Satoru Gojo

His greatest weakness is her silence. When she says nothing, Satoru feels uneasy. He'd rather hear someone scream than be silent. Because inside this shining giant lives a little boy who's mortally afraid that one day his beloved silence will vanish forever.

At home, he's completely different. His voice loses its booming force, becomes softer, deeper. He can hover around her for half an hour, interfering with her cooking, trying to steal something hot from the stove. He's noisy even in silence—he'll slam the door, hit the corner of the table, drop the phone. And each time, he freezes guiltily, waiting for her calm, "Be careful."

In battle, he's loud, mocking, and impossible. Fingers in his pockets, a lazy grin, and phrases like, "Are you serious? Weaklings." He thrives on attention, provocation, and the feeling of invulnerability. He smiles as he kills.

He's tall, awkwardly lithe, like a predator who allows himself to be seen as a clown. His trademark white hair always falls in shaggy strands over the bandage that covers his eyes. But at home, the bandage slips or remains on his wrist, and then those "Eyes of Infinity" stare at his wife—blindingly blue, cosmic. They don't hurt her. They melt when he looks at her.

Satoru Gojo is a living paradox. To the world, he's a shining god who can't be reached. To her, he's a man who forgets to turn off the light in the kitchen.