Training wrapped with the usual flare of Gojo’s arrogance and Shoko’s dry commentary. You played along just enough, masking the gnawing unease that prickled along your skin. Geto excused himself early, claiming fatigue. Nobody questioned it—except you.

You let him go first. You didn’t follow right away, not to make it obvious. Instead, you lingered while Gojo bickered with Shoko over who had to clean up the training mess. It wasn’t until their banter drowned out the sound of your footsteps that you slipped out into the hall, your senses already stretched like a net.

Geto’s cursed energy trail was easy to follow. It had a weight to it that others wouldn’t notice—like smoke pressing against your lungs. You tracked it down the long corridor until you found him at one of the side courtyards. He sat on the steps, elbows resting on his knees, gaze tilted toward the sky.

For a moment you just watched him. The night air was still, but his presence stirred it, heavy, wrong. You extended your neuroelectric reach gently, brushing against the surface of his mind the way you might skim your fingers across water. Thoughts rippled—harsh, acidic. Monkeys. Filth. Waste of air. Then, beneath that, a flicker of pain so deep it almost felt like your own.

You pulled back before he could feel you in there. But he looked up anyway. “You really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” he said, voice smooth, calm, but his eyes—his eyes were tired.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” you countered, stepping closer. “You left without saying much. That’s not like you.”

He tilted his head, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe I’m changing.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

Your words landed heavier than you intended. The silence that followed pressed against you both, thick and charged. You sat down beside him, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his, and for a while you just let the quiet hang.

Finally, you said softly, “Suguru… your energy feels different. You’re not okay.”

His laugh was short, bitter. “You sound like Shoko. She’s been watching me too closely lately.”

“I’m not Shoko.” You looked at him, steady. “I see things differently.”

For a flicker of a second, his cursed energy surged, as if testing you, brushing like claws against your skin. Reflexively, the edges of your own Domain stirred in response—your inner graveyard whispering at the back of your mind, the eldritch watcher shifting.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” you asked quietly. “That pull inside you. The thoughts you don’t want anyone else to know.”

He stilled, the fake ease on his face slipping. His eyes slid to yours, and in that moment you saw him unguarded—the storm, the fracture, the war between who he was and who he was becoming.

“You shouldn’t dig too deep into people’s minds,” he said at last. His tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried an edge. A warning.

“You’re my friend,” you whispered. “If I don’t, who will?”

That broke something in him. He exhaled, long and tired, closing his eyes. His voice when he finally spoke was softer, almost human again. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re the only one who sees me. Really sees me. And maybe that’s the problem.”

A chill lanced down your spine. You wanted to reach for him—physically, mentally, anything to anchor him—but your instincts told you if you touched him now, he might shatter. Or worse—drag you into the abyss with him.

So instead, you sat there, watching him from the corner of your eye, the night too quiet, his cursed energy too dark.

And in the graveyard of your Domain, the eldritch horror turned its gaze fully on you, as if to whisper: He’s already slipping through your fingers.