Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

re·duc·tion·ism
noun | Neuroscience

the approach of explaining complex phenomena in terms of their simplest components, often by reducing mental states, behaviors, or experiences to underlying biological or physical processes.

Satoru Gojo

Late August, Fall, 2018

“Smells like shit in here,” Shoko twisted her nose, crossing the small dorm room straight to the window.

It slid open with a nasty screech. Cold air rushed in, only dragging the smell right back to him.

“Dorms were better last year,” Satoru muttered, dropping the boxes by the door.

“Of course they were.” She turned on her heel, eyes scanning the two bare mattresses, both stained in ways he didn’t want to think about. “They needed us last year.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “The naivety of freshmen.”

The bed by the window was obviously his. He slipped his bag off his shoulder and moved to toss it down-

Shoko grabbed his arm.

“Do you have any idea how many germs are on that?” Her eyes widened like he’d just committed a crime. “You need a new mattress.”

Satoru smirked, tilting his head as he said, “It builds immunity.”

He was really saying that to a med student.

“That’s not how immunity works.”

Satoru waved her off, tossing the bag on the mattress anyway. “Get your diploma, then talk to me.”

She rolled her eyes, walking back towards the boxes. “I’ll have some time after class, we can get you a new mattress then.”

Satoru watched her crouch by the stack like she was about to perform surgery on cardboard.

“You say that like you’re doing me a favor,” he said, stepping farther into the room and toeing the door shut behind him. It didn’t click all the way. He shoved it with his heel until it latched with a dull thunk.

Shoko didn’t look up. “I am doing you a favor. Your immune system isn’t a Pokémon. It doesn’t evolve because you slept on mold.”

“It might,” he said, and because his mouth never knew how to shut up, added, “I’ve seen weaker men survive worse.”

She made a small sound that could’ve been a laugh if Shoko Ieiri was the kind of person who laughed with her whole face.

Satoru moved toward his side of the room and stared at the window again. Open, cold, loud. He could hear people outside; doors slamming somewhere down the hall, voices echoing, the clatter of someone dragging a suitcase that probably weighed as much as a dead body. The building itself felt and not in a charming way. The paint around the window frame was chipped. The floorboards had that faint, sticky shine of something cleaned too quickly.

“How long do you think the smell takes to… settle?” he asked.

“It doesn’t settle. It ferments,” Shoko said, tearing the tape off the first box with her nails. She paused, glanced at him over her shoulder. “Did you bring a diffuser?”

He blinked. “Why would I bring a diffuser?”

She stared like she couldn’t believe he was real. “Because this room smells like a crime scene.”

Satoru leaned back against his bedframe. “I brought gum.”

“You can’t chew the air.”

“Watch me.”

Shoko sighed, then dipped her hands into the box and started pulling things out. She had this way of unpacking like it was a checklist in her head: book goes here, clothes there, toiletries in a neat line that suggested she’d never once tossed anything onto a chair and called it a day.

Satoru, meanwhile, watched the second bed, tx, he one on the far wall. The mattress looked like it had been through a war. It was bare, the metal frame underneath slightly bent like someone had sat down too hard. The emptiness beside it felt… temporary.

He didn’t like temporary. Temporary meant surprise. And Satoru Gojo didn’t do well with surprises unless he was the one causing them.

“What time is your class?” he asked, partly to stop thinking about it.

Shoko hummed. “In an hour. Same as yours.”

He looked back at her. “My class?”

Shoko finally straightened, holding a bundle of folded bedding. “Yeah. Neuroscience, Psychology and Cognition.”

Satoru’s eyebrows went up before he could stop them. “Why is psychology in that?”

Shoko tossed the bedding onto the table like it was a corpse bag. “Because cognition isn’t just neurons firing, Gojo.”

He made a face. “It’s mostly neurons firing.”

She clicked her tongue. “It’s neurons firing inside a person who lives in a society and has trauma and learned behaviors. You know. Things that aren’t explained by your little electrical circuits.”

“My electrical circuits are real,” he said, offended on behalf of the entire nervous system. “They are measurable.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t real,” Shoko replied, already turning back to the box. “I’m saying your obsession with what can be measured is annoying.”

Satoru watched her unpack for a second, then bent to open another box. He pulled out a stack of notebooks. Some were new, some were half-used, but most of them were covered in scribbles. He set them on the desk, then paused at the desk chair.

The chair had a stain, a dark one. Right where someone’s back would go.

He stared at it.

Shoko noticed. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to sit in it,” he said, defensive.

“You were thinking about it.”

“I was thinking about the physics of it.”

“Of the stain?”

“Yes.”

Shoko’s mouth twitched. “You’re disgusting.”

Satoru shrugged like it wasn’t a crime. “So… this class. You said it’s interdisciplinary?”

“Apparently,” Shoko said. “They merged sections. Med, psych, and some engineering students. Probably because they don’t want to teach the same content three times.”

He dug into his box and pulled out his laptop, then a small case of cables he’d packed like it was sacred. “Engineering students?”

Shoko nodded. “Biomedical engineering is listed under eligible majors. That’s you.”

Satoru set the cables down and opened another box. This one had lab goggles, a calculator and gloves. A roll of measuring tape he didn’t remember packing but assumed he had for a reason.

“Mm,” he said, still stuck on the word psychology. “So what. They’re going to talk about the brain and then suddenly ask how I feel about it?”

Shoko snorted, sharp and quick. “You’d fail.”

“I never fail.”

“You’d raise your hand and argue about definitions and then get kicked out.”

“I don’t get kicked out,” he corrected. “People invite me to leave, and I decline.”

Shoko pulled a small bottle of sanitizer from her pocket and set it on the desk like a warning. “You’re going to say something in class today.”

Satoru blinked innocently. “Me? In class?”

“Yes.” She started arranging her books on the desk, spines aligned. “Because it’s your first day back and your ego needs exercise.”

“My ego is already fit,” he said. He leaned down, grabbed a handful of clothes from his box, and tossed them onto his bed.

Shoko watched him do it, expression flat.

“What,” he said.

“You’re going to lose something important in there one day,” she said, gesturing to the pile.

