(THO) CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The plan was simple.

Crude, even.

A battered street on Brockton Bay’s northern edge, half-abandoned. Cracked sidewalks. Dying neon signs. Immigrant families crammed into tenement buildings, clinging to routine like it might save them. Small businesses struggling to stay afloat under the weight of extortion, protection money, and threats passed down like heirlooms.

The kind of place where fear lived in the foundation.

Empire Eighty-Eight had always known how to use fear.

And how to make use of a spotlight.

Tonight, it would shine on him.

Gojo Satoru.

The man who walked untouched. Who bent space around him like clay. Who bowed to no one, postured like a god—wearing power like silk and arrogance like armor—and played the part to perfection.

But Kaiser wanted results.

If they couldn’t coerce him, couldn’t recruit him, they’d draw him out. Force him to show his hand. To reveal the rules behind the untouchable shell.

And all it would take was a little cruelty in the right place.

. . . . .

The first fire started at midnight.

A corner store, torched with accelerant while the owner still counted the till. A Molotov followed. Then screams.

The second strike hit a community center—children’s art still drying on the walls when the windows shattered. Masked men poured in, shouting orders, dragging people into the street. Laughing as they broke kneecaps. Recording everything.

They didn’t ask for money. Didn’t make demands.

They wanted him.

And he came.

. . . . .

Gojo arrived without much fanfare.

No flash of power. No violent wind or righteous declaration.

Just the soft crunch of boots over glass-strewn pavement.

The smoke seemed to curve away from him—like it knew better than to get too close. And something about the space he occupied felt wrong. Not visibly. Not loudly. Just… wrong, in the way that made instincts stir and nerves itch.

Across the street, Empire Eighty-Eight members froze mid-beatdown. One held a bloodied pipe. Another, a phone, paused mid-recording.

The last of them held a child.

A girl, maybe seven. Thin arms, knees scraped by her thrashing, looking too small for the world she’d been dragged into. The man’s grip on her was too tight. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just confident. Certain.

The kind of certainty that left marks—on skin, on memory.

“Well, look who it is,” he called. “The great Satoru.”

Gojo didn’t reply. He glanced at the ruined storefronts. The fire. The trembling families corralled against a wall.

His gaze passed over them like they weren’t worth registering.

The member sneered.

“You think you're better than us? You think walking around with your hands in your pockets makes you untouchable?” He yanked the child closer, putting her between them. “You’re a wasted gift. All that power, and this is how you use it? Brooding walks and moral superiority?”

The girl whimpered.

The member grinned, emboldened.

And vanished in a flash of blue.

No trace. 

One second he stood behind the girl—mouth open, words forming.

And the next, there was nothing.

Not blood. Not gore. Not a scream rippling in the air.

Just… gone.

The girl stumbled forward and dropped to her knees, sobbing. He didn’t move to comfort her.

The remaining members went dead silent.

One tried to run.

Gojo turned his head, just slightly.

The man dropped mid-stride, face slamming into the pavement. Not dead. Just… locked in place. Held there by something heavier than gravity.

Gojo let the moment stretch. Let them feel it.

Then, he spoke.

“Let me make something clear,” Gojo said, voice calm. Almost gentle. 

“If you’re trying to test how far I’ll go—”

He stepped forward. The ground cracked faintly, like glass under pressure.

“—don’t use kids.”

His blindfold turned in their direction, and still the weight of his stare was unbearable.

“Use yourself. I’ll show you exactly how far that gets you.”

No one spoke.

Even breathing was shallow. 

Gojo let the silence sit. Thick. Suffocating.

Then turned and walked away.

No pursuit followed. No orders barked. No shots fired.

Only his footsteps.

And once he was gone, the members ran off in fear. 

. . . . .

With them gone, the girl sobbed into the arms of a stranger. The fire dimmed. Phones were forgotten. Makeshift weapons dropped.

Brockton Bay learned something that night.

He wasn’t a hero.

He wasn’t a villain either.

He reaffirmed he was something worse:

A man who couldn’t be baited.

With a power that didn’t need to raise its voice to make the world go quiet.