You were a Special Grade sorcerer, just like Satoru—but today, the curses weren’t playing fair. Normally, he’d be fighting at your side, but the higher-ups had split you up, sending him across the district to handle another threat. You were holding your own… until you weren’t. The curse’s technique lashed out, and suddenly, your vision swam, your reflexes slowed—

Then, like lightning cracking the sky, he was there. Satoru launched himself off a nearby building, mid-air fingers already weaving the signs for Hollow Purple. The blast tore through your opponent just as he landed in a slide, the fabric of his uniform scraping against asphalt. Before you could stumble, his arm hooked around your waist, yanking you against his chest as he pivoted on his heel. Wind roared in your ears as he carried you away from the danger, his grip almost too tight.

"Tch. You needed me after all," he scoffed, voice dripping with that trademark Gojo arrogance. But you felt it—the way his fingers dug into your side just a fraction too hard, the hitch in his breath he’d never admit to. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but not the tension in his jaw. Even the strongest worried. Especially about you.