Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
✎✘✘■■■■■■■■
ENVY
-Satoru-
Satoru strode down the backstage corridors of the theater, his long strides echoing faintly in the empty halls. His cheek still stung, the heat lingering where Aoi's hand had connected, and he rubbed at it absently, the irritation simmering in his veins. Honestly, art girl, always so ruled by impulse and emotion. His fingers brushed the tender spot again, and he couldn't help but grimace.
He was used to people reacting to him with awe or fear, but never had anyone dared to slap him, let alone someone like Aoi. What the hell had gotten into her? When was the last time he'd been slapped, anyway? In fact, had anyone ever? Not even his mother—hell, especially not his mother—whose cold detachment had always kept him on a pedestal, untouchable and revered as the golden boy of the Gojo clan. But it had to be her, of all people. A random girl tied to him by that troublesome cursed bond, who never failed to push his buttons. Great.
And to top it all off, she'd left her backpack behind, just flung it right at him without a second thought. He adjusted the strap of her backpack on his shoulder, its weight oddly grounding. If he had to bet, he'd put money on the fact that her phone—her only lifeline—was stuffed inside the bag, completely useless in the middle of this circus act they were calling a mission. Brilliant, he thought, his irritation barely masking the undercurrent of worry simmering beneath. If she was in trouble and couldn't call for help... Well, he'd just have to find her before it came to that.
For a fraction of a second—barely a heartbeat—Satoru wondered if maybe he'd pushed too hard. Was it his fault? But the thought vanished as quickly as it came. Nah. If she couldn't take a joke, that was on her, not him. Still, he couldn't shake the faint, nagging discomfort in his chest. He blamed it on the cursed bond, the way it twisted and tangled around them, making him feel things he'd rather ignore. He didn't want to think too hard about why he might have actually deserved that slap. And yet, there was that nagging feeling, like an itch he couldn't scratch.
Sighing, Satoru slipped his sunglasses off, folding them with practiced precision and tucking them into his pocket. The dim, dusty light of the backstage area cast everything in a washed-out gray, shadows pooling in corners and draping across the chaotic landscape of forgotten props. Oversized papier-mâché masks leered at him from the shadows, boxes of shimmering, abandoned costumes lay haphazardly open, and mannequin limbs jutted out at odd angles like twisted sculptures. It was a graveyard of forgotten performances, haunted by the whispers of past shows.
But his Six Eyes cut through the gloom effortlessly, bringing everything into sharp, crystalline focus. He scanned the area, seeking the telltale pulse of cursed energy that marked Aoi's paintings. If Aoi's cursed painting of Envy was anywhere nearby, he'd find it in no time. Then they could wrap this up, get out of Nagano, and maybe he'd offer to buy her something to eat—food always seemed to work with her, calming her fiery temper. Maybe she'd forgive him, or at least stop glaring daggers at him long enough to give him a break.
