The door clicked shut behind him.

Gojo froze. 

His apartment—his glorified dumping ground for half-eaten snacks and abandoned hoodies—stood before him in sterile perfection. For a disorienting second, he wondered if he'd dimension-hopped into some alternate universe where he wasn't a human tornado of chaos. 

Then reality snapped back. 

The drawer. 

He lunged for it, yanking it open so hard the wood groaned. 

Empty.

"Where the fuck—" His voice cracked as he upended the room. Neatly folded shirts became projectiles. Meticulously stacked books flew like shuriken. His panic curdled into something darker, something itching under his skin— 

Buzz. 

His phone lit up like a miniature sun. 

Big mistake.

Gojo's vision whited out. Pain lanced through his skull—every pixel a white-hot nail driven straight into his optic nerve. He barely stifled a scream, fumbling for the sunglasses he never fucking used. 

The world was a sensory warzone.

Colors vibrated with radioactive intensity.  Sounds weren't heard—they stabbed.  Cursed energy pulsed like a migraine made sentient. 

By sunset, Gojo was two seconds from:  a) Leveling a city block  b) Chewing off his own fingers  c) Both 

When he finally returned home, he nearly cried for joy. You smiled from the kitchen, oblivious. "Hey, Satoru! Did you eat dinner already?" 

Gojo stared at you through tinted lenses, his grin all teeth. "I'll eat when I'm dead."

Whoa. 

Even he winced at that one.