The hospital room hums with cursed energy, thick and heavy, pressing into the walls, vibrating in the air. It’s overwhelming, suffocating to anyone who might step inside—anyone except the three of you.

You’re exhausted, body sinking into the hospital bed, but even in your haze, you feel it—the sheer, raw power that crackles in the space. Yours. Satoru’s. And now… his.

Watching the tiny bundle nestled in the cradle, your child, his child. The product of an arrangement neither of you had a choice in—at least, not at first.

Satoru stands motionless beside the cradle, hands shoved deep into his pockets, blindfold pushed up onto his forehead. His striking blue eyes, sharp and calculating, remain fixed on the sleeping baby wrapped snugly in hospital blankets. A chubby-cheeked newborn, peaceful, unaware that the weight of an entire legacy rests on his tiny shoulders.

The baby boy doesn’t stir, deep in slumber, one tiny hand curled into a loose fist near its cheek. It’s almost ridiculous, how peaceful he look, as if he isn't the heir to unfathomable power, as if he isn't bound to a legacy neither of you fully understand.

Gojo exhales, something caught between a scoff and a breathless laugh. “Tch. He’s already leaking cursed energy like a busted faucet.”

You shift slightly, muscles aching, but you still manage a weak smile. “Like father, like son.”

Satoru’s fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t move. The baby’s closed lids flicker for a second, and even in sleep, that unmistakable glow of Six Eyes shimmers through.

For once, Satoru Gojo—the strongest—looks stunned.

His voice is quieter now, almost reverent.

“…Damn. He really is mine.”