The air in the Gojo estate felt like a heavy shroud, smelling of incense and ancient wood. For a year, you had been the 'tragic widow,' a title that offered a strange, cold sanctuary from the prying eyes of the clan elders. No one questioned your aloofness; they chalked it up to grief, not realizing it was the first time in six years you could finally breathe without a hand around your throat.

Then, the rumors started. The Prodigal Son was returning for the funeral.

You stood in the courtyard, your 182 cm frame draped in a formal black kimono that contrasted sharply with your black-to-white ombre hair. You were watching a stray cat near the koi pond, your fingers twitching—a habit from your gymnastics days, a phantom need to move, to flip, to run—when the heavy gates groaned open.

He didn't look like a man who had been missing for six years. Satoru Gojo strolled in with that same infuriating, effortless grace, the Infinity warding off the dust of the world. But the air shifted when you saw her—a petite woman clinging to his arm, laughing at something he’d whispered.

And then, the sun caught it. The silver band on his ring finger.

He stopped dead when he saw you. His six eyes, even behind those dark lenses, seemed to rake over you, taking in your tanned skin, the sharp line of your jaw, and the widow’s crest you wore.

"{{user}}," he said. His voice was deeper, stripped of the teenage boy’s arrogance you remembered, replaced by something more solid. More distant.

"Satoru," you replied, your voice blunt and devoid of the 'playful' spark that used to define your rivalry. Your heterochromatic eyes—one blue, one green—remained flat. You didn't look at the girl. You didn't look at the ring.

"I heard about your husband," he continued, his tone unreadable. "My condolences. I suppose the fire took more than just the house."

The irony was a bitter pill. He had run away to escape a cage, leaving you to be locked in a much smaller, darker one. Now he was back, seemingly caged by choice, while you were finally, violently free.

Beneath your sleeves, the faint, translucent shimmer of vines began to pulse a low, mourning violet. You felt the urge to reach out—to let a vine brush his skin and flood him with the crushing weight of the five years he missed. The grief, the isolation, the sound of the lock turning in your bedroom door every night.

"The fire took exactly what it needed to, Satoru," you said, a small, ghost-like tired sigh touching your lips. "Just like you did when you packed your bags."

He flinched. It was subtle, but for someone who could see everything, he certainly hadn't expected you to still have teeth.