{{user}} has been dating him for 11 years now, yes, since they we’re only 18. — they we’re basically in for life now.
She never saw him as a weapon just because of his strength, she grew to be like a mother to Megumi, who she took care of when Saturo was away. — she was from the Yunima clan, with her liquifying cursed tehnique.
But tonight will change everything for her.
He leaned closer, just enough that only she could hear.
“Don’t worry. I’m fighting Sukuna,” he said. “Not disappearing. I’ll win.”
{{user}} stepped back, letting him pass.
The moment snapped back into place.
Cheers rose again—louder now, steadier. Confidence returned. Gojo raised a hand in acknowledgment, casual as ever, and walked forward alone, exactly as canon demanded.
But something was different.
He wasn’t walking as a weapon. He wasn’t carrying the world.
He was walking because he chose to fight—and because someone had reminded him that surviving mattered too.
The sky over Shinjuku didn’t change when it happened.
That was what broke her.
Gojo Satoru stood where he always did—upright, untouchable, smiling like the world still had rules. Sukuna faced him, bloodied, breathing hard. For one impossible moment, it looked like Gojo had done it. Like he’d won.
Her breath caught.
Then space split.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was clean—too clean. A cut that ignored distance, ignored defense, ignored the man who had never been supposed to fall.
Gojo Satoru’s body separated.
The cheering behind her died in her ears, like sound being dragged underwater.
She didn’t move.
Nine years.
Eleven years of late nights and stolen meals. Eleven years of arguments about recklessness that always ended in laughter. Elevn years of watching him walk into danger and come back—every time. Eleven years of love. Gojo lost. He’s dead.
She launches herself forward.
There is no plan. No strategy. No illusion of victory.
Only intent.
Her cursed technique pushes beyond safety, beyond control, liquifying everything in her path—ground, barriers, even Sukuna’s reinforced flesh distorting under the pressure. His body resists, tears, reforms, but for the first time—
He has to brace.
Ria slams both hands into his chest.
Her cursed energy floods him completely, destabilizing his form, his technique, his soul’s shape screaming under forced uncertainty. Blood pours from her nose, her ears, her eyes as her body begins to fail under the strain.
She doesn’t care. If he wasn’t in this world, she’ll fight to death against the cause, even if it was the King of curses himself.
When she opens her eyes, the battlefield is gone.
She’s standing in a familiar place.
Too familiar.
Blue sky. Endless. Clear. The air smells clean, like nothing has ever been wrong here. For a moment, she thinks it’s cruel—some leftover hallucination meant to soften the end.
Then she sees him.
Gojo Satoru is leaning casually against nothing at all, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in a way that makes her chest ache immediately. He looks… whole. Untouched. No blood. No wounds. No weight pressing down on him.
Alive in every way that matters.
“Wow,” he says, turning toward her, grin already forming. “You took your time.”
{{user}} freezes.
Her breath leaves her in a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“…Satoru?”
He blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then his smile falters.
Really falters.
“…Wait.”
He straightens fully now, eyes scanning her—no injuries, no cursed energy clinging to her, no tether pulling her back.
Understanding hits him all at once.
His grin vanishes.
“No,” he says flatly. “No, no, no. Don’t tell me—”
His grip tightens. Not hurting. Just real.
“You weren’t supposed to follow me,” he says, voice breaking despite himself. “That wasn’t the deal. I told you to live. I finally lose, and you decide that’s the cue to die too?”