant “...and then he tried to steal a tech company out from under me.”

Utahime paused mid-sip. “…okay, that part is new.”

“And Yuji Itadori made us both look like idiots.”

“That part,” she said, nodding, “sounds correct.”

Satoru dropped his head against the countertop with a loud thud. “Why is Suguru like this?”

“Because he’s Blackthorn,” Utahime said. “Because he’s ambitious. Because his boss is unhinged. Because you two never resolved anything. Take your pick.”

Satoru groaned into the marble. “Why is life like this?”

“Because you made it like this.”

He looked up, eyes wide with wounded betrayal. “Utahime, I flew here emotionally compromised. Be nice to me.”

“No.”

Utahime looked at him with a face that screamed I can’t believe I married you. “Are you finished?” She interrupted.

When Satoru nodded his head, her response was simple.

“Satoru… you are an idiot.”

He bristled. “Excuse me?”

“First,” she continued, “you slept with your nemesis.”

“I was emotional!”

“You’re always emotional!”

“That is slander.”

“Second, you are in a corporate war. You cannot go around catching feelings like a Victorian debutante.”

Satoru gasped. “I am NOT a debutante—”

“You ARE,” she snapped. “Floating around in suits and trauma, waiting for some idiot to propose a merger.”

Satoru covered his face. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. Now listen.” Utahime leaned forward. “Suguru is doing his job. You need to do yours.”

“I am—”

“No.” She poked his forehead. Hard. “You are sulking.”

He winced. “Ow.”

“Grow up.”

Satoru whined, “I liked you better when we were married.”

“No, you didn’t.”

A moment of silence.

Satoru deflated and stared mournfully at Bear. “Your mother doesn’t love me.”

Utahime laughed, a sharp, pretty, devastating sound. “Of course I love you. I just refuse to enable you.”

Satoru blinked. “That was unexpectedly sweet.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He stared at her for a long moment as she poured kibble into Bear’s bowl. Utahime moved around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, calm, intelligent, steady in ways that made him feel unstable and comforted at once. Then she said something he did not expect.

“I’m thinking of quitting,” Utahime murmured.

Satoru sat up straight. “What?”

“My job. At the Treasury.”

“What?!”

She gave him a tired look. “Satoru, I’m burned out. I’m done. I’m sick of the bureaucracy, the hours, the political bullshit. I’m considering a position at an NGO, or maybe in academia. I don’t know yet.”

Satoru shook his head violently. “No.”

“No?”

“You can’t.”

Utahime raised an eyebrow. “Satoru Gojo, you do not get a vote.”

“I don’t need a vote!” he protested. “I need an insider!”

“You don’t need an insider,” she corrected. “You want one.”

“Same thing!”

“No. It is not.”

Satoru leaned forward urgently. “Utahime. Listen to me. I am at war. An actual corporate war. With Suguru, with Yaga, with the entire private equity ecosystem frothing at the mouth to kill my company. You have no idea how insane things are in New York right now—”

“I read the news,” she said. “Believe me, I know.”

“So you understand,” he said, gesturing wildly. “I need you. Someone sane. Someone smart. Someone who doesn’t think I’m insane.”

“I think you’re insane every day.”

“But you love me!” he countered.

“I tolerate you.”

“That’s basically marriage!”

“That is literally what we divorced over.”

Satoru paused. Blink. Another blink. 

“…fair point.”

Utahime crossed her arms. “My decision isn’t about you.”

“But it affects me,” Satoru insisted.

“That,” she replied calmly, “is not my problem.”

Satoru stared at her, this quiet storm of a woman who had once walked into rooms filled with senators twice her age and left them trembling. The woman who yelled at him for misfeeding their dog but also carried him into rehab at twenty-seven. The woman who divorced him but still took his calls at 3 AM. He swallowed.

“Utahime,” he murmured, quieter, softer, realer, “if you leave the Treasury… I’ll lose one more person I trust.”

She froze. Then her voice softened. “Satoru… that is not a reason for me to stay in a job that hurts me.”

Satoru reached over, touching her hand. His voice softened, no theatrics now. “You’re good at your job,” he said. “Better than most people there.”

“I hate it.”

“But you’re needed.”

“I’m replaceable.”

“No,” Satoru whispered. “You’re not.”

Utahime looked away, eyes flickering.

Satoru swallowed. “Stay. For now. I need someone who actually cares about the world inside that building. Someone who can warn me when things shift. Someone I can trust.”

Utahime sighed. “Satoru…”

“Please,” he murmured. “I’m drowning. And Suguru is the one pulling me under.”

Utahime leaned back. “Fine. I’ll stay for another quarter.”

Relief washed over him.

“But,” she added sharply, “you CANNOT treat me like your therapist.”

“I won’t.”

“Or your emotional support ex-wife.”

“I would never.”

“Or your anti-Suguru crisis hotline.”

“Of course not.”

“And you won’t dump Bear on me every time you’re sad.”

“Never,” Satoru promised.

Bear barked.

Utahime squinted. “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

“…maybe.”

She groaned, pushing her hand through her hair. “I swear to god, Satoru, one day someone will kill you.”

He smiled faintly. “Probably Suguru.”

“Probably,” she agreed.

And for a moment, they sat together in a small D.C. café, two exes who somehow never stopped being partners, two humans trapped in a world run by men like Masahiro and Yaga, two people who knew too much and cared too deeply despite pretending otherwise.

Utahime squeezed Bear gently. “Alright. Finish your drink and go back to New York.”

Satoru stood, rubbing his aching head. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“I can’t promise that,” he said over his shoulder.

Utahime rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

He looked down. Bear nudged his hand.

Utahime exhaled and stroked his head. “We’ll talk. Not today. But soon.”

Satoru nodded slowly.

Utahime smirked. “Good. Now go sleep it off. I’ll call you in two days.”

He stood reluctantly. “Keep Bear safe.”

“I always do.”

Satoru kissed Bear goodbye and walked toward the door.

Utahime called after him. “And Satoru?”

He turned.

“You’re stronger than him,” she said quietly. “Don’t forget it.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Because for the first time since this war began, someone had said something he desperately needed to believe.

If Satoru Gojo had Utahime Iori, the ex-wife, Treasury insider, and reluctant moral compass, then Suguru Geto had Dr. Shoko Ieiri. Or rather, he had whatever strange half-friendship, half-entanglement, half-salvaged-softness they’d maintained since Harvard: a friends-with-benefits arrangement stretched thin over years, geography, and trauma. It had begun accidentally in Cambridge, continued sporadically post-graduation, and settled into something wordless and convenient after Shoko moved to Boston for her surgical residency. Now she was a full attending surgeon at Massachusetts General, living in an apartment in Beacon Hill, working impossible hours, and somehow still managing to be the sanest person in Suguru’s life, despite the fact that she barely slept and often smelled faintly of antiseptic, lavender gum, and post-op exhaustion.

Suguru showed up at her place unannounced, as he always did when he was spiraling too fast for alcohol alone to soften the edges. He knocked once, then let himself in, because Shoko never locked the door for him. He walked into the dim living room to find her sitting on the floor in front of the couch, hair tied messily, wearing scrubs and compression socks, half-finished ramen cup beside her, medical charts strewn across the coffee table. She didn’t look up.

“You’re late,” she said. “For… whatever this is supposed to be.”

Suguru shrugged off his coat and loosened his shirt collar. “Had work.”

“You always have work.”

He approached, leaned over her shoulder, pressed a kiss against her temple out of habit more than desire. Shoko didn’t push him away. But she didn’t lean in either.

“You smell like a distillery,” she said.

“I’ve had a week.”

“You’ve had a life.”

Suguru knelt behind her, hands finding her waist, lips brushing her neck, soft, persuasive, practiced. Shoko took a long sip of her lukewarm ramen broth and said, with zero inflection, “I’m not in the mood today.”

Suguru froze. “Not at all?”

“Nope.”

He rested his forehead against her shoulder. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” she said, flipping through a patient chart. “I’m tired. I’ve been in the OR for twelve hours. My spine hurts. My eyes want to fall out of my skull. I’m not trying to have sex with a man who looks like he’s been crying into a $600 shirt.”

He stiffened. “I wasn’t crying.”

She hummed. “Sure.”

Suguru sat beside her, sinking into the plush carpet with a heavy exhale. Shoko didn’t offer sympathy. She never did. She simply existed next to him, the closest thing he had to stability that wasn’t tied to a contract, a merger, or a hostile takeover.

“You want ramen?” she muttered.

“No.”

“You should eat.”

“No.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Silence fell, not comfortable, not painful, just familiar. The kind of silence shared by two people who’d long stopped pretending they were something they weren’t. Suguru rubbed his face, then said the sentence he’d somehow only said out loud once, and only to Shoko:

“I’m making his life miserable.”

Shoko looked up, pen hovering over a note she was writing. “Who?”

Suguru stared at the floor. “Satoru.”

A slow, unimpressed blink. “Ah. Of course.”

“I mean it,” Suguru continued quietly. “I’m really making him miserable. Worse than I intended. More than I thought I would.”

Shoko leaned back against the couch, finally looking at him fully. Her eyes were tired, dark, perceptive in the way only a surgeon could manage. “And why,” she asked, voice dry as sandpaper, “is that my problem?”

Suguru scoffed. “Shoko—”

“No,” she said. “Let’s be clear. You came into my home, smelling like depression and whiskey, tried to climb me like a koala, and now you’re sitting on my floor complaining about Satoru Gojo. Again.”

Suguru opened his mouth, closed it.

“I am a surgeon,” she said. “Not a therapist.”

“You’re the closest thing I have to one.”

“And that is sad,” she replied bluntly.

Suguru rubbed his temples. “We’re in a war. A real one. Yaga is furious. He’s punishing me. Masahiro is preparing something, we don’t know what. Satoru and I are… we’re—”

Shoko interrupted with a raised hand. “Childhood friends turned enemies turned ex-lovers turned corporate rivals turned emotional disasters. Yes. Everyone knows.”

Suguru winced. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” she said, picking up her ramen again. “You care about him. He cares about you. And you’re both idiots who chose capitalism over therapy.”

Suguru looked away. “He slept with me.”

“Of course he did.”

“And I slept with him.”

“Of course you did.”

“And then,” Suguru whispered, voice cracking slightly, “I betrayed him.”

Shoko slurped her ramen loudly to make a point. “And whose choice was that?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

She shot him a look so sharp it could cut open an artery. “Bullshit. You chose Yaga. You chose Blackthorn. You chose ambition. You chose the war.”

Suguru exhaled shakily. “He’s suffering.”

“And you came to me for what?” she asked. “Forgiveness? Absolution? Permission?”

Suguru stared at her like she had just opened his chest cavity.

She sighed. “Suguru… listen carefully. I don’t care if you’re miserable. I don’t care if he’s miserable. I don’t care if your billion-dollar breakup is giving you stomach ulcers. I have three surgeries tomorrow. I’m trying to keep people alive.”

Suguru’s throat tightened. “I just… needed someone to talk to.”

“You need a therapist,” she corrected. “A real one. One who doesn’t have to stop your emotional spirals between appendectomies.”

Suguru swallowed. “Shoko…”

She reached out, briefly, gently, and flicked his forehead.

“You’re a good man,” she said softly. “But you’re doing bad things. Stop whining about karma when you loaded the gun yourself.”

He stared at her. She stared back.

Her voice softened, just slightly. “If you want him back… stop breaking him.”

Suguru looked down at the carpet, fingers curling into the fibers as something sharp, ugly, and deep twisted in his chest.

Shoko stood slowly. “Grab a blanket,” she said. “You’re sleeping on the couch. I’m waking up at five. If you’re still here, I’m injecting you with saline and kicking you out.”

Suguru huffed a weak laugh. “Thanks.”

“Not for you,” she muttered. “For the carpet.”

But when she walked into her room, she left the door cracked, just slightly. A silent reminder that no matter how deep the war went, he still had one place in the world where he wasn’t a monster. He lay on her couch that night, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he kept hurting the one person he loved enough to destroy. And why Satoru Gojo still hurt worse than every knife Yaga ever gave him.

Chapter Text

Satoru Gojo had lived his entire life under the long, cold shadow of Masahiro Gojo, a man who shaped him, sharpened him, bruised him, and carved him into the heir he needed, not the son he wanted. The hearings, the takeover threats, the Loopi fiasco, Suguru’s betrayal, none of it hurt the way standing in Masahiro’s office did. Masahiro sat behind his monolithic desk, a monument of glass and steel, staring at spreadsheets that determined the fate of thousands of employees like a god assigning destinies. He did not look at Satoru when he said: “Your decisions reflect on this family. Do not disappoint me.”

It was not anger. It was worse. It was expectation. Expectation that suffocated. Expectation that hollowed. Expectation that tasted like destiny whether Satoru wanted it or not. He left the tower with the weight of an entire dynasty bearing down on him, his mind buzzing with the words Masahiro always said, the ones he pretended not to remember but had carved into the underside of his ribs: “I could tell you were changing. People aren’t as loyal as they used to be, and your blind ambition pushed you into some bad choices. Somewhere along the way, you convinced yourself that chasing your dreams meant cutting me out. But everything I did was to protect the family.” Back then, Satoru had been too young to understand what that meant. Now it echoed like prophecy. He was the only son. The heir. The number one boy. Whether he wanted it or not.

Hours later, he wandered into a bar in the Lower East Side, not the upscale ones the finance crowd loved, but one of the run-down, familiar places where he and Suguru used to hide from the world when they were sixteen and believed they were invincible. A dim corner where the air always smelled faintly of weed and cheap whiskey. A place carved out of their collective youth, long before Blackthorn and boardrooms and trauma shaped them into opposing forces.

He stepped inside. The music hummed low. The old neon sign flickered. And there, sitting exactly where he used to, was Suguru Geto. Black coat draped over the back of the chair. Sleeves rolled up. Hair tied loosely. A glass of whiskey untouched in front of him. The same posture from their teenage years, shoulders tense, fingers tapping the rim of the glass, foot bouncing softly like he was pacing in place even while seated. Satoru froze. Suguru looked up slowly, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Of course you’re here,” Suguru murmured, voice low. “This is where you run when you’re confused.”

Satoru bristled. “I’m not confused.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Right. You’re just drinking alone in a bar we haven’t stepped into since we were idiots in private school uniforms.”

Satoru walked toward him without meaning to. “What are you doing here?”

“Thinking,” Suguru said. “About work. About Yaga. About…” his gaze flickered, just once, “...you.”

Satoru sat across from him, pulse unsteady. “Don’t.”

Suguru smirked tiredly. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this personal.”

“It is personal,” Suguru said softly.

Silence pressed between them like old ghosts.

Then Suguru leaned back, his voice taking on that dangerous softness he used to wield like a secret weapon. “I heard about your meeting with your father.”

Satoru stiffened.

Suguru continued, “Masahiro’s tightening the leash again, isn’t he?”

The words hit like a slap.

Satoru tensed immediately. “Suguru—”

“He always does this,” Suguru murmured, swirling the whiskey he wasn’t drinking. “Pushes you. Pulls you. Breaks you a little, fixes you a little, breaks you again.”

“You don’t know—”

“Oh, I do.” Suguru’s voice sharpened. “I knew it the day I visited you after classes at Buckley.”

Satoru froze. Because he remembered. Too well. The day Suguru came over after school, stepping into the Gojo townhouse for the first time, marble floors, walls lined with artwork Satoru never liked, silence so clinical it felt like a museum. Masahiro had been standing in the foyer like a general inspecting new troops.

Suguru swallowed hard as the memory resurfaced. “He looked at me like I wasn’t good enough to breathe the same air as you. And he looked at you like you owed him your spine just for existing.”

Satoru clenched his jaw. “You don’t understand.”

“I understood perfectly,” Suguru said. “I saw the way he treated you. Like a product. A weapon. A piece of machinery he was manufacturing.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “That’s not—”

“You were terrified of disappointing him,” Suguru continued, voice pitiless. “Still are.”

Satoru’s hand twitched. “Suguru. Don’t.”

Suguru leaned closer. “Do you know what I saw that day? A boy who wanted his father’s love so badly he’d snap his own bones to earn it.”

Satoru inhaled sharply, breath burning hot in his throat. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m sober enough to tell the truth.”

Satoru looked away, at the dim lights, the dusty bottles, the corner where they’d once shared a joint in secret, laughing like they were infinite. Suguru’s voice pulled him back.

“You’re chasing his approval,” Suguru murmured. “Still. Even now. Even after everything.”

Satoru’s voice cracked. “He’s my father.”

“He’s your keeper,” Suguru said.

Something inside Satoru tightened into a knot. “Suguru, shut up.”

Suguru didn’t. He leaned closer, tone turning icier, crueler, wounded.

“You’re his number one boy, Satoru. His heir. His jewel. His favorite dog.”

The word ripped through the air like a bullet. Satoru’s entire body flinched. Suguru saw it, and didn’t stop.

“You’re loyal,” he said. “Blindingly, stupidly loyal. No matter how many times he uses you. No matter how many times he bleeds you dry. You come running back every time he calls.”

“That’s not true—”

“You think you’re stronger than him?” Suguru scoffed. “You’re not. He says jump, and you ask how high.”

Satoru’s chest burned like fire. Suguru leaned in, voice sharp enough to cut skin.

“You’re his most loyal dog, Satoru.”

Satoru moved without thinking. One moment he was in his seat. The next he had Suguru by the collar, fist gripping the fabric hard enough to wrinkle it, dragging him forward across the table. Their faces inches apart. Breath colliding. Pulse pounding. Suguru didn’t resist. He didn’t flinch. He stared straight into Satoru’s eyes, dark and unblinking. Satoru’s voice came out in a low, shaking whisper.

“Say that again.”

Suguru’s lips curled into a dangerous, devastating smirk.

“You’re his dog.”

Satoru’s fist tightened.

“Do it,” Suguru whispered. “Hit me.”

Satoru’s arm trembled violently.

“Go on,” Suguru murmured, breath ghosting across his cheek. “That’s what he trained you for, right? Violence when you’re scared. Anger when you’re hurt. Obedience when you should run.”

Satoru’s breath hitched.

“You don’t know anything,” he hissed.

“I know everything,” Suguru replied. “I knew you before he broke you.”

The words detonated in Satoru’s chest. His knuckles whitened. His grip shook. His throat tightened so painfully he thought he’d choke.

“I’m not broken,” Satoru whispered.

Suguru finally softened, in pity, not mercy.

“You are,” he said quietly. “And you don’t even see it.”

Satoru let go. Not gently. Not violently. Just… collapsed out of the moment as if the strings holding him together snapped. Suguru leaned back slowly, adjusting his collar with a measured calm. Satoru stared at the table, chest heaving, hands trembling. Suguru’s voice was quieter now. Not cruel. Not kind. Just honest.

“I don’t say this to hurt you, Satoru. I say it because someone needs to.” A pause. “You deserve more than being his number one boy.”

Satoru didn’t answer. He pushed away from the table, stood shakily, and was going to walk out into the cold night air without a coat. Suguru wouldn’t follow. And somewhere deep inside him, Satoru knew: Suguru had told the truth. And he hated him for it. And he hated himself more. Because his father’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, calm and victorious. Satoru stood there shaking, breath unsteady, chest caving in on itself. Suguru had never spoken to him like that, or maybe he had, but back then Satoru had been too young to understand the depth of it. Or too unwilling. Now, as an adult with an empire collapsing under his fingertips, the words carved straight into bone. And Suguru just sat there, collar still rumpled from Satoru’s grip, staring at him with that maddening mixture of clarity and disappointment. Satoru snapped.

“Get up,” he said quietly.

Suguru blinked. “What?”

“Get. Up.” His voice cracked like ice breaking.

Suguru tilted his head, amused. “Why?”

“Because we’re not doing this in a bar,” Satoru hissed. “You want to talk about dogs and fathers and broken sons? Fine. Say it to my face outside. Without hiding behind tables and whiskey glasses.”

Suguru’s mouth curved upward slowly, a dangerous, dark amusement spreading across his face.

“Oh?” he murmured. “You want to take this outside, prince?”

Satoru’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Suguru pushed his chair back with deliberate slowness and stood, sliding into his coat. He stepped around the table toward Satoru, their shoulders brushing, tension sparking like electricity.

“Fine,” Suguru said. “Let’s go.”

They stepped out into the cold night air, sharp, biting, relentless. The city hummed around them, neon and late-night sirens and the quiet pulse of New York at 2:14 in the morning. Satoru didn’t stop. He pushed forward, down the block, hands shaking inside his pockets. Suguru followed at an even pace, calm, steady, almost entertained.

“Where are we going?” Suguru finally asked.

“A place where you can’t hide,” Satoru muttered.

Suguru laughed. “Satoru, I’ve never hidden from you in my life.”

Satoru didn’t answer. He turned one final corner. Suguru’s amusement faded. Because Satoru had led them back to their place, the old, half-lit basketball court behind the run-down community center, fenced in by rusted metal and memories. They spent whole summers here when they were kids, sneaking out after Buckley classes, playing until dusk, smoking weed behind the bleachers, daring each other to hit half-court shots, pretending the world outside couldn’t touch them.

Satoru’s voice was low, strained. “We settle things here.”

Suguru exhaled softly. “Of course you bring us back to where it started.”

Satoru stepped onto the cracked pavement. “You want to talk? You want to push me? Then play me.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Basketball as therapy?”

“Trash talk as honesty,” Satoru snapped.

Suguru smirked. “Fine. But don’t cry when I break your ankles.”

Satoru threw him the ball. “Try me.”

They started like they always did: competitive, reckless, too intense for a casual street game. The ball echoed against concrete. Their shoes screeched. Their breaths fogged in the cold air. Sweat started to drip down temples far too early, not because of effort, but because of the sheer emotional charge burning through every movement.

Suguru dribbled first. “You’re still scared of him.”

Satoru lunged, blocking. “Shut up—”

Suguru spun effortlessly, taking the shot. “You are.”

The ball clanged off the rim.

Satoru snatched the rebound, dribbling hard, faking left, driving right. “I’m not scared. I’m realistic.”

“About him?” Suguru scoffed, attempting a steal. “Or about you?”

Satoru took the shot. It bounced. Rolled. Missed.

Suguru caught the ball. “You know what he is, Satoru. You always did.”

“Stop talking about my father,” Satoru said through clenched teeth.

“Why?” Suguru stepped in. “Because you’re afraid I’m right?”

Satoru slammed his forearm into Suguru’s chest, not enough to harm, but enough to jolt. “Shut up.”

Suguru grinned through the impact. “You hit exactly like he taught you.”

Satoru’s heart lurched.

“Fuck you,” he whispered.

Suguru’s grip tightened around the ball. “You already did.”

Satoru launched forward to block him. Their bodies collided, momentum carrying them both backward a few steps, breaths tangling, frustration vibrating in the air like a fault line.

Suguru’s voice dropped, low and sharp. “You’re his number one boy. His heir. His legacy.”

Satoru shoved him again. Harder. “Stop—”

Suguru shoved back. “You think he loves you?”

“Shut UP!”

“You think what you’re doing is strength?”

Satoru stole the ball. Suguru tackled him back, pinning him briefly, sweat dripping down both their necks, breaths harsh, bodies tangled.

Sugaru whispered, “It’s obedience.”

Satoru exploded upward, pushing him off, both of them stumbling.

“You don’t get to say that!” Satoru shouted. “You don’t get to judge the things I had to do to survive that man!”

Suguru fired back immediately. “And you don’t get to pretend you’re not still doing them!”

The ball rolled away and hit the fence. Neither of them chased it. Not anymore. They circled each other now, both heaving, both shaking, both staring as if trying to read the pieces of the past still clinging to the other’s face. Suguru stepped closer first, breaths ragged.

“You think being his heir makes you strong,” he murmured. “It just makes you trapped.”

Satoru’s voice was barely audible. “And you think rejecting him makes you free?”

Suguru froze. Satoru saw it, that tiny, fractured moment where truth hit too close.

“You’re in Yaga’s chains,” Satoru whispered. “You just pretend they don’t exist.”

Suguru stepped closer, fury rising. “Don’t compare him to your father.”

“They’re the same.”

“No,” Suguru growled, “Masahiro molded you. Yaga saved me.”

“Saved you from what?” Satoru shot back. “Yourself? Or from choosing me?”

Suguru’s jaw tightened violently. There it was. The wound neither of them had dared to touch for years.

“Say it,” Satoru whispered, stepping closer, noses almost brushing. “Say that you chose him over me.”

Suguru’s breath shook. Satoru felt something inside him crack. Every wound. Every betrayal. Every memory from Buckley, Harvard, the penthouses, the weed, the nights he thought Suguru might actually stay.

“You left first,” Satoru whispered.

“And you let me,” Suguru whispered back.

Silence fell like the final strike in a long, brutal war. They were inches apart. Both drenched in sweat. Both trembling. Both staring at each other like the world would end if either looked away.

Satoru swallowed. “Suguru…”

Suguru’s voice was a broken whisper now. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“And I—”

Satoru closed the distance before he could finish. Their lips collided like a collision they’d been avoiding for years, rough, angry, desperate, shaking with everything they refused to say. Suguru grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulling him closer. Satoru pushed him against the fence, fingers digging into his shirt. It tasted like whiskey and sweat and grief and, god, everything they had been running from. The kiss was not gentle. It was not sweet. It was not tender. It was a confession. A surrender. A relapse. A battlefield truce carved out of exhaustion and longing. They kissed like two men who had broken each other and couldn’t stop wanting the broken pieces. Their breaths tangled. Sweat dripped down their temple. Suguru’s hand slid up Satoru’s jaw. Satoru pressed his forehead to Suguru’s. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Neither dared to breathe too loudly. And when they finally pulled back, only an inch, just enough to breathe, Suguru whispered the same truth he used to whisper in their Harvard dorm room, long before everything shattered:

“…Satoru.”

And Satoru whispered back, the same way he did all those years ago:

“…don’t go.”

But Suguru did not answer. He couldn’t. They just stood there, both knowing this kiss changed nothing, and everything.

Satoru woke up the next morning with the kind of headache that felt like punishment from a vengeful god. He did not remember leaving the basketball court. He barely remembered leaving Suguru’s mouth. He was half-convinced he’d hallucinated half the night, the shouting, the fight, the kiss pressed against a rusted chain-link fence. But the soreness in his shoulders, the bruise forming near his ribs, the faint ghost of Suguru’s cologne on his shirt… all of it told him it had happened.

His phone was dead. His throat was dry. His bed was somehow sideways, he discovered this when he rolled and fell straight onto a carpeted floor.

The Uber receipt in his email said $136. Nanami had texted him 14 times, increasingly furious. His SA at Patek had sent him 23 photos of the new limited-edition watches, with a wall of text for description. Utahime had sent him a photo of Bear in Washington with the caption: “THIS CHILD WILL NOT SUFFER FOR YOUR BAD LIFE CHOICES.” But none of that mattered. Because at 9:00 AM, he had therapy.

Dr. Mei Mei opened the door, took one look at Satoru, his swollen lip, ruffled hair, bruised ego, wrinkled shirt, and said very calmly:

“You kissed him again.”

Satoru nearly passed out. “HOW—”

“You’re predictable,” she said. “Sit.”

He sat. She handed him a bottle of water. He chugged half of it like he’d crossed a desert. Then he sank back onto the couch, looking like the ghost of a man who’d seen both heaven and hell in one night. Mei Mei waited exactly three seconds before saying:

“Tell me what you remember.”

Satoru stared at the ceiling. “We fought.”

“Mm.”

“And played basketball.”

“Mm.”

“And yelled.”

“Expected.”

“And kissed.”

“Of course.”

He groaned, covering his face. “I’m a mess.”

“Yes,” she said, pleasantly. “But an honest one today. So that’s progress.”

He peeked at her through his fingers. “Are therapists allowed to bully clients?”

“It’s not bullying if it’s true,” she replied, taking notes.

Satoru threw his head back. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I do,” Mei Mei said. “You have unresolved father issues.”

Satoru choked. “…okay that was fast.”

“It wasn’t fast,” she said dryly. “It’s been four years.”

He glared at her. “Elaborate.”

Dr. Mei Mei leaned back. “Satoru, you grew up in a house where love was transactional, conditional, performance-based. Masahiro Gojo taught you from childhood that affection is earned, not given. That loyalty is rewarded and disobedience punished. That your worth is measured by results, public image, and utility.”

Satoru felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine.

“And whenever you questioned it,” she continued, “he reminded you who held the power.”

Satoru swallowed hard.

Because she was right. Because he heard Masahiro’s voice in his head every damn day. Because Masahiro Gojo had always asked him questions that were not really questions, more like proof of ownership.

“Who built the empire you stand to inherit?”
“Who covered up your scandals when you were too weak to cover them yourself?”
“Who shaped you? Who protected you? Who gave you everything you have?”

Every time Satoru stumbled, Masahiro made him recite the answers:

“Yours.”
“You.”
“You did.”

He used to think it was pride. Now, as an adult sitting on a therapist’s couch with a bruised lip from kissing a man he wasn’t supposed to love, he saw it clearly: It had always been control.

Satoru curled into himself, voice small in a way he hated. “I mean… I am who I am because of him. I wouldn’t be, this.” He gestured vaguely. “The wealth, the power, the… stupidity.”

Mei Mei corrected gently: “The carelessness.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “The carelessness.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I wouldn’t have the penthouses or the supercars or the watches or the company or… any of it. If I wasn’t Masahiro’s son.”

Mei Mei didn’t deny it. “True.”

Satoru let out a laugh, sharp, humorless. “I have seven sports cars I barely drive.”

“That is financially irresponsible.”

“I have thirty-five watches.”

“I’m aware.”

“I have five properties in Manhattan.”

“You don’t even sleep in all of them.”

He exhaled. “So maybe he’s right. Maybe I owe him everything.”

Mei Mei’s gaze sharpened. “That is where you’re wrong.”

Satoru looked up.

“He gave you resources,” she said softly. “Power. Opportunity. A name. But none of those things justify emotional manipulation. None of those things justify how he treats you.”

Satoru blinked at her. Hard.

Her voice lowered. “That is not love, Satoru.”

His breath hitched.

“Love,” she continued, “is not ownership. It’s not conditional. It’s not earned through loyalty or obedience.”

He swallowed. “Suguru said something like that.”

“Did he?”

Satoru nodded slowly. “He told me… my father doesn’t treat me with love.”

Dr. Mei Mei leaned forward. “And were you angry because he was wrong? Or because he was right?”

The answer cracked through Satoru before he could stop it.

“…because he was right.”

And there it was. The truth. Ugly. Simple. Heavy. His therapist watched him unravel and did not look away.

“Satoru,” she said gently, “you are allowed to question your father. You are allowed to want something different. You are allowed to be more than the heir he designed.”

He pressed his palms into his eyes, voice trembling. “But… if I’m not his heir… then what am I?”

She let the silence stretch, soft and merciful. Then:

“You are whatever you choose to become.”

Satoru inhaled shakily.

“And Suguru?” he whispered. “What does he think I am now?”

Mei Mei didn’t hesitate. “Someone he can’t let go of. And someone he can’t save.”

Satoru’s throat tightened painfully.

“He kissed me,” he whispered.

“And you kissed him,” she said without judgment.

He nodded, shame curling with longing.

“I don’t know what we are anymore.”

“Then stop trying to be what you were,” she said. “Start being what you need.”

Satoru closed his eyes. Suguru’s voice echoed: “You were terrified of disappointing him.” His father’s voice echoed: “All I ask for is your loyalty, my number one boy.” His own voice echoed: “Don’t go.” He didn’t know which one hurt the most.

After therapy, Satoru stepped into the hallway feeling like someone had carved open his chest, rearranged his internal organs, and stitched him back together with dissolvable thread. He always felt raw after sessions with Dr. Mei Mei, scraped thin, exposed, too aware of his own fault lines. And today, after the fight, the kiss, the accusations, the truth, he felt more stripped than usual. He stood there in the sterile hallway, staring at the phone in his hand, thumb hovering over a contact he never called unless he was truly, catastrophically undone.

Mother. A name with no warmth. A number that had never once been saved under “Mom.” A person who had given him half his genes and none of her attention. Still, he pressed Call. Still, the phone rang. Still, each quiet beep tightened something inside him. One ring. Two rings. Three. Four. Then her voice, cold, automated, dismissive as ever: “Your call has been forwarded to voicemail.” Of course it had. He hung up before the beep. He didn’t bother leaving a message. She wouldn’t listen. She never had. He shoved the phone into his pocket and walked out of the building like someone fleeing the ghost of their childhood.

The meeting with Masahiro Gojo was held in the executive conference room on the fiftieth floor, a room with a view that made people feel small, which was, Satoru suspected, exactly why Masahiro chose it. Satoru arrived to hear shouting echoing through the hall. Not raised voices. Not irritation. Actual fury. Masahiro was tearing into the head of operations, the CFO, the CTO, and two strategy VPs like they were disposable interns. Papers littered the end of the table. A projector screen displayed a half-finished financial model that Masahiro was treating as a personal insult.

“Idiots!” Masahiro snapped, slamming his palm onto the table with a force that made everyone flinch. “Absolute incompetence! Who approved these projections? Who signed off on this timeline? Who thought any of this was acceptable?!”

No one answered. No one dared. Except Nanami, who sat calmly at the far end of the table with a legal pad, utterly unbothered.

