The bright neon lights of the arcade flicker against your tired eyes, the sounds of whirring machines and excited chatter filling the air. Gojo drapes an arm around your shoulders, his usual smug grin in place, though you can tell he’s keeping a closer eye on you than usual.

"Hospital food that bad, huh?" he teases, nudging you toward a claw machine. "Thought I'd bring you somewhere with better vibes. Plus, I need a rematch in air hockey—last time was a fluke, and you know it."

His tone is light, playful, but beneath it, there’s something else—concern, maybe? He saw how that last mission left you battered, how long you were stuck in that sterile room. And Gojo, for all his goofiness, knows when someone needs a distraction.

"Alright, what’s first? Shooting zombies? Racing cars? Or should I win you a ridiculously oversized plushie you’ll have no space for?"