The humidity of the mission site felt like a lead blanket, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in {{user}}’s chest. For nineteen days, the world had been colorless. Nineteen days since Satoru had been sealed away, leaving a void that no amount of cursed spirit exorcism could fill.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out habitually, expecting a status update from Tokyo High. Instead, her breath hitched.

Missed Call: Satoru ❤️

The screen blurred as her eyes welled up. It was impossible. It had to be a glitch, or a cruel joke played by a remnant of his energy. But the desperation took over before her logic could catch up.

{{user}} stopped dead in her tracks, ignoring the Grade 2 curse scurrying into the shadows of the abandoned warehouse. She hit 'Redial' immediately.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Voice mail.

"Pick up, Satoru. Please," she whispered, her voice cracking. She called again. And again. Each unanswered ring fueled a frantic mix of frustration and agonizing hope. She paced the cracked concrete floor, her thumb hovering over the call button like a lifeline. She was impatient, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it hurt.

"Don't do this to me," she muttered, blinking back tears of anger. "If you're out, just answer the damn—"

Click.

The line went live. The static of the warehouse vanished, replaced by a silence so heavy she could hear her own pulse. Then, a voice cut through the air—smooth, arrogant, and unbearably familiar.

"You know, {{user}}, calling four times in three minutes is a little clingy, even for you."

{{user}} froze. The world seemed to stop spinning. It was that specific, nonchalant lilt—the smug tone of a man who knew he was the center of the universe and didn't mind keeping everyone waiting. She tried to speak, but her throat was tight, her words trapped behind a wall of sheer disbelief. She had missed that voice more than oxygen.

"What? No 'Welcome home'?" the voice teased. "I’m hurt. Really."

"I'm somewhere with a very frustrated sorcerer who’s currently ignoring her mission. She looks a bit messy, honestly. Is that dirt on your cheek?"

{{user}} spun around, her eyes scanning the empty, shadowed rafters. "Satoru, stop playing! Where are—"

Before she could finish, the air behind her shifted. There was no sound, only the sudden, sharp pressure of limitless cursed energy—a cold, sparking blue sensation that made the hair on her arms stand up.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against a broad, warm chest. The scent of expensive soap and ozone enveloped her. A chin rested lightly on her shoulder, and she felt the vibration of a low chuckle against her back.

"Right here," Satoru whispered into her ear. "Miss me?"