Masahiro paused just long enough to register Satoru’s arrival.

“Satoru,” he said, breathing through his teeth. “Your report. Now.”

Satoru stepped forward, spine straight, voice steady, the same way he’d been trained since childhood. “Hikari is on track. Regulatory frameworks are being finalized. Infrastructure modeling is underway. Legal reviews are ahead of schedule.”

Masahiro’s eyes narrowed. “And the rest?”

Satoru glanced at the sweating executives. “The rest is not acceptable.”

Masahiro’s expression didn’t soften, but the fury redirected away from him.

“Nanami,” Masahiro barked, “fix this.”

Nanami, still unshaken, adjusted his glasses. “I am already doing that.”

Masahiro inhaled. Exhaled. “Good.”

Then he turned back to the room with all the calm of a man about to stab someone.

“If any of you waste my time again, I will strip this project, your teams, and every resource attached to you. Do I make myself clear?”

A chorus of terrified “Yes, sir” flooded the room.

Satoru stayed silent. Nanami stayed impassive. Masahiro dismissed everyone but them. Then he said the one thing that always made Satoru feel twelve years old again:

“Don’t disappoint me.”

Satoru nodded stiffly. Masahiro walked out, cane tapping, authority radiating from every step.

Nanami waited until the door shut, then muttered, “Your father has the emotional subtlety of a guillotine.”

Satoru sighed. “Believe it or not, that was a good day for him.”

Nanami stood. “Gym. Now.”

Satoru blinked. “Are you—??”

“Not for me,” Nanami said. “For you. Before you implode and ruin something important.”

“Suguru ruined that last night,” Satoru muttered.

Nanami rubbed his forehead. “I’m pretending I didn’t hear that. Go.”

The gym in Gojo Tower was private, quiet, and the one place where no one treated Satoru like royalty. He punched a bag until his knuckles ached. He lifted weights until his muscles burned. He ran until the treadmill warned him about speed limits. He didn’t feel better. But he felt less. Less full. Less chaotic. Less like he might scream if someone said his father’s name one more time. After the workout, he texted his personal SA at Loro Piana:

“Ship five sets of new knits to the house. And the suede overcoat. And the dark cashmere trousers.”
“Also the leather holdall. And the new loafers. And the alpaca throw.”
“Actually just curate a ‘my life is falling apart’ box.”

The SA replied instantly:

“Of course, Mr. Gojo. On its way.”

Retail therapy. It was cheaper than emotional stability. (Actually, it wasn’t. But it required less vulnerability.)

Still feeling restless, Satoru went down to the basement garage and chose the Aston Martin today, one of his favorites, sleek and dark and fast enough to outrun bad thoughts if he hit the highway at 2 AM. He pulled out onto the road, sunglasses on despite the cloudy sky, hair still damp from the shower, the faint ache of Suguru’s kiss haunting him like an echo. He drove south. Through Manhattan. Over the bridge. Into Brooklyn. Past the neighborhoods he used to visit with Suguru when they were teenagers pretending to be dramatic indie film characters. All the way until the skyline thinned and the ocean smell crept into the air.

Coney Island. The boardwalk. The rusted rides. The winter wind. The cheap neon signs flickering at half power. The sound of the ocean rushing against the pier. Satoru parked the Aston Martin in a lot full of dented Hondas and old Toyotas. People walked past him without a second glance. Tourists. Locals. Kids in puffer jackets. Street vendors. Couples holding hands. Teenagers sharing fries and iced drinks. No one recognized him. No one cared.

For the first time in days, maybe in years, Satoru felt something strange: Peace.

He stood on the boardwalk, hands shoved into his pockets, watching seagulls fight over a dropped hotdog, the wind tangling his hair, the cold numbing everything his father’s voice had inflamed. Around him were people who woke up with real problems, mortgages, rent, commute trains, broken boilers, overdue bills, not hostile takeovers or federal subpoenas or childhood lovers turned corporate enemies. Here, he wasn’t the heir. He wasn’t the number one boy. He wasn’t Masahiro Gojo’s prized asset. He was just a guy. A guy with sand in his shoes, regret in his chest, and a kiss on his lips he shouldn’t have wanted. He leaned over the railing, staring at the ocean waves crashing and retreating, crashing and retreating. He whispered into the wind, too quietly for anyone to hear:

“…I’m tired.”

And for once, the world didn’t ask him to explain.

Chapter Text

Coney Island in the off-season had a strange magic, muted, a little tragic, but peaceful in a way Manhattan never allowed. Satoru stood on the boardwalk long enough for the cold wind to sting his cheeks and for the distant crash of waves to drown out his father’s voice. For a moment he let himself pretend he was nobody. No titles. No legacy. No shareholders. No empire collapsing under the weight of ambition. Just a man leaning over a railing, breathing. He’d told himself he came here to clear his head. He knew deep down he came here to run. But even deeper inside, he suspected he came here hoping no one would find him, and knowing exactly who would anyway. It didn’t take long.

The first sign was a faint crunch of footsteps on the wooden planks behind him. The second was the way the air shifted, an instinct, a ghost memory from years of knowing exactly when Suguru Geto had entered a room. Satoru didn’t turn around. Suguru spoke first, voice low, rough from cold and exhaustion:

“I knew you’d be here.”

Satoru exhaled through his nose. “Congratulations. Go away.”

Suguru walked up beside him, leaning against the railing with infuriating ease. His coat shifted in the wind, hair tied back loosely, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. He looked tired. He looked irritated. He looked like everything inside him was wound so tightly it might snap if Satoru breathed wrong.

“You just disappear after last night,” Suguru said quietly. “Nanami was worried.”

Satoru scoffed. “Nanami worries about zoning violations and parking tickets. He’s fine.”

“And I was worried,” Suguru added.

Satoru went still. The ocean roared. A gull shrieked overhead.

“You don’t get to worry about me,” Satoru muttered. “Not anymore.”

Suguru turned his head sharply. “Why the hell do you think I don’t? I always have.”

“That’s the problem,” Satoru said, pushing off the railing. “You think caring gives you the right to lecture me. To insult me. To throw my father in my face.”

Suguru’s jaw tightened. “Someone has to tell you the truth.”

“No,” Satoru snapped. “Someone had to love me. You didn’t.”

Suguru flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible shift, but he didn’t step back. He stepped forward.

“So this,” Suguru said, eyes narrowing, “this is you running away?”

“Not running,” Satoru muttered. “Escaping.”

Suguru snorted. “Same thing.”

Satoru shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “I just wanted a quiet day. I just wanted one hour where I wasn’t Gojo Group’s heir or Masahiro’s favorite dog or your biggest mistake.” His voice cracked. “I just wanted to pretend I was a normal New Yorker.”

Suguru let out a sharp bark of laughter, humorless, cutting.

“Oh, don’t start that crap.”

“What crap?”

Suguru stared at him with something like disbelief. “You. Wanting to be normal.”

Satoru glared. “I can wish for a quieter life.”

“And you can lie to yourself,” Suguru replied coldly.

Satoru felt the irritation rise like heat beneath his skin. “Why does it matter to you? Why do you always have to ruin everything peaceful for me?”

“Because you’re full of shit, Satoru,” Suguru snapped. “You don’t want a normal life. You want to feel sorry for yourself for five minutes and pretend you’d survive without everything you were handed.”

Satoru’s blood ran hot. “Don’t talk to me like you know—”

“I DO KNOW!” Suguru shouted. “You can’t handle being poor.”

Satoru inhaled sharply. “Fuck you.”

“No, fuck YOU,” Suguru shot back. “You come here, to Coney Island, of all places, dressed in cashmere, driving a car worth more than thirty people’s annual salaries, and tell me you want to be normal? You wouldn’t last a week without money.”

Satoru’s hands balled into fists. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s the truth,” Suguru said. “You can’t handle losing. You can’t handle being vulnerable. You can’t handle being ordinary. You never could.”

Satoru stepped closer. “And you can’t handle the fact that I didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

Suguru stepped in too. “No, Satoru, I can’t handle watching you pretend you’re not drowning in the life your father forced on you.”

“And you’re drowning in Blackthorn,” Satoru spat. “At least I’m drowning in something that belongs to me.”

Suguru’s eyes flashed. “The company belongs to Masahiro. Not you.”

“IT WILL!” Satoru shouted. “It will.”

Suguru clicked his tongue. “You keep saying that like you’re convincing yourself.”

Satoru shoved him. Suguru stumbled back a step, then surged forward, grabbing Satoru by the jacket.

“Try that again.”

Satoru did. Their bodies slammed together, not with affection, not with longing, but with frustration sharpened into movement. Suguru shoved him back against the railing. Satoru pushed off and swung, not a punch but a shove strong enough to make Suguru stumble. People on the boardwalk stared. Someone muttered, “Is this a TikTok stunt?” A teenager filmed it. A hotdog vendor rolled his cart away.

Suguru growled, “You’re pathetic—”

“And you’re jealous—”

“OF WHAT?!”

“My life,” Satoru hissed. “My father. My inheritance. My future.”

Suguru shoved him harder. “I’m jealous of nothing. I pity you.”

“Don’t,” Satoru snarled, voice breaking, “pity me.”

Suguru’s grip tightened. “Then stop being pitiful.”

Satoru swung again, a shove, not a punch, but violent enough to send Suguru stumbling sideways onto the sand. Suguru got up immediately, brushing sand from his coat, laughing breathlessly.

“Satoru Gojo. Runaway prince of Manhattan. Pretending he wants to be a commoner.”

Satoru’s voice was raw when he said it:

“I want peace.”

“No,” Suguru said, stepping close again. “You want escape.”

Satoru felt his throat constrict. “Is that so wrong?”

“Yes!” Suguru’s voice cracked. “Because you can’t have both. Because you were born into a war. Because the world won’t let you be peaceful. Because your father won’t let you. Because YOU won’t let you.”

Satoru whispered, “I can try.”

Suguru’s jaw clenched. “You don’t try, Satoru. You run. Until something pulls you back.”

“Like what?”

Suguru didn’t answer. Their breaths collided. Their chests rose and fell too fast. For a terrifying second Satoru thought they might kiss again. Or fight again. Or break again. Instead Suguru stepped back, just slightly, and said hoarsely:

“You’re not made for peace.”

Satoru swallowed. “Neither are you.”

Suguru looked away, jaw tight, the wind slicing between them.

“Maybe not,” he murmured. “But you can’t pretend you’re a normal New Yorker. You’d die without money.”

Satoru’s voice trembled. “At least I’m trying to be more than my father’s shadow.”

Suguru stiffened. “Then stop letting him decide your life.”

Satoru stepped forward. “Then stop being part of the reason it hurts.”

That hit Suguru harder than the shove. He froze. Satoru exhaled shakily and said the truth he’d been too afraid to say:

“You make it worse. Every time. And I keep letting you.”

Suguru looked at him, pain flickering, then turning into something colder.

“You left that court last night,” he said quietly. “You left me. Again.”

Satoru’s throat burned. “Because if I stayed, I’d never leave.”

Suguru looked at him for a long, long moment. Then turned away, and walked down the boardwalk, disappearing into the fog, leaving Satoru standing alone by the ocean, torn between the life he wanted, the life he hated, and the life he was expected to live. 

Satoru didn’t move at first. He stood on the boardwalk watching Suguru’s silhouette grow smaller, swallowed by fog and cheap neon lights that flickered like dying fireflies. The ocean wind carved at his face, cold and sharp, the kind that sliced through expensive coats and old memories alike. He could still taste Suguru on his lips, not from last night’s kiss, but from the words they’d thrown like weapons.

You can’t handle being poor.
You’re pretending to be normal.
You’re running from a life you refuse to face.

Satoru breathed in the salt of the sea and the rot of the boardwalk wood, and something inside him, something he thought he buried years ago under wealth, bravado, and Gojo arrogance, cracked. Suguru did not understand. He never had. He never would. Coney Island wasn’t just an escape. It was a childhood he never had. It was a life he wasn’t allowed. It was normalcy he’d watched from a distance through tinted car windows. 

Satoru remembered being eight years old, staring out from the back seat of a chauffeured Mercedes while other kids ran across the sand, clutching their parents’ hands, screaming with joy as they chased seagulls or begged for cotton candy. He remembered pointing once, just once, timidly, the way children point at dreams they don’t yet realize are forbidden. His father said, “We’re not doing that.” His mother said, “Coney Island is for ordinary people.” Instead, they drove him to The Hamptons. His childhood “vacations” were weekends there, sterile, expensive, devoid of warmth. A mansion he didn’t need. A private beach he didn’t enjoy. A week of seeing his mother, cold, immaculate, lonely, sitting by the pool with a glass of white wine at 2 PM and another at 3 PM and another at 4 PM, sunglasses hiding whether she was sleeping or crying and his father locked in the soundproof study from sunrise to sundown, barking at executives on the phone while Satoru played alone in a room too large for one child. He remembered looking out the car window on the LIE, watching minivans full of normal families drive past with bumper stickers and snack wrappers and too much energy. He remembered staring at children running on the beach with plastic buckets and sand in their hair while his mother scolded him for letting sand touch his shoes. He remembered watching a family at Coney Island when he was nine. A mother and father laughing as their daughter begged for a second ride on the cyclone. A little boy on his father’s shoulders pointing at fireworks. The smell of cotton candy. The noise. The chaos. The love. He had stood very still and whispered, “…They look happy.” His mother had replied, “Money doesn’t buy class, Satoru. Don’t stare.”

Satoru Gojo had always been a New Yorker. Not in the romanticized sense, no subway nostalgia, no childhood in Queens, no immigrant story, no cramped apartment with radiators that hissed in winter. He was a New Yorker of a different breed: born in Manhattan, on a block with old money older than the nation itself, in a townhouse built during the Gilded Age when robber barons and steel kings believed marble was the closest thing to godliness. His childhood home was a 7-story mausoleum pretending to be a house. Marble staircase. Chandeliers large enough to crush a person. A library filled with books no one read. A living room reserved for guests who never came. Portraits of ancestors who stared down at him like they were waiting to judge his eventual failure. A ballroom that had not hosted a party since the 1920s. And outside, New York lived, loud, chaotic, joyful, while inside, the Gojo townhouse existed in a kind of cold, curated silence.

Suguru had only been inside twice. Each time, he’d looked around with a mixture of awe and discomfort, as if he were visiting a historical site, not his best friend’s home. And each time he’d left with the same faint expression, a realization that Satoru had never lived in a house, but a legacy. A museum of expectations. He never understood why Satoru loved Coney Island so much. And that was the tragic part, Satoru thought he did. Suguru thought Coney Island was Satoru’s version of slumming it. A guilty fantasy of being poor. A place he came to cosplay normality for 45 minutes before returning to marble floors and chauffeured cars and a life built on generational power. Suguru never knew the truth. Satoru loved Coney Island because it was the only place in New York where he could see families. Real families. Mothers laughing with their kids. Fathers carrying toddlers on their shoulders. Teenagers arguing about rides and funnel cakes. Couples sharing cheap soft-serve ice cream. Children screaming not from fear but joy. 

Satoru had never experienced that. Not once. So yes, he loved Coney Island. Loved the chaos, the cheapness, the humanity. Loved the way it made him feel small, unimportant, ordinary. Suguru would never understand that.

But Satoru wasn’t ready to let him walk away. Not this time. He ran. Down the boardwalk. Past the tourists. Past the vendors. Past a group of teenagers who pointed and whispered, “Is that—? Nah, can’t be.” He caught up to Suguru near the corner where the boardwalk met the cracked sidewalk, a liminal place where nostalgia and Brooklyn grit collided.

“Suguru,” Satoru called out, breathless. “Wait.”

Suguru didn’t slow down. So Satoru grabbed him by the sleeve.

Suguru jerked his arm away immediately, spinning around with eyes still burning from their earlier fight. “What now?”

Satoru stood there panting, coat unbuttoned, hair whipped by the wind, the ocean roaring behind them like an ancient witness. There was so much he could have said. So many accusations. So many wounds to reopen. But only one question had clawed at him for years, buried beneath pride and anger and everything they had become.

“What made you so fucking loyal to Yaga?” Satoru asked. “What did that man do for you? What did he give you that I didn’t?”

Suguru froze. Satoru took one step closer.

“Why him?” Satoru’s voice shook with something deeper than jealousy, deeper than betrayal. “Why does he get the loyalty you never gave me?”

Suguru blinked, slowly, as if the question had hit him somewhere he never let anyone see.

Satoru pushed on, unable to stop now that the dam had cracked. “I’m not asking as Gojo Group’s heir. I’m asking as the kid who you used to sit with on this very boardwalk, the kid you smoked with behind the bleachers, the kid you—”

His voice faltered. Suguru’s expression flickered, annoyance, pain, exhaustion, something else.

“You want the truth?” Suguru asked quietly.

Satoru nodded. Suguru stepped back until the lamplight hit his face. He looked older than he had ten minutes ago. Older than he had ten years ago. There was something carved into his expression that Satoru had never seen, or never allowed himself to see.

“You want to know what Yaga did for me?” Suguru asked, voice low.

Satoru swallowed. “Yes.”

Suguru let out a breath that sounded like a confession being dragged out of him.

“He didn’t scream,” Suguru said. “He didn’t demand. He didn’t control. He didn’t treat me like a weapon or an asset or an extension of his legacy.”

Satoru’s throat tightened.

“He found me,” Suguru continued, “after Harvard, after Haibara, after… everything. You know what I looked like back then.”

Satoru did. He remembered. The hollowed eyes, the shaking hands, the self-destruction contained only by sheer, desperate stubbornness.

“And instead of asking me to prove my worth,” Suguru said, “Yaga told me I already had it.”

Satoru felt something cold and awful bloom in his chest.

“He gave me structure,” Suguru said. “Purpose. Respect. A place to be more than the mess I was becoming.”

Satoru’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And I didn’t?”

Suguru looked at him, deeply, painfully.

“You gave me everything,” Suguru said, “except the one thing I needed.”

Satoru’s breath hitched. “Which was?”

“Safety.”

Satoru exhaled shakily, every muscle in his chest tightening. Suguru took another step back as if distance mattered, as if distance protected either of them.

“Yaga is harsh,” Suguru said. “Ruthless. Uncompromising. But he never pretended I owed him my life.”

Satoru felt lightheaded. “And you think I did?”

Suguru’s voice was quiet now, too quiet.

“With you,” he said, “I never knew where I stood. I never knew if I mattered because you loved me or because you were lonely or because I was the only person who wasn’t afraid of you. And I could never compete with your father.”

Satoru’s heart cracked.

“So yes, Satoru,” Suguru finished. “I’m loyal to Yaga. Because he sees me. Because he chooses me. Because with him, I’m not the boy crawling into your bedroom window at night just to make sure you’re still breathing.”

Satoru staggered. That memory, the one Suguru had never spoken aloud, hit him like a hurricane. Suguru looked at him then, eyes dark and tired.

“You wanted to know,” he murmured. “Now you do.”

Satoru didn’t move. Couldn’t. Suguru turned away again. And this time, Satoru didn’t try to stop him. Because the truth was finally out. And it hurt far worse than any punch he’d thrown at Coney Island.

Suguru left him standing there, on a half-deserted Brooklyn street, the ocean wind whipping his hair, the taste of heartbreak and salt lodged somewhere between his teeth. Satoru remained frozen long after Suguru disappeared into the fog, unable to move, unable to breathe. Coney Island wasn’t supposed to end like that. Not with Suguru walking away again. Not with truth laid bare like a wound. Not with Satoru saying nothing when it mattered most. But he couldn’t stay still. Not now. Not after hearing that reason, the reason Suguru had chosen Yaga over him, over the life they almost had. Safety. Security. A place without Masahiro Gojo’s shadow. 

Satoru hadn’t known what to do with that information. He still didn’t. But his body moved anyway. He jogged back to the lot, fumbled with his keys, slammed himself into the driver’s seat of the Aston Martin, and peeled out of the parking space like someone being chased. The engine roared beneath him, sleek and furious and too loud for the quiet pain festering in his chest. He didn’t plan on following Suguru. He really didn’t. It just… happened. Like gravity. Like addiction.

He spotted Suguru’s car, that black, understated, smug European sedan he loved too much for what it represented, turning toward the highway ramp. Satoru didn’t think; he turned too, accelerating far too quickly, merging into traffic like a storm cloud with wheels. Every mile felt like pulling out threads of an old tapestry woven from years of co-dependency, love, rage, and something too big to name. But it wasn’t until he saw the overhead sign that he realized something was wrong.

I-95 NORTH → BOSTON

Satoru’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. Boston?

“Why the fuck,” he muttered, heart pounding, “is he driving to Boston?”

Suguru didn’t run to Boston. Suguru didn’t go anywhere without calculating every variable. Except. Except he did. To see one person. Shoko Ieiri. Satoru felt his stomach drop, then twist, then ignite in a way he hated admitting, jealousy, ugly and hot and humiliating. Right. Of course Suguru was going to Boston. To see Shoko, the one person besides Satoru whom he’d ever let that façade drop around. The woman who’d patched him back together, hooked up with him, smoked with him, dissected him with a scalpel and a smirk. Fucking. Not romantically. But consistently. Soft in the dark, cold in the light.

Satoru slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Of course. Of fucking COURSE.”

He was pathetic. So pathetic it almost made him laugh. Here he was, Satoru Gojo, heir of an empire, owner of five Manhattan properties, driver of a car worth more than a studio apartment, following his ex almost-lover across state lines like a deranged college student with abandonment issues. He hated himself. He hated Suguru. He hated that he couldn’t stop.

The sky darkened as the city shrank behind him, giving way to the long, cold stretch of interstate. Satoru sped. Slowed. Sped again. He didn’t know whether he wanted to catch up or lose sight of Suguru entirely. His mind spiraled. Suguru didn’t choose him. Suguru chose Yaga. Suguru chose safety. Suguru chose Shoko. And Satoru chose, he didn’t even know. Somewhere around New Haven, he broke. He pressed the phone button on his steering wheel.

“Call Utahime.”

It rang twice before her annoyed voice answered, “You better be dying.”

“I’m lonely,” Satoru blurted.

“Not my problem,” she said instantly.

“And horny.”

Utahime made a noise so disgusted he nearly laughed. “Satoru Gojo, what the hell—”

“This is a safe space,” Satoru insisted.

“No, it is not,” she snapped. “I am at the Treasury. I am in a meeting. I am surrounded by people.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“No,” Satoru muttered. “I’m driving.”

“Where?”

“Boston.”

A beat of silence.

“Why?” Utahime asked, voice dripping dread.

“Following Suguru.”

A longer beat of silence. Satoru could practically feel her losing will to live.

“Satoru,” she said slowly, “do not, EVER, tell a federal employee that you are crossing state lines to stalk your ex-situationship.”

“I’m not stalking,” Satoru mumbled.

“Yes you are.”

“I’m just… tracking.”

“That is worse.”

Satoru sighed dramatically. “He’s going to see Shoko.”

“So?” Utahime asked, unimpressed.

“So?!”

“Satoru,” she said, voice flat, “you’re thirty-three.”

“Emotionally, I’m twelve.”

“I know,” she replied.

He groaned into the steering wheel. “Utahime, I’m pathetic.”

“Yes.”

“And sad.”

“Yes.”

“And needy.”

“Painfully.”

“Are you lonely?” he asked abruptly.

“No,” she said, “because I have self-respect.”

Satoru winced. “Low blow.”

“And,” Utahime continued, “because I’m not following anyone to Boston to have a breakdown.”

“I’m not having a breakdown,” he insisted.

“You’re calling your ex-wife from the interstate asking if I’m horny,” she countered. “This is the definition of a breakdown.”

Satoru couldn’t argue. He knew she was right. He hated that she was right.

Utahime sighed sharply. “Listen to me. Turn around. Go home. Sleep. For once in your life, choose dignity.”

Satoru stared at the road, at the taillights disappearing in the distance, Suguru’s taillights.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

“Why not?”

“Because I need answers.”

Utahime paused. Softened. Just enough.

“Then get them in the morning,” she said. “Not like this. Not chasing him across the East Coast like some tragic indie-film protagonist.”

Satoru swallowed. “Okay.”

“No,” she corrected. “Say it like an adult.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “…Okay.”

“Good,” Utahime said. “Now hang up and turn the car around.”

He hung up. He didn’t turn around. He kept driving north. Because even when the whole world told him to stop, even when logic screamed at him to pull over, even when he knew he looked like a lunatic, Satoru Gojo had never once stopped chasing Suguru Geto. And he didn’t know how to start now.

Satoru Gojo made it as far as the Rhode Island state line before his nervous system finally short-circuited. One moment he was gripping the wheel, heart pounding, headlights stretching endlessly over I-95, imagining Suguru slipping into Shoko’s Boston apartment with that easy familiarity that always made Satoru irrationally furious. The next moment, the reality hit him so hard he actually said it out loud:

“What the fuck am I doing?”

He slammed the brakes a little harder than necessary, pulling onto an exit ramp that led to a gas station with depressing fluorescent lights. His breath fogged the glass. His heart thudded. His pulse skidded wildly between rage and humiliation. He stared at himself in the mirror of the rearview. Messy hair. Puffy eyes. A man who had just followed another man across state lines like a lovesick idiot.

“This is pathetic,” he whispered.

Bear would have judged him. Nanami would have murdered him. Utahime would have recorded footage to show him later in court. He exhaled shakily and turned the car around. He didn’t want to see Suguru with Shoko. He didn’t want to know what they were doing. He didn’t want confirmation of the ache in his ribs. So he fled. Cowardly, yes. Self-protective, absolutely. By the time he made it back to Manhattan, it was almost midnight. He pulled into the underground garage of his penthouse, parked the Aston Martin, and got out without shutting the door fully, the exhaustion making him clumsy.

Inside the penthouse, the silence felt too large. Too cold. Too empty. He stripped off his clothes, dropped them on the floor, stepped into the shower, and let almost-scalding water burn the night off his skin. His heartbeat slowed. His mind didn’t. Suguru. Suguru. Suguru. Everything came back to him. He dried his hair aggressively, stomped into his closet, and pulled on an outfit he could only describe as emotional emergency couture, dark trousers, soft cashmere, a jacket that made him look put together even when his soul was in shambles. He looked in the mirror. Still hollow. He needed comfort. He needed grounding. He needed, “Bear,” he whispered.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he grabbed a different set of keys. Not the Aston. Not the McLaren. Not the Porsche. No. He chose the Jaguar, sleek, aggressive, fast, perfect for quietly self-destructing without attracting paparazzi. Perfect for long drives. Perfect for running away from the city and from himself. The doorman barely had time to wish him a good night before Satoru burned down Fifth Avenue, heading south, then west, then straight down the interstate. He didn’t think. He didn’t plan. He just drove until the night swallowed him whole.

About four hours later, he was pulling into Georgetown, the quiet brick townhouses lit by soft streetlamps. He parked illegally, because no cop in D.C. wanted the headache of ticketing a Gojo, and walked up to Utahime’s door with all the confidence of a man who had none. He knocked once. Then twice. Then louder. The door finally swung open. Utahime stood there in sweats and a tank top, hair loose, one sock on, the other missing. She stared at him with the dead-eyed expression of someone who worked at the Treasury and did not have the emotional bandwidth for whatever this was. Behind her, a man, tall, handsome, wearing a rumpled Oxford shirt, peeked into the hallway.

“Oh hell no,” Utahime muttered.

Satoru did not greet her. He did not speak. He walked past her. Straight past her. Straight into the living room. Straight to Bear, who was sprawled across the rug chewing one of Utahime’s slippers.

“MY SON,” Satoru announced dramatically, scooping Bear into his arms.

Bear barked happily, the only living creature thrilled to see him.

Utahime stared at Satoru, horrified. “Why are you here?”

Satoru buried his face into Bear’s fur, inhaling dramatically. “I needed my emotional support animal.”

“You forfeited custody for the month!”

“He forfeited nothing,” Satoru said, petting Bear’s ears. “I birthed him.”

The man in the back blinked slowly. “Uh—”

Satoru finally turned, eyes narrowing. “Who the fuck is that?”

Utahime slapped her forehead. “Satoru, get out.”

Satoru ignored her entirely and marched toward her, Bear still in his arms. He pressed two quick, affectionate kisses onto her cheek. Her fling looked like he’d just witnessed an affair unfold in real time.

“Satoru,” Utahime hissed, “stop kissing me.”

He kissed her once more just to be petty. “Sorry. Reflex.”

The man cleared his throat. “I should—”

“Yes,” Utahime snapped. “You should.”

He grabbed his jacket and fled the townhouse like he thought Satoru might challenge him to a duel. Satoru watched him disappear, then turned to Utahime.

“Were you—?” he began.

“YES,” she answered loudly.

Satoru clutched Bear tighter. “Gross.”

Utahime closed the door, face red from mortification and rage. “Why. Are. You. Here.”

Satoru sagged onto her couch, Bear sprawled across his lap. “I chickened out.”

Utahime blinked. “Out of what?”

“Following Suguru to Boston.”

She deflated, exhausted. “…of course.”

“And then,” Satoru continued, voice cracking, “I needed to hug Bear.”

Utahime rubbed her temples. “You could’ve asked.”

“No,” Satoru said, dramatically collapsing. “I needed to arrive.”

“You ruined my night.”

“You ruined my marriage.”

“We divorced because YOU emotionally cheated.”

“Semantics.”

Utahime groaned and dropped onto the chair opposite him. Satoru buried his face into Bear again. Bear licked him. It helped. A little.

“I hate him,” Satoru whispered.

“No,” Utahime corrected softly. “You don’t.”

Satoru shut his eyes. Because she was right. And because he hated that she was right.

“Fine,” he murmured. “I love him.”

Utahime sighed. “Also correct.”

Satoru’s voice cracked. “But he doesn’t choose me.”

Utahime finally softened, truly softened, for the first time that night.

“That,” she said quietly, “is the part you need to stop running from.”

And for once, Satoru didn’t argue. He just sat there, clutching Bear in his arms like he was the only thing keeping him from falling apart on his ex-wife’s couch in Washington, D.C. at one in the morning.

Utahime Iori had known, from the moment Satoru Gojo appeared at her doorstep like a manic rich stray cat, that the night would end in a disaster. She hadn’t expected the exact form of the disaster, of course, disasters with Satoru were never predictable, only inevitable, but when she found herself half-asleep in her own bed with Satoru beside her, Bear sprawled across both their legs like a warm judgmental loaf, she knew she had crossed a line she swore she would never cross again. There was nothing explicit about it. No wild reunion. No dramatic passion. Just two exhausted people collapsing beside each other because loneliness was louder than logic. They slept. That was all.

But in the morning, when Satoru draped an arm over her waist with the emotional neediness of a child clinging to the last adult in the apocalypse, Utahime had enough self-awareness to feel immediate regret.

She groaned into her pillow. “This,” she muttered, “is not a healthy divorce.”

Satoru blinked awake, hair a mess, eyes puffy, breathing warm against her shoulder. “Morning.”

“No,” she corrected. “Not morning. Mistake.”

“Semantics,” he mumbled, nuzzling Bear.

Utahime sat up, rubbing her face like she was praying for strength. “I need to stop condoning you. And your behaviors. And your choices. And your… everything.”

Satoru blinked innocently. “I’m charming.”

“You’re emotionally feral,” she corrected.

Satoru sighed dramatically. “Suguru’s probably doing the same thing with Shoko.”

Utahime nearly threw a pillow at his head. “Oh my god, Satoru. This is not a competition.”

He stared at her with wide, wounded eyes. “He gets Boston. I get D.C.”

“This is not a custody agreement for adultery,” Utahime snapped.

Satoru crossed his arms. “Well, he started it.”

“You’re thirty-three.”

“And?”

“And you’re behaving like a manchild.”

“Harsh.”

“Accurate,” she countered, sliding out of bed and grabbing her robe. “You don’t need to ‘get back at him.’ This isn’t middle school. You’re billionaires. You’re adults. You’re… whatever Suguru and Shoko’s situation is.”

Satoru scowled. “…a situationship.”

“Good,” Utahime said. “Then communicate.”

Satoru recoiled like she’d slapped him. “What?”

“Talk,” she said simply. “To him. Like a grown man. Use words instead of emotionally sabotaging yourself in three different states.”

Satoru blinked slowly. “I don’t… talk.”

“Correct,” she said. “That’s why everything is on fire.”

Satoru grumbled. “Therapist told me that too.”

“Then maybe listen,” she said.

Satoru muttered something unintelligible. Utahime took it as consent.

“Fine,” she said, tossing his phone onto his lap. “Call him.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, now. Before you convince yourself to drive to Maine next for emotional closure.”

Satoru sighed dramatically, picked up his phone, and stared at Suguru’s name like it was a grenade.

“Call him,” Utahime repeated.

“Fine,” Satoru muttered. “But if he’s in bed with Shoko, I’m—”

“You will hang up politely,” Utahime snapped.

Satoru grumbled but hit call anyway. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Then, “Satoru?” Suguru’s voice, low, rough, unmistakable.

Something inside Satoru snapped open. “Where the hell are you?”

Suguru exhaled sharply. “You called me at seven in the morning to ask that?”

“Are you with Shoko?”

“None of your business.”

“That means yes.”

“That means none of your business,” Suguru repeated, voice sharpening. “What do you want?”

