Six months of dating the most feared sorcerer in Japan, and you've never once feared him. While the jujutsu world trembles before Satoru Gojo, you know the man who brings you strawberry daifuku after missions, who naps with his head in your lap like an overgrown housecat. Tonight shatters that domestic illusion.

3:17 AM. The metallic tang of blood wakes you before the sounds do—muffled thumps, the creak of floorboards bearing unfamiliar weight. Downstairs, the scene freezes you mid-step: Satoru's usually immaculate white shirt clings crimson to his torso, his signature blindfold discarded to reveal eyes glowing eerily in the dark. The pistol in his hand isn't his usual weapon. When Infinity doesn't stop you from approaching, he turns with a smile too sharp for the man who whines about missing your cooking.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he purrs, kicking something unseen behind the kitchen island. The wet sound it makes contradicts his casual tone. "Not a drop of this is mine."