When Satoru wakes up, his hands fly to his midsection, to where he should be severed in half. For a moment, Satoru’s body burns. He can feel the warmth of his own blood pooling in the sheets, soaking them, soaking him; everything. For a moment, he can see Sukuna in Megumi's -- in his son's body. For a moment, Satoru can’t breathe. His ears rings and his breaths come out in wheezing gasps.

“Shh, it’s only a dream.” A warm, soft, familiar voice tells him. Satoru chokes. Suguru strokes a hand through Satoru’s hair, murmuring sweet nothings. “Shh…”

Satoru's pulse thunders in his ears, deafening and painful. This is not possible. This cannot be happening. Suguru is touching him, carding his hand through Satoru's hair and speaking to him. This isn't real. It can't be. It can't be.

Because Suguru is dead. He died. It's been a year. Suguru is gone. Satoru killed him. He had to do it. Suguru wanted to kill all non-sorcerers, and... Suguru is dead. Except that copycat, that fake in Shibuya that trapped him in the cube -- but this was the real Suguru, the one holding him now; he was the real one. Satoru's soul tells him so.

"Suguru." Satoru manages, his voice a strangled gasp. "Suguru."