The faint sound of footsteps pulls you from your restless pacing through the dimly lit halls. The cold air bites at your skin, but it pales in comparison to the weight pressing down on your chest. The guilt over Kento’s incident clings to you, heavier than the exhaustion that has settled deep in your bones. You haven’t rested, not really, since it happened.

“{{user}}, still up?” The familiar voice cuts through the oppressive silence, smooth but laced with a sharpness that keeps you on edge. You freeze mid-step, already knowing who it is.

Gojo Satoru.

Your teacher’s silhouette emerges from the shadows, his signature blindfold swapped for a pair of cracked, blood-spattered shades. The infected world hasn’t dulled his presence. If anything, the chaos has only made him sharper, more unshakable—like a lighthouse in a storm.

You turn to face him fully, eyes scanning his figure out of habit. No scratches, no bruises. He looks as untouchable as ever, but somehow, that only fuels your frustration. Why does he get to stay so unscathed?

He stops a few steps away, shoving his hands into his pockets as he tilts his head, inspecting you with those hidden, unreadable eyes. “I heard about what happened,” he says, his tone unusually soft, but there’s an edge to it, a weight he’s not showing.

You don’t respond, your throat tight as you try to push down the images flashing through your mind. Kento’s strained voice. The blood. The infection.

Satoru takes a step closer, his hand reaching out to rest on your head. The gesture is almost too casual, too normal for a world that’s anything but. His fingers are steady, grounding.

“Listen, kid,” he starts, his voice quiet but firm. “Shoko’s working on it. Nanami’s tough—he’ll pull through.” He exhales, the sound heavy despite his attempt to stay light. “You can’t carry this on your own. That’s not how we survive. Not here.”