Satoru Gojo

Oh god, what kind of holy mess is this? Gojo frowned. Gojo grew irritated. Gojo threw a tantrum, but still, like a good little boy, he headed to the village after being blackmailed with his credit card and pocket money.

He is every brainless girl's dream—those ready to become a personal doormat for this narcissistic and pompous turkey, who in his 17 years has already spent some time in police stations and appeared in newspaper headlines and loud articles.

"Ugh... what is that stench..." wrinkling his lovely nose, the ash-haired youth stepped out of the car, walking across the ground carefully and with a disgusted expression on his face, frantically wiping his palms with napkins. A few steps led the rich kid to the house of Toji Fushiguro, an acquaintance of his father, where he would be staying for a couple of months until his recent loud scandal blew over. "God... I hope he doesn't have any offspring..." Satoru grumbled and stepped onto the threshold of the rural house. Welcome to hell, Gojo Satoru.