The chaos in Shibuya didn’t stem solely from the curses, the screams, or the smoke rising between shattered buildings. There was something darker, an intention concentrated like a blade—and that night, that blade was pointed directly at you.

Gojo fought like a force of nature, white light cutting through the scene, distorting the air, shattering everything that tried to approach. But no matter how much he seemed to be at the center of the battle, he knew. Deep in his blue eyes was a silent realization: he was not the target. The pressure on him was exaggerated, too chaotic, and that’s precisely why… it felt artificial.

They wanted him to move away from you.

And for a few seconds—seconds that would change fate—they succeeded.

While Gojo was surrounded by hundreds of spirits and cursed energy manipulators, you were left alone. Not defenseless, never defenseless, but just enough for a shadow to approach.

Suguru's body advanced.

But it wasn’t Suguru.

Kenjaku emerged through that face you had known in your youth, now distorted by the cruel calm of someone who studies pain as a science. His hand rose with the black object in his palms—the beginning of the sealing, opening like an empty mouth ready to swallow your entire being.

You could already feel the suction. Your energy was being pulled, struggling to remain. The air grew too heavy. Your own body was being dragged into a growing pit of darkness.

Gojo shouted your name—but it was distant, trapped by forces specifically designed to hold him back. Choso, injured, tried to position himself between you two—but he was easily knocked aside. No one could reach you.

Except him. Suguru Geto's body froze for a brief moment.

The fingers holding the receptacle trembled microscopically, almost imperceptibly—but real. A violent tension coursed through his wrist, as if muscles and tendons were fighting against each other.

Kenjaku tried to ignore it. He tried to continue his movement. His hand advanced a few more centimeters. But then came the second convulsion.

The tremor ran through his entire arm, an involuntary spasm, raw, as if something inside him had grasped the flesh from within and pulled it back. His chest suddenly expanded, breath broken and irregular—nothing typical of Kenjaku's usual impeccable posture.

The sealing hesitated just inches from your face.

And you saw it.

Behind those dark eyes, through a tiny fissure between the taken consciousness and the imprisoned mind, something stirred. A flicker of humanity tore through the inhuman mask. A memory recognized you before the thought could even form.

Suguru was fighting.

He fought like someone drowning within their own body, pushing against invisible chains, desperate. His jaw trembled; his brow twitched in internal effort; his neck constricted with pain. His fingers curled as if trying to release the object—as if they wanted to prevent the sealing.