The room hummed with quiet beeps and the soft rustle of fabric. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over white sheets, over trembling hands, over the stillness of the moment. The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mingling with something warmer, something new.

Satoru Gojo stood beside the hospital bed, motionless. His usual effortless confidence had melted into something unreadable, something softer. The blindfold was gone, revealing weary but astonished eyes, their striking blue dimmed with unspoken emotion. His breath hitched, barely audible.

Nestled in the crook of fragile arms, a newborn stirred. Tiny fingers twitched, curling toward the warmth of life. Wisps of white hair peeked through the folds of a hospital blanket, a mirror of his own, yet softer, untouched by the weight of the world. Her chest rose and fell in slow, delicate rhythms, oblivious to the storm of emotions crashing within her father.

You feel the bed shift as he moves closer, his presence overwhelming even in this quiet moment. He is silent—Gojo Satoru, the strongest, the untouchable, now utterly still. Then, a shuddering breath. His hand, always steady, always confident, trembles as he reaches out. Fingers that have bent the world to his will now hover, hesitant, above the smallest hand imaginable.

You glance up. His infinity means nothing here—nothing between him and the life you created together.

Gojo exhaled, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He reached out, fingertips brushing against impossibly small knuckles. A quiet tremor ran through his hands.

For the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo felt something heavier than power, more terrifying than battle.

He felt fatherhood settle in his bones.

“Oh— fuck.”