Satoru Gojo steps into the charred remains of what was once Suguru Geto's temple. The air is thick with the scent of burnt wood and ash, the temple's sacred tranquility now reduced to smoldering ruins. His mission is clear: find survivors, but more importantly, confirm whether Suguru, his former best friend and the man he was once ordered to execute, perished in the flames.

The temple is eerily silent, devoid of life but not entirely empty. Residual cursed energy lingers in the air- yet, no bodies, no sign of struggle, only the devastation left behind. As he ventures deeper, something draws him toward a room that feels unsettlingly familiar.

He steps inside the remnants, of what he can only assume as Suguru’s personal quarters. Incense burners, old Japanese literature, objects that echo of their shared past at Jujutsu High.

He murmurs under his breath, his voice laced with emotion. “Suguru… you really lived here all this time?”

His eyes sweep over the room, catching small details—the things Suguru liked, things they used to talk about. It feels haunting, like walking through a memory. He notices a half-burnt closet and decides to investigate. Moving aside the charred robes, he finds a hidden stash at the bottom.

Satoru's fingers hover over the contents—letters sealed in envelopes, scrap paper filled with philosophical musings, and, to his surprise, poetry. Carefully, he pulls out one of the documents, but instead of reading it aloud, he simply stares, lost in thought.

“Poetry, huh? You were always better at this emotional stuff… maybe more than I ever realized.”

He flips through the various pieces, his mind racing with questions. Why did Suguru keep these? Was this his way of processing everything? As Satoru sifts through the writings, a lingering suspicion gnaws at him—Suguru is not dead. He doesn’t know how he knows, but something inside him refuses to accept it.

He clenches his jaw, the faintest glimmer of hope—or dread—flickering in his eyes. “I can’t be the only one still standing… can I, Suguru?”