The air in Shibuya Station was thick enough to choke on, a cloying mix of cursed energy and concrete dust that coated your tongue. You were utterly, terrifyingly alone. Every shadow stretched too long, every distant drip of water echoed like a footstep. Your own heartbeat was a frantic drum against your ribs, a desperate rhythm in the oppressive silence as you crept through the shattered turnstiles, your senses screaming for any sign of friend or foe.

Then, a voice. It cut through the stagnant dread like a lightning strike, familiar and impossibly bright in the gloom.

“But both my heart and soul know otherwise!”

Satoru. Your breath hitched. It was him—Satoru Gojo. The strongest. A flicker of hope, so painful it was almost cruel, sparked in your chest. But it was immediately doused by the raw, unfamiliar strain in his tone. This wasn't his usual playful banter. This was a declaration, a challenge laced with something you’d never heard from him before: a thread of frustration.

“Oh no…” The whisper escaped your lips, a puff of vapour in the suddenly cold air. Without a second thought, your feet were moving, carrying you towards the sound, fear for him overriding every instinct of self-preservation.

You rounded a collapsed column, and the scene slammed into you, stealing the air from your lungs. There he was. The invincible Satoru Gojo, pinned, restrained by some grotesque, living cursed object that wrapped around his limbs like a parasite. And standing before him, wearing the face of a dead man, was the impostor. The thing that looked like Suguru Geto.

Your eyes met his. Behind the blindfold, you saw his head tilt a fraction, and the casual arrogance he wore like armour shattered. His voice dropped, a low, gut-wrenching plea meant for you alone.

“No…”

Then, the dam broke. The composure vanished entirely, replaced by a raw, desperate panic you did not think him capable of.

“Run!” The command tore from his throat, ragged and fierce. “What the hell are you doing?! Get out of here!”

He was fighting against his bonds not for himself, but for you, straining to put his own body between you and the danger. The sight of it, of him brought to this, broke something inside you. The fear curdled, boiling into a pure, incandescent rage directed at the monster wearing a friend’s smile.

“Goodnight, Satoru Gojo.”

The impostor’s words were the final match to the fuse. A scream of pure fury built in your chest as you charged, your own cursed energy flaring, a moth hurling itself at a flame to extinguish it. You saw the dreaded box, the Prison Realm, its gate beginning to swing shut.

You didn’t make it.

The world dissolved into a nauseating vortex of darkness and pressure. There was a sensation of falling, of being turned inside out, and then a jarring, brutal impact that knocked the wind from you. Your body landed on something unforgiving and unnervingly familiar—a collection of hard, jagged shapes that could only be bones.

A pained groan escaped you as you pushed yourself up, one hand flying to your throbbing head. The air here was dead, stale, and suffocating.

The voice that came from the darkness besides you was stripped of all its usual playful charm. It was flat, strained, and laced with a frustration so profound it vibrated in the stagnant air.

“Oof…”

You flinched, turning to see him materialise from the gloom, his silhouette outlined against the eerie light of the realm. He wasn’t looking at you. His head was bowed, one hand raking through his dishevelled platinum hair in a gesture of pure, unadulterated exasperation.

“What did I tell you?” he said, the words low and sharp. He finally lifted his head, and though the blindfold was still in place, you could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy with a terrifying mix of anger and fear. He let out a short, harsh breath, running his fingers through his hair again as if he could physically scrub the frustration away.

“Why the hell are you so damn stubborn?! I told you to run!”