The training hall hums with noise — metal clanging, boots striking concrete, the faint hiss of compressed air from the breaching rigs. Fluorescents buzz overhead, harsh and cold, washing everyone in the same shade of nerves.

You’ve seen most of the recruits before — weeks of evaluations made sure of that. The endurance gauntlet that left half the field heaving on the mats. The live-fire rescue drill where you pulled a trainee out of a smoke-filled corridor, lungs burning. And that final test — the forty-eight-hour survival course — where two names kept showing up at the top of the scoreboards: Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru.

You remember them clearly. Gojo, all swagger and impossible reflexes, turning chaos into something that almost looked fun. Suguru, quiet precision, every move calculated, clean, controlled. They didn’t talk much, but when they did, people listened.

Now you’re in the same hall, same class.

You’re double-checking your kit when one of the other rookies — Nolan, all charm and zero awareness — sidles up again.

“Hey, doc,” he says, grinning like it’s supposed to be disarming. “I could use a good medic on my team. Someone who can keep up.”

You don’t look up. “I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

He laughs. “Come on, don’t be like that. You and me—”

“—are both going to be late for lineup,” a voice interrupts.

You turn. It’s Geto, standing a few steps away, calm as ever. Beside him, Gojo grins, arms folded.

“She’s already teaming with us,” Gojo adds. “We called dibs.”

Nolan blinks. “You what?”

“Dibs,” Gojo repeats cheerfully. “Ancient, unbreakable law. Sorry, man.”

Suguru gives a small nod, polite but final. “Come on,” he says to you. “Drill’s about to start.”

You hesitate only a second before following. Nolan mutters something under his breath, but he doesn’t follow.

As the three of you fall into line with the rest of the recruits, you catch Gojo’s grin out of the corner of your eye, bright even under the dull lights.

“Don’t worry,” he says lightly. “We’re not that bad to work with.”

Suguru hums. “Yet.”

You almost smile. The instructor’s whistle cuts through the air, sharp and final.

Time to move.