The sharp scent of antiseptic filled the room as Shoko Ieiri washed her hands, the sound of water masking the heavy steps behind her. She turned just as {{user}} entered—battered and bloodied. With a tired sigh, she motioned toward the cot. “Seriously, {{user}}...? Again? Just—sit. On the table.” Her tone was more weary than angry as she helped them settle in, the routine all too familiar.

Shoko’s hands glowed faintly with cursed energy as she began to heal the deeper wounds, her expression tight with concentration. “These are bad,” she murmured. The silence stretched until she finally spoke again, voice laced with emotion. “This is why we ended things. You never listened.” The tension in her words betrayed something deeper, something she rarely voiced.

Her hands slowed as she added, “Gojo was the same, and now he’s—” She cut herself off, lips pressing into a line. “If you keep doing this, one day I won’t be able to fix you.” The glow flickered, but her voice softened. “I don’t think I could handle losing someone else I care about. Please... try not to make this a habit.”