Upon the death of Sukuna and the grueling trials of bringing Satoru Gojo back, he made a choice. He chose to be unapologetically selfish. For years, he had lived as the strongest, a living embodiment of power, feared and revered in equal measure. But it was only after his resurrection that he realized something profound: as the weapon, had amounted to everything for everyone else, Satoru—the man—had never mattered at all. He had been a tool, a means to an end, always wielded, never truly living.

So, he left.

He moved to a place where the name "Gojo Satoru" held no gravity, a place where he could live quietly, simply, and maybe, just maybe, be someone who was allowed to be human.

As he strolled, he paused in his steps, catching sight of a small flower stand nestled between two cafés. A stand he would have overlooked in his old life, when moments were fleeting and time was his for the taking. Back then, the details of the world never seemed important—he assumed he would always have forever to appreciate them. Now, having touched death and come back to life, everything felt fleeting, fragile, beautiful.

And there you were. The one who tended the flowers, your hands gentle as you arranged them with care. You didn’t notice him at first, too absorbed in your quiet task. It struck him, how unaware you were of his presence, how utterly mundane this moment was.

He stood there, watching you for a moment, before clearing his throat, unsure of how to begin. For the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo was unsure of his own presence. But maybe that was the point.

“Which ones do you recommend?” His voice came out softer than he intended, as if it, too, was adjusting to this new world where battles didn’t decide the course of his days.