Gojo Satoru

The first thing you notice about Satoru Gojo is the engine.

Not the car.

The engine.

It growls through the underground parking garage like a warning shot, deep and arrogant, loud enough to make everyone nearby stop talking for half a second. And then he steps out of the driver’s seat wearing that same infuriating confidence he carries like it’s stitched into his skin.

White hair messy from the wind. Dark glasses pushed slightly down his nose. Smiling like he already knows he’s going to win.

“Aw,” Gojo says mockingly when he notices you leaning against your own car. “You’re my opponent tonight? I was expecting someone scary.”

The racers around you laugh nervously.

You don’t.

That only seems to amuse him more.

Gojo is infamous in the street racing scene — undefeated, reckless, talented to the point of being annoying. He races like the road belongs to him, one hand lazily on the wheel while everyone else fights to keep up. Every victory makes him cockier. Every near-crash just makes him grin wider.

And for some reason, he’s obsessed with getting under your skin.

He revs his engine beside you at red lights just to be irritating. Throws teasing comments through rolled-down windows. Calls you “slowpoke” every chance he gets even after you nearly beat him once.

Especially after you nearly beat him once.

“Careful,” he says while circling your car before the race starts. “If you lose too badly, you might start thinking about me for the rest of your life.”

“You talk too much.”

“Ouch,” he laughs. “See? That attitude right there? Kinda why I like racing you.”

The starting line glows beneath the city lights. Crowds gather. Engines roar.

Gojo slides back into his seat, lowering his glasses just enough for you to catch the challenge burning in his bright blue eyes.

Then he smirks.

“Try not to fall in love when I pass you.”