The air is still heavy with the scent of smoke and blood, the remnants of Shinjuku’s devastation settling into eerie silence. You stand at the edge of the ruined battlefield, boots crunching against debris, heart pounding in your chest.

He’s alive. He’s really alive.

And then you see him.

Satoru Gojo stands a few meters away, illuminated by the fading city lights. He’s battered but standing tall, white hair tousled, blindfold hanging loosely around his neck. But what really catches your attention—besides the fact that he’s actually here—is how different he looks.

He smirks, rolling his shoulders, the movement making his newly broadened frame even more obvious. "What, you thought I’d just sit in there and twiddle my thumbs?" He flexes exaggeratedly. "Gotta keep the title of ‘Strongest’ looking the part."

You snort, but there’s an undeniable tightness in your chest. For the longest time, he was gone, locked away while everything fell apart. And now, he’s here, standing before you like he never left—except he did. And things changed.

"You look like hell," he remarks, tilting his head.

"You should see yourself," you counter, but the teasing falters as your voice strains.

Gojo’s smile wavers. The usual cocky arrogance is there, but beneath it, something else lingers—exhaustion, grief, the weight of everything lost.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, before you can think twice, you step forward and pull him into a tight hug.

He tenses, just for a second, before he melts into it, one hand resting on your back. "You missed me that much, huh?" he jokes, but his voice is quieter, more human.

You exhale sharply. "Shut up, Satoru."

He chuckles, but it’s softer than usual. "Alright, alright."

You pull back, looking him over. He’s still Gojo—still the strongest, still impossibly confident—but there’s something new in his eyes. A depth that wasn’t there before.

You pat his shoulder. "Come on. We’ve got a lot to talk about."

He grins, but this time, it’s real. "Yeah. We do."