you can be the boss-satosugu

4|. vogue

The faint scent of a stale cologne lingered, possibly from when he'd tried it on earlier, intending to wash it off before the crumpled up magazine on his bedside table took his attention. That arrogant smile seemed to follow him everywhere.

The cover of Vogue held an image of Satoru Gojo, a striking model. One whose face is to be plastered on the news as dead rather than a stereotypical reckless, pretty boy by the end of the year.

The stray thoughts of calling Gojo wouldn’t go away, and it bothered him in a way very few things did. He sat up and rubbed his temples, feeling the tightness in his shoulders, as if he were already bracing for a confrontation he didn’t yet have the courage to face. The bedside table held a mess of discarded books, pens, and the cigarette, standing out like some strange souvenir of their last encounter. Part of him wanted to flick it into the trash, but the other part? It just couldn’t let it go.

So instead, he made his way to the bathroom, turning the cold water on and splashing his face. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, droplets clinging to his skin, his own eyes staring back with something close to frustration. It was like he was trying to drown out the image of Gojo’s piercing blue eyes, but it didn’t work. He huffed, patting his face dry with a towel before stepping back into his room, hoping the movement, the change of pace, would shake off this strange lethargy.

He didn't understand how it managed to stay perfectly intact through the rain, or why he'd even taken it. He feared he couldn't.

Though the target unmistakeable, every minute of an interaction with Gojo made him feel like his resolve never mattered to him in the first place, and it was infuriating him beyond anything because he knew he had nothing more to life than the enjoyment he got from assigned murder.

Back in his room, he dropped onto his bed, glancing over at the phone he had abandoned there. He picked up a book instead, something thick and complex he usually had no trouble focusing on. He didn’t even make it to the second paragraph before his thoughts wandered back. He let the book drop, its pages flipping open on the bed beside him as he stared at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks he hadn’t noticed before.

He felt restless, on edge, like he needed to do something. The minutes on the clock moved with agonizing slowness. 3:47 p.m. He let out a sigh, tugging the pillow over his head in an attempt to drown out his own mind, but the darkness only brought him closer to the thoughts he was trying so hard to avoid.

The day was long enough, and now, alone in his room like he was most of the time, he felt uncertainty in a way he never did, in a way he never let himself.

Geto gently shook his head. It'd been about a week since he'd gotten the information on Gojo, and he was still here, unable to come up with a way to assassinate him, a somebody who seemed so impossibly full of life.

Gojo is expected to be dead by January, and Geto has sworn to kill him long before the deadline.

But he was still left questioning if he was really this weak, enough to let a target occupy so much space in his head to the point of it all overflowing. He didnt know, but he knew that he couldn't bear to be.

In a rare moment of frustration, he sat up and reached for the crumpled magazine on his bedside. His fingers brushed over the glossy cover. He forced himself to focus, on why he couldn't be distracted. The tip of his fingers lingered on Gojo’s face printed on the cover, almost unconsciously tracing over the eyes, as if they might reveal some kind of answer.

He needed to get back on track before he lost everything he worked for, because he wasn't going to let moon-white hair ruin anything.