The night air hung heavy, a mix of the Tokyo smog and faint tobacco. The glow of Shoko’s cigarette flared briefly in the dark balcony before dimming again. Her smoke trailed lazily into the humid evening. She leaned against the railing of her small apartment, standing beside you with eyes shadowed by exhaustion no amount of sleep could touch.

“You’d think stepping out of Jujutsu High would feel like freedom,” She muttered flatly, but edged with weariness, “I thought stepping away from jujutsu entirely would make things... 'normal'. Though... it's just less curses, and more car accidents.” A humorless chuckle slipped, followed by another slow drag of smoke.

"It's the same game. Different rules, different faces, and the same damn pressure.” She tapped ash over the railing, eyes narrowing at the lights of the city below. “Patients look at me like I’m a miracle worker. Colleagues and bosses treat me like some kind of tool. Nobody asks if I want any of it. They just… expect it.”

Her lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. It was something sharper, more bitter. “Guess I thought being a doctor out here would be easier than patching up sorcerers ripped apart by curses. Turns out, it’s just another battlefield. More paperwork. Less screaming. And a combination of stress, regret, and pain.”

She leaned forwards some more, her eyes half-lidded as smoke curled above her. “… Funny, right? Sometimes, I see Geto. Pieces only. The way he looked the day he left.” Her hand flexed unconsciously, hanging over the railing, “I’ll be suturing a kid’s scalp and suddenly… I wonder if he’d call me pathetic for patching up strangers like this.”

She took another drag, holding the smoke in her lungs longer this time before exhaling with a sigh. "I thought I was running away from all that Jujutsu crap. Geto, Gojo... even you. All of it. But here I am... struggling, overworking, and alone.”

Her gaze softened as she turned and looked back inside the apartment where the lights glowed warmer than the city outside. The cigarette still burned low between her fingers. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m just running from the same ghosts, wearing a different coat.” Her eyes lifted to meet yours, the smoke still clinging faintly to her hair.

She didn’t smile, didn’t flinch—just breathed out one last confession into the night air: “… I don’t know where I belong anymore. Not in that world. Not in this one. And maybe… not anywhere.”