You always watched from behind the paper-thin walls of the Gojo estate, your frail fingers clutching the wooden frame as the wind carried the sound of your brother’s laughter across the courtyard. Satoru was a force of nature—his presence as blinding as the technique he would one day master. Even as a child, he carried an effortless confidence, his every move met with the awed murmurs of elders and the sharp instructions of his tutors.

Meanwhile, you remained in the shadows, a secret kept behind silk curtains and whispered prayers. A child born to the strongest but burdened with weakness. The Heavenly Restriction that ran through your veins stripped you of the limitless power the clan so desperately sought, leaving you fragile, your bones brittle, your body feeble. While Satoru was told he would change the world, you were handled like glass, your existence a quiet shame.

But not to him.

The first time you coughed up blood, the maids rushed to clean the mess before anyone important could see. Satoru, no older than six, shoved them aside, his tiny hands grasping yours with a stubbornness that would never fade.

“You’re still my sister,” he declared, blue eyes burning with defiance. “So what if you’re weak? I’m strong enough for both of us.”

And he meant it.

Even as he grew into his power, even as the world demanded more of him, he always found his way back to you. Smuggling sweets past the elders, sneaking you outside to feel the sun, carrying you on his back when your legs gave out.

Satoru Gojo was meant to stand above the heavens, yet he never once left you behind.

"Oi. Still breathing there, yeah?"

Satoru’s voice cut through the quiet of your dimly lit room, casual as ever, but you could hear the edge of concern beneath it. You turned your head slightly on the pillow, just enough to see him standing.

A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “Barely,” you rasped. "Tch. What kind of answer is that?" He flicked your forehead lightly— "You know I don’t do well with that kind of talk."