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

Satoru sat on the mattress (just to spite her) and felt it dip under his weight. It wasn’t as bad as it looked. A little squeaky, a little too soft, sure; but usable. It smelled faintly of old detergent and something else he didn’t want to identify (regret, maybe).

He spread his arms out behind him, staring up at the ceiling. There were hairline cracks in the paint. Of course.

“So who’s teaching it?” he asked, still staring upward.

“Not sure,” Shoko said. “Some professor from the cognitive sciences department. Name starts with an M, I think.”

“M,” Satoru repeated, like that meant anything. “Great. Mystery professor.”

Shoko’s phone buzzed. She checked it quickly, then slipped it back into her pocket. “You’re fixating.”

“I’m curious,” he said.

“No, you’re fixating,” she repeated, “You’re annoyed that psychology is included because you think everything can be reduced to biology.”

Satoru turned his head on the pillow-less mattress. “It can.”

Shoko’s gaze flicked to him. “Can it?”

He considered for exactly half a second, then smirked. “Yes.”

“Okay,” she said, so calm it sounded like she was taking notes. “Explain empathy.”

“Oxytocin,” he said immediately.

Shoko stared.

He added, “And mirror neurons. Probably.”

“See? You don’t even care if you’re right. You just like having an answer.”

Satoru rolled onto his side, propping his head up with his hand. “I care if I’m right. I’m right most of the time.”

“Most,” Shoko echoed.

“Fine,” he said, like he was granting her a gift. “Sometimes I’m right later.”

Shoko’s eyes drifted to the second bed again, as if remembering the existence of another person. “Do you know who your roommate is?”

Satoru’s mouth tightened, just for a second. “No.”

“Good,” she said. “Then maybe it’ll be someone normal.”

He scoffed. “Normal people don’t live in dorms. Normal people commute.”

Satoru sat up and reached into his box again, pulling out a bundle of printed syllabi. He flipped through them until he found the one labeled Neuroscience, Psychology and Cognition.

He scanned it quickly.

Objectives: understand neural mechanisms of cognition. Integrate psychological theories with biological frameworks. Analyze case studies.

He felt his mouth twist as he read psychological theories.

“Integrate,” he muttered.

Shoko glanced over. “What.”

“Nothing,” he said, because he didn’t want to admit he was irritated by a verb.

He read further.

There was a participation component. Group discussions. A semester project: interdisciplinary presentation on a cognitive phenomenon, combining biological and psychological perspectives.

Satoru’s eyes flicked to the part about group work.

He hated group work. Not because he couldn’t do it, but because people slowed him down.

“Group project,” he said aloud, disbelieving.

Shoko’s smile was tiny and cruel. “Oh, that’s going to ruin your semester.”

“I don’t have a semester to ruin,” he said. “I’m busy.”

“With what?” Shoko asked, genuinely curious.

Satoru opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Shoko stared at him until he caved.

He picked up a pen and twirled it once.

“With… existing,” he finally said.

“You’re unbearable,” she said, but her voice didn’t have teeth. Instead of touching the mattress again, she pulled a small packet of wipes from her tote and started scrubbing down the desk.

Satoru watched her for a moment. It was kind of hypnotic, how she made everything look… controlled, like she wasn’t walking into another semester of sleepless nights and exam weeks and lab practicals that would probably make her want to bite someone.

“You’ve got that thing,” he said.

Shoko didn’t look up from the desk. “What thing.”

“That thing where you act like nothing bothers you.”

She paused mid-swipe, wipe clenched between her fingers. Her eyes flicked toward him. “Nothing bothers me. It’s all just bacteria and human error.”

“Comforting,” Satoru said.

“It’s true.”

He tossed his pen onto the mattress, then stood and started unpacking properly; meaning, he grabbed clothes and shoved them into the closet without folding. The closet door creaked when he opened it. Obviously.

He found a spiderweb in the corner.

He stared at it.

Shoko saw the way his shoulders went stiff. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of spiders.”

“I’m not scared,” he said, offended. “I’m… evaluating.”

“Evaluating what,” she asked flatly.

“Whether it’s venomous,” he said.

Shoko’s eyes went dead. “It’s a dorm spider.”

“Dorm spiders are the most dangerous,” Satoru said with complete conviction. “They’ve seen things.”

Shoko grabbed a tissue, walked over, and with one casual swipe, destroyed the web. She didn’t even flinch.

Satoru watched. “You’re a psychopath.”

“I’m a med student,” she corrected, tossing the tissue into the trash. “We dissect things.”

“Not dorm spiders.”

“Same concept.”

Satoru huffed, then shoved the rest of his stuff into the closet.

There was a moment of silence, filled only by the distant noise of the hallway.

Satoru glanced at the clock.

Fifty-six minutes.

“So,” he said, because silence made him itchy. “This class. You think it’s gonna be… annoying?”

Shoko slid a pillowcase onto a pillow. “Every class is annoying.”

“I mean,” Satoru thought about it. “Annoying like… too much talking.”

Shoko gave him a look. “You talk more than anyone I know.”

“I talk with purpose,” he said.

“You talk to hear yourself,” she corrected.

He didn’t deny it. “Fine. Too much talking from other people.”

“Then yes,” Shoko said. “It’ll be annoying. There will be psych students.”

Satoru narrowed his eyes again. “What’s wrong with psych students?”

Shoko’s tone stayed neutral. “They have opinions.”

“So do I.”

“Yeah, but they’ll argue back,” she said, and Satoru felt something in his chest; a small, bright spark because that sounded like a challenge (he did love a challenge).

He tried to keep his face casual. “Good.”

Shoko’s gaze lingered on him for a beat. “You want to fight.”

“I want to learn,” Satoru said, offended again.

Shoko didn’t buy it for even a second. “Sure.”

Satoru went back to his boxes. He pulled out a framed photo he didn’t remember taking; it was him and Shoko at the campus café last semester, both looking exhausted, Shoko holding up a peace sign with a cigarette between her fingers, Satoru grinning through it like he’d just pulled off a crime.

He held it up. “Do I put this somewhere?”

Shoko glanced at it. “Why do you have that?”

“You gave it to me,” he said.

