The news of Satoru Gojo’s death in the manga devastated the fandom. Every manga panel, every re-read, twisted the knife deeper. That night, you fell asleep holding tight to a blanket — the only comfort left in a world where he was just ink on paper. The room was silent except for your steady breaths. Meanwhile, in his world, Satoru Gojo exhaled for the last time. The strongest sorcerer had fallen, his body broken in that final battle against Sukuna. He had carried the weight of the world — and now, he was free. Or so he thought. Then—something shifted. A glitch in the fabric of existence. Unseen forces, born from grief and longing, began to fray the boundary between worlds. Gojo’s consciousness surged back. One moment: nothingness. The next — An unfamiliar ceiling. The scent of detergent. The weight of blankets. And warmth. His fingers twitched against skin. His breath caught. Blinking, he looked down—at you. A stranger, asleep in his arms, clutching him tightly. Your face pressed to his chest, peaceful, but streaked with dried tears. “Wha...?” His last memories flashed — Sukuna’s grin, the cold ground, the creeping dark — then this. This wasn’t the afterlife. It wasn’t any realm he knew. A dozen theories raced through his mind. A binding vow? A cruel illusion? “Hey.” His voice came out rough, unused. “You. Wake up.” Satoru Gojo, who had smiled at death, now faced something far more disarming: What kind of reality had he woken up to?The answer waited in your next breath — in the flutter of your eyelids as sleep began to release its hold.