“I—” Satoru hesitated, then forced the truth out. “We need to talk.”

Suguru snorted softly. “That would require you knowing how to talk.”

Satoru bristled. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

Utahime gave him a thumbs-up from the doorway. Satoru flipped her off without breaking eye contact with the floor.

Satoru inhaled. “Suguru… yesterday—”

“Was a mistake,” Suguru said flatly.

Satoru felt the words physically. Like a bruise. “I— no. I don’t think it was.”

Suguru’s silence said everything.

Satoru swallowed. “We keep hurting each other.”

“We do,” Suguru agreed. “Because you never say what you mean.”

“You never let me!”

“You never try!”

“I DID—”

“You ran away,” Suguru snapped. “You always run.”

Satoru pressed a hand to his forehead. “Suguru… I drove halfway to Boston.”

“I know,” Suguru muttered.

Satoru winced. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Suguru said. “Oh.”

Satoru swallowed. “…I didn’t know how to say what I meant.”

“And what’s that?” Suguru asked quietly.

Satoru closed his eyes. “That I—”

His voice cracked.

“—that I still—”

Suguru waited. But before Satoru could say the word, Suguru cut him off.

“I love you.”

The world stilled. Satoru’s breath stopped.

“But I can’t,” Suguru continued, voice trembling from exhaustion and anger and truth, “I can’t fucking stomach you.”

Satoru felt something inside him fracture. Suguru’s breathing was ragged on the other end of the line.

“You break me,” Suguru whispered. “You always have. And I still—” His breath shook, cracking into a whisper. “—I still love you. But loving you is like swallowing barbed wire.”

Satoru’s throat burned. “Suguru—”

“Don’t,” Suguru said sharply. “Don’t say anything you don’t mean. Not this time.”

Satoru trembled. “I do mean it.”

“Then say it,” Suguru whispered back.

Satoru opened his mouth. But nothing came out. Because in the end, Suguru was right. Satoru didn’t know how to say the one thing he’d buried for years. Not even now. Not even with everything falling apart.

Suguru exhaled, defeated. “That’s what I thought.”

The line went quiet. Not dead. Not ended. Just quiet in a way that felt like grief.

Satoru whispered, “Don’t hang up.”

Suguru didn’t. But he didn’t speak, either.

Chapter Text

Satoru Gojo had reached a new personal low: bedrotting in the former marital bed of his ex-wife while wearing her old Georgetown sweatshirt, eating leftover vegan pad thai, cuddling Bear like a life raft, and ignoring no fewer than fourteen text messages from Nanami, all of which escalated in tone from professional concern to veiled threats to explicit legal consequences. Utahime had not planned for this. No one plans for their billionaire ex-husband to show up sobbing at 1 AM clutching a dog like a Victorian ghost bride and then simply never leave.

Day one was tolerable. Utahime made him tea and handed him tissues and told her fling, who nervously checked in via text, “No, he’s not dangerous, he’s just Satoru.”

Day two was uncomfortable. Satoru refused to get out of bed. He demanded Bear be placed on his chest at all times “for emotional grounding.” Utahime had a Treasury meeting and returned home to find him lying on her couch watching Succession reruns and muttering, “Logan Roy is my father, but hotter.” Bear was wearing one of Utahime’s scrunchies. Satoru ordered Korean food. He left kimchi containers everywhere. She nearly strangled him.

Day three, the situation was alarming enough that her colleagues began whispering in the hallways. One intern from the sanctions analysis team whispered, “Is this like… a reconciliation arc?” Another asked, “Is he moving back in?” A senior officer muttered, “If she reunites with him, HR will combust.” Utahime denied all allegations. Then immediately asked for permission to work remotely because Satoru was “emotionally compromised” and also had eaten all her yogurt. By the third afternoon, Utahime stood over her bed like a federal prosecutor with a case file.

“Satoru,” she said, hands on her hips, “you cannot live in my townhouse.”

Satoru didn’t open his eyes. “I can.”

“You should not.”

“I will.”

“You have responsibilities.”

“I delegated.”

“To BEAR?”

“Utahime,” Satoru whined, curling into a fetal position, “my heart is broken. Suguru said he loves me but cannot stomach me. I am un-stomachable. I am grieving. I am rotcore.”

“You’re a manchild.”

“Yes,” he whispered dramatically. “But a heartbroken one.”

Before Utahime could respond, her doorbell rang five times in rapid succession, the exact number of rings that meant only one thing: Kento Nanami had arrived, and he was out of patience.

Utahime didn’t even make it halfway down the hall before Nanami stormed into her townhouse like a SWAT team on a caffeine shortage. He removed his gloves with the exhaustion of someone who had fought too many battles and won none of them.

“Satoru,” Nanami said, voice cold and deadly, “get up.”

Satoru burrowed deeper under the blankets. “No.”

Nanami marched into the bedroom, pulled the duvet away like a magician revealing a dead dove, and stared down at Satoru with a look that could have turned a weaker man into stone.

Utahime crossed her arms. “Take him.”

Nanami grabbed Satoru by the arm.

“Oh my god,” Satoru gasped. “Is this kidnapping? Is this federal? Utahime, help!”

“Trust me,” Utahime said, sipping her coffee, “I want this more than he does.”

“Utahime,” Satoru cried, betrayed. “I thought we were trauma-bonded.”

“Get out of my bed,” she said flatly.

Nanami pulled harder. “Get dressed. Now.”

“No,” Satoru said, clutching Bear. “I’m in mourning.”

Nanami’s voice dropped several octaves. “Satoru. Your father is looking for you.”

Satoru froze.

“Masahiro?” he whispered, like a child fearing a monster under the bed.

“Yes,” Nanami said. “And if I don’t drag you back to New York in the next thirty minutes, he will drive down here himself, drop a helicopter onto this block, and personally kill both of us.”

Satoru sat up immediately. “Let me get my coat.”

Utahime muttered, “Unbelievable.”

Nanami continued, relentless. “There is a meeting with Blackthorn. In five hours.”

Satoru stiffened. “Blackthorn is coming to us?”

“No,” Nanami said, “Yaga requested an in-person session. And your father wants you there. Actually wants you. Which means he is either planning something large or extremely illegal.”

Satoru blanched. “Or both.”

“Both,” Nanami confirmed.

Satoru ran a hand through his hair. “Oh god.”

Nanami grabbed his shoulders. “You need to be sober, upright, and not smelling like sadness.”

Utahime approached, grabbed his chin, and sniffed. “He smells like depression and leftover dumplings.”

Nanami glared. “Go. Shower. Now.”

“But—”

“NOW, Satoru.”

Satoru scrambled to his feet.

While he showered, Nanami examined the townhouse with increasing irritation, picking up Satoru’s abandoned clothing, Bear’s toys, and the two empty kimchi containers on the floor.

Utahime stared at Nanami. “He’s your problem now.”

Nanami sighed, “He is everyone’s problem.”

Fifteen minutes later, Satoru emerged, damp-haired, wearing Utahime’s Georgetown sweater and sweatpants like a disgraced prep school heir.

Nanami nearly choked. “Change.”

“No,” Satoru said. “This is my comfort outfit.”

“You look homeless,” Nanami stated.

“And?” Satoru countered.

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your father will murder me.”

Utahime tossed Satoru’s coat at him. “Go destroy someone else’s home.”

Satoru hugged her. “Thanks for the emotional support.”

Utahime shoved him away. “I enabled you. Never again.”

He kissed her cheek. “See you next breakdown.”

She slammed the door behind him.

Outside, Nanami shoved Satoru into the waiting car, Bear reluctantly left behind in Utahime’s arms like a hostage.

“Nanami,” Satoru murmured, “I’m unwell.”

“No one cares,” Nanami said. “Be functional anyway.”

Satoru sighed dramatically, leaning back as the car sped toward the highway. “Suguru broke my heart.”

“And?” Nanami replied.

“And I’m spiraling.”

“And?”

“And my father wants to kill me.”

“Correct,” Nanami said. “Now sit up straight.”

Satoru groaned. “Why is life happening to me?”

Nanami turned to him, calm and deadly. “Because you let it. Now stop crying and prepare. A tender offer is coming.”

Satoru froze.

“A tender offer…?” he echoed.

Nanami looked ahead, expression grim.

“Yes,” he said. “Yaga’s making a move.”

And Satoru’s entire body went cold. Because tender offers weren’t soft. They weren’t gentle. They weren’t romantic. They were war. And Suguru was standing on the other side of the battlefield.

The car ride back to New York was suffocating. Nanami sat rigid beside Satoru, scanning documents on his tablet with the kind of concentration reserved for neurosurgeons and bomb defusal teams. Satoru, slumped against the window, watched D.C. shrink behind them, brick houses fading into highway, highway fading into dark clouds, dark clouds thickening with the weight of a war he hadn’t asked for and wasn’t ready to fight.

But Yaga was. Yaga had always been. And the closer they got to Manhattan, the clearer it became, Yaga Masamichi did not see Satoru Gojo as an opponent. Not truly. Not ever. In Yaga’s mind, Satoru was an heir, ornamental, reactive, predictable, messy. An emotionally volatile aristocrat whose power rested not in strategy but in lineage. A boy groomed by privilege and pressure, talented enough to shine but not enough to threaten him. Masahiro Gojo had once said to a board member, half mockingly: “My son has genius. Not discipline.” Yaga heard that once in an earnings call. He believed it completely. To Yaga, Satoru was background noise. Atmosphere. A variable, not a danger. An heir who could be manipulated, provoked, distracted, broken down. 

Nanami? Yaga respected Nanami, even feared the precision of his mind, but only within boundaries. Nanami was brilliant, yes. Meticulous. Fearless. But Nanami was also a servant of structure, addicted to duty, bound to the Gojo name by contracts and loyalty he could not break. A sidekick, never the protagonist. A weapon, never the general.

Which left only one person worthy of being Yaga’s true opposite. Only one who commanded his full attention. Only one whose intellect and ruthlessness mirrored his own. Masahiro Gojo. Not Satoru. Never Satoru. Yaga’s match in this corporate war was the man who had built an empire from dust and blood, whose strategic mind was infamous across continents, whose name made billionaires tremble and governments negotiate. Masahiro Gojo, the original monster The architect of four hostile takeovers. The man rumored to have executed a CEO coup at age twenty-eight. Yaga wanted to win against him. Not for profit. Not for valuation. But for legacy. This was not business. This was mythmaking.

And that meant the tender offer, the thing Nanami whispered like a curse, was never directed at Satoru. Not really. It was a message. A declaration. A shot fired across Masahiro’s chessboard.

Tender fucking offer his ass. 

Satoru wasn’t the target. He was the pawn.

Nanami didn’t speak until they crossed the state line.

“Satoru,” he said quietly, without looking up from the tablet. “Yaga does not consider you his match.”

Satoru blinked, exhausted. “Well. That hurts.”

“It’s not personal,” Nanami answered. “It’s strategic.”

“Oh, great.”

“Satoru,” Nanami continued, tone level but edged with tension, “to Yaga, you’re not a threat. Not yet. Not until you choose to be.”

Satoru scoffed. “And what am I now?”

“A liability,” Nanami said bluntly. “And a distraction.”

Satoru slouched deeper into the seat. “Fabulous. I always dreamed of being a billionaire liability.”

Nanami ignored him. “Yaga is moving against Masahiro. He’s not afraid of you. He’s afraid of your father.”

Satoru stared ahead silently. Because hearing it out loud hurt more than he expected.

Nanami continued, clinical as always, “He considers you emotional. Undisciplined. Easy to manipulate. Your relationship with Suguru? A weakness. Your insecurity about your father? A weakness. Your need for approval? A weakness.”

“And what does he consider Masahiro?” Satoru muttered.

Nanami finally looked up.

“A monster.”

Satoru’s breath hitched.

Nanami continued, “A genius. A strategist. A man who has never lost. A man whose ruthlessness outweighs any attachment. Someone who understands war better than Yaga ever has.”

“And me?” Satoru whispered.

“A boy,” Nanami said, not unkindly. “To Yaga, you’re a boy.”

Satoru stared at his reflection in the window, a face too tired, too young, too burdened, too broken by words Suguru had thrown at him the night before. He hated how true it felt. He hated how true it might be.

“Nanami,” Satoru murmured. “What do you see me as?”

Nanami paused. Then answered with brutal honesty.

“A man trying to escape the shadow of a legend,” he said. “A man who doesn’t know his own strength yet. A man who could be dangerous, but hasn’t chosen to be.”

“Why haven’t I?” Satoru whispered.

Nanami didn’t hesitate.

“Because you’re still afraid of becoming him.”

Satoru closed his eyes. That landed harder than anything Suguru had said.

Nanami’s voice softened almost imperceptibly. “But Yaga is wrong about you.”

Satoru cracked one eye open. “Oh? Do tell.”

“You’re unpredictable,” Nanami said. “Emotional, yes. Chaotic, yes. But you also have something your father never did.”

Satoru frowned. “And what’s that?”

“Attachment.”

Satoru blinked.

“Your father works alone,” Nanami explained. “He trusts no one. He is an island. You—” Nanami gestured vaguely toward Satoru’s chest, “—you are a hurricane. You pull people into your orbit. It’s messy. But it’s powerful.”

Satoru didn’t know how to respond to that.

“You underestimate yourself,” Nanami continued. “Yaga does too. That’s his mistake.”

Satoru let the words sit in the space between them. A hurricane. Not a boy. Not a pawn. A force. A weather system. Uncontrollable, overwhelming, devastating.

“…and the tender offer?” Satoru finally asked.

Nanami’s jaw tightened. “It’s not an offer, Satoru. It’s a declaration of war.”

Satoru inhaled sharply.

“Yaga wants the company,” Nanami said. “He wants you destabilized. He wants Suguru weaponized. He wants Masahiro provoked.”

“And he’ll get all of that?”

“Oh,” Nanami said calmly, “he will get much more than he bargained for.”

Satoru frowned. “Why?”

Nanami closed the tablet, his expression colder than a January morning.

“Because Masahiro Gojo didn’t raise an heir,” Nanami said. “He forged a weapon.”

Satoru felt something shiver inside him, fear or power, he couldn’t tell.

“And Satoru,” Nanami continued softly, “a tender offer against your father is not a business move. It is suicide. Yaga thinks he’s playing chess. Masahiro is playing something much older.”

Satoru swallowed.

Nanami turned back toward the road.

“Yaga thinks he is the predator in this battle,” Nanami said. “But he forgets, Masahiro Gojo doesn’t fight predators.”

Satoru stared at him. Nanami finished, voice low and final:

“He devours them.”

Five hours later, Satoru Gojo walked into the Gojo Tower boardroom not as the heir, not as the prodigal son dragged back from emotional exile in D.C., but as a man bracing for impact. The glass walls looked out over Manhattan like a king surveying his kingdom. The table was brushed steel and smoked marble. Nanami stood at one end with a stack of glossy binders and a face carved from disapproval. Executive VPs lined the sides, stiff as funeral attendees. And at the head of the table, Masahiro Gojo. Immovable. Impeccable. Untouchable. He was dressed in a navy wool suit so sharp it looked weaponized, his cane leaning beside him like a scepter, posture straight despite the years and the illness that had nearly crushed him weeks ago. His presence filled the room before he spoke a single word.

Blackthorn arrived exactly on time. Yaga Masamichi entered first, tall, composed, eyes glacial, a man who moved like he owned the air he breathed. Behind him came partners, analysts, his strategic pit crew. And finally, Suguru.

For one moment, Satoru stopped breathing.

Suguru was wearing Blackthorn black, perfectly tailored, immaculate, cold. His hair was tied half-up, exposing the sharpness of his jawline. He looked carved. Controlled. Loyal. Not to Satoru. Not to their shared childhood. Not to their history. To Yaga. Satoru’s chest twisted with something sharp. He forced his expression into neutrality, but Suguru’s eyes flicked over him once, unreadable. Professional. Detached. It stung more than anything said in Boston, Brooklyn, or D.C.

Masahiro didn’t rise. He didn’t greet them. He simply nodded once, like gods nodding to mortals.

“Let’s begin,” he said.

Yaga smiled thinly. “Yes. Let’s.”

The meeting began with pleasantries, which Masahiro allowed out of politeness only. But once the binders opened, the screens flickered on, and strategy decks were revealed, the shift was immediate. Masahiro’s expression sharpened with the precision of a blade. Yaga laid out his tender offer, numbers impressive, arguments airtight, confidence chillingly high. He was speaking to the board, but every phrase was clearly directed at Masahiro, the one opponent he considered worthy. Masahiro listened without blinking. Nanami took notes with ruthless efficiency. Satoru kept his gaze down, jaw tight. Suguru watched him once, just once, with something that flickered like guilt. Then his expression hardened into Blackthorn neutrality.

Blackthorn’s slide deck was as sharp as a scalpel, clean blue gradients, minimalist graphs, understated serif fonts that screamed: we spent $180,000 on McKinsey alumni to prepare this. Yaga spoke with the poise of someone who had already rehearsed the victory speech.

“We propose an acquisition structure consisting of a 42% cash premium over Gojo Group’s thirty-day VWAP,” Yaga said, clicking through a slide filled with valuation comps. “Our tender offer includes a guaranteed minimum condition and a top-up option for long-term shareholders.”

A few board members nodded, numbers that high could hypnotize even the suspicious.

“We are prepared,” Yaga continued, “to absorb the ongoing restructuring risk associated with Project Hikari, including the potential $1.2 billion in regulatory liabilities.” He paused, glanced at Satoru, then at Masahiro. “In exchange, we will gain a controlling equity stake and appoint six directors to the Gojo board.”

Satoru felt his stomach twist. Six directors. That meant effective control. Masahiro would become a figurehead. Satoru would become a decorative heir. Gojo Group would become a Blackthorn puppet. Nanami remained stone-faced, pen held perfectly still.

“And additionally,” Yaga continued, “we believe Gojo Group’s debt covenants, particularly those tied to the 2019 syndicated loan, are at risk of tripping. This jeopardizes your credit rating and may trigger a liquidity event within 9–12 months.”

Satoru’s head snapped up. This was more than hostile. This was prophetic doom-casting. Yaga delivered it like medication: cold, clinical, inevitable. Masahiro still didn’t speak. So Yaga went for the throat.

“While Project Hikari is… ambitious,” he said, the faintest smile appearing, “our internal analysts estimate it will take seven years to reach profitability. Your R&D burn is excessive. Your operational redundancy is astronomical. And—” He flipped to another slide. “—Gojo Group’s subsidiary network is strangled by inefficient spinoffs that should’ve been liquidated years ago.”

Satoru nearly choked. Because that last line was aimed directly at him. He was the one who fought against liquidation of certain subsidiaries, sentimental reasons disguised as strategy. His pet projects. His idealistic attempts at innovation. Suguru noticed. His eyes flicked sharply toward Satoru, reading every crack.

When Yaga finished, he clasped his hands.

“A generous offer,” Yaga said. “And an inevitable one. Gojo Group can avoid unnecessary escalation by cooperating.”

A few board members shifted uncomfortably. Nanami did not. Satoru wanted to laugh. Masahiro leaned back, cane tapping once against the floor.

“Inevitable,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word.

Yaga’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Masahiro’s lips curved.

“I built this company when you were still begging for analyst internships at Goldman.”

Yaga stiffened. “Times have changed.”

Masahiro nodded. “Yes. Decades passed. Rivals rose. Markets evolved.” His smile sharpened. “Competitors died.”

Yaga’s expression flickered. Satoru’s heartbeat quickened. Even Suguru paused.

Nanami finally spoke. “Your internal numbers are inflated.”

“They’re conservative,” Yaga replied.

Nanami’s tone cut like a whip. “Your ‘internal analysts’ don’t have access to our real cash flow modeling. False assumptions don’t make strong arguments.”

Yaga smirked, turning to Masahiro. “Then prove us wrong.”

Masahiro didn’t blink.

Yaga pressed harder. “This is your chance to avoid an ugly, expensive legal battle. The tender offer is clean. Efficient. Beneficial to shareholders.”

Masahiro tapped his cane, once, sharply, and finally lifted his gaze.

“Your premium is high,” Masahiro said evenly, “because your desperation is higher.”

A ripple passed through the room.

Yaga stiffened. “Desperation?”

Masahiro leaned forward, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees. “Let us discuss your last acquisition attempt. The streaming platform. The due diligence disaster. The class-action lawsuit for inadequate disclosure.”

Yaga’s expression didn’t break, but his jaw did tighten.

Masahiro continued, “Your last fund underperformed. Two LPs withdrew. And, if I recall correctly, your bridge financing on the Blackthorn Fund VII has yet to close. Am I right?”

A Blackthorn partner inhaled sharply. Suguru’s fingers twitched. Yaga said nothing. Masahiro kept going.

“Your tender offer is not a sign of strength. It is a sign of need.” His voice sharpened. “A need for a legacy acquisition. A need for a stabilizing anchor. A need for something big enough to distract from your internal rot.”

Satoru nearly smiled. This wasn’t a negotiation. This was a public execution.

Masahiro lifted one hand. “Nanami.”

Nanami stood and switched the screen to Gojo Group’s slides. The first was a chart showing Blackthorn’s declining IRR performance year over year. The second, Blackthorn’s debt exposure. The third, an internal email leak indicating that Yaga’s team had debated whether Gojo Group would “bend or break” under pressure. Yaga’s face darkened. Nanami said, in the calm tone of someone informing a patient they had six months to live:

“Your assumptions are flawed. Your valuation is incomplete. Your risk modeling is amateur. And your tender offer—” He clicked to a giant red X. “—is rejected.”

Satoru couldn’t help it; something inside him lit up. Nanami Kento was a goddamn menace. Masahiro took over again, voice like an executioner’s verdict.

“You are not buying this company,” Masahiro said. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

Yaga leaned forward. “You cannot stop the market.”

Masahiro’s lips twitched. It was almost a smile.

“I am the market.”

No one breathed. Masahiro placed both hands on the table, slow and deliberate.

“Your tender offer,” he said lightly, “is clever. Well-structured. Aggressive. Calculated.”

Yaga allowed a small smirk. Masahiro’s voice dropped to a razor’s edge.

“But you made one mistake.”

Yaga’s smirk disappeared. Masahiro lifted his eyes, cold, ancient, predatory.

“You aimed it at the wrong generation.”

Silence detonated in the room.

“You should have targeted my son.” Masahiro’s voice was not loud, but it filled the space. “He is emotional. Impulsive. Distracted. He loves too deeply, hates too messily, and trusts too easily.”

Satoru stiffened, pulse spiking, humiliation, fury, pain choking him. Suguru’s face twisted, guilt, shame, anger? Satoru wasn’t sure.

Masahiro continued, “But you were arrogant, Yaga Masamichi. You want to claim victory by defeating me. You want to prove yourself by outmaneuvering me. This was never about valuation.”

Yaga’s eyes darkened.

“This was ego,” Masahiro said. “Yours. Not mine.”

Then he leaned forward slightly.

“And men who fight from ego,”  he tapped his cane softly, “always lose.”

The air grew colder. Yaga’s fingers tightened around his binder.

Masahiro’s smile was small and terrifying. “Would you like to know why?”

Yaga didn’t answer. Masahiro did not need him to.

“Because ego blinds you. And while you're busy staring at me…” He tapped his cane once more. “…you forget that my son is standing right beside you.”

Satoru inhaled sharply, a shockwave running through him. It wasn’t praise. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t love. But it was acknowledgment. Public acknowledgment. The kind Masahiro rarely gave.

Yaga’s expression cracked, a flicker of doubt where arrogance once lived.

Masahiro continued, “You think Satoru is weak.” His voice sharpened. “But you underestimate chaos. You underestimate unpredictability. You underestimate what a man will do when everything he loves is threatened.”

Suguru swallowed, visibly.

Masahiro turned, looking directly at Satoru.

“Satoru,” he said. “Stand.”

Satoru rose slowly, feeling the weight of the room shift. Feeling Yaga’s eyes. Feeling Suguru’s breath catch.

Masahiro didn’t look at anyone else.

“Tell them,” Masahiro commanded, “exactly what Gojo Group will do next.”

Satoru’s mouth went dry. But he spoke. Calmly. Coldly. Clearly.

“Reject the tender offer,” Satoru said. “Issue a poison pill provision with a sunset clause. Trigger our pre-planned restructuring defense. Liquidate any overlapping assets to avoid regulatory slowdown. And then—” He locked eyes with Suguru, “—buy out Blackthorn’s minority positions in all shared ventures.”

Suguru’s breath stopped. Yaga’s knuckles whitened. Nanami smirked behind his legal pad. Masahiro nodded once, satisfied.

“Good,” he said, sitting back. 

Nanami continued, “As Satoru mentioned, Gojo Group will issue a poison pill, effectively diluting your position if you attempt a creeping acquisition. Our board will authorize a staggered defense structure. And we have already secured bridge financing from the Sovereign Wealth Fund of Singapore.”

Satoru’s eyes widened. That was new. That was nuclear.

Nanami added, “Additionally, we have pre-cleared regulatory channels through Treasury, Commerce, and the SEC.”

Suguru’s eyes flickered sharply, recognition, maybe alarm.

Yaga recovered quickly, cold fury coating his voice. “You think this will stop us?”

Masahiro let out a soft laugh. “No.”

Then his eyes sharpened like knives.

“But it will slow you. And I only need a little time.”

Yaga frowned. “For what?”

Masahiro lifted his cane, tapping the floor with finality.

“For the checkmate.”

Satoru felt chills crawl up his spine. Masahiro wasn't negotiating. He wasn’t defending. He wasn’t reacting. He was hunting. And Yaga had walked straight into the trap. Masahiro delivered the final blow:

“You will not win this, Yaga. Because you are not competing with my son. You are competing with me.”

Yaga inhaled slowly, fury controlled but visible. Masahiro leaned back, satisfied.

“Meeting adjourned.”

The meeting ended with Blackthorn folding their folders tightly, not a retreat, but a preparation. A warning. Blackthorn rose stiffly. Suguru stood last. He lingered, just long enough for Satoru to catch the faintest, smallest shift in his expression, one that said he understood everything now. This wasn’t just power. It wasn’t just strategy. This was Masahiro showing Yaga, and Suguru, exactly why he was feared. And why Satoru, whether ready or not, would inherit a battlefield, not a company.

Before leaving, Suguru looked directly at Satoru. Those dark eyes flickered, pain, betrayal, longing, recognition. And then, quietly, bitterly, almost voiceless:

“Yaga’s dog, huh?” Satoru whispered.

Suguru’s jaw clenched. “Your words against me now?”

“Maybe,” Satoru said. “Maybe not.”

Suguru looked like he wanted to reach for him. Or hit him. Or leave forever. In the end, he said nothing. He followed Yaga out of the room. And Satoru Gojo remained standing beside his father, feeling the weight of the next war settling onto his shoulders. Masahiro glanced at him once, pride and expectation colliding in the same breath.

“Not bad,” he said.

And Satoru realized with a shiver: This wasn’t just corporate war anymore. This was personal.

Satoru Gojo did not sleep that night. Not a minute. Not a second. Not after the meeting. Not after watching Yaga’s jaw lock with barely-contained fury or Suguru’s expression flicker with something raw and unguarded when Masahiro publicly chose his son as his weapon. After Blackthorn left the boardroom and the last echo of Masahiro’s cane faded down the marble hallway, Satoru stayed behind. Quiet. Still. Thinking. Masahiro had slammed the door shut on Yaga. But Satoru knew better. Tender offers didn’t end companies, the responses did. He had five hours until dawn. Five hours until the board reconvened. Five hours to show his father, and the world, that he wasn’t just the heir. He was a strategist.

So Satoru walked back to his office, shut the door, rolled up his sleeves, kicked off his shoes, and cracked open four years of pent-up knowledge. Everything he had ever learned, every finance model from Harvard Business School, every corporate governance nightmare from Wharton, every tedious Tokyo Office exercise Masahiro had forced onto him, every structure he’d studied while pretending to give a damn about boring Japanese consumer subsidiaries, all of it came roaring back. His screen lit up with spreadsheets. Tabs multiplied like viruses. Models built themselves under his fingertips. He pulled up the following files:

Project Hikari Cash Flow Model v.32
Bridge Financing Risk Scenario — SWF (CONFIDENTIAL)
Gojo Subsidiaries Overlap Matrix
Blackthorn Joint Venture Agreements Folder
Market Vulnerability Analysis — Aggressive Takeover Assumptions

He opened them all. He built new ones. He constructed a defensive framework so tight that even a sovereign fund would have admired the aggression. By 3:00 AM, he had: a detailed poison pill structure with both light and heavy dilution options; a staggered board renewal schedule designed to slow any activist intervention; a contingency liquidation plan for six non-core subsidiaries with overlapping tech and infrastructure holdings; a cross-default avoidance strategy preventing debt covenants from triggering during restructuring; a counter-acquisition map identifying three key Blackthorn ventures ripe for minority stake buyouts; a regulatory pre-clearance pathway leveraging Utahime’s insider knowledge of Treasury dynamics; and a communication plan for investors and employees, preventing panic and short-sell exploitation

He remembered everything he had ever hated learning, derivatives modeling, cross-border compliance, sovereign wealth fund behavior, SEC Rule 14e-1, greedy algorithms from computer science, even the fucking case study he wrote at Wharton about poison pills in the 1980s. All of it suddenly made sense. By 4:00 AM, his whiteboard was covered in red marker like a murder scene. By 5:00 AM, Nanami entered the office quietly. Nanami looked at the board. He scanned the documents. He adjusted his glasses.

“This,” he said slowly, “is… borderline violent.”

Satoru exhaled. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Nanami muttered, though the faint upward twitch of his mouth betrayed him.

Satoru rubbed his eyes. “Will it work?”

Nanami took a long sip of the black coffee he’d brought. “It will do more than work. It’ll cripple Blackthorn.”

Satoru blinked. “Good.”

“And,” Nanami added dryly, “if Yaga wasn’t afraid of you before, he will be terrified now.”

Satoru felt something inside him settle. Not peace, he wasn’t built for that, but purpose. Something colder. Sharper. Focused.

Nanami set a stack of printed copies on the desk. “Let’s go. The board meets in forty minutes.”

Satoru glanced in the mirror. Hair a mess. Eyes bloodshot. Tie crooked. Heart pounding like a trapped animal. He straightened his collar. Fixed his tie. Washed his face. Walked to the elevator. When the doors opened onto the boardroom, Masahiro was already seated. He didn’t look tired at all. This was his element, war at dawn. Nanami handed out copies of the report. Masahiro did not look at Satoru. Not yet. Satoru stood at the head of the room, not the foot. For the first time in his life, Masahiro let him. He began with no throat clearing, no hesitation. Just precision.

“Blackthorn made four major assumptions,” Satoru said, flipping open the first page. “All of them flawed.”

He clicked to the screen. Slide 1: Vulnerabilities in Blackthorn’s Operating Thesis. Satoru continued, voice steady: 

“First, their tender offer relies on short-term shareholder panic. Second, their valuation model undervalues our IP by fifty-seven percent. Third, their internal fund pressure makes them financially overleveraged for a hostile bid. And fourth—” He looked up. “—Masahiro Gojo is not a CEO vulnerable to intimidation.”

Masahiro’s eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. Approval. Satoru clicked to the next slide. Slide 2: Poison Pill & Sunset Provision Structure (Draft). Satoru explained the mechanics, dilution triggers, rights issuance, equity purchase windows, all in plain, bruising corporate clarity. Then:

Slide 3: Restructuring Defense Sequence

“This plan,” Satoru said, “triggers our restructuring framework in a controlled cascade.” He continued, “We will liquidate overlapping assets before regulators can identify redundancies. We will close the gap that Blackthorn thinks is our Achilles’ heel.”

Nanami stepped in smoothly. “We will not trip our covenants.”

Satoru nodded. “Because we’re not amateurs.”

Nanami added, “Our bridge financing from the Sovereign Wealth Fund of Singapore is secured, contingent only on yesterday’s board results.”

Gasps rippled around the room again. This was nuclear. This was unheard of. Satoru moved to the biggest slide yet.

Slide 4: Buyout Plan for Blackthorn’s JV Stakes

He explained the mechanism: forced buyback clauses, negotiated call rights, debt-financed acquisition windows, how each one would choke Blackthorn’s liquidity and cut their influence. Then, the final slide.

Slide 5: Timeline — 60 Days to Victory

Satoru stood straighter. “We can neutralize Blackthorn’s hostile bid in sixty days. If we execute the plan precisely, Yaga will have no viable path forward.”

Silence. Then Masahiro rose slowly, placing one hand on the table. The room held its breath. Masahiro Gojo was not a man who clapped. Not in public. Not in private. Not ever. But he tapped his cane against the floor, once, twice, three times. In Masahiro’s language, that was applause. And then, shockingly, the board actually clapped. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t obligatory. It was real. For the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo had earned applause for being dangerous, not charming. For being brilliant, not lucky. For being strategic, not ornamental. Masahiro looked at him, fully, directly, with a gleam that said: Finally.

Nanami leaned close, whispering:

“Congratulations. You just became your father’s son.”

Satoru’s throat tightened. Because he wasn’t sure whether it felt like victory, or the beginning of becoming something he feared.