“I did not.”

He tilted it, showing the back. Her handwriting was there, small and neat: don’t die this semester.

Shoko stared for a moment, then shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Put it on your desk if you want.”

Satoru set it down carefully, then went to rummage again. He found a bag of snacks; packs of instant noodles and a ridiculous number of sugar-free energy drinks.

Shoko’s eyes flicked to the energy drinks. “You’re going to have a heart problem by thirty.”

“I won’t,” Satoru said, opening a drawer and shoving the snacks in. “I’m built different.”

“That’s not a clinical term either,” Shoko muttered.

He grinned. “It’s my favorite one.”

Satoru held up one of the cans, shaking it lightly. “You say that like you don’t smoke.”

Shoko didn’t even look up. “That’s different.”

“Oh, is it?” he asked. “Because last I checked, inhaling burnt chemicals wasn’t exactly preventative care.”

She finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “Stress management.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Very evidence-based.”

Shoko waved him off, already squeezing sanitizer into her palm and rubbing it between her fingers with methodic focus.

“What section are you in?” Satoru asked.

“Section C,” Shoko said. “Why?”

He checked his syllabus, then huffed out a laugh. “Me too. Looks like you’re stuck with me, honey.”

She hummed, unimpressed. “Sadly.”

Satoru already didn’t like this new class, but he liked having Shoko in his vicinity. She was predictable, she made sense. No surprises, no games. Shoko didn’t pretend she was someone she wasn’t.

And she knew how to shut him up when he got annoying, which, admittedly, had its benefits.

Shoko checked her phone again, then grabbed her tote bag. “Let’s go.”

Satoru grabbed his own backpack and started tossing things in; his laptop, notebook, pen, charger, and a half-eaten pack of gum. He hesitated at the syllabus, then shoved it in too.

Shoko looked at the second bed again, then at the door. “If your roommate shows up while we’re gone, don’t let them take the window bed.”

“They can try,” Satoru said.

Shoko sighed like she was exhausted already, then slung her tote bag over her shoulder. “Come on. If we’re late, you’ll make a scene.”

“I don’t make scenes,” Satoru said, grabbing his bag.

Shoko turned toward the door. “You made one at orientation last year because they ran out of the ‘good’ coffee.”

“That was a crisis,” Satoru said, following her. “And everyone benefited from my advocacy.”

Shoko opened the dorm door, and the hallway noise washed in: footsteps, laughter, distant yelling, the clatter of someone dropping something heavy. The air out here smelled slightly less like death, which was comforting to him.

Satoru stepped out and let the door swing shut behind him. It didn’t close all the way. He stared at it, then pushed it again with his hand until it latched.

Shoko glanced down the hall. “Which building is it in again?”

Satoru checked his phone. “Cognitive Sciences Hall.”

Shoko groaned. “That’s all the way across campus.”

“Good,” Satoru said, because the walk would wake him up.

Shoko started walking, her steps steady and quick like she had somewhere to be (which she did, because Shoko always had somewhere to be).

Satoru fell into stride beside her, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders loose. He felt the cold air from the open window still clinging to him, like the dorm room hadn’t let go yet.

As they moved down the corridor, he glanced back once, just to see the dorm door again.

He couldn’t shake the feeling sitting in his chest. Summer break had been intense in the best way. He’d stayed on campus, same as always, playing games all night, sleeping whenever, not thinking too hard about anything.

Studying didn’t bother him. He liked the structure of it, the clarity. But the idea of sharing a class with a room full of psych students did something to him. It itched.

Shoko nudged him with her shoulder. “Stop brooding.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“You’re brooding,” she said.

Satoru scoffed, but he let his gaze move forward again, down the long hallway and out toward campus.

“Psychology and cognition,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Shoko didn’t miss it. “You’ll survive.”

He laughed, the sound bright against the stale hallway air, and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as they headed toward the stairs.

Outside, the campus was loud with the first-day-back energy; people reuniting, complaining about schedules, carrying coffees like lifelines.

Satoru stepped into it like he owned it.

✦•········•✦•········•✦

The Cognitive Sciences Hall looked newer than the dorms. That alone made Satoru like it more.

The building had glass doors that actually opened without sounding like they were in pain. The lobby smelled like coffee and printer paper instead of mildew. There were posters on the walls about research labs and volunteer studies and something that looked suspiciously like a flyer for a “Cognitive Science Social Night” that would probably involve awkward small talk and lukewarm pizza.

Shoko walked like she belonged here, tote bag tucked under her arm, steps quick and clean. She didn’t even glance at the flyers, her life was already a schedule.

Satoru followed beside her with his hands in his pockets, glasses sitting low enough on his nose that he kept pushing them up without thinking. He wore them out of habit nowadays. He could see without them, technically. Things just felt sharper with them on, less blurry. Like the world had edges.

He liked edges.

They climbed the stairs with the crowd, shoulders brushing strangers, voices bouncing around the hallway. People were talking about classes they dropped, classes they couldn’t get into, professors they hated, professors they loved.

Shoko slowed when they reached the lecture hall.

Rows of seats rose up and up like a stadium. Each row had those little fold-out desks attached to the chairs. The professor’s area was at the lowest point, a wide space with a podium, a whiteboard, and two huge screens mounted behind it. The ceiling lights were bright and unforgiving.

Satoru could already tell the acoustics were going to be annoying.

Students flooded in from both sides, filling the rows in messy patterns. Some sat alone, spread out. Some moved in groups, saving seats with backpacks. A few people were already eating.

Shoko stepped into the aisle and started going down toward the front, not all the way to the first row, but close enough that she could see and leave easily. She liked exits. That was one of her things.

Satoru followed, scanning the room. He liked the higher seats. He liked seeing everyone. He liked being able to look down and feel, just a little, like he was above it.

But Shoko was already dropping into a seat near the front-middle. She didn’t ask. She just sat. As if her decision applied to him too (it did).

Satoru sighed quietly, then sat beside her.

“Front seats,” he muttered.

Shoko didn’t look at him. “If you sit in the back, you’ll talk louder.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Fair point.

