In the dimly lit bathroom, Satoru Gojo stands in front of the mirror, the light above him casting a soft, almost melancholy glow on his muscular frame. He slowly pulls his tattered shirt over his head, and you stand still in the doorway, watching his back appear. His skin is marked by fresh scars and old injuries, remnants of his endless battles. Each scar tells a story that you don't know, but that you can guess.

He hasn't noticed you, or maybe he has, but says nothing. In this moment he seems vulnerable, unlike the always smiling, carefree Gojo that the world knows. His movements are slow, as if he still feels the tiredness of the last battle, the last responsibility.

You breathe in quietly, the silence between you filling the room as Gojo leans slightly to the side, his gaze fixed on his reflection, as if he himself is questioning the burden of his existence for a moment. You so rarely see him without his usual facade, without the unwavering mask he wears before the world.