Chapter Text

Satoru Gojo walked into his father’s private conference suite the next morning expecting fallout or orders or some brutal lecture about the flaws in his restructuring plan. What he did not expect was Masahiro sitting in his leather armchair, half-lit by the morning sun, reading the Financial Times like it was scripture. He didn’t look triumphant. He didn’t look rattled. He looked patient. That was always a bad sign. Masahiro Gojo was never patient unless he was planning something no one else had the stomach to attempt.

The only other person in the room was Nanami, standing at the far end with the stillness of a man who had slept two hours and caffeinated through the rest of the morning. The tension of the previous night hung in the air, thick and metallic. Satoru felt it the moment he stepped inside, like stepping onto the soundstage right before a scene goes violent.

Masahiro did not look up. “Sit.”

Satoru obeyed, heartbeat steady, mask in place.

Masahiro turned the page of the paper. “Your report caused quite a stir.”

Nanami remained expressionless, which usually meant he was waiting for the next explosion.

“It was received well,” Satoru said carefully.

“That depends,” Masahiro said mildly, “on your definition of ‘well.’” He lowered the paper. “The board thinks you’ve grown. Investors think you’ve matured. Analysts are whispering that you’ve finally learned discipline. All very flattering.”

Satoru waited for the “but.” Masahiro never praised without a poison tail.

“But,” Masahiro continued, “growth doesn’t matter if you’re not prepared to act. Strategy without execution is theater.” He folded the paper and set it aside. “It’s time we remind Yaga Masamichi what happens when he gambles against men who understand leverage.”

Satoru exhaled slowly. “So we move on the plan.”

Masahiro nodded. “The poison pill goes live at market open.”

Nanami said, “Communications has prepared controlled language. We will emphasize shareholder protection, long-term stability, and continuity of leadership.”

“And restructuring?” Satoru asked.

Masahiro lifted an eyebrow. “Effective immediately. I assume your liquidation models incorporate the Southeast Asian logistics arm?”

Satoru nodded. “We can offload the Singapore warehouse network within eighteen days. The Qatar fund has already expressed interest.”

“Good,” Masahiro murmured. “See it through.”

Satoru swallowed. Approving a liquidation meant the loss of thousands of low-level jobs and three regional offices. Rational, necessary, strategic, but not painless. He wondered if Suguru knew this was coming. Probably not. Yaga hated being blindsided, and Masahiro Gojo had just sharpened the knife.

Nanami clicked open a binder. “Bridge financing will close this afternoon. Treasury approvals came through. Commerce issued a provisional non-objection. SEC was slower, but we leaned on a few channels.”

Satoru caught the smallest flicker in Nanami’s tone. Channels. That meant Utahime. That meant gentle political favors. That meant the machine turning.

Masahiro leaned back. “Blackthorn expected you to be sloppy. Emotional. Weak.” His eyes glinted. “Instead, you embarrassed them.”

Satoru felt the shock of the words even though Masahiro’s tone remained dry. Praise from Masahiro came like eclipses, rare, brief, blinding.

“You forgot one thing, though,” Masahiro added.

Satoru stiffened. “What?”

Masahiro tapped his cane once on the carpet. “Money always wins.”

Satoru blinked. “I know.”

“No,” Masahiro corrected, voice low, patient, lethal. “You understand the phrase. But you don’t believe it yet.”

Satoru felt Nanami watching him quietly.

Masahiro continued, “You still think this is about relationships. Loyalty. Emotion.” He waved a hand. “Your childhood. Your Harvard friends. Your little entanglements.” His gaze sharpened. “Irrelevant. All of them. When money moves, everything else becomes noise.”

Satoru’s jaw tightened. “Suguru is not noise.”

Masahiro offered a flat smile. “Everything is noise if you let it be.”

Satoru inhaled once, deeply. “He said he loved me but couldn’t stomach me.”

Masahiro’s face didn’t move. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

Nanami’s eyes flickered with something like sympathy, but it vanished quickly, this was not the place for it.

Masahiro continued, “Do you know why Yaga keeps him?”

Satoru clenched his hands. “Because he trusts him.”

Masahiro laughed softly. “No. Because he owns him.”

Satoru flinched like he’d been struck.

Masahiro’s tone stayed cool. “Blackthorn chose Suguru because he’s brilliant. Loyal. Convenient. And because Yaga knows a truth you keep refusing to learn: when you buy someone, you control them. When you can’t buy someone, you break them.”

Satoru stared at the carpet.

Masahiro leaned forward. “And you? You’re still choosing to be broken.”

Nanami barely breathed.

Masahiro sat back. “Now. On to the real issue.”

Satoru blinked. “There’s more?”

Masahiro tapped a folder on the table. “Counterattack.”

Nanami opened it and slid it toward Satoru. Inside, a spreadsheet of every Blackthorn partners. Their stakes. Their voting patterns. Their internal politics. Their pressure points. Along with a list of distressed private equity debt instruments maturing in the next quarter.

Satoru looked up, startled. “You want to… short Blackthorn?”

Masahiro smiled. “I want to starve them.”

Nanami added, “We have identified four pressure clusters in Blackthorn’s portfolio. If we quietly buy the debt, we can force margin calls. Their liquidity will collapse.”

Satoru stared at them both. “That could bankrupt them.”

“Yes,” Masahiro said calmly. “Which is why it’s elegant.”

Satoru pressed a hand against his forehead. The ethics were nonexistent. The risk astronomical. But the strategy… brilliant.

Masahiro lifted his chin. “You asked me yesterday why Yaga underestimates you.” He paused. “It is because he has never seen you strike.”

Satoru swallowed. “And you want me to?”

“No,” Masahiro said. “I want you to decide.”

Satoru froze. Because that was the moment he realized the entire plan, the nuclear defenses, the poison pill, the restructuring, the buyouts, was the opening move. The checkmate Masahiro promised was the destruction of Blackthorn itself.

Nanami closed the binder. “If we move on this, there is no turning back.”

Satoru lifted his eyes, meeting Masahiro’s.

“Do you want to win?” Masahiro asked.

Satoru inhaled. Exhaled.

“Yes.”

Masahiro nodded once. “Then understand this: victory is not earned by being right. Or fair. Or moral.” He smiled faintly. “Money wins. Money always wins.”

The strategy took shape over the next forty-eight hours, but it was Satoru who had to sit with it alone, the full weight of becoming, in some awful, irreversible way, his father’s son. Masahiro’s words echoing in his chest like a mantra, or a curse: money wins. He kept repeating it to himself while he walked through the marble corridors of Gojo Tower, passing employees who now looked at him differently, not as the spoiled heir or the party-hardened princeling, but as something sharper. Weaponized. Tired.

Nanami had told him, quietly, “This is what power feels like.”

But Satoru wasn’t sure. Power didn’t feel like this. Not hollow. Not metallic. Not nauseating. It felt like nausea with a veneer of control.

The next morning, PR alerts began firing like artillery across every major news outlet.

MSNBC Breaking Banner: Gojo Group Adopts Poison Pill as Blackthorn Launches Hostile Bid
CNBC: Tender Offer Drama Heats Up — Analysts Question Succession Stability at Gojo
Financial Times: Yaga Masamichi: “We Won’t Be Deterred.”

And then, the clip. The clip that would send Satoru into a spiral so immediate Nanami texted him: Do not respond to anything emotionally. I beg you.

Suguru Geto appeared on MSNBC Live with Manami Suda. He looked polished, composed, devastatingly self-assured. Tailored navy suit. Crisp shirt. Hair tied back with deliberate sharpness. Blackthorn’s signature aesthetic, expensive restraint. Nothing about him resembled the boy Satoru had smoked joints with behind Buckley, or laughed with in the Harvard Yard, or kissed last week in a moment that already felt like a mistake carved into stone.

Satoru turned up the volume.

“Joining us today,” Manami said, “is Blackthorn Capital partner Suguru Geto, to discuss the hostile offer showdown between Blackthorn and the Gojo Group.”

Satoru’s pulse thudded. Nanami remained still.

Suguru smiled that mild, razor-sharp, PR-trained smile. “Thank you for having me.”

“Let’s get right to it,” the anchor said. “The market is calling this the corporate battle of the year. Your firm made a bold move. But this morning Gojo Group responded with a poison pill, and sources say they secured emergency financing from a sovereign wealth fund. How does Blackthorn interpret these actions?”

Suguru folded his hands on the table. Calm. Perfect. Deadly.

“It’s what desperate companies do,” he said.

Satoru’s vision blurred for a second.

Nanami murmured, “Don’t react.”

The anchor leaned in. “Desperate? That’s a strong word, Mr. Geto.”

Suguru tilted his head slightly, an imitation of Satoru’s old arrogance. “They know the fundamentals don’t make sense. Their new initiatives are unstable. Their board is fractured. And frankly—” he paused, controlled, intentional “—the illusion of strong leadership can only last so long.”

Satoru’s jaw clenched. Nanami inhaled sharply through his nose.

Manami Suda gave a knowing look. “Are you referring to the future of Gojo leadership?”

Suguru didn’t hesitate.

“I’m referring to Satoru Gojo specifically.”

Satoru’s breath caught.

She asked, “Do you believe Satoru Gojo is prepared to lead his company through this crisis?”

Suguru didn’t hesitate. Didn’t soften. Didn’t smile with that familiar warmth that used to disarm everyone. He continued, face the picture of composed annihilation.

“No,” he said plainly. “Satoru Gojo is no longer relevant.”

Satoru felt every molecule in his body freeze. Nanami stiffened. Suguru kept talking.

“He’s a figurehead. A legacy story. A nice narrative for journalists, maybe. But from a market perspective? He’s unpredictable, inconsistent, and, if we’re being honest, ill-prepared. Investors are starting to understand that.”

Satoru felt heat rise under his skin. Not embarrassment, something worse. A hollowing. A shock of cold.

Manami nodded sympathetically, pretending objectivity. “So you’re saying Gojo Group’s future leadership isn’t stable?”

Suguru didn’t blink. “I’m saying that being born into a dynasty doesn’t guarantee the capacity to lead one.”

Suguru continued, calmly, almost clinically, “The market has changed. The industry has changed. And Gojo Group is clinging to legacy thinking under legacy leadership. They’re afraid, and fear makes companies stupid.”

Satoru felt the air leave his lungs. Suguru didn’t stop.

“Blackthorn,” Suguru added, “is the future. Gojo Group is nostalgia wrapped in money. And nostalgia is not a business strategy.”

The MSNBC host nodded gravely, as if Suguru had just delivered a eulogy.

Satoru turned the TV off before the clip ended. He sat in silence for five full seconds, jaw locked, fingers trembling. Silence washed over the room, deep and heavy. Satoru stared at the dark reflection of the tablet for a long, long moment, seeing himself framed beside Suguru’s last frozen expression. He looked at his own face reflected there: tired, pale, disappointed.

Nanami finally spoke, his tone controlled but edged. “That was calculated.”

Satoru swallowed once. “He meant for me to hear it.”

“Yes,” Nanami agreed. “Because the point wasn’t MSNBC. The point was destabilization.”

Satoru laughed softly, bitterly. “No longer relevant...”

Nanami crossed his arms. “He’s wrong.”

Satoru didn’t answer.

Nanami continued, voice firm. “He is intentionally provoking a reaction. Blackthorn needs you emotional. That’s how Yaga plays.”

Satoru leaned back slowly in his chair, feeling the plastic give beneath his palms, feeling his throat tighten. Then he stood, grabbed his coat, and marched out of his office with a fury Nanami would later describe as, “the kind of walk that precedes lawsuits or manslaughter.”

He found Suguru in Tribeca, outside a private club where Blackthorn executives liked to hold off-the-record discussions. Satoru didn’t plan the confrontation; his body moved before his brain caught up. When Suguru stepped out of the building, Satoru was already waiting by his car. Suguru stopped. Expression unreadable. Eyes flat. No sweetness. No warmth. Nothing familiar. Just a man who had chosen his side.

Satoru’s voice came out colder than he expected. “No longer relevant?”

Suguru didn’t flinch. “You watched the interview.”

“You think I wouldn’t?” Satoru spat.

“I hoped you would,” Suguru said evenly. “Someone needed to tell you the truth.”

Satoru laughed once, sharp, humorless. “You didn’t tell me the truth. You embarrassed me.”

Suguru stepped closer. He didn’t shout. He didn’t soften. He delivered the words like knives he’d been sharpening for years.

“You embarrassed yourself.”

Satoru inhaled sharply. “You—”

“You’re a fraud,” Suguru said, voice steady, almost quiet. “You’re a fucking silver-spoon disaster who got the kingdom because of his last name, not his brain.”

Satoru’s jaw tightened. “Say it again.”

Suguru did.

“You’re irrelevant, Satoru.”

Satoru could feel the heat creeping up his neck, but Suguru wasn’t finished.

“You want to know what you are?” Suguru asked. “You’re a tantrum with money. You’re a careless little boy who keeps confusing trauma for entitlement.”

“Shut up,” Satoru hissed.

“No,” Suguru said. “Not this time.”

He stepped closer.

“You think you’re capable? You think you’re your father? You’re not even close.” Suguru’s eyes darkened. “Masahiro Gojo built an empire. You inherited one. There’s a difference.”

Satoru swallowed, but Suguru kept pushing, relentless.

“You hide behind money. Behind your father. Behind your last name. You’ve never earned a damn thing in your life.”

“That’s not—”

“You’re a fucking piece of shit,” Suguru snapped, finally raising his voice, “with a fucking silver spoon in your fucking mouth, and you have the nerve—” his voice cracked with fury, “—the NERVE, to act like you’re the victim when the entire world has been handed to you on a platinum fucking platter.”

Something inside Satoru broke. Cleanly. Quietly. Suguru waited for him to respond. To lash back. To explode. To do something self-destructive and predictable. Satoru didn’t. He breathed once. Twice. Then said, in a voice low with exhaustion:

“You used to know me better than that.”

Suguru’s expression flickered, something raw, something buried, but only for a second. Then it vanished.

“No,” Suguru said. “I knew who you pretended to be. Not who you are.”

Satoru’s voice came out tight. “Then why did you love me?”

Suguru didn’t blink.

“I didn’t,” he said.

Satoru froze.

Suguru added, quieter, harder, “I loved the idea of you.”

And then he turned, opened his car door, and left Satoru standing on the sidewalk in the middle of Tribeca, heart bruised, pride shattered, and something inside him finally understanding the message Masahiro had drilled into him his whole life: When money moves, everything else is noise.

Suguru had chosen his side. Yaga had chosen his war. Masahiro had chosen his strategy. And Satoru had no choice but to grow teeth.

Money wins.

And if he wanted any hope of surviving this, he would have to stop being the boy Suguru hated, and become the man Masahiro had forged.

Satoru Gojo made it home somehow.

He wasn’t sure how, whether he walked, stumbled, teleported, or simply disassociated and let his legs drag him along concrete until he reached the elevator of his penthouse. The doorman said something to him, maybe a polite “Good evening, Mr. Gojo,” maybe a startled “Sir, are you alright?”, but Satoru didn’t hear any of it. His brain felt boiled. His chest hurt like something had hollowed out his ribs with a cold spoon.

He slammed the door shut behind him and didn't bother turning on the lights. New York’s city glow spilled across the apartment, dim and ghostly. The penthouse had never felt so quiet. So hostile. So empty. He dropped his coat on the floor. Then his suit jacket. Then his wallet, keys, tie, leaving a breadcrumb trail of unraveling dignity as he stumbled to the bedroom. He didn't shower. He didn’t undress. He simply fell onto the bed, fully clothed, shoes still on, and sobbed into the stupid, overpriced mattress made by artisans in Tuscany who would have a heart attack if they saw what was happening on their handcrafted masterpiece. It was ugly crying, too. Not cinematic tears. Not beautifully tragic. Just raw, humiliating grief, chest shaking, breath hitching, that horrible pain that blooms behind the sternum when it feels like the whole world is laughing at you.

“This isn’t him,” he whispered into the pillows. “That wasn’t him.”

Because the Suguru on MSNBC, the cold, polished, weaponized corporate shark, was not the boy Satoru had known. Not the boy who had slid into his dorm bed at Harvard whispering, “we could’ve been something better.” Not the man who told him last week, “I love you but I can’t fucking stomach you.”

That Suguru had still loved him. This one? This one had just called him irrelevant on national television. Satoru wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and laughed bitterly.

“Irrelevant,” he repeated, voice cracking. “My fucking ex is doing PR assassinations on MSNBC. Amazing. Stunning. Groundbreaking. I should get him a trophy.”

He dragged himself off the bed and headed to the bar cart. The whiskey was the expensive kind, aged something years, tasted like poison and mahogany, but Satoru poured it like it was tap water. The first glass burned. The second numbed. The third? The third felt familiar. Familiar like Harvard basements. Familiar like dorm parties. Familiar like the things he and Suguru used to do when they were young and stupid and thought they were invincible.

His eyes drifted to the vintage lacquered cabinet beside the bar cart, the one he swore he’d locked years ago, after rehab, after Haibara, after everything. He opened it. He shouldn’t have. He knew he shouldn’t have. But pain makes people regress into the worst versions of themselves. And Satoru Gojo had always been spectacularly bad at processing heartbreak like a normal human being.

Inside the cabinet, untouched for years, were the remnants of an old life: glass vials, little envelopes, a mirror the size of a tablet, a razor blade wrapped in tissue like a holy relic of bad decisions. Satoru stared at them for a long moment. His reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger, red eyes, whiskey breath, heartbreak carved into the lines around his mouth.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered.

Which, historically, meant he absolutely would. He poured out a few neat white lines. His hands trembled as he arranged them. He stared at them again. They stared back.

“This is stupid,” he muttered.

But grief is stupid. Love is stupid. Suguru was stupid. He was stupid. He leaned down. The burn was immediate, electric, violent. A jolt that snapped something in his brain from shattered softness into manic clarity. Cocaine doesn’t fix sadness, just scrambles the channels so the sadness goes into hiding while the rest of the soul catches fire. Then he took another drink of whiskey. Then another line. Then another.

By 2:00 AM, he wasn’t crying anymore. He wasn’t thinking either. He was pacing the penthouse barefoot, muttering half-formed sentences, half insults, half confessions.

“Irrelevant? Really? You smug, God, Suguru, you smug bastard. Fuck you. Fuck your suit. Fuck your hair gel. Fuck your manbun. Fuck your, your EVERYTHING.”

He kicked a stool. It toppled over. He laughed. Then cried. Then laughed again. By 2:30 AM, he was grabbing the keys to his McLaren. Nanami would kill him. Utahime would kill him. His therapist would have a stroke. Masahiro, Masahiro wouldn’t kill him. He would simply be disappointed. Which was worse. But Satoru wasn’t thinking about consequences. He was thinking about escape.

By 3:00 AM, he was in the McLaren, engine roaring through empty SoHo streets. The city flashed past him in streaks of neon and sodium-orange blur. Lines of white along the dashboard. White noise in his brain. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care.

The speedometer climbed: 40. 50. 60. 80. He pressed harder. The engine screamed. The world bent. At 92 mph, the streetlight ahead doubled. Then tripled. Then blurred until everything smeared into brightness.

He didn’t see the barrier. He only felt the impact, a massive, bone-rattling crack, metal against metal, glass exploding, airbags detonating, the shriek of bending steel, a flash of pain, and then nothing.

No sound. No thought. Just darkness swallowing the world whole.

Satoru floated back into consciousness like a man dragged up from the bottom of a harbor, slow, choking on air, pain blooming in the corners of his skull. Everything smelled like antiseptic and fluorescent light. Someone was clicking a pen. Someone was sighing in that disappointed, long-suffering way he recognized better than his own heartbeat.

He blinked. Then blinked again. White ceiling. IV line. Heart monitor beeping faintly like it was gossiping about him. A curtain. A shadow.

He opened his mouth. “Am I dead?”

A voice replied dryly, “Unfortunately, no.”

Satoru groaned. “Shoko?”

The curtain rustled. And there she was, Dr. Shoko Ieiri, in scrubs, hair tied back, wearing a disposable surgical mask under her chin, holding a chart and looking at Satoru like he had personally ruined her entire morning.

“You look terrible,” she said, deadpan. “And also somehow exactly the same.”

Satoru winced. “Where am I?”

“Mass General Hospital,” she said flatly.

Satoru blinked again. “Boston?”

Shoko nodded. “Congratulations. You managed to get more than halfway to my city while drunk, high, and speeding in a car that costs more than the pediatric wing’s annual budget. For reasons God refuses to explain, you’re not dead.”

Satoru swallowed, throat painfully dry. “How… did I… get here?”

“You drove,” Shoko said, flipping the chart. “Badly.”

He groaned, covering his eyes with one bandaged hand. “Oh my god.”

She scoffed. “No, not Him. Just me, your extremely annoyed physician.”

Satoru tried sitting up. Shoko immediately pressed a hand on his chest. “Do that again and I’ll sedate you.”

He froze. Then he noticed something: Two figures through the translucent curtain. One tall, tense, wearing a camel coat. One smaller, pacing. Utahime and Nanami. Shoko followed his gaze.

“They’ve been here all night,” she said. “Nanami hasn’t blinked in about an hour. Utahime threatened three nurses. You’re lucky none of us filed restraining orders.”

Satoru’s stomach twisted. “My father?”

Shoko’s mouth tightened. “Visited earlier.”

Satoru swallowed hard. “What did he say?”

Shoko smirked faintly. “Nothing. That’s how you know he’s furious.”

Satoru groaned again. “Please kill me.”

“Tempting,” Shoko murmured, flipping another page. “But I took an oath.”

The curtain swung open abruptly. Nanami Kento walked in first. He looked worse than Satoru had ever seen him, eyebags carved like trenches, tie askew, jaw clenched tight enough to break molars. He looked at Satoru like a disappointed father and an exhausted lawyer simultaneously.

“Satoru,” Nanami said. “You drove into a concrete divider at ninety miles per hour.”

Satoru cleared his throat. “In my defense—”

“There is no defense.” Nanami snapped. “None. Nothing. Zero. I am drafting a twenty-page reprimand.”

Utahime shoved him aside.

She stalked to the bed, hair wild, wearing an oversized hoodie and fury. “You absolute idiot.”

Satoru offered her a weak smile. “Hi.”

Utahime grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked him with it, twice.

“Ow!”

“Good,” she barked. “You deserve more.”

Shoko sipped coffee from a disposable cup. “Make it three.”

Utahime sat on the bed’s edge and glared. “Do you have any idea how horrifying it is to get a call from Massachusetts State Police asking if you are the emergency contact of Satoru Gojo, who is apparently high as shit, drunk as a senator, and wrapped around a public barrier like a Christmas ribbon?”

Satoru coughed. “I’m… sorry?”

Utahime smacked him again. “You don’t get to say sorry when you’re alive by sheer statistical anomaly.”

Nanami leaned forward. “You tested positive for enough substances to qualify as a pharmaceutical distribution center.”

Shoko added, “I’ve admitted cartel members with cleaner bloodwork.”

Satoru let his head fall back. “Okay, okay, I get it. I messed up.”

“No,” Nanami corrected, voice icy. “You detonated.”

“Spectacularly,” Utahime added.

Shoko shrugged. “Would’ve been fascinating if I weren’t your friend.”

Satoru groaned into his pillow.

Nanami exhaled heavily. “Your father arrived at 5 AM.”

Satoru stiffened. “What did he say?”

Nanami’s jaw tightened. “Nothing.”

Satoru stared at the ceiling, chest tight. Of course Masahiro came. Of course he said nothing. Silence was his most powerful weapon.

Nanami continued, “He told me to handle everything. Then he left.”

Satoru’s throat closed. “Did he… ask about me?”

Utahime answered softly. “He asked if you were stable.”

“That’s something,” Satoru whispered hollowly.

“It’s not enough,” Nanami muttered.

Utahime gestured at him. “You could’ve died.”

Shoko added, “Which, inconveniently, would’ve destroyed my sleep schedule.”

Satoru actually snorted at that. Then he froze. Because there was one name no one had mentioned. One person who wasn’t there. One person who always arrived, even when he shouldn’t. Suguru.

Satoru whispered, “Did… anyone tell him?”

Nanami’s silence was immediate. Utahime’s gaze lowered. Shoko raised a brow.

“No,” Nanami said finally. “We did not.”

Satoru’s heart thudded painfully. “Why not?”

Nanami’s eyes sharpened. “Because you crashing your car at ninety miles per hour while high on cocaine is not an invitation for whoever hurt you to visit.”

Utahime crossed her arms. “Suguru Geto is not walking into this hospital. Not after what he said about you. Not after what he did on national television.”

Satoru swallowed hard. “I still thought—”

“That he’d come?” Utahime asked. “Satoru. He’s the reason you spiraled.”

Shoko added, “And he’s in Boston. Conveniently. But he hasn’t shown up.”

Satoru closed his eyes. His chest felt hollow. Suguru was so close, maybe a ten-minute Uber ride away.
So close and still, not here. Not calling. Not texting. Not caring.

Shoko’s voice softened, barely, but enough. “He’s not the one who came for you.”

Nanami added, “We are.”

Utahime gripped Satoru’s hand tightly. “So stop chasing ghosts.”

Satoru swallowed thickly, blinking up at the ceiling as pain layered itself in his lungs. The heart monitor beeped in steady, indifferent rhythm, unbothered by the humiliation, by the heartbreak, by the way the absence of Suguru Geto hurt worse than the crash. He whispered, voice cracking:

“I thought he’d come.”

Utahime squeezed his hand.

“He didn’t.”

And Satoru finally, finally, let himself cry again.

Suguru Geto found out, of course he did. Shoko texted him at 4:12 AM Not a paragraph. Not an explanation. Just two sentences that said everything and nothing:

“He’s alive. Don’t come.”

Suguru stared at the message for a long time, sitting in the back of a Blackthorn-assigned car on the way back to his temporary Boston apartment. He had been at the office, grinding through models Yaga demanded, when the screen lit up with Shoko’s name.

His first reaction was physical, like someone had grabbed his ribcage and twisted. His second was anger. His third was guilt. His fourth was fear. And then came the instinct, the one he hadn’t outgrown, the one that belonged to a different version of himself: to run. To get in a car. To go to Satoru. But Shoko rarely used imperative sentences. When she did, they landed like scripture.

Don’t come.

He stared at the hospital address below it. Mass General. Fifteen minutes away. Suguru sat frozen in the backseat, the Boston skyline blurring past the tinted windows. His driver asked if he was okay. Suguru didn’t answer. He thought of Satoru bleeding in a crushed McLaren. He thought of the cocaine. He thought of the MSNBC interview replaying on screens in hospital waiting rooms while Satoru lay unconscious. He thought of what Nanami would do if he walked into that suite. What Utahime would say. What Masahiro would look like. He thought of how little they resembled the boys from Buckley and Harvard, the ones who used to share joints behind dorm buildings and argue about ethics at 3 AM like they had any. He almost told the driver to turn around. Almost.

But instead, he exhaled through his teeth and said, “Take me to Beacon Hill.”

Shoko’s apartment.

Shoko opened the door at the second knock, hair still tied back from a surgery, wearing scrubs and an open cardigan. She looked at him like she had expected this and was already tired of it.

“Geto,” she said. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. “You texted me.”

“I shouldn’t have,” she replied bluntly. “But I knew you’d find out anyway. And better from me than the news.”

Suguru stepped inside. Shoko shut the door behind him. No hug. No comfort. Just two old friends standing in stale lamplight, exhausted from different wars.

“Is he…” Suguru began.

“He’s alive,” Shoko said, dropping onto her couch. “Concussed. Bruised. High enough that I’m shocked he didn’t explode from the inside. But alive.”

Suguru tried to swallow. It hurt. “He, he drove here?”

“Halfway,” Shoko sighed, rubbing her forehead. “He crashed into a barrier in Somerville. If the airbag had deployed at the wrong angle, we’d be planning a funeral.”

Suguru felt his stomach drop. Like he had fallen through a manhole. Like he had been shot.

“Why?” he whispered.

Shoko gave him a look that cut clean. “You really need me to answer that?”

Suguru sat down heavily, elbows on his knees. He looked wrecked. Beautifully wrecked. Devastated and furious at himself. Shoko reached under her coffee table, pulled out a small tin. Suguru didn’t question it. She rolled a joint with surgical precision. Suguru watched her hands. Remembered them checking his pulse at Harvard after too many pills. Remembered her stitching a cut on Satoru’s cheek after a stupid fight. Remembered everything they had been tangled in. She handed the joint to him. He took it. She lit it for him.

“The whole world wants to eat you two alive,” Shoko said eventually. “Blackthorn. Gojo Group. Your fathers. Your own pride. Your illusions of adulthood.”

Suguru inhaled sharply. Held the smoke. Exhaled.

“I didn’t think he’d—” He stopped, the sentence fracturing. “I didn’t think he’d go back to… that.”

Shoko snorted. “Suguru, he’d go back to anything if he’s hurt enough. Even you.”

Suguru flinched. Actually flinched.

“He almost died.” He whispered it like a confession.

“Yes,” Shoko said. “And that’s on both of you.”

Suguru stared at the ceiling. The weed was settling into him like a blanket and a chokehold at once. He pictured Satoru lying in a hospital bed. Pale. Hooked up to monitors. Breathing. Barely breathing. Waiting. And Suguru couldn’t move. Couldn’t go to him. Couldn’t bring himself to open that door and face the wreckage they’d made of each other. Because seeing Satoru like that would destroy him. And because showing up would mean admitting everything he’d spent a decade avoiding. Instead, he leaned back on Shoko’s couch and covered his face with his hands.

“We’re done,” he said softly.

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “You two have been ‘done’ since 2014.”

“No,” Suguru said, voice tight. “I mean, whatever this is. Whatever we keep doing. The hurting. The circling. The breaking. We—” he swallowed hard. “We can’t fix each other. We never could.”

Shoko didn’t argue. She never lied to spare feelings.

“You’re both poison to each other,” she said. “But you’re also home.”

Suguru shut his eyes. Home. Yes. That was the problem.

Shoko got up, got him a blanket, tossed it at him. “If you’re going to self-destruct, at least do it on my couch and not on national television.”

Suguru laughed humorlessly. It cracked in the middle. He took the whiskey she offered. Took another hit. And as the weed settled and alcohol dulled the ache, he curled into the couch and whispered, not to Shoko, not to himself, but to the ceiling:

“I can’t go see him.”

Shoko turned off the lights. “I know.”

Suguru fell asleep like that: high, drunk, grieving the boy he once loved, and trying desperately, failing, to let go. And in a hospital less than three miles away, Satoru Gojo lay awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for someone who would not come.

Satoru Gojo walked out of Mass General three days later with a bandaged forehead, cracked ribs, a mild concussion, and the ghost of cocaine still scratching at the back of his skull. Utahime and Nanami flanked him like two federal agents escorting a war criminal. Shoko had threatened to chain him to the bed if he so much as thought about driving back to New York on his own. They sent him on a train. A goddamn Acela train. Satoru Gojo, CEO heir, private jet royalty, a man who had never in his life stood in a TSA line, was shoved onto Amtrak like a disgraced politician awaiting indictment. Nanami even bought him a coach ticket. He claimed it was “symbolic punishment.” Satoru called it “war crime.”

By the time he arrived in Manhattan, he felt hollow. Empty. Like something had been scooped out of him during the crash and left on a Massachusetts highway. He showered, shaved, stared at himself in the mirror for longer than necessary. Then it hit him. Suguru hadn’t come. At all. Not even once. Suguru had known. Suguru had been in the same city. And he didn’t come.

Something snapped inside Satoru, not loud, not dramatic, not explosive. Just a quiet, mechanical break. A final crack in an old bone. Whatever they had left… whatever illusion he’d still been clinging to… was totaled. Worse than the McLaren. At least the McLaren could be replaced. Suguru couldn’t. And Suguru didn’t want to be.

So Satoru decided the only thing left to do was bury it. Violently. Properly. The way all Gojo relationships ended, scorched earth and expensive therapy. He knew exactly where to find him.

Shoko lived in an old brownstone in Beacon Hill, too classy for her income bracket and too messy for a surgeon. Satoru took the first train back to Boston, still doctor-ordered, still humiliated, and walked straight from South Station to her place.

Winter air slapped him. His ribs throbbed. His head pulsed in protest. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. He climbed the steps, raised his hand, and knocked. He expected Shoko. He got Suguru.

Suguru pulled the door open, hair tied half-up, wearing a Blackthorn hoodie and sweatpants that were probably stolen from someone’s ex-boyfriend years ago. He had a mug of coffee in one hand and sleep in his eyes, the good, deep kind that comes from weed and whiskey and nights trying not to think about someone you failed.

“Oh,” Suguru said. “It’s you.”

Satoru smiled. A slow, sharp, venom-laced smile.

“Miss me?”

Suguru’s face darkened. “Satoru, this isn’t—”

“You didn’t come.” Satoru cut him off immediately, stepping closer. “I could’ve died.”

Suguru swallowed once, the guilt flickering across his expression in a way that made Satoru want to destroy something expensive.

“Shoko said—” Suguru began.

“Oh, fuck Shoko’s instructions,” Satoru snapped. “You didn’t come because you didn’t want to.”

Silence. That silence said everything.

Satoru laughed, a cold, brittle sound. “It’s funny, isn’t it? You used to sprint across campus if I had a fever. You’d skip midterms to check if I was hungover. And now? I crash a McLaren at ninety miles per hour and you can’t be bothered to lift your ass off Shoko’s couch?”

