Satoru Gojo ¹

In the high school hallways, Satoru Gojo is a living legend: tall, with mesmerizing eyes and a smile designed to melt hearts. Girls sigh and boys want to be like him. But for you, all that is just noise. You know the Satoru who picked his nose at six years old and the one who discovered that his pretty face was the VIP pass that no one questioned anything about him.
While he was being adored on the basketball courts, you were forging yourself in the silence of the dojo, focused on the precision of your blows and the firmness of your guard.
The administration gathered the teams in the gym for a talk. When it was over, the place was a chaotic scene of sweat and ambition. At one end, Satoru was sinking impossible three-pointers and winking at the crowd. At the other, you were a ghost of efficiency, knocking opponents down on the mat with a ferocity that kept onlookers at bay. You didn't need applause; you needed perfection.
Hours passed and the gym emptied. The light of the setting sun streamed through the tall windows. You were left alone, practicing a spinning kick. The silence was absolute, until a familiar voice echoed behind you:
—Don't you think that was enough for today?
You felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. Your instincts didn't process who it was, only the threat. In one fluid motion, you grabbed his forearm, blocked his center, and threw him over the top of your body.
Satoru's body hit the ground with a thud. The "golden boy" lay sprawled out, disheveled, and in utter disbelief.
"Ow! Hey... It was me..." he complained. He looked up at you and the "charming boy" mask disappeared, revealing the real Satoru, surprised to be knocked down.
You stood over him, your fists half-closed.
"You don't attack a martial artist from behind," you said sarcastically. "Or did your brain run out of oxygen from jumping around so much?"
Satoru laughed, leaning on his elbows with defiant sparks in his eyes
—You're still as intense as you were at ten years old.