He flipped his little desk up and set his notebook on it. The desk wobbled slightly. He pressed down on one corner to test it. The wobble got worse.

Shoko took out sanitizer and wiped her hands. Then she pulled out a wipe and, without shame, started wiping the little desk surface.

Satoru watched her do it and felt that familiar mix of amusement and respect. Shoko didn’t care if people judged her. She had priorities. Germs were enemy number one. Social norms were optional.

The professor was already there at the front, standing near the podium with a stack of papers and a laptop open, calmly watching the room fill. She looked like she had been born knowing where to stand so everyone could see her. Mid-forties, maybe. Hair pulled back neatly. Glasses too, but the strict kind. She wore a plain blouse and slacks, no jewelry besides a watch.

When she glanced up at the rising seats, her eyes were sharp and patient at the same time.

Shoko leaned slightly toward Satoru. “That’s Professor Moriyama.”

Satoru hummed. “M,” he whispered back, like he’d solved a mystery.

Professor Moriyama waited until the noise softened. It never got completely quiet, but it was quiet enough.

She stepped to the podium and tapped the microphone once. The speakers crackled lightly.

“Good morning,” she said, voice clear. “If you can hear me, please take your seat.”

People shuffled. Bags hit the floor. Someone laughed one last time and then stopped when their friend elbowed them.

Satoru sat back and looked around. The room kept filling, late students slipping in at the sides like they were trying to avoid being seen. A few people were already opening laptops. Others had printed syllabi. Someone near the aisle had a fidget toy.

Shoko was still wiping.

Professor Moriyama clicked something on her laptop, and the screen behind her changed to a title slide.

NEUROSCIENCE, PSYCHOLOGY AND COGNITION
Cognitive Sciences Department
Prof. Moriyama

Satoru’s eyes locked on the word psychology again.

It sat there like it was proud of itself.

He felt his jaw tighten (barely). He didn’t know why the word bothered him so much. It wasn’t like he thought psychology was fake. It wasn’t like he was one of those people who said “therapy is a scam” and then cried in private.

It just felt… messy.

Neuroscience made sense. Neurons, chemicals, signals. You could see it. You could test it. You could build tools around it.

Psychology was too full of words, too many “ifs”.

Professor Moriyama started speaking again.

“This course is cross-listed across several programs,” she said. “Psychology, pre-med tracks, biomedical engineering, and cognitive science. The reason is simple: if we study cognition through one lens only, we miss it.”

Satoru’s fingers tapped once on his desk. The desk wobbled again. He stopped.

Professor Moriyama looked up, scanning the room as if she could feel who was listening and who was already drifting.

“In this class, we will treat cognition as a real phenomenon with multiple levels,” she continued. “Neural, behavioral, social, and cultural. If those levels make you uncomfortable, that is fine. We will sit with that.”

Satoru’s mouth twitched. Uncomfortable.

Shoko leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms, expression neutral.

Satoru flipped open his laptop, the screen lighting up against his glasses. He typed the title in clean, organized bullet points.

Professor Moriyama clicked to the next slide.

Course Objectives

• Identify neural mechanisms involved in cognition
  
  
• Compare psychological theories of learning, attention, memory

• Evaluate how social and cultural contexts shape cognition
  
  
• Apply frameworks to case studies and research findings
  
  
• Communicate across disciplines
  
  

Satoru’s eyes lingered on number three.

Evaluate how social and cultural contexts shape cognition.

He felt that itch again, small and annoying.

Professor Moriyama continued. “There will be a midterm and a final. There will also be a semester project. You will work in groups. Your group will be interdisciplinary. That is not optional.”

A groan rose somewhere behind them.

Professor Moriyama didn’t react. “If you are in biomedical engineering and you are hoping to never speak to a psychology major, I am sorry.”

Satoru froze for half a second.

Shoko’s eyes flicked to him, and her mouth moved like she was holding back a smile. She didn’t fully smile. She just looked pleased that the universe had decided to tease him.

Professor Moriyama continued. “If you are in psychology and you are hoping to never do a basic analysis of neural data, I am also sorry.”

Someone laughed quietly.

Professor Moriyama’s tone stayed even. “This class is designed to teach you how to translate. Not just words, but assumptions. We all enter with assumptions.”

Satoru wrote assumptions in his notebook and underlined it once.

Professor Moriyama moved away from the podium and stood closer to the center of the front space.

“Now,” she said, “the core question we will return to again and again is this. What is cognition?”

She paused, letting the silence stretch until someone shifted in their seat.

“Most of you have a definition already,” she continued. “For some, cognition is brain activity. For others, cognition is thinking, perceiving, learning, remembering. For others, cognition is meaning-making. All of these are incomplete on their own.”

Satoru’s pen hovered.

Incomplete.

He didn’t like the word. Incomplete suggested you could do everything right and still not be enough.

Professor Moriyama lifted her hand and pointed to the slide behind her, where the word COGNITION sat alone.

“We will start with a simple model,” she said. “Cognition emerges from neural systems, yes. But it is shaped by environment. That includes social relationships. Language. Culture. Trauma. Education. It is not only what happens inside the skull. It is also what happens around it.”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses.

Not only what happens inside the skull.

He stared at the professor like she’d just said the heart wasn’t inside the body.

He didn’t say anything.

He told himself it was fine. It was first-lecture-talk. Professors always started broad, trying to sound inclusive. They always used words like “culture” and “meaning” to keep the humanities people from rioting.

He could sit through it.

Professor Moriyama went on. “If you are here looking for a single correct answer, you will be disappointed. We are not building a shrine to certainty. We are building a toolbox.”

Satoru’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t like shrines. He didn’t like toolboxes either, actually. Toolboxes suggested you needed more than one tool, which suggested the first tool wasn’t enough.

He tapped his pen once, then stopped because the desk wobbled and it annoyed him more than it should have.

Shoko leaned slightly toward him, whispering, “Don’t.”

He whispered back without looking at her. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re doing it in your head,” she said.

He wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong. He could feel himself building a response like his brain was already standing up even if his body wasn’t.

Professor Moriyama clicked to a new slide.

