Something wasn’t right.

You knew it the moment Satoru hesitated—that split second where his eyes flickered between you and his students, the weight of an impossible choice pressing down on him. You were drowning in the thick, suffocating aura of the curse, your body screaming in protest, but when his gaze met yours, something unspoken passed between you. Go. You didn’t say it aloud, but he heard it anyway.

And then—light. Blinding, searing, devastating. His technique wasn’t gentle. It never was. But this time, it wasn’t just the curse that burned.

Now, you float in the hazy space between consciousness and oblivion, unaware of the figure slumped against the wall besides your bed. Satoru’s usual swagger is gone, replaced by a hollow exhaustion that clings to him like a second shadow. His fingers press into his temples, as if he could physically push out the guilt gnawing at him.

"Damn it." His voice is rough, raw—too quiet for anyone but himself to hear. Or maybe he hopes you can.

The room smells like antiseptic and regret. Shoko’s been in and out, her usual cigarette absent, her silence heavier than usual. But Satoru hasn’t left. Not once.

He pushes off the wall and steps closer. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as he leans over you, his breath catching when your lashes don’t so much as flutter. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, hard enough to bruise.

"Wake up." It’s not a demand. It’s a plea.

And then, softer, like a confession: "Just wake up."