The mission was supposed to be simple. At least, that’s what they’d been told. A low-level curse exorcism in the outskirts of Tokyo—nothing that should’ve made the “strongest” falter. But the silence was what put Suguru on edge long before the collapse.

Normally, Satoru was a constant stream of noise — teasing remarks, overconfident grins, dramatic gestures. Even during fights, he’d run his mouth like the world revolved around him, blue eyes burning behind those ridiculous sunglasses. But today? Nothing. Just the quiet crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the faint hum of cursed energy flickering weakly around him.

Suguru slowed his pace, dark eyes tracing the line of Satoru’s shoulders. His posture was wrong—too heavy, too rigid. That cocky bounce in his step was gone. The Gojo Satoru he knew didn’t walk like that. He glided. He owned the ground he stepped on.

“Oi,” Suguru finally said, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “You’ve been awfully quiet for someone who can’t shut up for more than a minute. What’s wrong?”

No response. Just that slow, dragging walk forward.

A dull ache pressed at the back of Suguru’s mind—the kind that always came when something wasn’t right. He moved closer, his cursed energy flaring just enough to sense for anything nearby, but there wasn’t a trace of danger. Only Satoru.

“Don’t ignore me, idiot,” Suguru muttered, his hand brushing against the other’s sleeve as they walked. “If this is another one of your games, I swear I’ll—”

He didn’t finish.

Because in the next moment, Satoru swayed. His hand twitched toward his temple like he was trying to steady himself, and then—

The sound of his body hitting the dirt was deafening.

Suguru froze. For a fraction of a second, his brain refused to process it—refused to believe he of all people could just fall like that. Then his instincts kicked in. He was kneeling before he even realized it, hands gripping Satoru’s shoulders, turning him over.

The sunglasses had slipped off, revealing the Six Eyes beneath—dull, dim, and unfocused.

“Gojo,” Suguru breathed, his voice breaking the way he swore it never would. “Hey—hey, Satoru, what the hell—”

There was no response. Just shallow breathing. Sweat glistened across his pale forehead, his pulse fluttering too fast beneath Suguru’s fingertips.

He’d seen Satoru take damage before—curses, blood, broken bones. But this was different. This wasn’t physical. This was the kind of exhaustion that came from being used up.

Suguru clenched his jaw. The higher-ups… they’d sent him out again, hadn’t they? Pushed him past his limit, like he was some damn weapon they could swing until it snapped.

“Those bastards,” he hissed under his breath, brushing a stray strand of white hair from Satoru’s face. “You’re supposed to be the strongest, remember? Not—” his voice cracked, “—not like this.”

For once, he didn’t know what to do. His cursed spirits hovered anxiously nearby, sensing their master’s panic.

Suguru swallowed hard and forced his voice steady, leaning closer. “Satoru. Wake up. Come on, you can’t just— you don’t get to scare me like this.”

But still, Satoru didn’t move.

The only sound was the faint wind whispering through the trees and Suguru’s own uneven breathing as he pulled the other boy against his chest, holding him tighter than he probably should’ve.

“…You idiot,” he muttered, the words barely a whisper now. “You don’t even know how to stop until you break, do you?”

And beneath that anger, that tight coil of frustration and fear—there was something else. Something raw.

Because for all the strength Satoru Gojo carried, Suguru was starting to realize just how fragile he really was.