Suguru’s jaw tightened. “Don’t make this about—”

“This is about you,” Satoru hissed. “It’s always been about you. And your pride. And your fucking wounded ego. And how you blame me for everything wrong in your life.”

Suguru stepped forward, eyes sharp. “You’re the one who tried to kill yourself with cocaine in a two-million-dollar car—”

“BECAUSE OF YOU!” Satoru finally exploded. “Because you went on national TV and called me irrelevant, Suguru! You said I was nothing! You made me nothing!”

Suguru flinched. Then he hardened.

“Then maybe you should’ve built your identity on something other than me.”

That was it. The final shot. The final break. Satoru leaned in, until his forehead almost brushed Suguru’s.

“You know what?” he whispered. “You’re right.”

He smiled, slow and lethal.

“So let me tell you who I’m going to be now.”

Suguru’s breath hitched, barely noticeable, but Satoru caught it.

“I’m going to crush Blackthorn.”

“No, you’re not,” Suguru said instantly.

“Oh, I am,” Satoru replied. “I’ll have Yaga on his knees. I’ll own your precious little firm by Q3. And then—” He tapped Suguru’s chest. “—you’ll have to go work somewhere else. Maybe Goldman. Or, oh god,” He feigned horror. “Citi. Can you imagine it, Suguru? You in a sad cubicle in Midtown? Wearing a tie someone else approved? Taking orders from a managing director named Chadwick?”

Suguru’s nostrils flared. “You think I need Yaga?”

“No,” Satoru said with a smirk. “I think Yaga needs you. And I’m going to take him away from you.”

Suguru’s voice dropped. “Don’t start a war you can’t win.”

“Oh, I can win,” Satoru purred. “Money wins, remember? Daddy taught me that. I’m actually listening now.”

Suguru swallowed. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m sober enough to ruin your life,” Satoru shot back.

Silence stretched between them, heavy, vicious, intimate in the worst way.

Suguru finally whispered, “We’re done, Satoru.”

Satoru smiled. A real smile. Terrifying.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said softly, “we were done the moment you chose Yaga over me.”

He stepped back.

“And now it’s my turn.”

Suguru’s eyes widened, not with fear, but something worse: recognition. Satoru Gojo wasn’t bluffing. He wasn’t heartbroken. He wasn’t fragile. He was finally, fully, catastrophically his father’s son. He turned on his heel and walked down the steps. Suguru stood in the doorway, frozen, holding onto the frame like it was keeping him upright.

Shoko appeared behind him, sipping coffee. “Well,” she said, “that went badly.”

Suguru didn’t answer.

She glanced at him. “You okay?”

Suguru whispered, “No.”

And in the street below, Satoru Gojo kept walking, straight toward war.

Chapter Text

Suguru Geto liked to believe he wasn’t like Satoru.

He liked to believe he wasn’t self-destructive, hysterical, emotional, reckless, or inclined to careen across state lines in a $2.5M supercar while blitzed out of his mind on cocaine and existential despair. He liked to believe, almost religiously, that he was measured. That he was controlled. Because unlike Satoru, who imploded loudly and publicly like a star collapsing into itself, Suguru practiced a quieter form of ruin. One that didn’t leave debris. One that didn’t end with hospital monitors and scandal-enabling NDAs.

Suguru’s vices were curated, not chaotic. He smoked weed the way other men drank tea: ritualistically, methodically, one calculated puff at a time. He drank, but never enough to forget his own name, only enough to slide the sharp corners of life into smoother, less painful shapes. He used coke occasionally, socially, surgically, never rails on a mirror at 3 AM in a penthouse. Sex? Controlled. Predictable. Curated.

He only slept with Shoko regularly, because she understood the transactional nature of it. She didn’t cling. She didn’t read meaning into it. Their bodies spoke the same language: not love, definitely not love, let’s not pretend this is anything other than stress relief with someone we don’t hate. And occasionally, occasionally, he slept with Satoru. That was different. That was dangerous. That was the opposite of control. It was the only time Suguru ever let the leash slip. Which is why he avoided it like the plague. And why it happened anyway. Because bad decisions had muscle memory, and Satoru had always been his worst, most exquisite one.

But Shoko, cold, clever, diagnostic Shoko, was safe. And she never let him pretend otherwise. Not even the time, years ago, god help him, when he’d rolled over after sex, still breathless, lying flat on her mattress, and muttered something that could only be described as a proposal in the loosest, most pathetic possible sense.

“Maybe,” he’d said, staring at the ceiling, “we could do it. You know. Family. House. Whatever normal people do.”

She’d laughed so hard she almost fell off the bed.

“Are you concussed?” she’d asked him between laughs. “Why the hell would I marry a man who’s obsessed with someone else?”

Suguru had flushed, actual, genuine, human flushing, which she’d found hysterical.

“No thank you,” she’d said, tapping his forehead. “You’re hot, but absolutely not worth the headache.”

Then she’d kissed him once, on the cheek, like a pat on the head.

“You’re not husband material,” she’d informed him. “You’re ‘sex when I’m bored’ material.”

Shoko had always spoken like anesthesia, soft, numbing, and brutal in hindsight. And the worst part? Suguru liked her honesty. He trusted it. He needed it. Because when Shoko told him a truth, it didn’t feel like a knife. It felt like a diagnosis.

Suguru Geto woke up in Shoko Ieiri’s bed with the faint, metallic taste of regret in his mouth and an ache behind his eyes that felt less like a hangover and more like something living. Something breathing. Something crawling inside his ribcage and trying to pry it open. Boston morning light was different, colder, flatter, the sunlight of a city that kept its ambition in spreadsheets, not skylines.

He stared at the cracked ceiling of Shoko’s apartment and exhaled slowly. He should’ve gone back to New York last night. He should’ve returned to Yaga’s office, finished the diligence packet for the acquisition, played the part of the well-oiled deal machine Blackthorn paid seven figures for. He should’ve been working, not sleeping in Shoko’s sheets, smelling like weed, bourbon, and bad decisions. But Shoko’s place was the only place he could go after Satoru’s visit. After the fight. After the words exchanged like knives and grenades.

Satoru Gojo was many things, brilliant, infuriating, addictive, destructive, but last night, Suguru saw something else: a man who had stopped loving him and started becoming Masahiro. Which meant whatever they were, dead in the water.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes just as Shoko padded into the room holding two mugs of coffee like she was offering them as tribute to gods she didn’t respect.

“Drink,” she said, handing him one. “You look like you crawled out of the Charles River.”

He snorted. “Thanks. That’s incredibly flattering.”

“I’m a doctor,” she said. “I diagnose facts.”

She plopped down on the edge of the bed, nursing her coffee like a priest holding communion wine, and eyed him with the practiced resignation of someone who had watched two idiots ruin their lives in slow motion for over a decade.

“So,” she said, blowing on her coffee. “Heard you and Satoru murdered each other last night?”

Suguru stared into his mug. “Something like that.”

Shoko nodded once. “Finally.”

He looked up sharply. “Excuse me?”

“Oh please,” she said. “You two have been circling the drain since 2010. If someone finally flushed, we should be grateful.”

Suguru rubbed his forehead. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes it is,” Shoko replied. “You’re both emotionally stunted man-children with unresolved daddy issues and a talent for self-destruction.”

Suguru groaned. “Remind me why we’re friends.”

“I have no idea,” she said cheerfully. “Probably trauma bonding.”

She stood, stretching. “Anyway, you’re in Boston for a real reason, right? Yaga said something about a deal?”

Suguru blinked. “Right. The acquisition. A biotech platform in Cambridge.”

Shoko opened her fridge, stared into it like it had offended her, then closed it. “I thought Blackthorn hated biotech.”

“They do,” he said. “But they love buying undervalued things and flipping them after dismembering half the leadership team.”

“Hm,” Shoko said. “Corporate butchery. Sexy.”

Suguru let out a tired laugh. “Everything’s sexy to you.”

“Incorrect,” Shoko said. “I only find three things sexy: surgical precision, expensive watches, and men who return my texts within twenty minutes.”

Suguru snorted. Then Shoko dropped the bomb like she was reciting tomorrow’s lunch order.

“By the way, my parents want me married.”

Suguru blinked. “Sorry?”

“You heard me. They’ve been pestering me since residency. ‘Shoko, you should settle down.’ ‘Shoko, you’re thirty-something, stop sleeping with emotionally unavailable men.’ ‘Shoko, maybe pick someone with a stable job.’ Very rude.”

Suguru stared at her. “You’re a surgeon. That’s the definition of stability.”

She shrugged. “They want grandchildren. Preferably not ones I accidentally steal from the maternity ward.”

Suguru blinked. “Please don’t.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes the babies are cute. Anyway—” she tossed a chip into her mouth, “—I’m going to try seducing an anesthesiologist.”

Suguru choked on his coffee. “A what?”

“An anesthesiologist,” she repeated calmly. “Stable, employed, mostly conscious. Excellent candidates.”

Suguru frowned. “And… what does that have to do with me?”

“Oh,” Shoko said, wiping her hands on her scrubs. “It means you can’t keep showing up here for pity sex or emotional triage. My apartment is not a halfway house for men who ruin their own lives.”

Suguru stiffened. “I don’t—”

“You do,” she said. “And I love you, but I’m too tired to be your grief management system. Want sex? Fine. Send a car. A nice one. I want legroom. Want me to fly to New York? Fine. Send your jet. And chocolates. And maybe a puppy. I’m sick of you just appearing.”

Suguru stared at her.

Shoko shrugged. “Boundaries.”

He rubbed a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

After she teased him about marriage, after she laid out her new plan to bag an anesthesiologist, Suguru sat at her dining table scrolling through acquisition documents for the Cambridge biotech firm. Shoko, eating chips at 10:45 AM like a gremlin with a medical degree, watched him over the rim of her coffee mug.

She watched him carefully. “So what happened between you and Gojo?”

Suguru inhaled slowly. And then he said the words he’d been avoiding even in his own mind.

“It’s done.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow. Then she laughed. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just knowingly.

“You two say that every five years,” she said. “Then you act surprised when the corpse sits up again like it’s auditioning for a zombie film.”

Suguru’s jaw clenched. “No. This time it’s different.”

“Mm-hmm,” Shoko said, unbothered. “Tell me more about how the boy you’ve been obsessed with since middle school is suddenly irrelevant.”

Suguru glared. “He said he’s going to crush Blackthorn.”

Shoko actually laughed harder. “Oh fantastic. You broke his heart, so now he’s speedrunning a villain arc. Classic Gojo family trait.”

“It’s not funny,” Suguru said quietly.

Shoko softened, just slightly. “I know.”

Suguru’s voice dropped. “Shoko… it’s over. Really over. Everything we were, it’s gone.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she tapped her cigarette pack against her palm.

“Suguru,” she said slowly, “you two don’t break up. You implode. And then you orbit each other until the next implosion.”

Suguru’s throat tightened.

“You’re spiraling,” she said.

“No,” Suguru replied, eyes on his laptop. “I’m working.”

“You always work when you’re spiraling.”

“Congratulations,” Suguru muttered. “You’ve known me fifteen years.”

“And you still think I’m wrong?”

Suguru took a measured breath.

Shoko spun her chair. “So. You and Satoru. Dead in the water?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Sure.”

“It’s over.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I mean it, Shoko.”

This time, she actually looked at him properly, not with mockery or amusement, but with the brutal clarity only she possessed.

Shoko continued, “Please. You two are the water. Darling, the two of you have never been ‘over.’ You just take long breaks between disasters.”

Suguru clenched his jaw. “Not anymore.”

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “Why? Because he yelled at you? Because you yelled at him? Because the two of you reenacted Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf on my front steps?”

“It’s not that,” Suguru murmured.

“Then what?”

“It’s twenty-two years,” he whispered. “Since Buckley. Since Harvard. Since everything. And what do we have to show for it?”

Shoko rolled her eyes. “Trauma. Obviously.”

Suguru rubbed his temples. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” she said. “Trauma bonds last longer than marriages.”

He shut his laptop with more force than necessary. Shoko raised both eyebrows.

“Look,” Suguru said. “Whatever we had, it’s gone. He… he’s not the Satoru I knew.”

Shoko snickered. “The Satoru you knew hasn’t existed since 2008.”

Suguru glared.

She added, “And you’re not the Suguru he remembers. So what? People grow. They rot. They turn into CEOs and deal junkies. Welcome to adulthood.”

He exhaled sharply. “This is different.”

She shrugged. “Then good. It’s time. Maybe now you’ll stop orbiting each other like broken satellites.”

He shut his eyes. But Shoko wasn’t done.

She flicked his forehead. “Now go put on some real clothes. You have a meeting. And stop brooding. You look like you lost a custody battle.”

He groaned, but stood. As he gathered his suit jacket from her couch, Shoko added one last thing, voice light but cutting:

“And Suguru? Don’t pretend you’re done with him. No one believes you.”

He froze for a second. Then he laughed, quiet, bitter, hopeless.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Suguru didn’t answer. Because Shoko was right. Because Shoko was always right. Because last night, when Satoru said, I’m going to crush Blackthorn, Suguru saw something he’d never seen before. Anger sharpened into ambition. Pain turned into strategy. Love calcified into power. It terrified him. And it thrilled him. And it killed him. He stood, straightened his Blackthorn suit jacket, and slung his laptop bag over his shoulder.

Shoko sipped her coffee. “Going to avoid Satoru forever?”

“That’s the plan.”

She shrugged. “Good luck. He’s like shingles. You think he’s gone and then, bam, your whole immune system collapses.”

Suguru groaned. “Why are you like this?”

“Oh sorry,” Shoko said, deadpan. “Was I supposed to be kind?”

He sighed, heading for the door.

Shoko called after him, “And Suguru?”

He paused.

“And don’t propose again,” she added casually, lighting a cigarette. “It was embarrassing. For both of us. You were naked,” she said. “And earnest. Disgusting. Don’t repeat it.”

Suguru left before she could humiliate him further. And he walked out her door like a man heading into battle, not ready to admit the war he was fighting wasn’t Blackthorn versus Gojo, but Suguru versus himself.

Back in New York, Satoru Gojo did what all rich, emotionally ruined men in corporate America eventually do when heartbreak threatens to turn them into soup: he compartmentalized. Violently. Brutally. With the efficiency of a surgeon removing a tumor without anesthesia. Suguru? Dead in the water. Totaled like the McLaren. Irrelevant. Blocking him on MSNBC and in life.

Because Satoru had something much larger to worry about, a gala. A massive one. A forty-year work anniversary gala for Masahiro fucking Gojo. Forty years. Four. Zero. A number so large it felt fictional. Like a sentence handed down in federal court. Masahiro had started working before Satoru had been a concept, before credit default swaps existed, before half the board had been born. This gala wasn’t a party. It was a power consolidation. A declaration to the world: Masahiro Gojo is alive, still dangerous, and not stepping aside for anyone, not even the golden-haired heir who crashed a supercar while on cocaine.

And Satoru had to help plan it. He didn’t get to spiral. He didn’t get to mourn. He didn’t get to lie in bed rewatching Suguru’s MSNBC clip and debating whether to text something pathetic like You didn’t mean that, right? No. He had to perform.

Nanami was waiting in his office the morning after he returned from Boston, with two folders, a coffee, and the expression of a man preparing himself for pain.

“Good,” Nanami said without looking up. “You’re alive. We have forty-eight hours to finalize the guest list.”

Satoru dropped into his chair. “Can’t we just not have this gala?”

“No,” Nanami said.

“Can’t we make it a small, tasteful dinner?”

“No.”

“Can we poison the guests?”

“No.”

“Can we poison my father?”

Nanami finally looked at him. “Stop talking.”

Satoru sighed loudly, dramatically, childishly, because some part of him still believed Nanami was obligated to tolerate it.

Nanami handed him a packet. “Yuki Tsukumo wants edits to your speech.”

Satoru froze. “Oh. Right. The dragon.”

Yuki Tsukumo, Head of Public Relations at Gojo Group, was a legend, a savant, a media whisperer who had single-handedly turned half a dozen scandals into feel-good corporate narratives. She also hated Satoru with a calmness that suggested deep spiritual roots. She called him “the family’s PR nightmare” to his face. Which was, admittedly, fair. At precisely 11:04 AM, she stormed into Satoru’s office wearing a gold suit, combat boots, and the aura of a publicist who had bailed out too many billionaires to fear God.

“Okay, Gojo,” she said, dropping a stack of papers on his desk. “We need to talk about your face.”

Satoru groaned. “What’s wrong with my face NOW?”

“Nothing,” Yuki said, “except that every camera in the country will be pointed at it during a gala honoring the most terrifying man in American corporate history.”

Nanami added, “You should smile less.”

Yuki nodded. “Yes. When you smile too big, it looks like you’re plotting regicide.”

“I might be.”

Yuki ignored him. “Also, do not, under any circumstances, mention global warming, cryptocurrency, psychedelics, your therapist, or your childhood trauma. Or Suguru.”

Nanami coughed sharply.

Satoru glared. “I wasn’t going to mention Suguru.”

Yuki rolled her eyes. “You always say that and then you do.”

“I won’t,” Satoru insisted.

“You said that at your Wharton graduation party, during the drunk speech you gave,” Yuki reminded him. “You said, ‘I’m totally over Suguru Geto,’ in front of a hundred people.”

Satoru covered his face. “Oh my god. Kill me.”

“I will if you go off script,” Yuki warned.

Nanami nodded approvingly. “She means that.”

Meanwhile, in Boston, Suguru was busy pretending nothing in his personal life had imploded, successfully, because he had trained for decades to be the calm eye in the hurricane of his own making. 

Blackthorn’s Boston office was sleek, minimalist, glass everywhere, like a tech bro startup had eaten a law firm. Yaga was already there, speaking to someone Suguru didn’t recognize: tall, sharp, wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal suit and carrying a leather-bound notebook with tabs. Hiromi Higuruma. A name Suguru knew, of course, everyone in corporate America did. Hiromi was a BigLaw star, a corporate attorney whose rise to fame involved dismantling a Fortune 100 company for violating a clause buried on page 1,283 of its own contract. A man with a reputation for two things: legal brilliance, and moral ambiguity.

He turned as Suguru walked in.

“Geto,” Yaga said, gesturing between them. “This is Hiromi Higuruma. He’ll be assisting Blackthorn on the Gojo matter.”

Hiromi. Which meant sharpening knives and identifying vulnerabilities before Masahiro or Nanami could.

Higuruma extended his hand. “Pleasure. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Suguru shook his hand. “Likewise.”

Hiromi’s gaze flicked briefly, almost clinically, over Suguru’s expression, attire, posture. Suguru recognized it immediately. Assessment.

“You’re dealing with a formidable opponent,” Hiromi said lightly. “Nanami Kento is—”

Suguru cut in before he could stop himself. “My equal.”

Hiromi’s lips twitched. “Confident. Good.”

Yaga clasped his hands. “Higuruma will run point on our counterattack. Poison pill or not, Gojo Group has vulnerabilities. Masahiro is old. Satoru is unstable. Nanami is spread thin. They can be outmaneuvered.”

Suguru felt something cold twist in his stomach. Because the words were true. And because they hurt anyway.

Hiromi continued, “I’ll need access to Gojo-Blackthorn joint venture contracts. All of them. And copies of Satoru Gojo’s public statements, earnings call transcripts, anything that shows inconsistency. We can use them.”

Suguru nodded. Professional. Controlled. But inside, he could still hear Satoru’s voice from last night echoing like a bruise pressed too hard: “I’ll have Blackthorn at my feet.”

Higuruma flipped open his notebook. “We begin immediately.”

“Yes,” Suguru said.

Because whatever he had with Satoru, whatever it had once been, whatever it could have been, whatever it might have resurrected itself into, was gone. And Suguru Geto, master of controlled vice and carefully curated self-destruction, forced himself to move on. He slid into a chair across from Yaga. Straightened his tie. Opened his laptop. And started planning how to dismantle the company of the only man he had ever loved. Because in this war, no one cared about heartbreak. No one cared about the crash. No one cared about twenty-two years of history. And Suguru wasn’t going to lose again.

In New York, Satoru learned something profound about trauma: it could be postponed if the calendar demanded it. Because no matter how badly he’d crashed, literally and metaphorically, Gojo Group’s Gala Committee did not care. Masahiro Gojo’s forty-year work anniversary gala was happening whether Satoru was emotionally stable, physically healed, or mentally coherent. One could spiral privately, but publicly? Publicly he needed to perform.

The venue: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. The theme: “Legacy and Leadership.” The mood: Terror disguised as champagne. Masahiro Gojo did not allow imperfection. Not in his company, not in his family, not in the tribute that was essentially a corporate coronation.

So Satoru dragged himself out of bed each morning, forced his ribs into suits, plastered fake smiles across his face, and worked with Nanami and Yuki to choreograph this corporate opera. Yuki, the PR dragon, was at her absolute peak.

“Smile softer,” she snapped at Satoru during a photoshoot. “You look like you’re about to eat someone.”

Nanami adjusted Satoru’s tie. “He is.”

“Fix your hair,” Yuki added. “And stop looking sad. People can smell heartbreak through the camera.”

“I’m not heartbroken,” Satoru lied.

“Yes you are,” Yuki said. “It’s coming through in your pores.”

She shoved a stack of cue cards at him. “Your speech. Memorize it.”

Satoru skimmed the first line: Tonight we honor a titan.

He groaned. “Yuki, this sounds like a eulogy.”

“That’s the point,” she said. “But for God’s sake, don’t imply he’s dying.”

“He almost died,” Satoru muttered.

Nanami exhaled sharply. “Please do not bring that up during the gala.”

Yuki pointed at him with a pen like a weapon. “And do not cry on stage. Not even a little. Investors do not trust a moist heir.”

They worked sixteen-hour days. Briefings, run-throughs, rehearsals for the speech, meetings with caterers, meetings with Met security, meetings with Masahiro where Satoru sat quietly while his father dissected every detail with surgical coldness. Masahiro approved nothing in the first round. He never did.

“I don’t want candles,” he said. “Fire hazard.”

“I don’t want a video montage,” he said. “It makes me look old.”

“I don’t want a charity tie-in,” he said. “We’re a corporation, not a church.”

“I don’t want my son ad-libbing a single sentence,” he said. “Especially after his incident.”

“Which incident?” Satoru asked.

Masahiro stared at him. Nanami coughed.

Meanwhile, in Boston, Suguru Geto was becoming someone else. He’d always been composed, but now he was calcifying. People in Blackthorn whispered about him, his speed, his focus, the way he devoured diligence reports like scripture and ripped apart valuation models with the same precision surgeons used on tumors. He didn’t joke, didn’t soften, didn’t engage in the camaraderie Blackthorn partners pretended to have. He was a weapon. Yaga’s weapon.

And the moment Hiromi Higuruma stepped into his orbit, he found himself paired with someone just as sharp. Hiromi was a nightmare dressed as a lawyer: brilliant, relentless, principled in ways that made him dangerous because those principles were selectively applied.

“The Gojo case is interesting,” Hiromi said as they walked into a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows. “It’s not just corporate war. It’s clean-up.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Clean-up?”

“Yes,” Hiromi said. “The corporate world is fundamentally built on men like Masahiro Gojo. Men who assume they’re exceptions to rules. They do not fear consequences. They do not imagine collapse. Our job is to remind them they bleed.”

Suguru’s expression flickered. “You think we can win?”

Hiromi smiled faintly. “I think anyone can win with the right leverage.”

Suguru nodded.

Then Hiromi added, too casually, “Your counterpart at Gojo Group, Kento Nanami, he has weaknesses.”

Suguru folded his arms. “Everyone has weaknesses.”

“Yes,” Hiromi said. “But his are moral. That’s rare. It makes him predictable.”

Suguru paused, then replied carefully, “Nanami is… good at what he does.”

Hiromi smirked. “People who believe in right and wrong always are.”

Suguru didn’t like the implication. Didn’t like how easily Hiromi dissected people. Didn’t like how he sounded like he’d studied Satoru too. But then Hiromi slid a folder toward him.

“Your turn,” he said. “Describe Satoru Gojo.”

Suguru’s jaw tightened. Professional. Controlled. Unshakeable. Except no, he wasn’t any of those things. Not anymore. Suguru opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Then said, evenly, “He’s impulsive. Charming. Careless. And smarter than people assume.”

Hiromi hummed. “And his weaknesses?”

Suguru hesitated. Then, quietly: 

“Love.”

Hiromi paused. Then wrote it down without comment. Suguru wanted to snatch the paper away. Wanted to burn the word off the page. Instead he sank deeper into the chair and said:

“Whatever he was to me, it’s done.”

Hiromi nodded. “Good. That clarity will make you useful.”

Suguru exhaled, the weight of twenty-two years pressing down on him like an anvil. Useful. That’s what he was now. A function. A tool. A chess piece in Yaga’s strategy. He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped being a person and started being an asset, but it had happened quietly. Subtly. Without protest. Maybe because he’d always feared that without Satoru, he was nothing. And now? Now he had to prove, to himself, to Yaga, to the universe, that he wasn’t.

Even if it meant destroying everything Satoru had.

Back in New York, Yuki Tsukumo was screaming at someone on the phone about napkin colors when she turned to Satoru and said:

“Also, don’t mention the crash. It makes you look fragile.”

Satoru nodded.

She added, “And don’t mention Suguru. It makes you look pathetic.”

Satoru nodded harder.

Nanami handed Satoru the new guest list. “Two senators, the Deputy Secretary of Commerce, three Fortune 100 CEOs, and someone’s celebrity wife.”

Satoru skimmed it, sighing. “Great. A circus.”

Nanami didn’t disagree.

Yuki snapped her notebook shut. “Let’s make one thing clear: you are not allowed to spiral until after the gala.”

Satoru blinked. “Is… is that a rule now?”

“Yes,” she said. “You can have a breakdown on Monday at 9 AM, I’ll pencil it in.”

Satoru inhaled deeply. Suguru was preparing to destroy them. And Satoru? Satoru was picking floral arrangements for his father’s tribute gala. But he would smile. He would perform. He would stand beside Masahiro like the perfect heir. And afterwards, after the applause faded and the champagne dried and the press left, Satoru would begin the next phase of the war.

Because if Suguru thought he was moving on, Satoru would make damn sure he regretted it.

Later that night, Satoru Gojo was lying on his couch drinking kombucha, not the Whole Foods kind, but the artisanal, micro-batched, hand-bottled-by-a-bearded-alchemist-in-SoHo kind, because apparently he was “recovering” and “not allowed caffeine, alcohol, or recreational substances.” Utahime had sent him a six-pack and a text that said, “Don’t relapse. Drink this and journal.” He had done neither, because kombucha tasted like regret and he hated journaling. He was mid-sip when his phone buzzed.

DOORMAN: Mr. Gojo, Mr. Suguru Geto is here to see you.

Satoru’s first reaction was disbelief. His second was rage. His third was something he refused to acknowledge as hope. He sat upright. “Send him up.” Then immediately regretted it. Why was Suguru here? Why was he always here? Why did he appear like a recurring trauma symptom every time Satoru attempted to stabilize? Suguru had made it clear, it was over. So why?

The elevator dinged.

Suguru Geto stepped into the penthouse like he owned it. Black coat, dark hair tied back, eyes sharp, jaw set, the look of a man who’d rehearsed a speech and emotions he wasn’t proud of.

Satoru didn’t stand. “What the hell do you want?”

Suguru didn’t waste time.

“You needy love sponge.”

Satoru blinked. “I—what?”

“You heard me,” Suguru snapped, shutting the door behind him with a slam. “You’re a needy, pathetic, emotionally constipated love sponge who clings to the Gojo dynasty like it’s your emotional support animal!”

Satoru choked on his kombucha. “Are you having a stroke?”

Suguru marched toward him. “I said, leave Gojo Group!”

Satoru stood now. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Leave,” Suguru said, breathing hard. “Take your shares, take the money, take whatever inheritance Masahiro’s carved out for you, just fucking leave. Get out. Get free. Get away from him.”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you even care?”

“BECAUSE YOU COULD HAVE HAD EVERYTHING!” Suguru shouted. The words tore out of him like they were ripping skin. “We, we, could have had everything, Satoru! Money, power, our own firm, our own world. And you fucking walked.”

He wasn’t yelling like a rival. He was yelling like someone betrayed. Someone grieving.

Satoru’s pulse spiked. “Don’t rewrite history. You left first.”

Suguru stepped closer. “I stayed for you longer than I should’ve. I waited for you longer than is sane. And do you know what it cost me?”

Satoru scoffed. “Your dignity?”

“My money,” Suguru hissed. “Do you have any idea how much I lost because of you? How many deals I tanked? How many term sheets I backed out of? How many opportunities I torched because I thought, maybe, just maybe, you’d choose me over Masahiro fucking Gojo?”

Satoru felt winded. “How much are we talking?”

Suguru jabbed a finger into his chest. 

“Enough that you’re going to pay for my next house.”

“Excuse me?!”

“You heard me.”

Satoru laughed sharply. “Jesus Christ, Suguru, you’re unhinged.”

“Oh, I’m unhinged?” Suguru threw his hands up. “YOU broke into my emotional house, shat on the carpet, set fire to the living room, and left!”

Satoru’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Don’t talk to me about leaving.”

Suguru’s throat bobbed.

Satoru took a step forward. “Don’t you dare say you were the only one who lost something.”

Suguru stepped forward too. “I did lose something.”

“What?”

“You.”

The room went still. They were too close, too close to be enemies, too close to be friends. The air between them buzzed with old longing and fresh resentment.

Suguru’s voice broke. “Just… leave Gojo Group. Get out. Please.”

Satoru felt a punch of anger. “Do you hear yourself? You’re asking me to walk away from the only legacy I have!”

“Legacy?” Suguru scoffed. “Or leash?”

Something in Satoru snapped.

“Get out,” he growled.

Suguru sneered. “Make me.”

Satoru shoved him. Suguru shoved back. It was muscle memory, violence as old as their friendship, rough play turned real, the kind of fight only two people who know each other too well can slip into. Satoru grabbed Suguru’s collar. Suguru grabbed his wrists. They crashed into the wall, foreheads almost touching, panting hard. An almost-kiss lived in the space between their teeth.

“You don’t even know what you want,” Suguru whispered.

“I know one thing,” Satoru whispered back. “I’m going to ruin you.”

“Then do it.”

Their lips brushed, and the elevator dinged. They froze. The door swung open. Utahime stepped out holding Bear in her arms like a judgmental toddler.

“Satoru, you forgot, OH MY GOD.”

She gasped, Bear barked, and she nearly dropped him.

“Jesus Christ,” she said, staring at them. “It’s like the Guggenheim all over again!”

Suguru groaned. “For the love of, Utahime, don’t—”

“No,” she said, pointing at them with the leash. “I am not doing this again. I am not watching you two almost make out, like that time during the modern art benefit, while I hold a poodle.”

“It was a Maltipoo,” Satoru corrected weakly.

“NOT THE POINT,” she snapped.

Suguru rolled his eyes. “I’m leaving.”

“You should,” Utahime said. “And you—” she jabbed a finger at Satoru, “—stop fighting your trauma bond.”

“It’s not a trauma bond,” Satoru insisted.

Suguru deadpanned, “It’s absolutely a trauma bond.”

Utahime shoved Bear into Satoru’s arms. “I swear to God, the two of you need exorcism, not therapy.”

Bear licked Satoru’s face. Suguru stared at him, at Satoru holding a fluffy dog like a broken billionaire child, and something cracked in his eyes before he forced it shut.

“This conversation’s not over,” Suguru muttered, backing toward the elevator.

“It is,” Utahime said, pressing the button for him.

Suguru’s jaw clenched. Satoru’s throat tightened. The elevator doors closed.

Suguru Geto stormed out of Satoru’s penthouse, slammed into the elevator, and jabbed the “Lobby” button like he wanted it to feel pain. His pulse was still pounding. His hands were shaking, though he’d rather stab himself than admit it. His throat felt tight, stomach twisted, all the things he hated feeling, all the things Satoru Gojo could summon with just a look.

He paced the lobby while the doorman pretended he wasn’t witnessing a billionaire meltdown. Outside, Manhattan glared at him, cold, judgmental, expensive. He considered taking the subway. For exactly three seconds. Then he imagined being recognized. Or worse, being robbed. Or worse, ending up on TikTok under the title: “PE guy crying on the 4 train??!”

He chose his car. The driver didn’t speak. He knew better. Suguru sat in the back seat, staring out the window as Manhattan blurred past. He replayed every second of what just happened, Satoru’s insults, his own rage, the almost-kiss that felt like a ghost pulling him back into a life he no longer had the emotional maturity to handle. He shouldn’t have gone. He shouldn’t have said any of it. He shouldn’t have cared. But Satoru always pulled things out of him, ugly things, soft things, the things he kept locked behind seven layers of professionalism and weed.

By the time he reached his building in Tribeca, he felt sick, emotionally, physically, spiritually. The doorman said, “Welcome home, Mr. Geto,” and Suguru almost laughed, because home implied he lived somewhere he didn’t hate. He took the elevator up to his apartment, bachelor-chic, minimalist, too clean to feel lived in, the kind of place where nothing stayed long enough to gather dust except regret. He tossed his keys on the counter. Shrugged off his coat. Kicked off his shoes.

