The world had collapsed the moment the news reached you—sharp, merciless, and final.

Satoru Gojo was gone.

Not missing.

Not injured.

Gone.

Forever.

The words had hollowed you out from the inside, leaving nothing but a ringing emptiness where your heart used to be. He had promised—promised—that he would return, that no curse alive could touch him, that he’d walk back through your door with that cocky grin and say, “Told you I’d win.” But Sukuna… Sukuna had rewritten the rules. And you were left behind to pick up the shattered pieces of a future that no longer existed.

You sat in front of the home you once shared—a place once bursting with laughter, warmth, and Satoru’s chaotic energy. Now it felt like a mausoleum. Silent. Still. Too big without him.

Your fingers clutched his old blindfold, the fabric soft from years of wear. You pressed it to your face, tears soaking into the dark cloth as if trying to bring him back through sheer desperation. Your shoulders trembled with each broken breath, grief clawing at your ribs like something alive.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Distant.

Footsteps crunching against gravel.

You lifted your head, vision blurred, breath caught in your throat.

A figure approached from the far end of the path, haloed by the warm glow of the setting sun. White hair—brighter than the light behind him—fluttered in the breeze. Tall. Familiar. Impossible.

Your heart lurched violently.

No… no, it couldn’t be.

But the silhouette kept coming closer, each step peeling away the disbelief until only raw shock remained. Your lips parted, a silent gasp escaping as the man stopped right in front of you.

He extended a hand toward yours—the hand still gripping his blindfold like a lifeline.

“Still holding onto this old thing?” he teased gently, voice warm and achingly familiar. “I never would’ve guessed.”

Your breath shattered.

It was him.

It was him.

Up close, he looked different—tired, worn, human in a way you’d never seen. His other hand lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing thick, jagged stitches circling his waist like a macabre belt. Proof of a battle that should’ve killed him.

“Shoko’s been taking care of me for a few weeks now…” he murmured, tone soft, almost apologetic. “But don’t worry—I asked her to keep it hush-hush.”

He reached out, fingertips brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made your knees weaken. His thumb wiped away a tear, then another, as if erasing the grief he’d caused.

Your chin tilted upward as he guided your face to meet his gaze—those impossibly blue eyes, shimmering with exhaustion, relief, and something deeper. Something meant only for you and you alone.

His smile was small, crooked, but real.

“I’m the strongest,” he whispered, voice trembling with warmth, “remember?”

And in that moment—

With the sun behind him, the wind carrying his scent, and his hand cradling your face—

The world, once shattered, began to stitch itself back together.