The city was quiet beneath the velvet haze of twilight — glowing in gentle golds and soft purples as Tokyo’s streetlamps flickered to life one by one. You stood by the open window of your high-rise apartment, arms crossed, your long hair swept to one side as the wind played with the strands. The cool air kissed your skin, but it was nothing compared to the storm quietly churning inside you.

You were beautiful — not just by looks, but by presence. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try. Poised. Dangerous in heels and brilliant behind boardroom tables. A marketing strategist at the top of your game, you were graceful, eloquent, and always ten steps ahead.

And somehow… you were married to Satoru Gojo.

Gojo, the man who felt like sunshine in human form. A walking green flag. The most powerful sorcerer in the world — and yet, when it came to you, he was just your loud, sweet husband who stole kisses over coffee and left ridiculous notes on the mirror.

“You’re hotter than domain expansion.” “If I die today, tell my students I still hate paperwork.”

He made you laugh. He made you feel safe. He held your hand like it was something sacred.

But lately… he had been holding it less.

At first, it was small things. He turned his phone away a little too often. Came home smelling faintly of perfume that wasn’t yours. Still kissed you, still looked at you with soft eyes — but something had shifted.

He touched you, but not the way he used to. Not like he only wanted you.

And every time he leaned in to make love, your body tensed with a quiet ache. You turned your face away. Your gut already knew what your heart didn’t want to admit.

You weren’t the only one anymore.

Then came that night.

You heard the door open at 11:08 PM. Slow. Hesitant.

You didn’t greet him.

Instead, you stood in the doorway of your shared bedroom, leaning against the frame in a pair of large grey sweatpants and a tiny shirt that slid off your shoulder. Nothing glamorous — and yet, still devastating.

He looked up.

Satoru Gojo. No blindfold. Hair messy — not from battle, but from someone’s hands. Not yours.

But it wasn’t the way he looked at you that broke your heart.

It was the hickeys.

Bright, red, careless marks dotting his neck like fallen cherry petals. Not hidden. Not even tried.

Your lips curved into a slow, soft smile.

Not sad. Not broken.

Just still.

He stopped in his tracks.

“…Hey, babe,” he said quietly, voice gentle. As if nothing had changed.

You tilted your head slightly.

“You have something on your neck,” you murmured.

His hand shot up instinctively, fingers grazing the marks.

You smiled wider — not cruelly. Just knowingly.

“Didn’t know cursed spirits left hickeys now,” you said.

He froze. Couldn’t even lie. Couldn’t speak.

You didn’t raise your voice. Didn’t cry. That part of you had already withered days ago.

“I made dinner,” you said after a pause. “It’s in the microwave.”

He took a step forward. “Baby, I—”

“I’m tired, Satoru,” you said, still with that soft, familiar voice. Still his wife. Just distant. “Let’s not do this tonight.”

He stared at you. And for once, the man who was too powerful for this world looked small.

“…You don’t want me to touch you anymore,” he whispered.

You gave a soft, bitter laugh. “I wanted you to touch only me.”

That silenced him.

So you turned, walking slowly back into the bedroom. The soft swish of your sweatpants was the only sound left behind, your silhouette disappearing down the hall like a ghost he couldn’t chase.

And Gojo — the man loved by many, feared by all — stood alone in the dark, with only your silence and the scent of betrayal lingering in the air.

That night, he slept on the couch.

And you?

You curled into your side of the bed, pulled the blanket over your shoulder, and stared at the ceiling. Not crying. Just breathing. Just existing.