Then he did something deeply, shamefully on-brand. He opened Excel. A fresh spreadsheet. Blank cells. Rows waiting for pain. He titled it: SATORU-RELATED FINANCIAL LOSSES.xlsx. He sat down and began typing, angrily, meticulously.

2016: Walked away from a guaranteed $40M GP stake because Satoru asked him not to leave for Dubai for two years.

2017: Renegotiated out of a board seat at a unicorn because Satoru said, “Don’t go live in California, you’ll get sad.” Cost: approximately $12M.

2018: Killed a merger Satoru didn’t like, Blackthorn estimated loss of ~$25M upside.

2019: Declined a partnership offer at another fund because “Satoru wouldn’t survive without me.” The value of that deferred offer? $8M annual carry.

2021: Paid out of pocket to cover legal mediation expenses for an incident Satoru caused. Listed as “fucking Guggenheim disaster.”

2022: Spent $1.2M defending Gojo Group from a journalist because Satoru panicked.

Emotional cost: incalculable.

He stared at the total. $86.2 million. Plus emotional damages. He dragged a hand down his face.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m pathetic.”

It wasn’t even the money. It was the humiliating realization that every major left turn in his adult life had been dictated by the gravitational pull of Satoru Gojo. He closed the spreadsheet only after adding one last line:

2023: Cost of breaking whatever remained of us: TBD. Likely catastrophic.

Suguru’s vision blurred. He shoved the laptop shut. His chest hurt. His throat burned. He needed something to steady himself, something to take the edge off the ache he refused to name. He crossed the apartment, opened his carved wooden box, and pulled out the familiar items: rolling papers, a grinder, the good weed. He sat on his couch. Rolled a joint with precision. Lit it. Inhaled like someone drowning. The first hit eased the tension in his shoulders. The second softened the static in his skull. The third made the apartment feel less empty.

When he finally slumped back against the cushions, the room humming faintly from the heat ducts, he set the joint down in the ashtray and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from under the coffee table. Single malt. Aged. Expensive. Lonely. He drank straight from the bottle. Once. Twice. Three times.

His eyes stung. He blinked rapidly. But the tears still came. He hated crying. Hated losing control. Hated that even now, after years of trying to untangle himself, Satoru still lived in the softest, stupidest part of him. He stood abruptly and stumbled to his closet. He dug through a drawer, through old clothes he never wore, through forgotten items, until he found it.

The worn, faded Harvard sweatshirt. Satoru’s. Not his. Soft from age. Cologne still faint in the fibers. A ghost of the past. Suguru sank to the floor. He held the sweatshirt against his chest. Hugged it. Buried his face in it. And for the first time in longer than he’d admit, he cried, quietly, desperately, his breath shaking as he whispered,

“Fuck… why did I ever love you.”

He cried until the whiskey dragged him under. Until the joint burned out. Until the sun disappeared behind the skyline. When he finally passed out, he was still clutching the sweatshirt like a lifeline, like a relic, like the last piece of a life he could never get back.

Chapter Text

The night of the gala arrived with the pomp of a coronation and the dread of an execution. The Metropolitan Museum stood glittering under the glare of imported lighting rigs and overpaid photographers, every billionaire, senator, and global finance heavyweight milling around its marble steps like an apex predator convention. Inside, the atmosphere was volatile in that uniquely New York corporate way, too much money, too much ego, too much champagne, and not nearly enough therapy.

Satoru Gojo was upstairs in the VIP prep lounge, staring at his reflection in a floor-length mirror, wondering when exactly everything in his life had gone to hell, and why it insisted on continuing the descent. His Tom Ford tuxedo fit perfectly. His white hair was styled flawlessly. His skin looked suspiciously radiant, probably because he had cried himself into a nine-hour sleep and woken up with the despair-fueled glow of a man on the verge. 

He was supposed to give a simple, PR-approved speech tonight. Something clean. Something safe. Something Yuki Tsukumo had rewritten fourteen times and threatened to tattoo onto his face if he didn’t stick to the script. But Satoru was… not okay. Mostly because of Suguru. Last night, the fight, the accusations, the almost-kiss, the neediness, the pain, the way Suguru yelled “We could have had everything and you walked”, had burrowed into Satoru’s chest like a parasite. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten.

He had, however, drank. Extensively. He had arrived at the Met with three glasses of champagne already in his bloodstream and a flask in his jacket pocket that Nanami pretended not to see. Nanami stood beside him now, adjusting his own tie like a man preparing for baptism by fire.

“Satoru,” Nanami began, tone level, eyes deadly. “You are not to deviate from the speech.”

Satoru nodded solemnly. “Correct.”

“I mean it.”

“Absolutely.”

“No improvisation.”

“No improv.”

“No jokes.”

“Hate jokes.”

“No references to childhood trauma, Harvard, cocaine, Suguru, private jets, or… metaphors.”

Satoru blinked. “No metaphors? That’s aggressive.”

Nanami’s jaw clenched. “I am not losing my job tonight.”

Satoru patted his shoulder. “Nanamin, no one is firing you.”

Nanami exhaled shakily. “Your father might.”

“Oh,” Satoru said. “True.”

Yuki Tsukumo burst into the room like a missile with legs.

“GOJO,” she barked. “We are ten minutes out. Do NOT embarrass your father. Do NOT embarrass me. Do NOT embarrass this firm. And I swear to GOD if you cry on stage—”

“I’m not gonna cry!” Satoru lied.

She squinted at him. “Are you drunk?”

“What? No,” he lied, beautifully, convincingly, drunkenly.

Nanami looked at him. Then looked at Yuki. Then looked at the flask bulging in his jacket. Nanami mouthed: He’s hammered. Yuki inhaled sharply like she was about to eat her own clipboard.

“This is fine,” she said. “We can salvage this. Just read the script.”

Satoru grinned. “I know the script.”

“You memorized it?”

“No, but I know where it is.”

Yuki’s eye twitched.

The Gala began. The lights dimmed. The orchestra swelled. Wealthy people pretended to have empathy for two full minutes as the MC went through the motions. Then, “Please welcome, to give remarks in honor of Masahiro Gojo’s forty years of leadership, his son, Satoru Gojo.”

Polite applause. Camera flashes. Nanami whispering, “Please, God.”

Satoru took the stage. He stared out at the crowd, bankers, senators, CEOs, people who would sell him for parts if the valuation was high enough. He saw his father sitting at the center table, expression unreadable, posture perfect, eyes sharp. And something inside Satoru slipped. Something small and stupid and raw. He reached into his pocket. Nanami’s eyes widened in horror. Satoru pulled out, not the script. The flask.

“Oh my god,” Yuki whispered audibly.

Satoru unscrewed it. Took a very visible sip. Cleared his throat into the microphone.

“Well,” he began cheerfully, “forty years is a long fucking time.”

Nanami nearly fainted. The audience froze. Masahiro Gojo blinked once. Slowly.

Satoru continued, “Forty years is, wow. You know. That’s older than… the internet. Older than Amazon. Older than three of my ex-girlfriends.”

A nervous laugh rippled through the crowd. Satoru grinned.

“Tonight is a celebration of a titan. A visionary. A man who shaped this company with his bare hands and, let’s be honest, intimidation.”

Nanami mouthed: Stop. Satoru went on.

“Growing up, people always asked me: ‘Satoru, what’s it like having Masahiro Gojo as a father?’ And I’d say, ‘Oh, easy. It’s like… living in a corporate training video written by the CIA.’”

More horrified laughter. Masahiro didn’t move. But the vein in his temple did. Satoru paced the stage.

“Look, my dad is… intense. Some kids get bedtime stories. I got EBITDA lectures.”

Nanami put his head in his hands.

“But he taught me things. Valuable things. Like, money wins. Always. Legacy matters. Loyalty matters. And…”

He paused. His vision blurred for a moment, not from the alcohol, but from the memory of Suguru last night saying, “We could have had everything.” Satoru swallowed.

“And he taught me that nothing is given. Everything is earned. Except trauma. That’s inherited.”

Nanami whispered, “Dear God.”

Yuki whispered, “We’re dead. We’re absolutely dead.”

But the crowd, they were leaning in. Satoru was a disaster, but he was a charismatic disaster. A trainwreck with cheekbones. A crash you couldn’t look away from. He straightened.

“And here’s the thing about my father,” he said. “He built this whole empire. Brick by brick. Deal by deal. Enemy by enemy. And I’ll be honest, some days I think he loves the company more than he loves me.”

The room went silent. Masahiro’s eyelids lowered. Satoru smiled. Too wide. Too honest.

“But that’s okay. Because I still love the company. I still love this… twisted, glamorous, exhausting dynasty. And I’m proud of him. I am. Even though he’s terrifying. Even though he once told me I had the business instincts of an emotional support hamster.”

Nanami looked physically ill. Satoru raised his glass, his flask, technically.

“So here’s to forty years of Masahiro Gojo. The myth. The legend. The man who taught me that you can put anyone in a headlock, metaphorically, and they’ll still thank you for the opportunity.”

A few people laughed. Satoru bowed.

“Happy anniversary, Dad.”

Thunderous applause. Not because it was good. But because no one wanted to die. Satoru left the stage, passing Nanami, who stared at him like he was a radioactive object.

“You absolute, absolute, idiot,” Nanami hissed.

Yuki looked like she needed an exorcism. Masahiro? He didn’t stand. He didn’t clap. He simply locked eyes with Satoru. A silent and devastating stare. The kind that promised: this war is about to get very real.

What happened after Satoru stepped off the stage was not captured by photographers, and that was the only grace of the night. Nanami tried to intercept him, hand braced on Satoru’s shoulder like he could physically restrain humiliation, but Masahiro Gojo moved faster than a seventy-year-old CEO had any right to. He grabbed Satoru by the arm, fingers digging like talons, and marched him out of the ballroom, down a private corridor behind the Met’s Egyptian wing, where the lighting was dim and the echo of a few ancient pharaohs watched silently from their sarcophagi.

There, away from the benefactors and senators and trembling PR staffs, Masahiro turned, and slapped his son across the face. Clean. Sharp. A sound like stock prices crashing. Satoru’s head snapped to the side. His cheek burned. He tasted metal. Masahiro’s voice was low, not loud, not theatrical. The kind of quiet rage that didn’t need volume to be lethal.

“You embarrassed me.”

Satoru touched his cheek, blinking. “Technically, I embarrassed us.”

Masahiro’s eyes narrowed. “Do not joke right now.”

“I wasn’t joking,” Satoru snapped, the alcohol burning through the filter between his brain and his mouth. “Everything I said was true.”

Masahiro stepped closer. Too close. “You humiliated this family. You humiliated me. And for what? A drunken cry for attention? A tantrum? An ego death performed live for New York’s elite?”

Satoru scoffed. “You asked for honesty. I gave you honesty.”

Masahiro’s lip curled. “I wanted a tribute, not a stand-up routine about your developmental trauma.”

“It is developmental trauma!” Satoru shot back. “Sorry if the truth makes you uncomfortable!”

Masahiro exhaled through his nose like a dragon suppressing flame. “There are donors here. Board members. Partners. Foreign dignitaries. Wall Street analysts. And every single one of them just watched you have a public breakdown with a microphone.”

“They loved it,” Satoru muttered.

“They were horrified,” Masahiro corrected. “And now they’re whispering. Again.”

He grabbed Satoru’s chin, not gently.

“Do you understand the damage you cause every time you open your mouth? Do you understand how exhausting it is to clean up after you? To apologize for you? To defend you? To pretend you’re ready for this company?”

Satoru jerked back. “I am ready.”

Masahiro laughed once, cold, surgical. “You are a failure.”

Satoru froze.

Masahiro continued, “A liability. A PR disaster. A drunk child who thinks charisma and good cheekbones equal leadership.”

Satoru felt something twist sharp in his chest.

“Say what you want,” he said hoarsely, “but nothing I said on stage was false.”

Masahiro’s gaze sharpened into a blade. “This is not about truth. This is about perception. Control. Power. And you have none.”

Satoru’s jaw clenched. “I am your successor.”

“You are an embarrassment,” Masahiro corrected, calm as a funeral. “And if you keep behaving like this, you will lose everything.”

Satoru laughed once, bitter. “What, you’re going to ground me?”

Masahiro leaned in, voice soft and lethal:

“I will fire you.”

Satoru blinked. “What?”

“I will remove you from the board,” Masahiro said, each word precise. “I will strip your voting shares. I will cut you out of succession entirely.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“And I will promote your cousin instead.”

Satoru stared. “Who?”

Masahiro smiled, cold, condescending, final.

“Yuta Okkotsu.”

Silence.

Satoru blinked slowly. “Yuta? Yuta? That sickly poor kid? The one who lived in Tokyo? The one who, what, what does he do? He handles one of our… subsidiaries? Like a small business line? He’s, he’s practically a Greg Hirsch knockoff!”

Masahiro’s expression didn’t change. “He is competent.”

“He is irrelevant!”

“He is obedient,” Masahiro corrected.

Satoru staggered back like he’d actually been punched. “You’re replacing me with… with… the human equivalent of an unseasoned cracker?”

Masahiro straightened his cufflinks. “He works. He listens. He does not humiliate me.”

“He’s not even part of the main U.S. operations!”

“He could be,” Masahiro said. “He is disciplined. Educated. Underestimated.”

“He’s a child!”

“So are you.”

Satoru’s breath trembled. Masahiro let the silence hang, then added:

“Satoru. If you ever do anything like tonight again, I will not hesitate. I will cut you from this family the way I cut tumors from the company. Cleanly. Permanently.”

Satoru felt the world tilt.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he whispered.

Masahiro’s expression softened, but not kindly. More like pity.

“Try me,” he said.

Then he turned, walked back into the gala, and left Satoru standing alone in the dark corridor of an ancient empire, staring at artifacts of dead kings and realizing he wasn’t untouchable. He wasn’t inevitable. He wasn’t safe. He was in a headlock. And Masahiro wasn’t letting go. Not until Satoru either learned to obey, or suffocated.

Satoru stood in the Met’s dim hallway long after Masahiro left him there, jaw clenched, cheek stinging, ego bleeding out onto the polished stone floor. The applause from inside the gala carried faintly down the corridor, each clap landing like another slap across his face.

Replacement. Yuta Okkotsu. A cousin so insignificant that Satoru had spent most of his life forgetting he existed. A kid with fragile health, a middle-class upbringing, and a job somewhere deep in the bowels of Gojo Group’s international subsidiaries, God, what was it? Something embarrassing. Logistics? Hospitality? Paper manufacturing? Something a CFO created just to check a diversity box on the family org chart.

And Masahiro was threatening to give him the empire? 

Satoru laughed to himself, quietly, sharply, the kind of laugh that tasted like blood. Masahiro Gojo, the man who had treated his son like an inconvenient employee for decades, suddenly had opinions on succession.

Satoru rubbed his face, exhaled shakily, and forced himself to straighten his jacket. He needed Nanami.

Nanami did not look pleased to see him. Satoru found him in the VIP wing, cornered by Yuki Tsukumo and a cluster of PR staffs who were frantically debating whether to delete the livestream replay before it went viral.

Yuki spotted Satoru and groaned into her champagne. “Oh, perfect. Satan has returned.”

Nanami dismissed the staff with a gesture. “Give us a moment.”

Yuki narrowed her eyes at Satoru. “And if you say anything to the press tonight, I will personally leak your therapy notes.”

There was no doubt in Satoru’s mind she had access to them.

But Satoru waved her off, voice tight. “Nanami. Need you.”

Nanami stepped aside with him, expression bleak in that elegant, bone-deep way only Nanami could achieve.

Nanami spoke first. “How much trouble are we in?”

Satoru blinked. “Nanami, my father just threatened to fire me from the board.”

Nanami sighed. “Yes, that seems accurate.”

“And promote—” Satoru’s voice broke on disbelief, “—Yuta.”

Nanami’s brows lifted slightly, as though hearing Yuta’s name transported him into an alternate universe.

“Okkotsu?” Nanami repeated. “Your cousin?”

Satoru nodded violently. “YES, my cousin. The one who lived in Japan. The one who fainted at my eighth birthday party because someone brought a dog. The one who couldn’t handle New York gluten.”

Nanami considered this. “He does sound unsuitable.”

“He’s Greg Hirsch!” Satoru hissed. “Greg Hirsch with anemia!”

Nanami adjusted his tie. “I don’t think Greg Hirsch had anemia.”

“Nanami,” Satoru snapped, grabbing him by the arms, “my father wants to replace me with, that. You need to dig. I want everything. Who he is, who he talks to, who hired him, who keeps him alive, who fucks him. All of it.”

Nanami blinked. “You want opposition research on your own cousin.”

“Yes.”

Nanami inhaled slowly. “Understood.”

But he didn’t move. Instead, he said, “Satoru… why do you think your father is considering him?”

Satoru scoffed. “Because he hates me.”

Nanami shook his head. “No. Masahiro doesn’t hate you.”

“Yes, he does,” Satoru muttered.

“No,” Nanami repeated. “He despises your inconsistency, your volatility, your unpredictability. But hatred? No. Masahiro Gojo is a man who allocates resources. You are a resource. And right now, you are depreciating.”

Satoru flinched. “Thanks.”

“It’s the truth,” Nanami said, unapologetic. “Your father doesn’t make sentimental decisions. If he is elevating Yuta, it means there is strategic value. Or leverage. Or backup optics.”

Satoru stared at him.

Nanami continued, “Masahiro did not care when Naomi was removed from the board. He did not care when she cried. He did not care when her husband threatened litigation. He barely had an opinion on her existence.”

“Exactly,” Satoru muttered. “He doesn’t care about family.”

Nanami shook his head again. “No. He cares deeply. Just selectively.”

Satoru blinked. “I don’t follow.”

Nanami put his hands in his pockets. “He cares about family in the sense that he wants it to function. A dynasty. A legacy. A perpetual motion machine powered by fear and expectation. Naomi was dispensable. Her branch of the family tree? Useless. Unmanageable. Not a threat. Not an asset.”

Satoru frowned. “And Yuta is… what?”

Nanami shrugged. “New. Unspoiled. Unentitled. A blank slate. Someone who hasn’t embarrassed him. Yet.”

Satoru scowled. “He’s boring.”

“That is a strength,” Nanami replied. “Especially in a crisis.”

“I hate him already.”

“I know.”

Satoru grabbed Nanami’s lapels. “Find out everything. I want to know the exact molecular structure of his childhood traumas.”

Nanami stared at him. “Satoru, that is not possible.”

“DO IT.”

Nanami sighed. “Fine.”

Satoru dropped his hands, rubbing his face. “I can’t be replaced by Yuta. I’m the heir. I’m the face. I’m the—” his voice caught, “—number one boy.”

Nanami’s expression softened, barely. “Yes. And that is precisely why Masahiro is testing you.”

“Testing me?”

“Pushing you. Seeing how far you’ll go. Whether you will break or bend. Whether you are a weapon or a liability.”

Satoru swallowed hard.

Nanami added, “If he wanted you gone, you’d already be gone. This is a headlock, Satoru, not a kill shot.”

Satoru looked up sharply.

Nanami sighed. “He wants to see if you’re willing to fight for the role you believe you deserve.”

Satoru’s fists clenched. “I am.”

“Then act like it,” Nanami said. “Stop spiraling. Stop reacting. Stop letting your father define the terms. And for the love of God, stop letting Suguru Geto ruin your neurotransmitters.”

Satoru blushed. “I am NOT—”

“You are,” Nanami interrupted. “You absolutely are.”

Satoru glared. “Fine. Whatever. Just dig up everything on Yuta. I want a full report by tomorrow.”

Nanami raised an eyebrow. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Or I’ll fire YOU.”

“You can’t fire me,” Nanami said.

“Then I’ll cry,” Satoru snapped.

Nanami considered this. “Much worse.”

Satoru ran a shaky hand through his hair. Nanami put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“We will handle this,” he said quietly. “But you must behave strategically. No more speeches like tonight.”

Satoru grimaced. “Yeah.”

“And no more alcohol.”

Satoru hesitated. Nanami stared.

Satoru sighed. “…Okay.”

Nanami nodded once. “Good.”

Then leaned in.

“And Satoru?”

“Hm?”

“Try not to start another war you can’t win.”

The morning after the gala, Kento Nanami woke at 5:30 AM, not because he wanted to, but because when Masahiro Gojo’s assistant leaves a voicemail saying “The Chairman wants to see you before market open,” it is the corporate equivalent of a subpoena from God. Nanami shaved carefully. Wore the navy suit he reserved for funerals and performance reviews. Ate half a banana. And went to Gojo Tower with the quiet dread of a man heading into an MRI machine.

Masahiro’s private office on the 60th floor had a reputation: people walked in with careers, and sometimes walked out without them. Not because Masahiro fired them, he didn’t need to. He merely asked questions until your confidence melted and you began drafting your resignation letter in your mind. Nanami entered the room exactly on time, 7:00 AM sharp. Masahiro stood facing the window, hands behind his back, posture straight enough to cut glass. The skyline behind him glittered coldly, like the city itself was bowing. He didn’t turn around.

“Kento Nanami,” Masahiro said. His voice carried the weight of mergers and hostile takeovers. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Nanami clasped his hands in front of him. “I assume this is about last night.”

Masahiro hummed. “Last night.”

A pause. Then he turned, slowly, like a man revealing checkmate three moves too late for you to do anything about it. Nanami swallowed. Masahiro walked toward him, not with anger, but with purpose. With calculation. With the calm of a man accustomed to bending entire industries to his will.

“Your boy,” Masahiro said, “made a spectacle of himself.”

Nanami inhaled. “He… misspoke.”

“No,” Masahiro cut in sharply. “He spoke exactly what he intended. That is the issue.”

Nanami kept his silence.

Masahiro leaned against his mahogany desk. “Tell me something, Nanami. Who do you work for?”

Nanami blinked. “…I work for Gojo Group.”

“Mm.” Masahiro nodded once. “Say it again.”

“I work for Gojo Group.”

“And who leads Gojo Group?”

Nanami hesitated for exactly one second.

Masahiro’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

Nanami straightened. “You do, Chairman.”

Masahiro nodded, satisfied. “Good. Because sometimes, lately, I begin to wonder.”

Nanami stiffened. “Sir, with respect, I have never worked for anyone but this company.”

Masahiro tapped a finger on the table. “Not even Satoru?”

Nanami’s jaw tightened. “Satoru is my colleague.”

“He treats you as more.”

“Then he is mistaken,” Nanami replied evenly.

Masahiro studied him. He wasn’t looking for a lie, he was testing loyalty. The way he tested new hires, new CFOs, new mergers. Watching for cracks, inconsistencies, emotional residue.

“You met him at Harvard,” Masahiro said.

Nanami didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“Befriended him.”

“Correct.”

“He values you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“He trusts you.”

Nanami answered with silence. Masahiro stepped closer.

“Do you trust him?”

Nanami finally looked up. “I respect him.”

“That was not the question.”

Nanami swallowed, choosing each word carefully. “I trust him with certain tasks. But emotionally, strategically, he is inconsistent.”

Masahiro smiled, slow, pleased, sharp.

“Exactly.”

He stepped back, expression shifting from interrogation to something far more dangerous: intimacy.

“Nanami,” Masahiro said quietly, “you are not Satoru’s man.”

Nanami nodded. “No, sir.”

“You are my man.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you will always remain my man?”

“Yes, sir.”

Masahiro let out a breath as though that answer genuinely eased something inside him. Then he said the thing Satoru was never meant to hear.

“You know,” Masahiro murmured, almost conversationally, “I often wish you were my son.”

Nanami’s breath stalled. The statement wasn’t sentimental. It wasn’t affectionate. It wasn’t even emotional. It was an evaluation. A review. A declaration of preference.

“You,” Masahiro continued, “have discipline. Competence. Judgment. You do not drink. You do not embarrass me. You do not crumble under pressure. You do not… spiral.”

Nanami kept his eyes forward, face expressionless, but inside, something flickered. Not pride. Not flattery. Something colder.

“I trust you,” Masahiro said, with a weight he had never given his own child. “More than I trust Satoru. More than I trust any Gojo.”

Nanami swallowed hard. “That is… an honor, sir.”

“It is not an honor,” Masahiro corrected. “It is a responsibility. You will keep Satoru in line. You will correct him. Contain him. Advise him. And if necessary…” He paused, letting the silence linger like a guillotine blade. “You will neutralize him.”

Nanami’s pulse thudded once. Hard.

Masahiro continued, “If Satoru continues making himself a liability, I will remove him. Permanently. And when I do, I will need someone to stabilize the company.”

Nanami answered slowly. “I understand.”

“Good.”

Masahiro sat, crossing his legs with precise elegance.

“One day,” he said, “Satoru will either become the leader he claims he is, or he will implode. And when he implodes, you, Kento Nanami, will be the one left holding the reins.”

Nanami bowed his head. “As you require, Chairman.”

Masahiro dismissed him with a flick of the hand. “Go.”

Nanami turned. But before he reached the door, Masahiro added, softly, almost tenderly, in the way a surgeon might whisper to a sleeping patient:

“You’re the son I should have had.”

Nanami froze.

And from the hallway, unseen, unheard, the door cracked open just enough, Satoru Gojo stood. Pale. Still. Eyes glassy. He had arrived early to apologize. To try to clean up last night’s mess. To prove he deserved the role he’d been raised for. He had not expected to hear that. Masahiro turned back to his paperwork, unaware of the ghost at his door. Nanami closed his eyes briefly, whether in pain or resignation, it was impossible to know. 

Satoru backed away silently, breath shaking, heart collapsing into itself like a dying star. He had never been his father’s son. And now he knew who had taken that place.

Satoru did not intend to overhear it.

He had shown up early, absurdly early, for once in his life. He had even rehearsed an apology in the elevator mirror, something measured and mature like “Father, I recognize my misstep, and I’m taking corrective action.” But when he walked down the private hallway and heard voices inside Masahiro’s office, heard Nanami’s voice, he slowed.

Not to eavesdrop. He wasn’t trying to spy. He wasn’t even curious. He just hesitated. And in that hesitation, Masahiro said the sentence that detonated something inside Satoru with the force of a hostile takeover gone nuclear:

“You’re the son I should have had.”

Satoru stood frozen. His entire body went cold, like his bloodstream had drained out through the soles of his shoes. He backpedaled silently, as if the floor itself had become a live wire. He didn’t breathe again until he reached the elevator foyer. Even then, it came in shallow, uneven gasps. Nanami. Nanami. Kento Nanami, the quiet boy he’d met at Harvard. The one with the perfect GPA, the perfect buzzcut, the perfect résumé. Valedictorian. Harvard Law Review. Passed the New York Bar on his first try. Went into BigLaw. Got recruited to Gojo Group at 26. Became General Counsel at 31. Masahiro’s golden project. The one who never screwed up, never spiraled, never cried on stage at the Met, never drove a McLaren into a Boston median.

Nanami, who wasn’t even a Gojo. Who wasn’t family. Who wasn’t blood. And yet, Masahiro trusted him. Masahiro respected him. Masahiro wanted him.

Satoru? Satoru was… what? A disappointment with a trust fund? 

He felt nauseous. He stumbled into the nearest empty conference room, leaning his forehead against the cool glass wall. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t want Masahiro’s approval. He’d been telling himself that since he was fourteen. Since he realized “father” was a job description in the Gojo household, not a relationship. But hearing it, hearing the confirmation spoken aloud, calmly, like a simple fact. Nanami is the son he deserved. You are the one he tolerates. It punched a hole in Satoru’s chest that he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge.

He inhaled sharply, hands trembling.

At least Yuta, fine, Yuta was blood. A cousin. A Gojo by birthright. If Masahiro wanted to wag the succession branch around, Satoru could stomach that. Barely. But Nanami? Nanami wasn’t family. Nanami was an employee. A brilliant one, yes. But still, staff.

Satoru’s insecurity twisted itself into something acidic. Nanami wasn’t the villain. Nanami wasn’t even doing anything wrong. Nanami was competent. Loyal. Professional. Everything Satoru should be, but wasn’t. Which, in its own humiliating way, made it worse.

Ten minutes later, Satoru was in a boardroom he didn’t remember walking to, surrounded by directors waiting for him to begin the briefing on Project Hikari. He blinked at the room. Everyone stared back.

A junior strategist was whispering to a colleague: “He looks, um, off.”

Nanami, already seated across from him, gave Satoru a single pointed look that translated to: Pull it together. But Satoru couldn’t. The words looped in his skull, shredding every ounce of composure. You’re the son I should have had. You will neutralize him if necessary. He is disciplined. Competent. You are not. Masahiro’s voice echoed like a judge delivering a sentence.

A director cleared his throat. “Mr. Gojo? We’re ready to begin.”

Satoru blinked at him. “Begin what?”

Thirty people shifted uncomfortably.

Nanami interjected smoothly, “The presentation you prepared on Hikari’s restructuring timeline.”

Satoru nodded. “Right. Yes. The restructuring. The timeline. The structure of the… restructure. Yes.”

Nanami closed his eyes for exactly one second, as if praying for strength. Satoru fumbled with the clicker. The screen behind him stayed blank. He pointed it at the wall. Nothing happened. He pointed it at the ceiling. Nothing happened. He pointed it at Nanami.

Nanami raised an eyebrow. “Not how that works.”

Satoru exhaled sharply and tossed the clicker onto the table. “You know what? Let’s, let’s just talk. Let’s have a conversation.”

A director nervously adjusted his glasses. “Sir, we need the formal briefing for the audit committee.”

“Formal is dead,” Satoru said, voice wobbling with manic energy. “Let’s just be human. Let’s just, be real.”

Nanami mouthed: Stop talking. But Satoru couldn’t. He kept replaying Masahiro’s voice. Kept imagining Nanami’s expression when he heard it. Kept choking on the humiliation of it all.

He sat down abruptly. “What’s the point of any of this?”

Murmurs rippled through the room.

One director whispered, “Is he okay?”

Another whispered, “Is he on something?”

Nanami cut in sharply. “He is fine.”

Satoru wasn’t fine. His mind was spiraling. Nanami was the son Masahiro deserved. Yuta was the heir Masahiro might prefer. Suguru was the rival who knew him too well. And Satoru? Satoru was the problem. The embarrassment. The failure.

He stared at the board members with hollow eyes.

“The truth is,” he said quietly, “I’m… not feeling very heir-apparent today.”

Nanami slammed his folder shut. “We are taking a short break.”

“We don’t need a break,” Satoru whispered.

Nanami leaned toward him. “We do.”

“No, Nanami,” Satoru said, voice cracking just slightly. “What we need is—”

“Satoru.” Nanami’s tone sharpened. “Stop.”

He did. Not because Nanami was ordering him. But because Nanami looked at him with something that hurt far more than Masahiro’s words. Pity. Nanami pitied him.

Satoru looked down at the table, then at his hands, then at the blank screen behind him. He couldn’t do this. Not today. Not while hearing his father’s voice echoing in his skull, comparing him to the one person he always feared being measured against.

Nanami stood. “We’ll reconvene in thirty minutes.”

Directors nodded hurriedly, relieved, scattering like startled pigeons. Nanami didn’t move. Satoru didn’t look up. He just whispered, hollow:

“He’s going to replace me.”

Nanami exhaled softly. “Not if you stop him.”

Satoru swallowed hard. “What if I can’t?”

Nanami studied him, then answered with brutal honesty:

“Then he will.”

And the worst part? Satoru knew he was right.

Satoru left Gojo Tower without remembering how he made it out the door. He moved through the lobby like a ghost, past security guards who pretended not to stare, past the massive steel sculpture Masahiro commissioned from some Scandinavian minimalist who probably hated capitalism, past the floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting a version of Satoru who looked younger. Smaller. More breakable.

He stepped into the cold. He needed to do something. Something physical. Something punishing. Something that would keep his brain from replaying Masahiro’s voice on a loop. So he went to Equinox. Where else do billionaires do spiritual self-harm?

He scanned in, ignored the front desk associate squealing “Mr. Gojo!” with too much enthusiasm, and marched straight to the weight room like a man preparing to bench-press his childhood trauma. He loaded the bar with more weight than he had any business attempting. Lifted once. Almost died. Good. He pushed harder. His muscles trembled. His vision blurred. He kept going. He needed pain. Something simpler than betrayal. Something easier to understand than being replaced by Kento fucking Nanami and his flawless moral integrity. The gym was full of people trying to sweat out their demons. Satoru fit right in. He let the music shatter his eardrums, let the burn drown out the echo of You’re the son I should have had. By the time he staggered to the showers, he felt hollow. Hollow was better. Kind of.

Afterwards he sat in the locker room, elbows on his knees, forehead in his palms. He texted Nanami: Sorry about earlier. Will be better. Then deleted the message. Then threw his phone into his gym bag before he could humiliate himself further. He showered, dressed, and walked to his therapist’s office three blocks away. Better broken on a couch than broken at work.

Dr. Mei Mei didn’t look surprised to see him. Therapists rarely are.

“Satoru,” she said warmly, gesturing to the sofa. “Rough week?”

He let out a manic laugh. “Define rough.”

She waited, calm, patient, infuriatingly professional. Satoru slumped onto the couch, covering his face with both hands.

“So,” he said. “I might be a needy love sponge.”

Dr. Mei Mei didn’t blink. “Tell me what that means to you.”

