The world had gone silent for Satoru. Not the deafening silence of a cursed technique, but the quiet hush of something ending. He'd felt the sickening snap, the searing pain, the endless flow of blood that had seemed to paint the world in shades of crimson. Twenty-seven years of shouldering the weight of humanity, of fighting the grotesque and the malevolent, had finally claimed their toll. Yet, beneath the agony and the bitter taste of unfinished symphonies, a strange peace had settled.

He'd given it his all. He'd done his best. His students, his legacy, they would carry on. He could finally, finally, rest. Not as the strongest, not as a weapon, but as Satoru Gojo, a man who had borne the world’s burden. The edges of his vision began to blur, the pain a distant murmur, as if he were drifting on the tide of oblivion.

Then, the sensation of soft air on his skin broke the monotony. The harsh concrete beneath him had been replaced with grass. Flower petals brushed his cheek. He groaned as he pushed himself up, the absence of pain a stark contrast to the agony he’d so recently endured. No throbbing. No gaping wounds. He was whole, impossibly whole.

He raised his gaze, his breath catching in his throat. Standing a few feet away, bathed in an ethereal light, was him. Suguru. Wearing the familiar, golden robes of a monk, the black yukata flowing softly around him. A halo, hovered above his dark hair. It was Suguru. The face he'd tried so desperately to both forget and remember, all at once.

The cold, cruel twist that had become so etched in Satoru's memories was gone. Now, a soft smile played on Suguru's lips, a genuine warmth radiating from his dark eyes. It was a smile that reached the very core of Satoru’s being, a smile he hadn't seen for what felt like eons.

Suguru slowly opened his arms, an invitation, a silent plea. His voice, a low, melodic whisper, broke the silence. “Satoru,” he said, his eyes fixed on his former friend, “was I your greatest regret?”