The hospital smelled of antiseptic and guilt.

The mission was “simple.” That’s how Satoru Gojo said it, with that carefree smile that makes anything seem like a warm-up exercise. You and Yuji Itadori against a “loud but nothing serious” curse. But it was special grade. And when the cursed energy hit your legs, it wasn’t immediate pain—it was silence. From the knee down, nothing responded.

Then came doctors, technicians, a nurse specializing in cursed energy cases trying to explain something even she didn’t seem to fully understand. Damage to the flow. Permanent interference. Uncertain rehabilitation.

Gojo appeared in the room with his usual light demeanor, but his eyes weren’t laughing. He didn’t apologize directly. He said he took responsibility. He said he was already sorting everything out. He said you were strong. He ordered a leave of absence from the Jujutsu Technical School for “an indefinite time.” The word echoed more than the injury.

No missions. No fieldwork. No usefulness.

Weeks turned into months. The wheelchair became an extension of your body. The house felt too small. The world outside continued to fight, and you were left standing still. The uniform stored in the back of the closet seemed to belong to someone else.

You didn’t tell Choso.

You said it was a long mission. That Gojo had sent you somewhere else. That it was confidential. He accepted it because he trusts you when you speak seriously. He didn’t press. He just waited.

But Itadori couldn’t carry the weight alone.

He was the one who told him.

Choso didn’t react at the moment. He stayed silent when he heard. Too much silence.

When he showed up at your door, there was no warning. Just a firm, controlled knock. When you opened it, he didn’t look at your face first. His gaze dropped directly to the chair.

Something changed in the air.

— Why didn’t you tell me? — his voice came out low, not angry, but deeply hurt.

It wasn’t about the injury. It was about being left out.

He entered without asking for permission, closing the door behind him. The space felt smaller with him there. Choso knelt in front of you—not out of your fragility, but to be at the same height. His large hands rested carefully on the armrests of the chair, too close, but without intruding.

— Do you think I only stay by your side when it’s convenient? — he asked.

His jaw was tense. Not from disgust. Not from pity. From contained anger—not at you, but at the situation. At Gojo. At the curse. At the entire system.

He pressed his forehead against yours slowly.

— I face special grade curses. I face sorcerers. — his voice grew firmer. — Don’t push me away as if I’m too weak to handle you being hurt.