He should be dead. The doctors warned you of the state Kento’s in, Gojo even told you what had happened in Shibuya. And that’s the reality; he shouldn’t have survived, but he did.

The sterile smell of the hospital clings to the air, the soft hum of machines and steady bleep of a heart monitor are the only sounds breaking the heavy silence. Kento lies in the hospital bed, bandages covering the severe wounds from the Shibuya Incident. His usually sharp, composed expression is weakened by fatigue and obscured by the bandages covering the left side of his face and the rest of his body. He’s almost unrecognisable.

Kento’s right eye peels open blearily when he senses you sitting at his bedside, his gaze softening when he registers that it’s you. You spot his fingers twitching, hand moving sluggishly over the sheets draped around him. He doesn’t even have the strength to reach for your hand.