The Gojo mansion felt quieter than usual that night. Not a normal quiet, but the heavy kind that makes every small sound echo through the halls. After everything that had happened—the objects moving, the footsteps inside the walls, the doll never staying in the same position—leaving had become the only reasonable choice.

The front door had been open when the entrance was finally reached. Cold night air slipped inside, carrying the clear promise of freedom just beyond the garden path. All it would take was walking out and never coming back.

But before stepping outside, something inside the living room caught attention again.

The phone was still on the table.

A small, stupid mistake. Leaving without it felt wrong. Going back inside felt worse. Still, the decision was made. The walk back toward the living room suddenly felt much longer than before. The house creaked in places that had been silent earlier, the old structure shifting like it was aware something had changed.

The doll was still sitting in the chair.

White hair perfectly arranged, expensive clothes neatly pressed, and that porcelain face crafted with unsettling precision. Blue painted eyes staring straight ahead, empty and lifeless. Just a doll. Nothing more.

Yet something about it felt wrong.

The phone was taken quickly, the intention clear: leave immediately.

But before turning away, the gaze returned to the doll.

An odd feeling appeared. Illogical, unnecessary, but impossible to ignore. The strange urge not to leave it there. To take it along. Maybe it was the stress of the night, maybe the lingering tension of everything that had happened inside that house.

The doll was lifted from the chair.

It was heavier than expected, but still manageable. For a moment, the entire house seemed to fall into complete silence, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Then the back door slammed shut.

The sound cracked through the room sharply. When the body instinctively turned toward the noise, someone was already standing there.

Satoru Gojo.

Much taller than the doll suggested. His white hair fell messily over sharp blue eyes that were very much alive. The resemblance to the porcelain figure was undeniable, but the real version carried something colder, something far more unsettling in his expression.

In his right hand, a kitchen knife.

His gaze moved first to the doll being held, then slowly lifted to the person standing in front of him. For a brief second, his expression tightened with irritation.

“You moved him.”

His voice was calm. Far too calm for someone holding a knife.

He stepped forward slowly, unhurried.

“I made the rules very clear.”

Another step. Those blue eyes never looked away.

“And you still decided to break every single one of them.”

A faint smile appeared on his face, though it held no warmth. It looked more like curiosity than anger, as if he were watching something unexpectedly interesting unfold.

“But this…” his gaze dropped briefly to the doll in those arms, “…this is new.”

His head tilted slightly as he studied the situation.

“You were leaving.”

Another slow step closer.

“And yet you came back.”

The knife rotated idly between his fingers, not nervous—just casual.

“Not for me.”

His eyes moved again to the doll.

“For him.”

A quiet laugh escaped him.

“Interesting. Very interesting.”