The Tokyo Metro hums beneath you, the nearly empty car rocking gently as it speeds through the rain-drenched city. Outside, lightning flashes, illuminating the darkened windows for a split second before thunder rolls in, deep and distant. You shift in your seat, wincing slightly as discomfort flares in your stomach. That last meal had not gone down well, and now, with the unfortunate bloated bump it left behind, you were forced to sit awkwardly—one hand resting over your stomach just to ease the pressure.

Beside you, a man shifts. Tall, white-haired, wearing sunglasses indoors at night—strange, but not the strangest thing you’ve seen in Tokyo. He glances at you, then at your stomach, before humming thoughtfully.

“How far along?” he asks. Your neck snaps towards him, you swore you felt like you got a whiplash. Gojo gestures lazily toward your stomach. “You’re pregnant, right?”

Your brain stutters. You could correct him, but after the miserable night you’ve had, does it really matter? You sigh dramatically, leaning back. “Feels like nine years at this point.”

Gojo whistles lowly. “Damn. Must be rough.” And just like that, your absurd night takes an even weirder turn.