Lenses of Cognition

• Biological lens
  
  
• Cognitive/psychological lens
  

• Social lens
  
  
• Cultural lens

“Biological lens,” she said, “asks what neural circuits and processes are involved. Cognitive lens asks what mental processes and behaviors we can observe. Social lens asks what relationships and group structures influence cognition. Cultural lens asks how shared meanings and practices shape perception and thought.”

Satoru could tolerate this part. It was organized and neat. Labeled. It sounded like she was sorting cognition into boxes.

Then she added, casually, “And in many cases, the cultural lens can change the biological outcomes over time.”

Satoru’s pen stopped.

Change the biological outcomes.

He felt that itch evolving into a prick.

Professor Moriyama kept going, like she hadn’t just poked him directly in the ego.

“For example,” she said, “if you look at attention patterns, yes, you can discuss networks, dopamine, executive function. But you can also discuss the environment that trains attention. Technology use. Education practices. Cultural expectations for stillness and focus. These shape the brain itself over time.”

Satoru’s fingers tightened around his pen.

He told himself not to be annoying. Not on day one. Not in front of Shoko. Not in front of a room full of people who didn’t know him and would decide immediately whether he was smart or just loud.

Professor Moriyama continued anyway, digging deeper into the same place.

“Another example,” she said, “is emotion. You can map neural correlates. You can map hormone activity. But the expression and interpretation of emotion varies. Culture teaches you what anger means. What sadness means. What is allowed. What is not.”

Satoru stared at the professor, and his first thought was simple.

Allowed? Allowed by who?

His second thought was even simpler.

That’s not cognition. That’s behavior.

He kept his face still. He kept his pen on the page.

Professor Moriyama walked back toward the podium, picked up a marker, and wrote two words on the whiteboard.

BRAIN

MIND

She underlined them.

“These are not the same,” she said.

Professor Moriyama turned slightly. “The brain is the organ. The mind is the set of processes and experiences we describe. You can study the brain without ever touching the mind. You can also talk about the mind without ever explaining the brain. This course will not let you hide in either.”

Hide.

That word got him.

Satoru’s hand moved before he fully decided what he’d even say. His elbow lifted, and his arm went up.

Shoko’s eyes widened slightly, like she’d just watched a car crash begin in slow motion.

Professor Moriyama looked up, paused, and nodded toward him. “Yes.”

Satoru cleared his throat once, mostly because everyone was looking now.

He pushed his glasses up with one finger, then said, “When you say the mind is separate, it sounds like you’re creating a gap that isn’t there. The mind is what the brain does. The processes and experiences you’re talking about are still produced by neural activity.”

The words came out clean. He wasn’t trying to show off. He was just… correcting?

He was correcting the professor.

Professor Moriyama didn’t react negatively. She just watched him with that calm, waiting look.

Satoru continued, because once he started, stopping felt wrong. “Social context can influence what you experience, sure, but it’s still filtered through the same biological mechanisms. If we can map the neural correlates of cognition, we’re not ‘hiding’ from anything. We’re studying the source.”

A few students nodded. A guy two rows ahead murmured “yeah” under his breath, like Satoru had said something obvious.

Someone else made a small scoff sound, quieter, but still there.

Satoru felt the room split just a little.

“What’s your name?” She asked, voice still neutral.

“Satoru Gojo.”

Professor Moriyama tilted her head. “Thank you, Gojo” she said, like she meant it. “That is one lens. The biological lens.”

Satoru’s mouth tightened. One lens. He didn’t like being reduced to a lens when he was right.

Professor Moriyama continued, “Now, let’s clarify something. When I say the mind is not the same as the brain, I am not suggesting a supernatural separation. I am naming a useful distinction. The brain is measurable tissue. The mind is a descriptive level. The question is not whether the mind is produced by the brain. It is. The question is whether describing the brain alone gives you a full explanation of cognition. The body is our material foundation, but it alone cannot explain the complexity of being human.”

Satoru felt his fingers flex around the pen again.

She was trying to be fair, he could tell. But the way she said “full explanation” annoyed him. Because it implied there were parts he couldn’t access through biology alone.

Professor Moriyama looked across the room. “Any thoughts on that distinction? You don’t have to agree. You just have to engage.”

A few hands went up. She pointed to a student near the middle.

A girl with curly hair and a psychology textbook already open said, “I think neural correlates explain how something happens, but not why it matters to the person.”

Professor Moriyama nodded. “Good. Mechanism versus meaning.”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Another student spoke. “But meaning is still in the brain. Like, it matters because the brain assigns value.”

Satoru almost smiled. Someone got it.

Professor Moriyama nodded again. “Yes. The assignment of value is a process. Now we ask what shapes that process.”

Satoru’s pen tapped once, then stopped.

Professor Moriyama looked back toward Satoru briefly, as if acknowledging he’d started something useful, then continued her lecture.

She talked about levels of analysis. About reductionism and emergence. About the danger of pure subjectivism, of pretending lived experience alone could explain everything. She didn’t say those words like they were insults or fixed beliefs.

Satoru listened, he really did try to see things through these lenses.

But he could feel something prickling under his skin.

Professor Moriyama moved on to course logistics again. Attendance. Participation. Group project expectations. The slide showed a breakdown of grades.

Satoru typed it anyway, even though he’d probably remember it without writing it. Writing it down made him feel like he was controlling the semester in advance.

The professor said, “In this class, we will treat cognition as something shaped by both biology and culture, and we will not accept explanations that erase either.”

He didn’t erase biology. Everyone else erased biology. People loved talking about feelings like feelings floated in the air. People loved blaming “society” like neurons weren’t doing all the work.

He lifted his hand again before he could stop himself.

Shoko turned her head slowly, looking at him with quiet disbelief.

Professor Moriyama nodded. “Yes. Gojo, correct?”

He blinked. She remembered his name already. 

“Yes,” he said.

She waited.

Satoru took a breath. “I get the point about culture shaping experience,” he said, careful, “but it feels like people use that to make cognition sound like it’s… external. Like it’s outside the person. When cognition is still processing. In the brain. Even cultural influences have to become neural patterns to matter.”

A couple of students nodded again. One guy near the top row said, “Exactly,” a little too loud.

