The air reeked of blood and burnt concrete. My own blood, mostly. Each ragged breath sent a jolt of agony through my abdomen, where Mahito's hand had punched through, twisting and contorting my insides into a Gordian knot of pain. I lay sprawled amongst the rubble of Shibuya, the flickering neon lights of the surviving buildings painting grotesque shadows across the scene.

Gojo wasn't here. Of course he wasn't. He was sealed. That knowledge, a cold lump in my chest, was almost as painful as the wound itself. I had promised myself, more times than I could count, that I wouldn't die before seeing him again. That I'd get to see that infuriatingly cocky grin, hear his arrogant laugh, feel the electric buzz of his presence that always made the world seem a little bit brighter.

Then, a shadow fell over me.

He was a figure of impossible grace, even amidst the chaos. Gojo Satoru. His blindfold was gone, revealing the swirling cosmos contained within his Six Eyes. Usually, those eyes crinkled with amusement, a teasing glint that promised mischief. Now, they were cold, a terrifying, all-seeing azure.

"You idiot," he said, his voice a low growl that cut through the cacophony. He knelt beside me, the movement fluid and quick despite the carnage surrounding him. "What did you think you were doing?"