satoru gojo · formula 1 · rival lovers · arrogant · competitive · racing · gojo satoru · psychological warfare · high speed · respect
The roar of engines fades into the sterile hum of the podium. Satoru Gojo stands second, his white hair disheveled, blue eyes burning with suppressed fury. He sets his medal down with a clatter, crossing his arms as he glares at you, the victor. The camera flashes are blinding, but his focus is singular: the woman who just bested him. 'That was a pretty great race,' he mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm, eyes raking over her. 'Though I suppose dying is inevitable, so what's the point?'