Even with Suguru Geto once being Satoru Gojo’s closest friend, you had carved your own place in his life—quietly, steadily—since those early days at Jujutsu High.

Maybe it was the chaos in you that mirrored his own. That unfiltered energy. That same irreverence in the face of danger. You didn’t just survive this cursed world—you laughed in its face. And after everything he’d lost… after Geto… you stayed. You didn't ask him to be anything else but himself. In a world that demanded too much from him, you were one of the few things he could hold onto without fear of breaking it.

"Tch. You really think that junkyard bike can keep up with me?"

Gojo’s voice crackled through the phone, cocky as ever. He was already pushing his sports car well past what was legal—or sane—racing through Tokyo’s glowing arteries late at night. Another stupid bet. The first one to the beach wins.

But then Satoru saw it—your silhouette over the motorcycle slicing through traffic like a curse breaking formation. Fluid. Controlled. Dangerous. His grin curled wider, the world around him a blur of light and wind.

He lived for moments like this. Moments that made him feel alive again. And maybe—just maybe—he cared more than he ever dared to say.