Satoru felt a small spark of satisfaction.

He continued, “So when we say culture shapes cognition, I think we should be clear that it shapes it by changing inputs, not by creating a whole separate system. The brain is still the base.”

He sat back, as if he’d placed the argument down on the table.

Professor Moriyama didn’t look irritated. She looked interested.

But before she responded, a hand went up a few seats away from Shoko and Satoru. Not too far. Close enough that Satoru could catch the movement without fully turning.

He looked.

The student raising his hand didn’t wave or lean forward. He just lifted it and waited, like he already knew he’d be called on.

His hair was long and dark, tied back low at the nape of his neck. Small silver hoops caught the light at his ear when he shifted, subtle but impossible to miss once you noticed it. Just above it, tucked neatly against the curve of cartilage, a small black earphone rested in place like it belonged there. There was a tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of his black shirt, thin lines disappearing beneath the fabric.

Professor Moriyama’s eyes shifted. She nodded. “Yes.”

The dark-haired student spoke, voice steady. “I agree that cognition is implemented in the brain,” he said. “But I think what you’re calling ‘inputs’ are not neutral. Culture doesn’t just provide information. It provides categories. It changes what counts as a signal.”

Satoru’s fingers tightened on his pen again.

The student continued, still calm. “Two people can receive the same sensory data and interpret it differently because they’ve learned different meanings. That isn’t only about input volume. It’s about the framework. And the framework shapes attention, memory, and even perception. Those changes become neural, yes, but they originate in shared systems outside the individual.”

Outside the individual.

Of course.

Let me guess… Psych major?

Satoru’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

The student didn’t sound like he was trying to embarrass him. That almost made it worse; it wasn’t a fight. It was a correction delivered like it was obvious.

Satoru didn’t like being treated like he needed correction.

Professor Moriyama nodded slowly. “Good,” she said. “That is a very important distinction. Inputs versus interpretive frameworks.”

Satoru turned his head slightly now, just enough to look at the guy directly.

The guy’s gaze was on Professor Moriyama, not on Satoru.

Shoko leaned closer to Satoru, whispering, “Don’t.”

Satoru whispered back, “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re about to,” she said.

He held his tongue, barely.

Professor Moriyama glanced between them, then addressed the room. “What we are hearing is not disagreement so much as levels. Gojo is emphasizing implementation. The brain is the system that runs cognition. Geto,” she added, and Satoru’s brain caught the name like a snap, “is emphasizing that systems outside the brain shape the way the brain learns what to process and how.”

Geto.

Professor Moriyama continued, “Both points are correct. One without the other becomes incomplete.”

Incomplete.

It landed differently this time, because she’d used it while validating them both. Like she wasn’t saying one was wrong.

Satoru hated how reasonable that sounded.

Professor Moriyama smiled, small and controlled. “This is exactly the kind of discussion we will have in this course. But I want to set a boundary early.”

Her tone sharpened slightly. “We will not turn every lecture into a debate club. We will have structured discussions. We will have time for questions. And we will move forward.”

Satoru swallowed his response.

Geto sat back as if nothing had happened.

Professor Moriyama looked down at her laptop and clicked to the next slide.

“Now,” she said, “for the rest of today, I’m going to give you a quick review of terms. You should know most of them already. If you don’t, that’s fine. You will learn. But you will not pretend you know if you don’t.”

Professor Moriyama began reviewing basic neuroanatomy, not in an overly detailed way, but enough to establish shared language. Prefrontal cortex, hippocampus, amygdala, sensory cortices. She spoke like she expected them to keep up.

Satoru did keep up. Easily.

Shoko was taking notes like she was collecting evidence.

Satoru glanced at her notebook and saw neat bullet points, careful arrows, a tiny diagram of the brain that looked annoyingly accurate.

He looked back at the board.

Professor Moriyama moved into attention and perception, talking about bottom-up and top-down processing. That, at least, was satisfying. It was systems, logic.

Then she tied it back to culture again.

“Top-down processing,” she said, “is shaped by prior knowledge and expectation. That is not only personal memory. It is also shared learning. Language can prime perception. Social cues can prime interpretation.”

It wasn’t that he disagreed fully. He just hated the way it was framed, like culture was some invisible hand reaching into the skull.

Professor Moriyama kept talking, and the class fell into a rhythm. Students scribbling, typing, shifting in their seats. The hum of a lecture hall that had settled.

Satoru’s mind kept drifting back to that calm voice, that phrasing.

Geto.

Culture provides categories. Frameworks shape what counts as a signal.

It was annoying because it was not stupid. If it was stupid, he could dismiss it. He could laugh and move on. He could put it in a box labeled “wrong” and never touch it again.

But it wasn’t stupid.

And that was the real problem.

Professor Moriyama ended the lecture portion by summarizing. “So,” she said, “this week you will read two pieces. One is a basic neuroscience chapter. The second is a paper on cultural modulation of perception. We will discuss both.”

A low wave of groans moved through the room, more playful than angry.

Professor Moriyama didn’t care. “You will also complete a short reflection. Not a diary entry,” she added quickly, and some people laughed. “A reflection on which lens you default to and why. You cannot answer correctly if you do not answer honestly. If you haven’t taken anatomy before, I strongly recommend reviewing basic neuroanatomy. We’ll be using a lot of terms I won’t stop to explain.”

Professor Moriyama looked up. “Any final questions before we end for today?”

Hands went up. Simple things. Where to submit. What format. Office hours. Group project timeline.

Satoru didn’t ask anything. He glanced at that guy, Suguru Geto. Geto, who had spoken like he was handing the professor a missing piece of the puzzle, and the professor had accepted it.

Professor Moriyama answered the last question and closed her laptop. “All right. Welcome back,” she said. “If you are new to this course, keep up. If you are returning students, don’t get arrogant. Everyone has something to learn.”

Satoru stared at the front as the room began to move, chairs clacking, bodies standing, noise rising again.

Shoko stood first, slipping her notebook into her tote. She looked at Satoru. “You survived,” she said, dry.

Satoru blinked. “Barely.”

He pushed his glasses up again and stood, gathering his things. “I could have said more.”

