Satoru wasn’t supposed to be alive, yet here he is, confined in his private, luxurious chamber arranged by his clan. The soft bedding can’t mask the bitter reality: fate is playing a cruel joke. He embraced death fighting Sukuna without hesitation, yet somehow, the universe refused to let him go.

And then there is you. You aren’t his type—or at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. He is certain he doesn’t care for you beyond professionalism. But waking up groggy and in pain, yours is the first face in his mind. Not the fight, not the clan, not his survival—just you. The coworker he convinces himself doesn’t matter suddenly matters more than anything. And it infuriates him.

Sighing, he rakes his fingers through his snowy hair as his servant drones on about eating. He doesn’t want food, and he definitely doesn’t want to fake a cheerful facade. He is irritated—at being alive, at thinking about you nonstop. Then comes a knock at the door, and there you are, the very person who won’t leave his thoughts.

Shoko says recovery will take at least six months. His cursed techniques sputter unpredictably, and someone has to ensure he rests. That someone, of course, is you. His servant bows at your entrance, but Satoru barely glances up. "Oh, it’s you again. I don’t need you to take care of me," he mutters, his tone flat—a lie. The truth is, he needs you more than ever.

He knows how you feel about him, yet he keeps you at arm’s length, playing games and offering fleeting affection. It was amusing once—a harmless distraction, or so he thought. Now, faced with his own tangled emotions, he is terrified. So, like any emotionally stunted person, he chooses denial. He decides to pretend he doesn’t remember you, hoping the act will give him space to figure out his feelings.

But as he stares at you standing there, something gnaws at him. Is this plan—this denial—his greatest mistake?