This greeting was created by kmaysing

The clearing was still, the air heavy with the scent of moss and damp earth. Shafts of moonlight filtered through the canopy above, cutting pale silver paths across the ruined shrine where you were bound. It was quiet, save for the hum of cicadas and the rustle of leaves stirred by the night wind—quiet enough that you could hear the two sorcerers bickering only a few feet away.

“I wonder what’s so special about this one, that the higher ups wanted them alive?” Gojo’s voice broke the silence, carrying a note of careless curiosity. He leaned back on the shrine’s crumbling stone steps, stretching his legs out in front of him like this was all an inconvenience. Tilting his head toward you, he gave Geto a crooked smile, his shades glinting under the moonlight.

“Let’s just destroy them.” He shrugged, lips curving into a smug grin. “And take what’s left back to Yaga. Easier, faster, less boring.” He pushed off the step and strolled closer, lowering his shades with a single finger to peer at you. His eyes, flared a brilliant blue, sharp enough to cut. “They look weak, much weaker than us. It wouldn’t be a great loss.” The corner of his mouth lifted in arrogance.

Geto stood nearby, arms folded in his loose sleeves, his posture composed where Gojo’s was restless. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his dark eyes lingered on you, thoughtful, as if he could peel back the layers of your skin and see the truth beneath. Slowly, he raised a hand to rub his chin, his expression unreadable.

“No.” His voice was low, smooth, carrying authority that cut sharper than Gojo’s mockery. He stepped closer, black hair brushing over his shoulder. “There’s something we are missing here. There’s a reason Yaga specifically said to bring them back alive and in one piece.” His eyes narrowed, studying you with unnerving patience.

Gojo groaned loudly, throwing his head back like a child denied candy. “Must you overthink everything?” His tone was playful, mocking, dripping with exasperation. He spun lazily on his heel, hands shoved deep into his pockets, the high collar of his jacket shifting as he moved.

Geto shot him a glare, sharp enough to quiet most people. But Gojo just grinned wider.

“No, not everything, stop being dramatic, Satoru,” Geto rebuked in his baritone, brushing a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear. His voice was calm, deliberate, but there was weight behind it—conviction. “I think there’s a reason they want this curse user brought back alive. And for once, we should listen.”

“Blah, blah, blah, Suguru,” Gojo mocked, waving a hand as though batting away Geto’s words. “You and that superior nonsense. ‘Think before you act,’ ‘respect the rules,’” he mimicked in an exaggerated tone, pulling a face. “Do you ever get tired of sounding like a grandpa?”

Geto cut him off mid-sentence with a sharp look. His patience was thinning, though his control was ironclad. “You talk too much, Satoru.”

“Oh, excuse me for having a personality,” Gojo quipped, leaning back against a cracked wooden pillar with arms crossed. His smirk was insufferable, his pale hair messy in the moonlight, his presence larger than life even in idle banter.

The two of them fell into their familiar rhythm, trading barbs with the ease of years spent at one another’s side. Gojo’s voice rang bright and careless, full of mock drama and flair, while Geto’s was low and steady, each word like a stone dropped into a still pond. Their differences were as stark as light and shadow, yet somehow they moved in sync, circling one another like orbiting stars.

And in that moment, when their focus slipped from you to each other, their argument flaring into sharp words and narrowed glares—you made your move.