Shoko’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And you didn’t. That’s growth.”

He scoffed, but he didn’t deny it.

As they stepped into the aisle and started climbing with the crowd, Satoru glanced back once toward the seats where that voice had come from.

Geto was talking to someone beside him, not smiling, but not cold either. Then his eyes lifted.

For a second, they met Satoru’s.

Satoru looked away first.

Geto.

A challenge.

✦•········•✦•········•✦

The new mattress was heavier than it had any right to be.

Satoru adjusted his grip for the third time, the plastic crinkling loud against his forearms. The thing was awkward more than it was heavy, like it had been designed specifically to make people look stupid in public.

Which, unfortunately, it was succeeding at.

Shoko walked a step ahead of him with two shopping bags cutting into her hands. One bag held bedding she had insisted on buying “because you are not sleeping on that crime scene thing, Gojo.” The other had cleaning supplies as well as a diffuser.

Satoru could feel his glasses slipping down again from the heat building under his collar. He shoved them up with his wrist, which only made the mattress tilt slightly and bump his shoulder.

“Watch it,” Shoko said without looking back.

“Watch what,” he muttered, breath puffing in the cold air. “This mattress is trying to kill me.”

Shoko glanced over her shoulder, eyes flat. “If you drop it, I’m not helping you pick it up.”

Satoru stared at her. “You’re literally here.”

“I’m here emotionally,” she said.

He scoffed. “Liar.”

Shoko’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.

They crossed campus slowly, weaving through students with coffee in their hands and backpacks slung low.

Lunch had been simple. They’d sat in a corner of the campus café, Shoko eating like she had a timer, Satoru picking at food while watching people like he was trying to solve a puzzle. They’d talked about nothing important. Which, for them, was still sort of important.

Then they’d gone mattress shopping, which had been Shoko’s idea of a practical adventure. Satoru had tried to pick the cheapest one just to annoy her.

Shoko had stared at him until he gave up and let her choose something “decent.”

Now the dorm building was in front of them again.

Satoru pushed the door open with his hip and squeezed through sideways, the mattress scraping lightly against the frame. He heard Shoko click her tongue behind him.

“Careful,” she said.

“I am being careful,” he said, lying.

They climbed the stairs because the elevator had a sign taped on it that read OUT OF ORDER in sharpie. Satoru stared at the sign in disbelief, completely offended by it.

“Of course,” he muttered.

Shoko didn’t even react. She just kept walking.

By the time they reached their floor, Satoru’s arms felt like they were vibrating. His hands were numb from gripping plastic. The hallway smelled slightly less like death than earlier, which was either good news or a warning sign.

They turned the corner toward his room.

Satoru slowed.

The door was open, but not wide open. Just cracked enough that it shouldn’t have been cracked.

He stopped completely, the mattress sagging a little in his arms. His eyes locked on the gap.

Shoko noticed immediately. Her tote bag strap tightened in her grip. Her expression stayed flat, but her gaze sharpened.

“Did you close it?” she asked, quiet.

Satoru didn’t answer right away. He replayed it in his head. The door. The latch. The way he’d pushed it until it clicked. He had pushed it twice, actually. Because it hadn’t closed right the first time.

“Yeah,” he said finally.

Shoko exhaled through her nose. “So your roommate showed up.”

Satoru’s throat felt dry all of a sudden. “Or someone broke in.”

Shoko gave him a look. “To steal what. Your half-eaten gum?”

Satoru stared at the door again.

He took a step closer. The mattress bumped the wall.

Shoko shifted to his side, still holding her bags, gaze fixed on the opening like she was ready to fight someone with a pack of disinfectant wipes.

Satoru reached the door and pushed it open with his elbow.

The dorm room looked the same for half a second.

Then he saw movement.

Two people were inside.

One of them was sitting on the far bed, the one by the wall. Hands resting loosely, like he’d been waiting. Blond hair neat. Expression neutral in a way that somehow still looked tired.

Kento Nanami.

Satoru recognized him immediately, even though they’d never really spoken. Everyone knew Nanami. Not because he was loud. Because he was… consistent. A reference point too many professors had cited before. They’d seen him properly only once, at a policy and behavioral sciences congress last year. Gojo and Shoko had gone for the biomedical panels; Nanami had been there presenting something on institutional responsibility in conflict mediation. 

The second person was standing near the desk, looking at something on the wall like it mildly amused him. Dark hair tied back low. Black shirt. A bag resting at his feet. Rings on his fingers. A small silver hoop caught the light at his ear when he shifted, and just above it, a small black earphone sat tucked neatly in place. Ink edged out from beneath his sleeve when he moved his arm, thin lines disappearing into fabric like they were meant to stay half-hidden.

Suguru Geto.

Satoru felt his chest tighten, small and sharp, like his body had reacted before his brain finished the thought.

Shoko stopped beside him.

Her face didn’t change much, but her eyes did. She looked from Nanami to Geto with the kind of quick assessment she would probably use on patients.

Nanami stood first, slow and polite. “Gojo,” he said simply, like he was acknowledging a fact.

Satoru didn’t move for a second. The mattress was still in his arms. He was standing in his own doorway like he’d walked into the wrong room.

Then he remembered how to speak.

“What are you doing in my room,” he said, and it came out more blunt than he meant.

Geto turned from the wall and looked at him.

His eyes flicked once to the mattress, then to Satoru’s face, then to Shoko.

“Your room?” Geto asked, voice calm. It had that same measured tone from class, except now it sounded more personal. “That’s interesting.”

Satoru’s fingers tightened on the plastic. “It’s my bed,” he said, even though he knew that wasn’t the point.

Nanami spoke again, like he was trying to prevent an explosion. “Gojo,” he said, and his voice had that tired patience built into it. “The housing office assigned Geto here.”

Assigned.

Satoru felt his jaw tighten behind his glasses. “Geto,” he repeated, like the name tasted different now that it was attached to his space.

Geto glanced around the room, then back. “Yeah,” he said. “That Geto.”

Shoko made a small sound that was not quite a laugh. She stepped forward, shifting the bags in her hands. “You’re his roommate?” she asked, tone flat, like she was confirming a diagnosis.

