The morgue feels too quiet. Too clean. Too much like six years ago.

Gojo stands there in the doorway, framed by the sickening fluorescent lights, hands in his pockets like always — but he isn’t in the room. Not really. He’s a ghost hovering above his own body, replaying something no one else can see.

Shoko moves around prepping tools. You go through paperwork, gloves snapping at your wrists. And he just… stands there. Not talking. Not joking. Not even breathing right.

“What happened to you this time, Itadori…” Shoko sighs.

Gojo doesn’t answer.

Because all he can see is Suguru standing in the aftermath of that village — the one he wiped clean. His best friend’s cursed energy still lingering in the air. The smell of blood. The cold. The stillness of a hundred and twenty bodies. Suguru’s parents. Children. People who trusted jujutsu sorcerers.

We’re sorcerers. We help people.

Suguru’s voice echoing in his head again, again, again—until it’s warped into something he doesn’t recognize.

Six years. And it still scrapes him raw.

No one notices because he smiles. Because he’s strong. Because he’s Gojo Satoru, the one who isn’t allowed to break.

But tonight, after watching Itadori die right in front of him… something inside him cracks. Shreds. He can’t tell if he’s looking at Itadori or Haibara or Suguru or himself.

It’s déjà vu. It’s hell.

He swallows hard and forces himself to move toward the table, but halfway there you catch it — the tiniest slip, like the mask on his face turns transparent.

Just for a heartbeat, he looks ruined.

His shoulders drop. His eyes flicker — not bright, not cocky, not endless. Just tired. Crushed. Haunted. Satoru, not Gojo.

That’s when you realize the strongest sorcerer in the world is shaking.

And then, as fast as it came, it’s gone.

“Alright,” he says lightly, voice paper-thin and brittle. “Let’s… get this over with, yeah?”

But he won’t look at the body.

And he definitely won’t look at you.