“It means,” Satoru groaned, “that I am an emotional parasite who absorbs validation like a Dyson vacuum and then self-destructs when it’s not delivered on a gold platter.”

“That’s quite a metaphor,” she noted gently.

“Nanami says I’m not allowed to use metaphors anymore.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“Like a grounded toddler.”

She smiled sympathetically. “Let’s try a different angle. What happened today?”

“What didn’t happen today?” Satoru muttered. Then, after a pause: “I think I… hate Nanami.”

“That seems unlikely,” she said.

“I know,” Satoru snapped, then softened. “I know. It’s not fair. He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s perfect. Stable. Capable. Responsible.” He grimaced. “God, I hate him.”

“You don’t hate him,” Dr. Mei Mei said. “You’re hurting, and Nanami represents what you’re afraid you’re not.”

“Which is…?”

“Reliable.”

That stabbed deeper than he expected. He sank into the couch.

“I overheard something,” he said quietly.

She waited.

“My father told Nanami… he wished Nanami was his son.”

Her expression softened. “That must have been very painful.”

“It was humiliating,” Satoru corrected. “Like watching someone else get the award you didn’t know you were competing for.”

“And what did it make you feel?”

“Insecure.”

“And?”

“Jealous.”

“And?”

He swallowed. “…Replaceable.”

She nodded. “That’s honest.”

Satoru rubbed his eyes. “I shouldn’t take it out on Nanami. He’s just doing his job. Being competent. Being the person everyone can depend on. Something I’m apparently not.”

“And how does that connect to the term ‘needy love sponge’?”

He covered his face again. “Because maybe Suguru was right.”

There it was. The name he’d been avoiding. The gravitational pull he kept pretending didn’t exist.

“Do you believe that?” she asked gently.

Satoru whispered, “I don’t know.”

She didn’t push. She never pushed.

Instead she said, “You’re overwhelmed, Satoru. And when people feel abandoned, emotionally or otherwise, they often turn their pain into projection.”

He exhaled shakily.

“Try not to judge yourself for spiraling,” she said. “Just notice it. That’s the first step toward control.”

“Control,” he repeated, voice hollow. “Yeah. I’m great at that.”

“You can be,” she said.

He didn’t believe her. But it helped hearing it. He left her office feeling wrung out, scrubbed raw, and still slightly sweaty from Equinox. He took the elevator down to street level. He stepped outside. And he saw Suguru’s car. Parked at the curb. Engine running. Suguru sitting behind the wheel, one hand gripping it tightly, the other tapping anxiously against his thigh. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t anything anymore. Just an ex-lover. An enemy. A wound. But he was here.

Satoru froze. Suguru’s eyes flicked up, dark, tired, startled. Satoru turned away instinctively, walking faster. Then faster.

Then he heard Suguru call out, “…Satoru?”

Something in Satoru cracked. He didn’t even make it to the corner. He spiraled around, marched to Suguru’s car, yanked the passenger door open, slid inside, shut it, locked it, And then, he broke. His face crumpled. His breath hitched. And he started crying. Ugly crying. Messy crying. The kind of crying he hadn’t done since he was nineteen and Suguru held him through a coke crash in a Harvard dorm room.

Suguru froze, eyes wide.

“Hey, what, Satoru—”

Satoru pressed his hands to his face. “Don’t, just don’t, okay? Don’t fucking say anything.”

Suguru didn’t. He didn’t touch him either. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just sat there, breathing carefully, the way one might sit beside a wounded animal.

Satoru sobbed until his chest hurt. Until the inside of Suguru’s car smelled like expensive cologne and emotional collapse. Until he felt the horrible absurdity of crying in front of his ex like a teenager after getting dumped at prom. Finally, hoarse, he whispered:

“I shouldn’t be crying in your car.”

Suguru replied quietly:

“No. Probably not.”

But he didn’t tell Satoru to get out. Didn’t tell him to stop. Didn’t tell him he was weak. He just whispered, barely audible, as though saying it too loudly would break something fragile:

“…You really are a needy love sponge, huh?”

Satoru laughed through tears, sharp, self-loathing, real.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I guess I am.”

Suguru didn’t smile. He just reached over, silently, and handed Satoru a box of tissues from the glove compartment. Not lovingly. Not intimately. Just practically. The way you help someone whose mess you’ve learned to accept.

It hurt almost as much as everything else.

Chapter Text

Washington, D.C. in campaign season was like a political funhouse mirror: everything distorted, everything gaudy, everything self-important in a way that made Satoru Gojo feel physically ill.

He arrived in the city not because he wanted to, but because Bear needed to be returned to Utahime. Shared custody was a stupid idea, and yet somehow the healthiest relationship he’d ever maintained. The train ride down was a blur, Satoru wearing sunglasses indoors like a hungover celebrity, Bear asleep in his lap, and a junior staffer from Treasury discreetly texting Utahime updates like Satoru was a diplomatic package being monitored for turbulence. D.C. greeted him the way it greeted everyone: with humidity, flags on every government building, the stench of power, and a thick cloud of performative patriotism hanging over everything. Campaign billboards everywhere, smiling candidates pointing at cornfields, slogans about “Make America Great Again,” and the familiar nauseating promise of “change.”

Satoru stepped onto the platform, wrinkling his nose. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “It’s like if New Balance shoes became a city.”

Utahime was waiting for him outside the station, arms folded, sunglasses on, expression already annoyed although he hadn’t said anything yet. She took Bear from him like she was lifting a fragile diplomatic briefcase.

“You look worse than usual,” she said.

“I overheard my father say he wishes Nanami was his son.”

Utahime paused. “…Okay. That’s actually rough.”

“Thank you.”

“But you still look terrible.”

Fair.

Her hair was tied back, her heels were too high for the cracked pavement, and her badge was clipped discreetly inside her blazer, she wasn’t on the clock, but Treasury etiquette never truly left her. Bear licked her cheek, and she sighed like he was the only creature she genuinely liked.

“Campaign season,” Utahime muttered as she guided Satoru toward the car. “Everything smells like desperation and hotdogs.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“It’s democracy.”

“Worse.”

She didn’t argue.

D.C., the city of cynics, during the presidential-election cycle, was louder, dirtier, and faker than usual. Candidates filled the streets, flanked by volunteers handing out pamphlets, shouting about social issues they discovered three weeks ago. Lobbyists swarmed like vultures. Journalists hovered like mosquitoes. Every restaurant was booked with fundraisers, donor dinners, and “fireside chats” that contained no actual fire and absolutely no chatting. Satoru found himself surrounded by patriotic banners and campaign signs that looked like bad corporate branding.

“Reclaiming America.”
“Forward Together.”
“America First Again.”
“Freedom, Faith, Family, Finance.”

He squinted at that last one. “Finance? Really?”

Utahime deadpanned, “Apparently Jesus was big on private equity now.”

Bear barked in agreement.

Satoru rubbed his temple. “I already hate this trip.”

“Too bad,” Utahime said. “You’re staying. There’s a thing tonight.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

She glanced at him with that look, that ex-wife, exasperated, you’re-an-idiot-but-my-idiot look.

“You need to network,” she said. “A Republican might win.”

Satoru visibly gagged.

“I know,” Utahime said, “but the markets like them, big corporations love them, and if a red administration sweeps in, Gojo Group needs allies.”

“I hate allies.”

“You need allies.”

“I hate Republicans.”

“So do I,” she said. “But you need them. And your dear-old-dad loves them.”

He crossed his arms. “I don’t want to network.”

“You will network.”

“I don’t want to shake hands.”

“You will shake hands.”

“Are there going to be donors?”

“So many donors.”

Satoru made a strangled noise. “This is hell.”

Utahime patted his cheek. “Welcome to Washington.”

The event wasn’t public. Utahime would never expose Satoru to a crowd of average voters, he had the political instincts of a luxury handbag, and he could barely hide his contempt for people who didn’t understand EBITDA. Instead, she brought him to a private after-party in Georgetown, hosted in a townhouse owned by a hedge fund manager who pretended to like bipartisan dialogue but really just liked being invited to everything. Inside, the air was thick with expensive perfume, political desperation, and the distinct scent of old money pretending to be moral. Congressional aides hovered near the bar. State-level politicians schmoozed aggressively. Lobbyists and corporate strategists formed tight clusters like bacterial cultures in human suits. Utahime scanned the room with surgical precision.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Ground rules.”

“Ugh.”

“One: no rants about democracy being a Ponzi scheme.”

Satoru raised a brow. “It is, though.”

“Two: no jokes about cocaine.”

“Fine.”

“Three: do not mention Harvard, or Wharton.”

Satoru’s entire face twitched. “Why would I—”

“You will.”

“—mention Harvard or Wharton? I won’t!”

“You one hundred percent will.”

He glared. “I’m not an animal.”

“You are absolutely an animal,” she said. “And you are in a room full of actual predators, so button up and follow my lead.”

A congressman approached with a grin too wide to be genuine. “Utahime! Good to see Treasury here. And, ah, this must be the young Gojo!”

Satoru plastered on a smile. “Yes. Hello. I am the young Gojo.”

Utahime pinched his arm.

Satoru smiled more naturally. “It’s a pleasure.”

The congressman leaned in conspiratorially. “Now, I’m hearing something interesting about Gojo Group diversifying into consumer markets. Rumors only, of course. Off the record.”

Satoru opened his mouth. Utahime squeezed his wrist so hard he nearly yelped.

“We’re always exploring opportunities,” she said smoothly. “No comment at this time.”

The man grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Satoru turned to Utahime. “This is awful. These people are awful.”

“They’re powerful,” she corrected. “Which makes them useful.”

He grimaced. “I’d rather gouge my eyes out.”

“You can do that after dessert.”

As the night went on, the desperation in the room became almost physical. Everyone wanted something. Votes. Funding. Connections. A quote. A rumor. A future job. Power. In New York, power was about money. In D.C., power was about leverage. Satoru hated leverage. More than that, he hated needing it. He drifted to a quiet corner, sipping sparkling water, glaring at patriotic décor like it had personally wronged him. Utahime eventually found him brooding beside a framed photograph of the Washington Monument.

“You look like you want to burn the place down,” she said.

“I do,” he replied. “And then maybe myself with it.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Satoru gave a humorless laugh. “I just… I don’t want to be here.”

“You need to be here,” she repeated. “Whether you’re ready or not. Because Masahiro won’t always be in charge. And you—” she paused, then softened, “—you will need people outside your father’s shadow.”

Satoru looked at her, something dark and tired behind his eyes.

“I’m not sure anyone wants me without the shadow.”

Utahime sighed. “Then make them.”

He blinked.

“You heard me,” she said. “Earn loyalty. Build alliances. Get power. Or someone else will.”

“Yuta,” Satoru muttered.

“Or Nanami,” Utahime added.

Satoru flinched. She didn’t apologize.

“You want the empire?” she asked softly. “Act like it.”

For once, Satoru didn’t argue. Not because he agreed. But because he didn’t know what to say.

Satoru escaped onto the balcony of the Georgetown townhouse during hour two of the donors-and-politicians pageant Utahime had subjected him to. He slid open the glass door, stepped into the humid D.C. night, and inhaled air thick with cigar smoke and the faint scent of Potomac River mildew. He leaned against the railing, staring at the row houses across the street, perfect, expensive, aiming to look historical but built in 2013. He felt hollow. He felt tired. He felt like a kid wearing his father’s suit. And then, his phone buzzed.

NANAMI KENTO flashing across the screen.

Satoru groaned. He wasn’t emotionally solvent enough for Nanami right now, but Nanami had the persistence of a moral compass dipped in caffeine and obligation. He answered anyway.

“Satoru,” Nanami said, voice clipped. “Where are you?”

“D.C.,” Satoru muttered. “Returning Bear. Utahime dragged me to some political orgy with hors d’oeuvres.”

Nanami exhaled in a way that implied Satoru’s mere existence shortened his lifespan. “Why didn’t you tell me you were traveling?”

“I don’t have to report my location to you.”

“Actually, you should,” Nanami said. “You are the Chief Strategy Officer. You cannot simply disappear across state lines during a corporate war.”

Satoru rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, okay? I just needed, space. From everything.”

Nanami paused. “Did you… drink?”

“No.”

“Did you do drugs?”

“No.”

“Did you want to do drugs?”

Satoru hesitated. “…Less than usual.”

A beat.

Nanami sighed. “Satoru, what happened today?”

That was all it took. Something broke open.

“I overheard him,” Satoru whispered. “My father. Talking to you. Saying you’re the son he should’ve had.”

Nanami inhaled sharply, but not guiltily. More like a man about to correct a poorly formatted spreadsheet.

“Satoru,” he said calmly, “what you overheard was not a reflection of your worth. It was a reflection of your father’s worldview.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Satoru snapped. “You’re the one he actually wants.”

“Satoru,” Nanami said slowly, “I would rather die than become the next CEO of Gojo Group.”

Satoru blinked. “Wait, what?”

Nanami cleared his throat. “I have a retirement plan.”

“A what?”

“A retirement plan. I intend to retire at 35.”

“You’re thirty-two!”

“Yes,” Nanami said. “Time is moving at a concerning pace.”

Satoru pressed a hand to his forehead. “Nanami, please tell me you’re joking.”

“I never joke,” Nanami said. “I am moving to Kuantan, Malaysia.”

Satoru choked. “Kuantan? As in… Malaysia Malaysia?”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck is in Kuantan?!”

“A mansion,” Nanami replied. “Which I already purchased. It has excellent beachfront, a low cost of living, and is appropriately far from all of you.”

Satoru felt his brain short-circuit. “Nanami, you cannot retire at 35. That’s, illegal.”

“It is extremely legal,” Nanami corrected. “I checked.”

“You can’t leave me alone with my father.”

“You have Yuta.”

“I don’t want Yuta!”

“Then,” Nanami said firmly, “stop panicking, stop self-destructing, and survive the next three months.”

“Why three months?”

“The next board meeting is in three months,” Nanami said. “If you do not stabilize, if you embarrass yourself again, if you do anything, anything, to alarm investors, your father will move against you.”

Satoru swallowed.

“And Satoru,” Nanami added sharply, “I swear to God, if you do coke, I will resign tomorrow.”

Satoru pressed a hand over his heart. “No coke. I promise.”

“Good.”

Nanami paused.

“Satoru?”

“Yeah?”

“Do not be stupid.”

“Wow.”

“I mean it.”

Satoru sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

“Go inside,” Nanami said. “Network. Shake hands. Be tolerable. And remember, your father is preparing something.”

“I know.”

“Good. And Satoru?”

“Mm?”

“You are not replaceable. Not to the company.”

Satoru’s chest tightened. “Thanks, Nanami.”

“But if you spiral again, I will retract that statement.”

There it was, the Nanami touch.

Satoru laughed despite himself. “Okay, Dad.”

Nanami hung up.

Satoru re-entered the townhouse, smoothing his jacket, inhaling deeply, mentally replaying Nanami’s warnings like a playlist of corporate doom. He could do this. He could network. He could be strategic. He could. And then, he froze. Because standing by the marble fireplace, holding a whiskey in one hand and talking to a cluster of donors like he belonged there, was Yaga Masamichi. Chairman of Blackthorn Capital. Professional shark. Professional enemy. And next to him, Suguru. In a tailored black suit, hair tied back, posture relaxed, confidence radiating off him like he was immune to human error. Satoru’s stomach dropped.

“What the actual fuck,” he whispered to himself.

Utahime walked up beside him, sipping her wine. “Oh good, you noticed.”

“What is Yaga doing here?” Satoru hissed. “This is a political after-party. He’s a private equity terrorist.”

“He’s also a donor,” Utahime said. “A big one.”

“And Suguru?!” Satoru snapped. “Why is he here?”

“Because,” Utahime said, exasperated, “D.C. is a networking swamp. Everyone who wants influence ends up in the same room eventually.”

Satoru felt his pulse spike. Suguru looked up. Saw him. Held his gaze. Satoru’s throat tightened.

Utahime muttered, “And please don’t be weird.”

“I’m never weird,” Satoru lied.

“You literally had a breakdown in my house because of him.”

He glared. “Don’t bring that up.”

But Suguru was already heading toward him. And behind him, Yaga smiled like he’d been waiting for this exact collision. Nanami had said: Do not be stupid. Too late.

Satoru Gojo had been to a thousand functions in his life, galas, benefits, IPO dinners, charity balls filled with people who had never donated to anything but themselves, but nothing pressed the air out of his lungs quite like stepping back into that Georgetown townhouse and seeing Suguru Geto networking beside Yaga Masamichi like he’d been training for this moment in hell.

Suguru Geto: His Suguru. Not his Suguru. The Suguru who once whispered philosophy into his mouth at 3 AM. Now standing with one hand in his pocket, whiskey in the other, looking like a corporate hitman sent by Satan’s private equity arm. Satoru felt nauseous.

Utahime muttered, “Do not embarrass me,” before disappearing toward the bar.

Satoru stayed rooted in place. Because Suguru had just opened his mouth, not in the way Satoru remembered, soft and smug and unbearably kind, but sharp, cold, transactional. The way a PE partner speaks when he sees a room not as people, but as liquidity. Satoru moved closer, pretending to reach for an hors d’oeuvre, but really to eavesdrop.

Suguru stood beside Yaga and two senators, speaking with the unsettling calm of a man who had incinerated all remaining attachments. He swirled his whiskey and said:

“If we’re going down, fine. But I’d prefer to go down rich.”

One senator laughed, clapping him on the back. Satoru’s stomach curled. This wasn’t Suguru. This was a suit wearing Suguru’s skin.

Suguru continued, “Look, gentlemen, let’s not overcomplicate the fundamentals. You don’t need accuracy. You need confidence. Markets punish hesitation. Give them a narrative, and they’ll forget the math.”

Yaga nodded like a proud father watching his favorite son execute a flawless sacrifice move on a chessboard. Then Suguru said something that made Satoru grip the wine glass so hard he nearly shattered it:

“I don’t need the truth. I just need the version that makes us money.”

The senator’s aide blinked. “Isn’t that, illegal?”

Suguru smiled. “Only if you’re stupid enough to get caught.”

Another wave of laughter. Satoru wanted to throw up. Where was the boy who smoked weed with him behind Harvard dorms? Where was the kid who argued about philosophy at sunrise? Where was the best friend who traced circles on Satoru’s wrist under the bleachers, who whispered, “You deserve everything, even if you don’t know how to hold it”? In his place stood someone else entirely. Someone frighteningly good at this game. Someone Yaga had molded. Someone Satoru had lost.

Yaga turned to Suguru again. “And loyalty?”

Suguru didn’t blink.

“If you want loyalty, get a dog. If you want results, call me.”

Satoru’s breath stuttered. It wasn’t the words. It was the voice, calm, cold, steady. A man carved down to ambition and nothing else. Suguru wasn’t performing for the room. He wasn’t even performing for Yaga. This was who he had become. A weapon. A number cruncher with a heartbeat. A private equity Gollum, obsessed not with a golden ring but with IRR, carried interest, minority stakes, and the exquisite thrill of watching a company crumble in a spreadsheet.

“Jesus Christ,” Satoru whispered to himself. “He’s gone full goblin mode.”

But he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stand this version of Suguru, the version without softness, without warmth, without him. He tried to swallow the ache. It lodged in his throat anyway. And then Suguru glanced across the room, caught sight of Satoru standing there, and something flickered across his expression. Recognition. Annoyance. Resignation. But not warmth. Not even close. Suguru offered him the kind of nod one gives to a business acquaintance across a conference table. A professional courtesy. A transactional acknowledgment. It took everything in Satoru not to crumble on the spot.

A lobbyist joined the circle. “Mr. Geto, your firm’s regulatory strategy is brilliant. How do you decide when to push and when to circumvent?”

Suguru shrugged. “It’s simple. We push when it’s profitable. We circumvent when it’s more profitable.”

Yaga laughed. “He learned that one from me.”

Satoru clenched his jaw so tightly he saw stars.

Utahime reappeared at his elbow with a wine glass. “Drink.”

“No.”

“Drink.”

“I’ll get drunk.”

“Good.”

“Utahime, he’s, he’s gone full Wolf of Wall Street,” Satoru whispered, voice frayed. “He’s like every terrible PE stereotype rolled into one very attractive disaster.”

Utahime sipped her wine. “Yes. He’s awful. Always has been.”

“No, he hasn’t!”

“Satoru. He wore loafers with no socks at twenty-one. There were signs.”

Satoru’s breath shook.

Utahime softened. Just slightly.

“Don’t look at him like that,” she said quietly. “He’s not yours anymore.”

That hit so hard Satoru couldn’t answer. Across the room, Suguru laughed at something Yaga said, a sharp, elegant laugh that Satoru recognized, even if everything else was foreign. Satoru turned away, swallowing the shard lodged in his chest.

Utahime put a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“No,” Satoru said honestly. “But I will be.”

He wasn’t sure that was true.

Satoru had handled a collapsing stock price with more dignity than he was currently summoning. Because Yaga Masamichi, Blackthorn Capital’s crown jewel, the private-equity warlord who once ate a hostile takeover for breakfast and called it “light cardio”, was walking toward him. And Suguru was beside him. And Utahime, traitor, coward, survivalist, had vanished the second she realized Yaga was approaching. She muttered something like “nope, I’m not doing this,” and disappeared behind a congresswoman discussing agricultural tax credits. So Satoru stood alone. In a Georgetown townhouse. During an election cycle. Fighting for his breath like someone had cinched a belt around his lungs.

Yaga’s smile was polite in the way a guillotine is polite.

“Well, well,” Yaga said, extending a hand that radiated hostile takeover energy. “Satoru Gojo. The prince of Manhattan. What a surprise.”

Satoru shook it. Calm. Classy. Barely shaking.

“Chairman Yaga,” Satoru said, channeling every etiquette lesson his grandmother beat into him with a silver spoon. “I didn’t expect to see Blackthorn at a political event.”

Yaga smirked. “Son, Blackthorn is at every political event.”

Gross.

Suguru stood at Yaga’s shoulder, no trace of softness left in him, looking like a very expensive dagger.

Satoru forced his posture straight. “What brings you to Georgetown tonight? Business? Politics? Scouting your next victim?”

Yaga laughed. “Relax. I’m just here to make friends.”

“Friends,” Satoru repeated flatly. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Strategic relationships,” Yaga corrected. “Power is a bipartisan necessity.”

Satoru wanted to roll his eyes. He didn’t. Instead he smiled, thin, practiced, lethal. He looked Yaga dead in the eye. And with a clarity that surprised even him, he said:

“I don’t fucking trust Blackthorn.”

Suguru froze. Yaga blinked. Someone at the hors d’oeuvres table actually gasped.

Satoru didn’t break eye contact. “I don’t trust your tactics. I don’t trust your fund. I don’t trust your models. I don’t trust your vision. And I sure as hell don’t trust your intentions with my company.”

There it was. Yuji Itadori’s line, repurposed with billionaire spite.

Yaga’s smile thinned. “You speak boldly for someone whose company is bleeding market confidence.”

Satoru’s jaw tightened. “Confidence can be rebuilt. Trust cannot.”

Suguru finally spoke. His voice smooth as obsidian. “Is that right?”

Satoru spared him the briefest glance. “Yes. It is.”

Suguru’s mouth twitched, not in amusement, not in anger, but in something colder.

Yaga chuckled. “You Gojos. Always so dramatic. Always so convinced the world cares about your moral compass.”

Satoru said, “I don’t have a moral compass.”

“Correct,” Yaga said. “That’s why I’m confused by this little speech.”

Satoru tilted his head. “Let’s be honest, Chairman. Your firm doesn’t value transparency. Or stability. Or long-term stewardship. You value one thing.”

“And what’s that?” Yaga asked.

Satoru smiled, sharp as a broken champagne flute.

“Exit multiples.”

A few nearby aides choked on their drinks. Suguru’s eyes flickered, not in surprise, but in recognition. As if he thought, Yes. This is the Satoru I expected to fight.

Yaga laughed again, louder this time. “You’ve grown teeth, boy.”

“I’ve always had them,” Satoru said. “I just usually hide them behind PR scripts.”

“And tonight?” Yaga asked.

“Tonight,” Satoru said, “I’m not in the mood.”

Yaga took a sip of his whiskey, studying him like a hostile acquisition target with irregular cash flow. Then, almost gently, Yaga said:

“You’re your father’s son after all.”

The words hit harder than a slap.

Satoru swallowed. “I am my own man.”

“We’ll see,” Yaga said. “One day, you’ll pick a side. And when that day comes, remember, Blackthorn makes kings.”

Satoru smiled without warmth. “Yeah, whatever.”

Yaga actually looked delighted at that.

“Good,” he said. “Fight me. It’s more fun that way.”

Then he clapped Suguru on the shoulder. “Come, Geto. There are donors with deep pockets and shallow ethics waiting for us.”

Suguru nodded, expression unreadable. But before he followed Yaga, he paused, just a second, and met Satoru’s eyes. A flicker of recognition. A flicker of pain. A flicker of something older and deeper and wrecked. And then he shut it off. He followed Yaga into the crowd. Leaving Satoru alone again. Breath shaking. Pulse racing. Stomach twisted.

The moment Yaga drifted deeper into the Georgetown donor swamp, shaking hands and inhaling political influence like a bloodhound on a scent, Suguru did something unexpected. He disappeared. Not vanished, Suguru Geto didn’t vanish. He repositioned, the way a man in private equity repositioned capital: quietly, efficiently, without leaving fingerprints. One second he was walking behind Yaga, relaxed, collected. The next, a hand shot out of nowhere and closed around Satoru’s wrist.

Satoru jerked, startled, but then recognized the grip. Suguru. Suguru in a tailored suit and a cold investor mask, dragging him through a hallway lined with portraits of dead politicians.

“Hey, Suguru, wait—”

“Shut up,” Suguru hissed under his breath.

He shoved open a side door and pulled Satoru outside into an alley behind the townhouse, where the only witnesses were trash bins, a flickering lamp, and a raccoon that looked like it didn’t pay taxes. Satoru leaned against the brick wall, his wrist still tingling. Suguru checked both ends of the alley, scanning for Yaga like a man avoiding a sniper.

“What the hell was that?" Satoru asked, trying not to pant.

Suguru stepped closer, face fierce, eyes sharp. “I don’t have much time. Yaga’s watching everything.”

“Oh? But you snuck out like a rebellious teenager—”

“Shut up,” Suguru repeated. “I’m trying to save your life.”

Satoru blinked. “My life?”

“Your career, your company, your inheritance, whatever you want to call it.”

“Since when do you care about my inheritance?”

Suguru exhaled hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Since you are about to lose it.”

There it was. Cold. Clinical. Delivered without pity. Suguru stepped forward again, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper.

“I’ve been running numbers for weeks. I know exactly what Yaga intends. And I know exactly how to stop him.”

Satoru stared. “Why would you tell me?”

“Because,” Suguru said, “Yaga winning is bad for everyone. Bad for markets, bad for employees, bad for the fucking global economy. And—” he hesitated, jaw tightening, “—and because I’m not going to let you get eaten alive.”

Satoru’s chest tightened. It was stupid how much that mattered. Suguru continued briskly, slipping into full strategist mode.

“Listen carefully. You have a three-month window before the next board meeting. Masahiro is waffling. Blackthorn thinks they can spook your directors into supporting a restructuring that gives them creeping control. They’re wrong, but only if you move now.”

“Move how?” Satoru asked.

Suguru listed items off like artillery:

“First, shore up sovereign wealth funds. You already have Singapore. Secure Qatar. They hate Blackthorn. They’ll fund any anti-Yaga campaign if you position it as market stabilization.”

Satoru blinked. “You want me to fundraise from Qatar?”

“Yes.”

“That’s morally questionable.”

Suguru shot him a flat look. “You own three sports cars and a penthouse with a walk-in humidor. Don’t pretend morality suddenly matters.”

“Okay, fair.”

“Second,” Suguru said, “you need to activate your poison-pill defense fast. Before Blackthorn identifies vulnerabilities in your voting structure. Masahiro will resist, you must convince him he has to choose between losing some control now or losing everything later.”

“Masahiro hates losing anything.”

“Then manipulate him.”

Satoru choked. “Suguru—”

“He manipulates you every day,” Suguru snapped. “Grow up. Move your father onto your side or move through him. Otherwise he will hand your throne to someone else.”

Satoru’s stomach twisted. “Don’t mention that scenario.”

“Then stop making it relevant.”

“Wow. Harsh.”

“There’s no time for gentle.”

Suguru stepped even closer, the alley suddenly too small for both of them and all their history.

“Third,” he said, “and this is crucial, Blackthorn has a liquidity issue.”

Satoru’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re telling me Blackthorn is short on cash?”

Suguru smirked, sharp, pained. “No. I’m telling you Yaga is overleveraged on a side deal he hasn’t disclosed to the LPs yet.”

“Oh my god,” Satoru whispered. “You’re betraying him.”

Suguru said nothing. Which was answer enough.

Satoru nearly laughed. “Suguru. Are you actually trying to help me become CEO?”

Suguru didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

He said, simply:

“Someone has to.”

Silence crackled between them. The night air felt heavier.

Satoru swallowed hard. “Suguru, can I trust you?”

Suguru inhaled slowly. Then said, “No.”

Satoru stared. “What—”

“You should never trust me on money,” Suguru said. “Especially money. I’ve already lost too much of it because of you.”

The words hit harder than any insult.

Satoru whispered, “Then why help me?”

Suguru’s jaw flexed.

“Because,” he said, voice low, tight, aching in places he would never admit, “you need saving.”

“And you don’t?” Satoru asked.

Suguru looked away, expression unreadable. “I don’t need saving,” he said. “I chose my path. I live with it.”

“But you—”

Suguru cut him off sharply. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you surviving the next quarter.”

“So you’ll walk me through this plan? Step by step?”

“No,” Suguru said. “I’ll give you the framework. You execute it. You’re capable, Satoru. You just refuse to be.”

It hurt. It hurt because it was true.

Satoru stepped closer. “Suguru…”

Suguru held up a hand, stop.

“If you want to live,” he said softly, “listen to me.”

“But if I listen,” Satoru whispered, “I’ll fall again.”

Suguru’s eyes flickered, once, painfully.

“That,” he said, “is not my problem anymore.”

And yet, here he was. Saving him anyway.

Suguru had just finished outlining the part of his plan that involved Satoru “weaponizing Masahiro’s paranoia like a bored Roman emperor pushing gladiators into a pit,” when the alley door swung open. The light from the townhouse spilled out like a spotlight. And there, standing with a Kelly bag in her arms, high heels sinking slightly into the alley gravel, eyes narrowed like a federal agent stumbling onto a crime scene, Utahime Iori.

“Okay,” she said, voice sharp, “what the hell are you two doing out here? This looks like the start of a very bad porno, or a very bad indictment.”

Satoru jumped. Suguru sighed. Utahime looked between them, then at the distance between them, then at the tension in the air.

“Oh,” she said flatly. “You’re scheming.”

Satoru sputtered, “No, well, maybe, it's not what it looks like—”

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” she said.

Suguru crossed his arms, as if accepting both guilt and superiority. “We’re talking strategy.”

“Oh great,” Utahime muttered. “That’s what this world needs, more strategy from emotionally constipated finance bros.”

Satoru gasped. “I am not emotionally constipated!”

Suguru shrugged. “I am.”

Utahime nodded. “Correct. At least one of you has self-awareness.”

She glared at Satoru. “And you. You should think very carefully, very carefully, before trusting this man again.”

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “This man is standing right here.”

“Yes,” she deadpanned. “And I’m talking about you like you’re a termite infestation.”

Satoru turned frantic. “Utahime, it’s not like that, he’s giving me a plan—”

“Yeah,” Utahime said, “a plan to ruin your life again.”

Suguru scoffed. “I’m giving him a plan to become CEO.”

Utahime blinked. “Oh my God. You’re a menace.”

Suguru shrugged, unbothered. “Probably.”

Satoru gestured with both hands. “Look, he’s helping me—”

“He is never helping you,” Utahime snapped. “He is helping himself. Or he’s helping Yaga. Or he’s helping the twisted, money-addicted creature that lives in his ribcage. But he is not helping you.”

Suguru looked offended for exactly half a second before saying, “That’s fair.”

Utahime pointed at him. “You. You are a homewrecker.”

Satoru choked. “Utahime!”

Suguru blinked. “How am I a homewrecker?”

Utahime gestured between them. “Twenty-two years of unresolved tension, betrayal, sex, corporate warfare, and whatever the hell you two think you’re doing right now. You wrecked every semblance of emotional stability this idiot,” she jabbed a thumb at Satoru, “has ever had.”

Satoru muttered, “I’m right here.”

“And you,” Utahime said, turning back to him, “don’t go trusting him just because he shows up in an alley looking like a villain from a Netflix finance documentary.”

“He’s not a villain,” Satoru snapped.

Suguru said, “I am absolutely a villain.”

Utahime gestured wildly. “See?! At least he knows!”

Satoru frowned deeply. “He’s not that bad.”

Utahime stared at him. “Satoru. Sweetheart. You have many wonderful qualities. Self-awareness is not one of them.”

“I am totally self-aware.”

Suguru let out a dry laugh. “No, you’re not.”

“I am!”

“You cried in my car yesterday,” Suguru reminded him gently.

Utahime’s eyes widened. “You WHAT?!”

“Don’t, don’t listen to him,” Satoru whispered. “He tells lies.”

