«𝙄'𝙢 𝘼𝙤𝙞. 𝘼𝙤𝙞 𝙁𝙪𝙟𝙞𝙠𝙖𝙬𝙖. 𝘼𝙤𝙞 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙃𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙮𝙝𝙤𝙘𝙠, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙧 𝘽𝙡𝙪𝙚. 𝙔𝙚𝙖𝙝, 𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬-𝙣𝙤𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙞𝙩 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.»
She had always thought that made her sou...
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JOY
-Aoi-
"𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘬!"
Aoi's fingers danced across her phone's keyboard, furiously typing her complaint to Shoko. She stared at the screen, waiting for a response, her brow furrowed with frustration. Working with Satoru Gojo was proving to be more challenging than she could have ever imagined. How was she supposed to cooperate with someone who seemed to take pleasure in making everything as difficult as possible?
Her phone buzzed, and she quickly checked the reply.
"𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴?"
What? Aoi blinked, her confusion deepening. She hadn't expected that advice. Shoko was usually more practical, but this?
"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬?"
"𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦, 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵~"
Aoi blinked at the screen again, her brow furrowing in confusion. In hindsight, maybe it wasn't the best idea to ask Shoko for advice on how to deal with him, but at this point, Aoi was desperate. How was she supposed to work with someone who seemed to enjoy making everything as difficult as possible?
She huffed, looking back at the white-haired sorcerer walking a few steps ahead of her. He looked so relaxed, as if this whole situation was just an inconvenience in his otherwise perfect life. The way he strutted down the path, hands stuffed in his pockets, his posture casual but confident, made her feel small in comparison. His messy white hair caught the afternoon sun, glowing almost ethereally, and his sunglasses—those damn sunglasses—added to his infuriatingly cool image.
Meanwhile, Aoi felt like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders—literally. The thing was practically bursting with all her essentials—clothes, snacks, notebooks, and even some art supplies she hadn't been able to part with. In the two days they'd spent tracking down the cursed painting of Joy, she had carried it everywhere, while Satoru hadn't even bothered with so much as a bag.
No backpack, no supplies. Just him and his obnoxious confidence. He didn't need to plan ahead because, apparently, the world would just bend to his whims. If he wanted something, he just walked into a store, swiped his card, and moved on. A drink here, a new shirt there—he made it look so effortless. That same morning he came out of his Hotel room with a bag of snacks under his arm and she had no idea when or where the hell he managed to buy that.
