The moon hung low and dim over Tokyo Jujutsu High, its pale glow filtering through drifting clouds. In the quiet of the evening, the air seemed to settle around the campus like a held breath, waiting for something to break it.
Inside one of the older training halls, the flickering light of a single paper lantern illuminated the cracked floorboards. Geto Suguru sat cross-legged at the center, eyes closed, cursed spirits flickering in and out around him like shadows tethered to his will. Their movement had changed lately—they hesitated more, almost as if reading the unease in their master.
His concentration faltered.
He opened his eyes.
In the past week since Kishibe's recovery, something had shifted. Missions resumed. Jokes were exchanged. But the balance between them had tilted in ways that weren't yet spoken aloud. Something about Kishibe's silence dug under Geto's skin.
He heard the door creak open. Kishibe entered with slow, deliberate steps. Bandages still peeked from beneath his uniform, but his movements had lost the stiffness of convalescence.
"You're late," Geto said.
"Didn't know we were scheduled."
"We weren't. I just figured you'd come."
Kishibe didn't reply right away. He dropped to sit opposite Geto, unsheathing his blade and laying it across his knees like a ritual. "You been talking to Gojo?"
"Avoiding him, mostly. He won't stop asking about Hollow Purple."
A scoff from Kishibe. "Figures."
They sat in silence for a while, not meditating, not quite conversing either. Just breathing in the same space. Eventually, Geto spoke again.
"Do you ever think about her? The girl?"
Kishibe didn't answer immediately.
"Yeah," he said. "But I try not to."
"Why?"
"Because remembering hurts. And forgetting feels worse."
Geto looked at him then, eyes dark with something close to shame. "I blamed you. At first. I wanted it to be someone's fault. I wanted it to be yours so I wouldn't have to think it might be mine."
Kishibe didn't flinch. "I know."
Geto swallowed hard. "I think we're starting to become what the higher-ups want us to be. Strong. Efficient. Disposable."
"Or we're just seeing things clearer. Strength has a price. We just never asked how high."
Before Geto could respond, another presence stepped into the room. Gojo, barefoot, his white uniform half undone like he never fully put himself together.
"Wow, moody. Should I come back later?"
"You already ruined the atmosphere," Geto muttered.
Gojo plopped himself down next to them, grinning lazily. "You two are acting like we're already dead. You know we survived, right?"
Kishibe looked at him with a half-smile. "You're late."
"Yeah well, I stopped for ice cream. Want some?"
He pulled out a small tub from inside his uniform sleeve. Somehow not melted. Kishibe stared.
"You're insane."
"I'm consistent."
The ice cream was passed around. It wasn't much, but the laughter that followed was real. Brief. Then Geto sobered.
"I had a dream last night," he said.
They both turned to him.
"I dreamt we were fighting and no one came back. Not even the curses. Just... emptiness."
Kishibe finished his spoonful. "I dreamt about my mother again. Same one as always."
Gojo leaned back, arms behind his head. "I didn't dream. But I woke up with a feeling. Like something's coming."
Geto nodded slowly. "It is."
None of them said the words. Not yet. But the Star Plasma Vessel loomed on the horizon like a shadow stretching forward through time.
And this was their last quiet night.