Suguru shook his head. “I tell profits. Lies are above my pay grade.”

Utahime groaned into her bag. “God. You’re both terrible. Absolute nightmares. Why do I get dragged into this?”

“Because,” Satoru said, “you love me.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” she muttered.

Suguru added, “Same.”

Satoru froze. Suguru froze.

Utahime’s eyes widened in real time. “Oh wow. Okay. No. Nope. Don’t do that in front of me. Please remember I work for the federal government. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to watch you two flirt over economic warfare.”

Satoru sputtered. “We’re not flirting!”

“You are always flirting,” Utahime said. “That’s half the problem.”

Suguru rubbed his temples. “This is exhausting.”

“You’re exhausting,” Utahime shot back. “Both of you. Finance has rotted your brains. Neither of you have functioning moral compasses. Or functioning hearts. Or functioning relationship skills.”

“Hey,” Satoru protested. “I’m decent.”

“No,” she said. “You’re not.”

Suguru lifted a hand. “Agreed.”

Satoru looked genuinely offended. “Why is everyone attacking me today?!”

Utahime held up both palms. “Because you deserve it. And because until you figure out whose side you’re on, and what you’re willing to burn, you shouldn’t trust anyone. Not Suguru. Not Yaga. Not Masahiro. Not half the people in that house.”

“And not me?” Satoru asked quietly.

Utahime sighed. “Especially not you.”

Suguru nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Don’t trust yourself.”

Satoru looked between them, his ex-wife and his ex-everything, and muttered:

“…This is the worst intervention ever.”

Utahime sniffed. “Trust me. You haven’t hit rock bottom yet.”

Suguru added, “But the quarter’s young.”

And for one brief, warped, tragically comedic moment, the three of them stood together in a dark D.C. alley like the world’s worst Avengers. Satoru exhaled shakily. The alley was already a fever dream, Satoru spiraling, Suguru scheming, Utahime insulting both of them. The evening was teetering on the edge of collapse. Then Suguru turned to Utahime and asked:

“So… are you single?”

Satoru’s brain, already hanging by a thread, flatlined.

Utahime blinked. “Excuse me?”

Suguru clarified, lifting a hand in surrender. “Not for me.”

Satoru looked personally offended. “What do you mean, not for you?”

Suguru gave him a bland look. “I’m not suicidal enough to date your ex-wife.”

Utahime snorted. “Good, because I’d sooner date a potted plant.”

Suguru nodded. “Understandable.”

Satoru glared at both of them. “Um? Hello? Why are we talking about Utahime’s dating life right now?!”

“Because,” Suguru said calmly, “I have a guy at my firm.”

Utahime narrowed her eyes. “What kind of guy?”

“Smart,” Suguru said. “Ambitious. Not a sociopath. Mostly.”

Utahime nodded slowly. “So fifty percent sociopath.”

“Thirty,” Suguru corrected. “Maybe thirty-five if the deal cycle is bad.”

Satoru was still staring at him, horrified. “You’re trying to set up MY ex-wife with someone from Blackthorn?”

Suguru shrugged. “Better than setting her up with someone from Gojo Group.”

Utahime laughed. “He has a point.”

“No he does NOT!” Satoru barked. “Utahime, you can’t go on a date with a man from Blackthorn! They’re the enemy!”

Utahime raised a brow. “You and Suguru had sex multiple times during a corporate war.”

Satoru froze. “…Okay, fair, but—”

“And 2 weeks ago,” Utahime added, “you almost slept with me out of jealousy because you thought he was sleeping with Shoko.”

Suguru side-eyed Satoru. Hard. “Oh? Interesting.”

“Do not look at me like that,” Satoru snapped. “This is not the point!”

Utahime stared Satoru down. “You don’t get to have opinions about my dating life.”

“I do if it includes BLACKTHORN!”

Suguru raised a hand. “He works in compliance. He’s harmless.”

Utahime brightened. “Ooh. A compliance guy? That’s kind of hot.”

“It is not hot,” Satoru sputtered.

Utahime shrugged. “Men with W-2 jobs are reliable, unlike the two of you.”

Suguru tilted his head thoughtfully. “True.”

Satoru whipped toward him. “Stop agreeing with her!”

“You are unreliable,” Suguru said. “It’s not an insult. It’s data.”

Utahime nodded. “And honestly, Suguru, if your employee really wants a stable partner, why would you send him toward… me?”

Suguru considered. “He said he likes smart, intimidating women who can ruin his life.”

Utahime blinked. “Oh. So he’s deranged.”

“A little,” Suguru confirmed. “In a high-functioning way.”

Satoru rubbed his forehead. “I cannot believe this. I cannot believe we are standing behind someone’s Georgetown townhouse, discussing whether my ex-wife should date a junior compliance officer at a hostile PE firm.”

Utahime elbowed him. “Relax. No one is falling in love. It’s just dinner.”

“That’s how it starts!”

Suguru sighed. “Satoru, you need to stop assuming every relationship is about you.”

Satoru blinked, offended. “That’s ridiculous.”

Utahime and Suguru, in unison:

“No. It’s not.”

Satoru sputtered. “I am not self-centered!”

Suguru: “You are extremely self-centered.”

Utahime: “You’re the human equivalent of an only-child trust fund.”

Satoru threw his hands up. “I CAN’T TAKE THIS BULLYING.”

Suguru stepped closer, expression softening infinitesimally. “Look. It’s not personal. It’s reality. You don’t have to fix it tonight.”

“Wow,” Satoru muttered, “thank you for the crumbs of therapy, Suguru.”

“You’re welcome,” Suguru said with zero irony.

Utahime sighed, shifting the bag to her other arm. “Anyway. I’ll think about the date.”

Satoru whirled. “UTAHIME!!!”

She shrugged. “What? I deserve companionship. I can’t spend my whole life managing you.”

“I’m manageable!”

“No,” she said, “you’re really not.”

Suguru murmured, “He truly isn’t.”

“Stop double-teaming me!”

“You’d like that,” Utahime said under her breath.

“UTAHIME!”

The alley fell into a strange, uneasy quiet. Satoru stood there, shell-shocked. Suguru stood there, arms crossed, face unreadable. Utahime stood there, looking like the only adult in a room full of overpaid children. Finally, she said:

“Okay. Enough emotional carnage. Let’s get back inside before someone notices you two are missing and assumes you’re either plotting a merger or making out.”

Both men stiffened.

She added, “You can resume your weird, co-dependent, market-destabilizing nonsense later.”

And with that, Utahime turned and stepped toward the door. Suguru followed her.

Satoru trailed behind them, muttering, “I do have self-awareness.”

“No, you don’t,” both replied.

The door shut behind them. D.C. hummed with patriotic desperation. Reentering the townhouse felt like walking back into a terrarium full of wealthy reptiles. The noise, the political clatter, the clinking glasses, the donor laughter, it all pressed in around them. Satoru was still vibrating from Suguru’s plan, Utahime’s interventions, and his own emotional instability. He hadn’t fully processed that Utahime might go on a date with a Blackthorn compliance guy. He was too busy trying not to hyperventilate.

Utahime led the way back toward the crowd, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in her free hand. Suguru walked beside her like he belonged in this world of soft power and sharp knives. Satoru trailed slightly behind, processing how the two most stable figures in his life were now discussing her hypothetical romantic future with a man from the firm trying to eat his company alive. Utahime glanced sideways at Suguru.

“So. This compliance guy of yours. Is he actually normal? Or is he pretending? Because you radiate ‘emotionally unavailable private equity overlord,’ so I assume your entire firm is full of commitment-phobic MENACE energy.”

Suguru chuckled. “He’s normal. For Blackthorn.”

“So… unhinged but polite,” Utahime translated.

“Exactly.”

They paused near a high-top table where Utahime’s bag was immediately admired by a group of political aides who probably made less than $60k a year and were one bad day from fleeing to law school. Their little party of three stood in the center of a Georgetown political after-party. Satoru vibrating like a shaken soda can, Suguru cold and amused like a villain CEO between deals, Utahime being judgmental, and for one horrifying moment, Satoru realized this was his life. These were his people. These were the choices he had made. He exhaled shakily.

“America has problems,” he whispered.

Utahime clinked her glass against his. “And you are one of them.”

Suguru nodded. “Top ten, easily.”

Satoru glared at both of them.

“I hope,” he said slowly, “you both choke on your net worth.”

Neither of them looked remotely threatened.

Chapter Text

Satoru Gojo had never felt this focused in his life. Not at Harvard, not at Wharton, not during any of his father’s orchestrated “leadership retreats,” not even the morning after his accident when he swore off emotional vulnerability and high-performance cars at the same time. Something in him had snapped into place. A part of his brain, previously dedicated to spiraling, crying in people’s cars, and making painfully bad romantic decisions, shifted into an unfamiliar gear: Execution.

He buried himself in the anti-Blackthorn strategy Suguru had outlined like it was scripture. He worked eighteen-hour days. He terrorized analysts. He sent Nanami fifty-eight messages at 3 AM. He reviewed sovereign wealth proposals while on the treadmill. He ignored every text from Suguru. He even ignored Utahime’s memes, which made her send angry voice notes calling him “a flaky rat.” He stopped thinking about kissing Suguru in an alleyway or crying in Suguru’s car or Utahime threatening him with emotional reality checks. He thought about winning. Because if he won, if he defeated Blackthorn, if he secured the throne, if he became CEO, then everything Masahiro ever denied him would finally be his. It wasn’t about validation anymore. It was about revenge.

He was mid-meeting with Nanami, surrounded by legal memos and valuation models, when his assistant burst into the conference room with the expression of someone who’d witnessed a murder.

“Mr. Gojo,” she said breathlessly, “you need to look at Bloomberg.”

Nanami raised one eyebrow, his version of what now, dear God. Satoru clicked the screen awake. And there it was.

BREAKING: NAOYA ZENIN — THE SELF-MADE TECH BILLIONAIRE FROM JAPAN, MAKES UNEXPECTED BID TO ACQUIRE GOJO GROUP.

Satoru blinked once. Then twice. Then whispered: “Who the fuck let this clown into my storyline?”

Nanami exhaled, slow and pained. “Oh. It’s him.”

Because of course it was him. 

Naoya Zenin. The neglected heir of the Zenin zaibatsu. The man who received his inheritance and immediately dumped the entire family business into the nearest metaphorical garbage bin before disappearing into the Tokyo nightlife scene. A tech founder whose “disruptive innovation” was mostly just a combination of misogyny, cocaine, and unhinged X threads about free markets. A billionaire who made Yuji Itadori look like a saint and Elon Musk look stable. He had a jawline sharp enough to cut through ESG compliance reports and a reputation for being the sexiest corporate liability in Asia. And now he was attempting to buy Gojo Group.

Satoru felt the beginnings of a stress stroke.

Nanami adjusted his glasses. “We may need to—”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” Satoru snapped. “We are not being bought by a tech bro whose greatest achievement is inventing an app that lets people send each other anonymous compliments for $4.99 a month.”

Nanami cleared his throat. “He also founded Zenin Quantum Systems.”

“He also called women ‘inefficient emotional investments’ on a podcast,” Satoru countered.

Nanami conceded that point. Satoru reread the headline. It didn’t change. It didn’t disappear. It didn’t say lol just kidding. The worst part? Naoya wasn’t just making noise. He had the cash. Real cash. Dirty cash. Tech cash. Cash that came from investors who believed passion, vision, and ignoring HR were the foundations of a thriving economy.

Nanami remained eerily calm. “He’s liquid enough to make a serious offer. We can’t dismiss this.”

Satoru slammed his palm on the table. “I AM DISMISSING THIS.”

“You cannot dismiss this.”

“I AM DISMISSING THIS WITH MY WHOLE CHEST.”

“Stop shouting.”

“I WILL NOT.”

Nanami sighed. “Satoru, Naoya Zenin is dangerous.”

“Everyone in my life is dangerous!” Satoru snapped. “My father is dangerous! Yaga is dangerous! Suguru is—”

He froze. Nanami looked at him. Knowingly. Disappointingly.

Satoru coughed. “Suguru is fine. Mostly. Sometimes.”

Nanami closed his eyes. “Please never become CEO.”

But Satoru wasn’t listening. Because the more he read the article, the more the panic in his ribs sharpened into rage. Naoya Zenin was everything Satoru despised, rich, reckless, uncooperative, a man who believed compliance departments were optional. And worst of all, he was exactly what Suguru always wanted Satoru to become. The heir who walked away. The heir who cashed out. The heir who said fuck the dynasty and left the ashes behind. Naoya had done it. Satoru hadn’t. Suguru had begged him to. Satoru refused. Now Naoya was here to rub salt in the wound.

Satoru felt physically and mentally ill. He scrolled down.

The article quoted Naoya: “Gojo Group is an outdated relic. I could fix it in six months and triple shareholder value. Honestly, they should thank me.”

Satoru trembled.

Nanami muttered, “This is very bad.”

“Very bad?” Satoru echoed. “VERY BAD? Nanami, this is apocalyptic. This is biblical. This is the universe telling me to kill myself.”

“Satoru, please don’t say that in front of the interns.”

“This is worse than Blackthorn,” Satoru continued. “Yaga wants to eat us. Naoya wants to make us trend on TikTok.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “You need to talk to Masahiro.”

Satoru shook his head violently. “Dad will stroke out. He hates the Zenins. He says they’re a ‘bunch of snot-nosed gangster babies.’”

“He’s not wrong,” Nanami admitted.

“And Naoya?!” Satoru continued. “NAOYA is the worst Zenin. He’s anti-woman, anti-regulation, anti-taxation, anti-therapy—”

Nanami nodded. “Yes, which explains why he’s extremely rich.”

“This is a nightmare.”

“It is.”

“What do we do?”

Nanami sighed. “We bring in Public Relations. And the crisis team. And we prepare for war.”

Satoru sank into his chair, head in his hands. He had one chance. One plan. One shot at becoming CEO. He was fighting his father’s distrust, Yaga’s takeover, and Blackthorn’s financial death grip. And now, NOW, he had to fight Naoya Zenin, the shirtless tech prophet who once tweeted “capitalism is my kink.” Why. Why did God hate him.

He reached for his phone. For some reason, some awful, self-destructive, muscle-memory reason, he dialed Suguru. Suguru answered on the second ring.

“What,” he said, bored.

Satoru exhaled shakily.

“Suguru, Naoya Zenin is trying to buy Gojo Group.”

A pause.

Then, Suguru actually choked. Like he physically choked on whatever he was drinking.

“…I’m sorry,” Suguru said slowly. “Did you just say Naoya Zenin?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Then,

“Okay,” Suguru said. “I’m coming over. Immediately.”

“What, why?”

“Because,” Suguru said, voice tight with genuine panic, “if Naoya Zenin gets anywhere near a Fortune 100 company, civilization will collapse.”

Satoru swallowed.

“Oh thank God,” he muttered. “For one second I thought you weren’t going to help me.”

Suguru sighed. “I’m not helping you. I’m helping the global economy.”

The war had already been bad. Now it was going to get catastrophic.

Naoya Zenin lived the way all tech billionaires secretly fantasized about living, obscenely, ostentatiously, and without a single ounce of shame. His personal residence, if one could call it that rather than a geopolitical entity, was an $83 million mountain mega-mansion outside Denver, built into the cliffside like God had carved a villain lair and handed him the deed. The driveway alone was longer than some Third World supply chains. The indoor pool was shaped like a katana. The living room had a glass floor suspended over a koi pond full of koi fish genetically modified to be “more emotionally expressive.”

Every newspaper described him as wealthy or controversial or eccentric. None said the truth: Naoya Zenin was loaded in a way that made nations nervous.

His wealth wasn’t old money, not like Gojo or Zenin zaibatsu lineage, it wasn’t inheritance-driven empire stewardship. No. His wealth was the kind that came from building a disruptive AI communications platform at 21, selling it for $17 billion at 24, and then siphoning the rest of his net worth through shell companies, crypto, and “innovation labs” that were 80% fraud and 20% vibes.

And now this man, this unpredictable, erratic, misogynistic, high-risk, low-regulation libertarian nightmare, wanted Gojo Group. Not for the company. Not for the assets. Not for the value. He wanted it for the spectacle. For the legacy. For the headline: DISRUPTIVE TECH BILLIONAIRE SWALLOWS AMERICA’S LAST DYNASTIC CONGLOMERATE.

And the easiest way to do that? Remove Masahiro Gojo from the board. Preferably horizontally.

Satoru arrived at Naoya’s mountain palace with the precise level of disgust and curiosity one reserves for extremely wealthy criminals who somehow still sit on Davos panels. Nanami had insisted on coming. Satoru refused. Suguru begged him not to go alone. Satoru said, “What’s he gonna do, push me off the balcony? Actually don’t answer that.”

The car wound up the mountain road until the mansion appeared like an evil Disney fortress. Satoru’s first thought: Oh my God. He is richer than me. His second thought: I need to go home. But he stepped out of the car anyway, adjusting his coat as Naoya Zenin appeared on the glass terrace above, shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, barefoot, holding a cup of matcha like a Bond villain who’d read too many productivity books.

“SA-TO-RU GO-JO!” Naoya shouted, grinning like a sex offender Santa Claus. “Welcome to my little cabin!”

This “cabin” was 38,000 square feet.

Satoru smiled back, tight and corporate. “Hey. Thanks for having me.”

Naoya hopped down the stairs, literally hopped, like someone whose blood was 60% Adderall and 40% delusion, and approached Satoru with open arms.

Satoru sidestepped. “No hugging.”

Naoya clicked his tongue. “Boo. New Yorkers are so emotionally repressed.”

“You’re from Kyoto.”

“And I left. Because it was boring.”

Of course he did.

He led Satoru into a living room with 40-foot ceilings and furniture that looked both uncomfortable and expensive. A massive abstract painting hung above the fireplace, supposedly worth $18 million. Satoru was certain it had been made by a Roomba dipped in acrylic paint. Naoya poured himself a drink, vodka, neat, 1 PM, and lounged back on a sofa like he was posing for GQ.

“So,” Naoya drawled, “let’s talk about you becoming obscenely rich.”

Satoru blinked. “Already rich.”

Naoya grinned wider. “No, no, no. See, that’s the problem. People like you think being a billionaire is the finish line. It’s not. It’s the start of the game.”

He leaned forward, eyes glittering with manic clarity.

“I can make you obnoxiously rich. Stupid rich. Rich enough to make Masahiro faint. Rich enough that your grandchildren’s grandchildren can buy small European cities.”

Satoru smiled politely. “I’m good.”

Naoya rolled his eyes dramatically. “Humility is so peasant-coded.”

Satoru forced himself to remain civil. “Your offer is flattering, but Gojo Group is not for sale.”

“Oh, I don’t want to buy your whole company,” Naoya said, waving a dismissive hand. “That would be tedious. And your father would die before he let me.”

“…Yes,” Satoru said. “He would.”

Naoya smirked. “Which is why I’m not planning to buy it.”

Satoru’s blood chilled. “What?”

Naoya leaned back, stretching like a cat with malice in its bones.

“I’m going to replace your father.”

Satoru’s throat went dry.

Naoya continued, “Masahiro is the obstacle. Everyone knows it. He’s old, he’s stubborn, he’s stuck in 1987, and he believes corporate governance is a form of personal punishment.”

Satoru clenched his jaw. Naoya watched him with unsettling delight.

“And you?” Naoya said. “You could be his greatest weakness. Or his greatest weapon. Depends on how much you’re willing to shed.”

Satoru exhaled sharply. “You think I’m going to help you overthrow my father?”

Naoya shrugged. “Why not? You resent him. Everyone sees it. And if Suguru Geto has half a brain, he’s been telling you exactly what I’m telling you.”

Satoru froze at the mention of Suguru. Naoya noticed, and grinned like a snake.

“Ah. So it is about him.”

“It is not about him,” Satoru snapped.

Naoya steepled his fingers. “Suguru begged you to walk away, right? Told you you’d be happier if you cashed out? Told you being the heir was killing you?”

Satoru didn’t answer. Silence was answer enough.

Naoya’s grin stretched wider. “You know what the difference is between you and me?”

“I’m not insane.”

“No,” Naoya said. “The difference is, I left. And you didn’t.”

Satoru swallowed. Naoya stood, pacing slowly around him like a shark circling a wounded seal.

“You could be free,” he murmured. “Rich beyond comprehension. Untouchable. No more Masahiro screaming at you. No more board politics. No more begging your childhood sweetheart to stop sabotaging his own career for yours.”

Satoru’s heart stuttered. Naoya’s voice softened.

“All you have to do is step aside. Let me break your father. Let me tear the company down to its bones. Let me rebuild it the way it should be.”

He stopped in front of Satoru.

“Let me save you.”

Satoru looked him dead in the eyes.

“No,” he said.

Naoya blinked once. Then laughed, sharp, loud, delighted.

“Oh, Satoru. Sweet Satoru Gojo. You think this is a choice.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that slithered down Satoru’s spine.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” Naoya said. “I’m informing you of the future.”

Satoru’s pulse thundered. Naoya tilted his head.

“Masahiro will fall,” he murmured. “And if you’re in my way, you will fall with him.”

Satoru walked out of the mansion with the first tremor of something new in his chest: Fear. Not for himself. For the company he wanted to lead. For the empire he wasn’t ready to lose. For the war he now understood he didn’t fully see coming. And for Suguru, because Naoya Zenin entering the battlefield meant one thing: All previous alliances were meaningless.

Satoru hated mountain air. It was too clean, too thin, too honest. There was nowhere for toxins to hide. No exhaust, no steam rising off subway grates, no scent of burnt espresso and capitalism. Just altitude and quiet, and the echo of Naoya Zenin’s voice inside his head saying things like I’m not asking your permission and Masahiro will fall. He boarded his jet less like a prince and more like a man walking himself into a pressure chamber. The crew greeted him with the gentle, cautious politeness of people who had witnessed billionaires cry at altitude before and knew better than to comment.

“Just water,” he told the flight attendant. “Still. No lemon. If you bring lemon, I will start screaming.”

She nodded, unfazed. “Of course, Mr. Gojo.”

He dropped into his seat, buckled in, and stared out at the mountain range. Snow. Rock. Sky. The fortress behind him, full of obscene wealth and koi with “more expressive micro-musculature” or whatever Naoya’s interior designer had called it, was now just another piece on the board.

He pulled out his phone, intending to text Nanami a simple, professional recap: Met Naoya. He’s insane. He didn’t get that far. The screen lit up with an incoming FaceTime request. Naoya Zenin. Of course.

Satoru groaned. “You have got to be kidding me.”

He thought about declining. He didn’t. He accepted the call, and Naoya’s face immediately filled the screen, up close, skin too perfect, grin too wide, eyes too bright. He was lying on what looked like a leather sofa, shirt half-unbuttoned, a neon sign in Japanese glowing behind him that read: GOD IS AN ANGEL INVESTOR.

“Satoru!” Naoya shouted. “You on the bird yet?”

Satoru pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. I’m on the plane. You know that because you watched me get in the car. Please use inside voice.”

Naoya switched cameras for a second to show off his living room. “Look at this view. Look at this mountain. I’m going to build a helipad shaped like my face.”

“Groundbreaking,” Satoru said flatly. “What do you want?”

Naoya flipped the camera back to himself. “Relax. I just wanted to say, great chat. Super productive. Very vibey.”

“It wasn’t productive,” Satoru replied. “I said no. You said you’re going to destroy my family. That’s not a vibe, that’s a threat.”

Naoya waved that off like it was a parking ticket. “Semantics.”

“I’m turning off my phone.”

“Don’t,” Naoya said. “I’m inviting you to a party.”

Satoru stared. “Absolutely not.”

Naoya grinned, teeth sharp. “This weekend. Meatpacking District. Abandoned warehouse I bought last year during a manic episode. We made it conceptually illegal.”

“That’s not a sentence.”

“It’s a creative space,” Naoya said. “No permits, questionable exits, but great DJs. Everyone who matters will be there.”

“Everyone who matters,” Satoru repeated. “In an abandoned warehouse in Meatpacking.”

“Yes.”

“I already hate it.”

“Good,” Naoya said. “Then you’ll fit in.”

Satoru leaned back in his seat, exhaling sharply. “Why.”

Naoya blinked. “Why what?”

“Why would I go?”

Naoya’s expression changed, tiny, subtle, like a glitch in the software. The manic billionaire mask slid a fraction to the side and something cooler, sharper, older looked out.

“Because,” he said, “I might change my mind about the future of Gojo Group.”

Satoru’s fingers tightened around his phone. “You said your mind was made up.”

Naoya shrugged. “I lie. Constantly.”

“Fantastic.”

“Come to the party,” Naoya continued. “Hang out. Drink something. Talk to people who aren’t geriatric board members and emotionally stunted ex-lovers. Convince me you’re not just your dad in a hotter suit.”

“I’m not trying to impress you,” Satoru said.

“You should,” Naoya replied. “Because right now, your father is the obstacle. But if I get bored of you? I can always use someone else.”

The plane taxied.

Satoru’s blood went cold. “What does that mean?”

Naoya’s smile sharpened. “You have a cousin, yes? Yuta Okkotsu. Sad, soft, malleable. Yale MBA. Lives in Tokyo. Highly promotable. Masahiro’s backup heir.”

Satoru had to fight the urge to throw the phone.

“Stay away from Yuta.”

Naoya laughed. “I don’t touch family. I just hire them. Advise them. Empower them.”

“He’s not going to work with you.”

“Everyone works with me eventually,” Naoya said. “You’d be amazed what people will do to feel seen and important.”

He let that hang there.

“Come to the party, Satoru,” Naoya said. “Give me a reason to keep focusing on you. The mildly functional, mildly interesting heir who still has some spine left. Don’t make me pivot to Yuta. It would be boring. And messy. You’d get kicked to the curb in a heartbeat.”

“I’m already on the board,” Satoru snapped. “You can’t just erase me.”

Naoya tilted his head, amused. “Can’t I?”

Satoru’s heart hammered.

Naoya’s tone dropped just enough to make it worse. “I only like you right now because you’re still sort of interesting. And sort of useful. Don’t make me hate you.”

The call ended before Satoru could respond. He stared at his reflection on the now-black screen, pale, exhausted, furious.

The flight attendant appeared. “We’re taking off now, Mr. Gojo. Can I get you anything before we do?”

“A gun,” he muttered. “Or a sedative. Or a meteor.”

She blinked. “We have chamomile tea.”

“Fine,” he said. “Chamomile.”

The jet lifted. The city would be waiting for him. And so would Naoya. He felt sick. He did what he always did when he felt too much. He dialed Suguru. The call rang twice before it connected.

Suguru sounded half-awake, half-annoyed. “This better be about money or a fire.”

“It’s about both,” Satoru said. “And a man who’s insane.”

“Yaga’s not insane,” Suguru replied. “He’s just old and evil. There’s a distinction.”

“I’m not talking about Yaga,” Satoru said. “I’m talking about Naoya Zenin.”

There was a pause. Then: “Oh. Him.”

“Yeah,” Satoru said. “Him. He just told me to come to his little techno cult party in Meatpacking so he might ‘change his mind’ about swallowing Gojo Group whole. Or, if I bore him, he’ll just pick up Yuta instead and watch me get kicked to the curb like a defective Roomba.”

Suguru was silent for a long beat.

“Say something,” Satoru demanded. “You’re the private equity oracle. Interpret this.”

“He’s crazy,” Suguru said.

“Thank you, I know that.”

“No,” Suguru corrected. “You don’t understand. Yaga is a shark. Naoya is radiation. You can negotiate with sharks. Radiation just gives everyone cancer.”

Satoru grimaced. “That’s comforting.”

“What did he offer you?” Suguru asked sharply. “Specifically.”

“To make me ‘obscenely rich,’” Satoru said. “I told him I was already rich.”

“Good.”

“He wants to replace my father. Blow up the company. Make me walk away with a payout so large it would make Masahiro cry blood.”

Suguru exhaled slowly. “That tracks.”

“He also said he might decide Yuta is more interesting than me.”

Suguru snorted. “That also tracks. Yuta actually reads.”

“I read!”

“Instagram captions are not literature.”

“Fuck you.”

Suguru ignored that. “Okay. Here’s the problem. Naoya doesn’t just want money. He wants narrative. Headlines. Spectacle. Guys like him get bored easily. That makes them dangerous.”

“So stop him,” Satoru said. “You told me we have three months to kill Blackthorn. Add Zenin to the list.”

“I’m not interfering,” Suguru said.

The words landed with a flat thud. “What?”

“I already told you,” Suguru said, voice even. “I’m not intervening in Naoya. I’ve already lost too much money over you. I’m not about to light myself on fire to fix your latest mess.”

“This isn’t a mess I made,” Satoru protested. “He came for me.”

“You’re still the common denominator in every disaster,” Suguru replied. “The universe keeps sending you villains for a reason.”

Satoru slumped back in his seat. “So that’s it? You’re just… out?”

“I didn’t say that,” Suguru said. “I said I won’t interfere directly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not going to war with a billionaire kamikaze-tech psycho on top of my day job,” Suguru said. “If Naoya wants to swing at your father, he’ll swing at your father. That’s not my problem.”

“He threatened me,” Satoru snapped.

“He threatened your position,” Suguru said. “Those aren’t the same thing. And you knew this was possible the moment you refused to walk away.”

Satoru bit down on the sudden urge to say I didn’t walk away because of you. He swallowed it. He was finally learning.

“So,” he asked, quiet, “you’re really not going to help me?”

Suguru was quiet for a moment. Then, with an infuriating calm, he said:

“What’s in it for me?”

Satoru blinked. “What?”

“You’re asking me to engage,” Suguru said. “To build you a buffer against Naoya on top of dealing with Yaga, Higuruma, and my own LPs. You’re asking me to stick my hand into a blender. Again. So. What’s in it for me?”

Satoru hated that his first instinct was emotional. You get me. You get to keep me alive. You get to not watch me drown. None of that would move Suguru. Not this Suguru. Not the man who joked about loyalty being for dogs and profits being for people.

“You get Gojo,” Satoru said eventually.

“I already get Gojo,” Suguru replied. “One way or another.”

“You get a less insane world to live in.”

Suguru hummed. “Tempting. But vague.”

“You get to keep me in power,” Satoru tried. “If Naoya wins, you lose access. You get some Zenin-pilled idiot cousin on the other side of the table.”

“I work with idiots all the time,” Suguru said. “I’m very good at it.”

“You get me as CEO,” Satoru pushed. “You said yourself, Naoya inheriting a Fortune 100 is bad for the global economy. You want to do deals in a crater?”

There was a longer silence.

“Look,” Satoru said, softer, “I know I’m asking a lot. I know you’re tired. I know you’ve spent ten years losing money and time and pieces of yourself because of me. But if I don’t win this, none of it meant anything.”

Suguru’s voice, when he finally spoke, was as precise as a blade.

“Satoru,” he said, “you are not my pro bono case.”

“I didn’t say I—”

“I don’t save you,” Suguru cut in. “I don’t rescue you. I make trades. I make deals. I move capital. If I step into this, it has to be for more than your daddy issues.”

Satoru stared at the ceiling of the jet.

“What do you want,” he asked.

“What I’ve always wanted,” Suguru said. “A seat at the table.”

“You already have that.”

“A real one,” Suguru said. “At Gojo.”

Satoru frowned. “You want a board seat? That’s never happening. My father would jump off the tower before he let you in.”

Suguru’s tone didn’t change. “Then find me something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A permanent advisory role. A guaranteed slice of any spin-off you push. A right of first refusal on any asset sales. Something binding. Something that makes bleeding for you worth it.”

“Bleeding,” Satoru repeated. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being accurate,” Suguru said. “You said Naoya is crazier than Yaga and greedier than me. That might actually be true. If I’m going to help you keep him away from Gojo, I want it in writing.”

“It’s always in writing with you,” Satoru muttered.

“Welcome to corporate lawlessness,” Suguru replied. “So. Figure out what you can offer. Call Nanami. Talk to your father, if you’re feeling brave. Then get back to me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I wish you the best of luck at Naoya’s warehouse rave.”

Satoru pinched his nose again. “I hate you.”

“No,” Suguru said mildly. “You love me. That’s the problem.”

The line went dead. The jet hummed. Satoru sat there for a long time, staring at his phone, listening to the roar of the engines and the quiet crackle of everything falling apart in new, exciting ways. He had an insane tech billionaire circling. He had Blackthorn squeezing. He had Masahiro plotting. He had Nanami being courted as a hypothetical replacement son. He had Yuta somewhere in Tokyo, blissfully unaware he was now part of multiple paranoid fantasies. He had Suguru, who wanted compensation to help stop the world from burning. 

And he had three months. Three months until the board meeting. Three months until Naoya’s money, Yaga’s pressure, and Masahiro’s ego collided. Three months to decide what he was willing to give Suguru in exchange for one more war together.

The flight attendant returned with chamomile tea on a silver tray.

“Rough day?” she asked kindly.

Satoru took the cup. “You have no idea,” he said.

He took a sip. It didn’t help. But at least it didn’t make anything worse. For Satoru Gojo, that counted as progress. In the distance, New York waited. So did the abandoned warehouse in Meatpacking. So did Naoya Zenin. Dirty cash was on the table. And somewhere deep in his bones, Satoru knew: If he stepped into that warehouse, nothing about this war would ever be clean again.