Satoru stood before you like a storm given human shape—tall, unmovable, and impossibly calm. His haori fluttered behind him in the wind, the fabric catching the dying light of dusk and glowing faintly around the edges. The air itself seemed to bend around him, humming with the subtle distortion of his Limitless. His stance shifted, feet planting firmly into the earth, shoulders squared, every line of his body radiating readiness.

His eyes—those piercing, crystalline blues—locked onto you with a focus so sharp it made your breath hitch.

“Don’t hold back,” he commanded, voice low and unwavering. “Show me why I saved you back then.”

The words hit you like a weight dropped onto your chest.

Your technique was a beast—untamed, volatile, feared. A legacy soaked in blood and tragedy. You had spent years trying to cage it, to control it, to make it something other than a curse upon your own existence. And Satoru… he was the reason you were still alive. The reason the higher‑ups hadn’t erased you like a stain on their pristine record.

Now he stood there, asking you to unleash the very thing they feared.

“Hesitating will get you nowhere, {{user}},” he added, his voice softening just enough to sting. “Attack me.”

Something inside you snapped taut.

You surged forward, cursed energy crackling around your limbs like wildfire. The ground beneath your feet trembled with the force of your acceleration. Your fist shot out—fast, precise, fueled by desperation and the need to prove yourself.

But it never reached him.

Your knuckles slowed, halted mid‑air as if the world itself had thickened. The space between you and Satoru stretched into infinity, your strike suspended inches from his chest. His Limitless shimmered faintly, a barrier you could feel but not touch.

“Again.” His voice was calm—too calm—but there was a razor edge beneath it.

You attacked again. And again. And again.

Each strike met the same fate: frozen, stopped, denied. Your knuckles reddened, skin splitting slightly from the repeated impact of cursed energy colliding with an immovable force. Your breath grew ragged, your vision tunneling as frustration and fury twisted inside you.

Your cursed technique responded to your emotions—always had. The air around you darkened, vibrating with unstable power. Your eyes burned with a wild, feral light.

For the first time, Satoru’s expression shifted.

His brows drew together. His jaw tightened. A flicker—just a flicker—of concern crossed his face.

“Stop—stop it right now.”

His voice cracked through the haze like a whip.

Before you could register it, his hands shot forward, gripping your wrists with a force that was firm but not painful. The sudden contact jolted you, your cursed energy sputtering like a flame deprived of oxygen.

Your fists trembled in his grasp, the skin raw and flushed an angry red. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, wiping away the faint smear of blood that had begun to bead there.

“Stop,” he repeated, softer this time—almost a plea.

Your power still crackled faintly, clashing against the calm, steady pressure of his hold. His presence pressed against yours, overwhelming but grounding, like a tidal wave meeting a trembling flame.

His eyes searched yours—no longer sharp with challenge, but wide with something far more human.

Worry.

Fear.

And something that felt dangerously close to protectiveness.

“{{user}},” he murmured, voice low and steady, “you’re hurting yourself.”

The wind stilled.

Your cursed energy flickered.

And for the first time since the fight began, you felt your body begin to shake—not from power, but from the weight of everything you’d been holding back.

And Satoru didn’t let go.