Geto’s eyes moved to her. “Looks like it.”

“And Nanami,” Shoko added, finally looking at him properly. “Why are you here?”

Nanami adjusted his glasses, expression unchanged. “Conflict Solution,” he said, like that explained everything.

Geto’s mouth twitched slightly. “We had it together last year. He’s helping me move in.”

Satoru stared at them both, feeling the weirdest sense of unfairness. Not because Nanami was there. Nanami being helpful made sense. Nanami probably helped strangers cross the street and then complained about how long it took.

It was Geto that didn’t make sense in this room.

Geto in his space. Geto with his calm voice and his piercings and that look that said he didn’t care who owned what, or who thought they were important.

Satoru shifted the mattress slightly, the plastic squeaking. It reminded him he was still standing there like an idiot.

Shoko noticed. She stepped aside without being asked, making space.

Satoru walked in and set the mattress down by his bed with a controlled thud. The floor vibrated lightly as the dust rose. He hated that.

Geto watched him do it like he was watching a demonstration.

Nanami’s eyes flicked to the old stained mattress near the window, then to the new one on the floor. He nodded once, approving. “That was necessary,” he said.

Shoko lifted one bag slightly. “I told him.”

Satoru pointed at Shoko without looking at her. “She forced me.”

Geto’s gaze slid to the cleaning supplies in Shoko’s hands. “Makes sense,” he said.

Satoru looked up sharply. “What makes sense?”

Geto shrugged lightly. “That you needed supervision.”

Shoko huffed a laugh this time, short and real, like she couldn’t help it. “He did.”

Satoru stared at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m on the side of public health,” Shoko said.

Nanami cleared his throat, as if he was reminding them all to act like adults. “We didn’t touch your things,” he said to Satoru. “The door was unlocked when we arrived.”

Satoru’s eyes flicked to the lock automatically. He didn’t remember if he had locked it. He probably hadn’t. He’d been carrying a mattress in his head since morning. His brain had been busy.

“That’s not…” he started, then stopped, because arguing about an unlocked dorm door felt stupid when Geto was already inside and looking too comfortable.

Geto picked up his bag from the floor and moved it toward his bed.

Shoko stepped forward and set her bags on the desk, already pulling out wipes like she couldn’t resist. “Okay,” she said, practical. “Introductions, I guess. Shoko Ieiri.”

Nanami nodded. “Kento Nanami.”

Geto’s eyes stayed on Satoru for a beat longer than necessary, then he said, “Suguru Geto.”

Satoru hated how calm he sounded saying it.

Shoko looked at Satoru.

Satoru exhaled. “Satoru Gojo,” he said, because he wasn’t going to be the only one acting weird.

Geto’s gaze didn’t move away. “I know,” he said.

Satoru’s fingers flexed at his sides. “Of course.”

Nanami looked between them once, and there was something in his eyes that suggested he already regretted agreeing to help Geto today.

Shoko, meanwhile, had already started wiping down the headboard.

Satoru looked at the new mattress on the floor, then at the old one on his bed, then at Geto.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, voice light but not really, “the window bed is mine.”

Geto’s eyes flicked to the window, then to the bed, then back to Satoru. “Wasn’t planning to take it,” he said.

Satoru didn’t believe him.

Nanami spoke again, blunt as ever. “That bed is closer to the window,” he said. “It is objectively colder. If you prefer it, that is your choice.”

Satoru stared at him. “Thanks.”

Nanami nodded like that conversation had ended.

Geto’s mouth twitched again, almost a smile this time. “You really are like this all the time,” he said, not quite a question.

Satoru lifted his chin slightly. “Like what?”

Geto shrugged. “Sure you’re the smartest person in the room.”

Shoko made a noise in her throat and kept wiping faster.

Nanami sighed, barely audible.

Satoru felt heat rise under his skin. 

He smiled, because smiling was easier than admitting the provoking landed. “And you’re sure you’re not.”

Geto’s eyes stayed steady. “I’m sure of a lot of things,” he said. “Being the smartest isn’t one of them.”

The calm confidence of that made Satoru’s stomach twist slightly.

Shoko finally stopped wiping and straightened. “Okay,” she said, like she was declaring a truce. “I’m leaving you all here before one of you bites someone.”

Satoru glanced at her. “You brought me here.”

“I brought you a mattress,” Shoko corrected. “The rest is your problem.”

Nanami shifted his weight, already looking ready to leave too. “Geto,” he said, calm. “I’ll go. Text me if you need anything else.”

Geto nodded once. “Thanks.”

Nanami’s gaze flicked to Satoru, brief and unreadable. Then he looked at Shoko and gave a small nod that felt like mutual respect between responsible adults. He walked out without another word.

Shoko followed, pausing at the doorway just long enough to look at Satoru again.

Her eyes said: behave.

Satoru’s eyes said: no promises.

She left anyway.

The door clicked shut, leaving the room quieter. The window still let in distant campus noise, faint and constant.

Satoru stood by his bed, glasses on, hands loose at his sides, trying not to look like he cared.

Geto set his bag on his bed and started pulling out a few things. It didn't seem like he was fully unpacking yet, just enough to settle.

Satoru watched him for a second, then said, “So.”

Geto didn’t look up. “So.”

Satoru hated that he matched his tone so easily.

He swallowed the urge to start an argument just to prove he could. He didn’t want to give Geto that satisfaction. He didn’t even know if Geto would find it satisfying, which was worse.

Instead, he nodded once toward Geto’s ear, at the small, black earphone. “You always wear that in class?”

Geto’s fingers paused briefly on the zipper of his bag. Then he looked up, eyes steady. “You always wear glasses?”

Satoru’s hand lifted automatically, pushing them up. “Yeah.”

Geto’s gaze lingered a beat too long, then dropped back to his bag. “They suit you,” he said, like it was nothing.

Satoru’s chest did that annoying spark thing again.

He didn’t like sparks either.

He forced a smile. “Don’t get comfortable,” he said.

Geto finally looked at him again, calm as ever. “Too late,” he said.

And Satoru realized, with a sharp clarity that made him almost laugh, that this semester had just gotten a lot less predictable.