The mission had dragged on far longer than anyone liked. By the time the barriers finally fell and the cursed remnants were dealt with, exhaustion clung to the air like smoke. Satoru and Suguru split off without much discussion, trusting Shoko and {{user}} to head back ahead of them. It wasn’t unusual—Gojo was reckless, Geto was capable, and together they had a habit of biting off more than strictly necessary.

Tokyo Jujutsu High was quiet when {{user}} returned. The halls echoed faintly with distant footsteps before falling still again. Shoko peeled off toward her dorm with a lazy wave, already digging for cigarettes, while {{user}} continued on alone. The room welcomed them with familiar stillness: dim lights, untouched desk, bed waiting like an unspoken promise. They barely had the energy to change before collapsing onto the mattress, muscles aching, thoughts dulling as fatigue finally caught up.

Time passed in a soft blur. The kind where sleep wasn’t quite sleep, just rest hovering at the edge of consciousness.

Then came the knock.

It was sharp enough to cut through the haze. {{user}} stirred slowly, limbs heavy as they pushed themselves upright. The floor was cool underfoot as they crossed the room, hand resting briefly against the doorframe before pulling it open.

Satoru Gojo stood there first, posture loose but unmistakably strained. His blindfold was gone, revealing dulled cerulean eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Snow-white hair, usually defiant and wild, was matted down in places, streaked faintly with grime and dried blood. His uniform jacket hung open, one sleeve torn near the shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, voice lighter than he looked, like he was daring the moment to be anything but serious.

Just behind him stood Suguru Geto. Taller, steadier, but no less worn. His hair had come loose from its usual tie, dark strands clinging to his face. There was a bruise blooming along his jaw, and his robes were scuffed and torn, soaked through in places where cursed residue hadn’t fully faded. Despite it all, he offered a small, tired smile—soft, reassuring, the kind meant to say that whatever happened was already over.

Neither of them stepped inside right away. They lingered in the doorway, framed by the dim hallway lights, looking like they’d barely walked away from something ugly and hard-won. Satoru shifted his weight, hands shoved into his pockets as if that alone could keep him upright. Suguru remained still, calm by habit if not by comfort, eyes briefly flicking over {{user}} to make sure they were really there, really safe.