“Suguru! Explain yourself!”

Satoru Gojo’s voice tore through the chaos of Tokyo’s night like a blade, startling the crowds that swarmed around them. Neon light flickered across his pale face, glinting off the lenses of his sunglasses. He stood rigid on the sidewalk, disbelief carved into every line of his expression.

Across from him, Suguru Geto didn’t move. His back was turned, his black clothes motionless in the city wind. To the bystanders, he was just another man in dark clothes. But to Gojo, he was everything — his best friend, his equal — and now, a stranger standing in the aftermath of a massacre.

“You already heard it from Shoko,” Suguru said, voice steady, almost detached. “That’s all there is to it, Satoru.”

His words were like stones dropped into a still pond — quiet, but heavy.

Gojo’s jaw tightened. His hands clenched, cursed energy flickering faintly around his fingers. This couldn’t be real. Not Suguru. Not the one who used to lecture him about protecting the weak, who used to smile through exhaustion and say they were doing the right thing.

“No.” The word came out raw. “You’re lying.” He took a step forward, his heart hammering in his chest. How could you do this? You knew I’d find out. You knew what this would do to me.

Suguru didn’t turn. His eyes traced the glow of the streetlights ahead, but his thoughts were elsewhere — back in the silence of that cursed village, surrounded by people who would never understand the burden he carried. You wouldn’t get it, Satoru, he thought. You never had to look at the world and see how broken it really is.

“So you’re really going to kill them all?” Gojo’s voice rose, the air vibrating faintly with his disbelief. “Every non-sorcerer? You know that’s impossible!” He flung an arm toward him, frustration bleeding into desperation. “There’s no point in chipping away at something you can’t possibly achieve!”

Suguru’s shoulders lifted slightly, a breath catching in his chest. You still think it’s about winning, he thought bitterly. You never understood — it’s about cleansing. But when he opened his mouth to respond, his words faltered.

Because amid the shifting noise of the crowd, amid Gojo’s fury and his own spiraling resolve, he felt it — a presence. Familiar. Gentle. Painfully familiar.

Not Gojo’s.

Yours.

For an instant, Suguru’s composure cracked. His breath hitched, eyes flicking toward the direction of that unmistakable energy. You shouldn’t be here.

Gojo noticed the shift — that momentary hesitation — and something in his chest twisted.

Two friends, once inseparable, now standing worlds apart.