MHA; Gojo Vs Sukuna

**Chapter Three: Worlds Apart**

The hotel lobby was a symphony of opulence, its grandeur almost overwhelming. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their prisms casting rainbows across the polished marble floor. The air was filled with the faint scent of jasmine and freshly brewed coffee, mingling with the soft murmur of conversations. Gojo Satoru strolled through the space, his white hair catching the light like a halo. His blue eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the room with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

He paused by a floor-to-ceiling window, his reflection staring back at him. The glass was pristine, offering a clear view of the sprawling city below. Outside, the night was alive with lights—neon signs, streetlamps, and the shimmering glow of swimming pools where the wealthy lounged, their laughter faintly audible even through the glass. Gojo tilted his head, studying his reflection.

"Huh," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. "I didn't think Satoru could look this good."

His white shirt, adorned with delicate blue roses, fit him perfectly, the fabric soft against his skin. The creamy off-white pants he wore were tailored to perfection, their lightweight material swaying slightly as he moved. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands falling back into place effortlessly.

As he continued his stroll, a group of older women passed by, their eyes lingering on him. They whispered to each other, their voices barely audible but their admiration clear.

"Isn't he charming?" one of them said, fanning herself slightly.

"And so handsome," another added, her eyes sparkling.

Gojo caught their words but didn't react, his smirk deepening as he walked toward the elevators. The doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a sleek, mirrored interior. He stepped inside, his reflection multiplying as the doors closed. The panel beside him displayed an absurd number of floors, each one labeled with a different amenity—restaurants, spas, pools, theaters.

"This place is ridiculous," he muttered, pressing the button for the main floor.

The elevator descended smoothly, the lights inside shifting to a warm golden hue. When the doors opened, Gojo found himself in the heart of the hotel's dining area. A café stretched out before him, its tables adorned with fresh flowers and gleaming silverware. The scent of pastries and coffee filled the air, and the soft hum of conversations created a soothing ambiance.

Gojo's eyes landed on a display of desserts, their colors and textures almost too perfect to be real. He walked over to a table and sat down, his movements relaxed and unhurried. A waiter approached immediately, his smile polite but slightly nervous under Gojo's piercing gaze.

"What can I get for you, sir?" the waiter asked.

Gojo glanced at the menu, his eyes scanning the extensive list of desserts. "I'll take the vanilla cream cake," he said, his voice smooth and confident.

As the waiter walked away, Gojo reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek leather wallet. Inside, he found a stack of crisp bills and a black credit card. He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I bet this thing has millions on it."

The cake arrived shortly, its presentation almost too beautiful to eat. Gojo picked up his fork, cutting into the delicate layers of sponge and cream. The first bite was a revelation—rich, sweet, and perfectly balanced. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the flavor.

"I've never tasted anything like this," he said to himself, his voice tinged with genuine appreciation.

Nearby, a group of wealthy women sat at a table, their eyes darting toward Gojo every few seconds. One of them, a young woman in a designer dress, was so distracted by his presence that she accidentally knocked over her chair. The sound echoed through the café, drawing a few glances, but Gojo didn't seem to notice. He was too engrossed in his dessert, his blue eyes focused on the cake as if it were the most important thing in the world.

---

Meanwhile, in a starkly different part of the city, Sukuna walked through a neighborhood that seemed to exist in perpetual shadow. The streets were narrow and littered with trash, the air thick with the acrid smell of smoke and alcohol. Graffiti covered the walls, their colors faded and peeling. The occasional flicker of a broken streetlamp cast eerie shadows, and the sound of distant shouting echoed through the alleys.

Sukuna's brown hair was disheveled, his eyes dark and brooding as he navigated the grim surroundings. His plain gray shirt and black jeans were a stark contrast to the filth around him, but they did little to make him blend in. Every pair of eyes in the area seemed to follow him—some filled with hunger, others with malice.

"You want me to start a game from this dump?" he muttered, his voice low and dripping with disdain.

The neighborhood was a haven for the outcasts of society—criminals, thieves, hackers, and the mentally unstable. It was a place where heroes never ventured, especially at night. The buildings were crumbling, their windows boarded up or shattered. Rats scurried through the gutters, their eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Sukuna's stomach growled, a reminder that he hadn't eaten since waking up in that decaying room. He spotted a small ramen shop tucked between two dilapidated buildings, its sign flickering weakly. The interior was surprisingly clean, a stark contrast to the filth outside, but the faces of the patrons were anything but welcoming.

He walked in, the bell above the door jingling softly. The owner, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, eyed him suspiciously.

"What'll it be?" the man asked, his voice gruff.

"Ramen," Sukuna said, his tone flat.

The owner nodded, gesturing for him to sit. Sukuna reached into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills. He placed them on the counter, his expression unreadable.

The owner glanced at the money, then back at Sukuna. "This'll get you ramen," he said, "but no meat. No veggies. Just broth and noodles."

Sukuna shrugged. "Better than nothing."

As he waited for his food, his eyes scanned the room. The other patrons were a mix of hardened criminals and broken souls, their faces etched with stories of pain and violence. Sukuna's gaze lingered on a man in the corner, his arms covered in tattoos and his eyes hollow.

The ramen arrived, steaming and simple. Sukuna picked up his chopsticks, his movements deliberate. He took a bite, the warmth of the broth a small comfort in the cold, grim world he found himself in.

---

Back at the hotel, Gojo's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, the sleek device gleaming under the café's lights. The screen displayed a single word: **Father**.

Gojo's smirk faltered for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He stared at the screen, his blue eyes narrowing slightly.

"First contact with the family," he murmured, his voice tinged with a rare hint of vulnerability.

He hesitated for a moment before answering, the weight of the unknown pressing down on him.

.

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