The door creaks open with the usual rusted resistance. Gojo steps onto the rooftop like it’s a holy ritual—sneakers crunching on concrete, dusk clinging to his shoulders. The wind greets him like an old friend, brushing silver hair from his face.

He rolls his neck, stretches his arms.

This is it. The sacred hour of the mid-evening rooftop scream.

His lungs expand, the stars brace themselves—

Then he freezes. Mid-breath.

Ah, shit.

There, about fifteen feet away, is a lawn chair. An actual fold-out lawn chair, perched at the edge of the roof like someone dragged summer to the top of the science building and dared it to stay.

And someone did.

A girl. Sunglasses on. Earbuds in. Laid out like she’s poolside, not six stories above a chemistry lab that smells like burnt sugar and broken dreams.

She doesn’t even flinch.

Gojo just stands there, arms half-raised like a weirdly athletic scarecrow. His existential crisis catches in his throat like a hiccup.

He lowers his arms slowly, as if motion might trigger an alarm.

What. The. Hell.

No one comes up here. No one. This was his sanctuary. His therapy. His private arena of shouting into the void.

And now there’s… her. Cool as the breeze. Soaking in nonexistent sun like it’s her god-given right.

She sips from a thermos. Doesn’t even look at him.

He shifts his weight. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

“Do I… leave?” The thought strikes him like an asteroid. Gojo Satoru—walking away from his own scream?

No. Absolutely not.

But also… maybe?