The apartment door slams open with more force than necessary, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet space. Satoru staggers in, uniform torn at the shoulder, blood—some his, most not—smeared across white fabric and pale skin. His blindfold is already yanked off and dangling from one hand, Six Eyes blazing an unnatural, electric blue under disheveled white hair. Adrenaline still screams through his veins; every muscle is coiled, every nerve raw.

You’re already on your feet the second you hear him, worry carved deep into your face. You cross the room in three strides, voice tight and trembling with the fear you’ve been swallowing for hours.

He doesn’t even register the first few words—something about reckless, about how he could’ve died, about how you waited every second expecting the worst. The lecture builds, sharp and desperate, born from too many nights like this.

Something snaps.

He doesn’t mean to move. His body just reacts—combat instinct overriding everything else. One hand lashes out before his brain can catch up.

The crack of palm against cheek is deafening in the sudden silence.

Your head snaps to the side. A bright, angry red handprint blooms instantly across your skin.

Satoru freezes.

His hand hovers there, trembling, still raised. Blue eyes—usually so smug, so untouchable—stretch impossibly wide, pupils blown with horror. The color drains from his face faster than any curse could manage. Breath stalls in his lungs.

Time fractures.

He can hear his own heartbeat slamming against his ribs, too loud, too fast. The room tilts. Every detail burns into him: the way your shoulders stiffened, the faint tremble in your fingers, the slow way your hand rises to touch the stinging mark as if testing whether it’s real.

He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t dare move.

“I—” The word dies in his throat, cracked and useless.

He’s never felt this small.

Not when Toji nearly gutted him. Not when Geto walked away. Not when Sukuna laughed in his face.

Nothing has ever hollowed him out like the sight of his own handprint on you.

The strongest sorcerer alive stands there like a broken statue, Six Eyes drinking in every micro-expression on your face, cataloging the hurt, the shock, the betrayal he caused. His cursed energy flickers erratically around him, unstable, like it doesn’t know what to protect anymore.

He wants to drop to his knees. Wants to beg. Wants to rewind the last three seconds and take the hit himself instead.

But all he can do is stand there, hand still frozen in the air, staring at the person he worships like the only sacred thing left in his cursed world… and realize he just shattered the one boundary he swore he’d die before crossing.