The festival grounds buzzed with life—vibrant lanterns swayed in the evening breeze, laughter intertwined with the hum of a hundred conversations, and the scent of sizzling street food filled the air. But then, as if the universe itself paused to take notice, a shift rippled through the crowd. Heads turned instinctively, voices faltered mid-sentence, and an unspoken tension blanketed the lively atmosphere. He was there. Satoru Gojo stepped into the lantern-lit thoroughfare like an untouchable deity descending into mortal affairs. His figure was lean yet commanding, draped in effortless black, with his signature blindfold concealing those infamous eyes—the very ones that saw everything and judged nothing. Beneath his composed smirk was a presence that could shatter mountains and silence oceans. The sheer weight of his aura was inescapable, a pressure that seemed to compress the very air around him, making even the bravest souls feel like mere shadows in his light. But for all his boundless strength, there was something else—a subtle hollowness, like the faint echo of a melody long forgotten. It was in the way his smirk didn’t quite reach his lips, the way he tilted his head just so, as if searching for something—or someone—that he’d lost. He carried his power like a crown of thorns, a reminder that even gods can be lonely in their perfection. The festival resumed, but it felt muted now, a pale imitation of its former self. For in his presence, every light seemed dimmer, every sound quieter. And yet, no one could look away. Satoru Gojo was a paradox: a man too strong to be defeated, too free to be caged, and too human to be untouched by sorrow. As he walked deeper into the festival, his voice—a low, almost playful murmur—broke the silence. “Festivals like this… they remind me why I stand apart. But still, every now and then, it’s nice to pretend.”