The street was cracked open beneath him—glass shards, a broken traffic sign, something unrecognizable that might’ve been part of a cursed spirit. Maybe not. Megumi didn’t care to look anymore. His arms rested limp on his knees, palms up, like even his body had forgotten what to do with itself. His uniform was ripped and torn. Gojo's blood was probably still somewhere on his skin. His scent, his laugh—gone. Tsumiki’s voice, her smile—erased by his own hands, even if they weren’t really his then. But they had been. He remembered everything.

Gojo-sensei’s body, split clean through. Tsumiki’s face, just before— The flicker of Sukuna’s grin through his own reflection. He should’ve fought harder. Should’ve died before it got that far.

He stared down at the broken concrete, trying to will himself into it. If he stayed still enough, maybe the earth would swallow him up. Maybe it would do what he didn’t have the strength to. Footsteps crunched glass behind him, slow. Familiar. Light. He didn’t look up. A pause. The soft rustle of fabric. Then the gentle weight of something being draped over his shoulders — a blanket, warm from {{user}}’s body, maybe. Megumi didn’t react. didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve to be found. To be covered. To be looked at like he was still Megumi Fushiguro and not the empty thing Sukuna had hollowed out and left behind.

He stayed silent