I don't remember choosing to stop.
One moment I'm walking because something inside me insists I should—and the next, my legs simply refuse.
The ground feels closer than it should.
I slide down against rough stone, the chill seeping through my clothes immediately. My palms scrape as I brace myself, skin burning, breath leaving me in a sharp exhale I didn't prepare for.
The voices don't follow me here.
That's what finally makes me lift my head.
Above me, the opening I came through is still visible—but barely. Light fractures as it squeezes through the narrowing gap, thin and pale, like it's being swallowed inch by inch. For a second, it looks almost like a star collapsing.
Then it's gone.
Not darkness.
Stone.
Complete. Absolutely.
The kind of quiet that presses in instead of echoing back.
I sit there longer than I should, back against the rock, hands resting uselessly in my lap. My body feels hollowed out. Like something scooped through me and left only what it didn't want.
"That was…" I breathe out, then huff a weak laugh. "Yeah. That was reckless."
My thoughts blur at the edges, like a picture pulled out of focus but never fully gone.
The presence I felt earlier—the pull that kept insisting straight—hasn't disappeared. It's softer now. Distant. Not a command anymore, just a reminder. Like something standing close enough that I'd feel it if it moved.
Waiting.
I don't answer it.
Not because I can't—but because I choose not to.
Instead, I sit until my breathing evens out. Until my cursed energy settles back into something manageable. Until the pressure behind my eyes dulls into a headache instead of a command.
When I finally stand, my legs protest hard enough that I have to pause, palm flat against the wall. The stone feels warmer now. Or maybe I'm colder.
The path back isn't obvious.
But it opens anyway.
Just a subtle shift in the rock, a narrow incline where there wasn't one before—like the place has decided I've lingered long enough.
Climbing out feels harder than going in.
By the time I break through the tree line, the air hits my lungs too fast. Cold, sharp, real. I stagger forward, boots scraping over dirt and fallen leaves, until my knees give out near the boundary stone.
That's when I sit.
I don't know how long I'm there—head bowed, fingers clenched in the fabric of my sleeve—before footsteps reach me.
Too unfamiliar to fit in here.
I do not look up.
"You disappeared," Nanami says.
No greeting.
I close my eyes briefly. "I didn't."
"That's not what your phone says."
I drag it out of my pocket, stare at the dead screen like it might explain itself. It doesn't.
Footsteps shift closer. I feel his presence before I see him—the way cursed energy settles when someone competent enters the space.
When I finally look up, I know he's already checked everything—without saying a word. The grime on my clothes. Sweat on my skin. The way I'm holding myself. Even the rhythm of my breathing
"How long were you inside?" he asks.
I open my mouth.
"A day," I say slowly. Then quieter, "Maybe less."
Nanami's jaw tightens. Just enough to notice if you're looking for it.
"You left a week ago."
The words land wrong… misplaced. Like someone put them in the wrong sentence.
I blink. "That's not possible."
He doesn't argue.
He just adjusts his glasses."Then something here isn't behaving normally," he says.
I huff despite myself.
"My phone just died," I say, weak even to my own ears.
Nanami watches me for a long second, then asks, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
I turn my head back toward the trees.
They look ordinary again. Old. Quiet. Patient. Like they've always been here and will continue to be long after me.
"I didn't go all the way," I say.
He nods once. Accepts it without asking what 'all the way' means.
"That's enough for today," he says. "Anything beyond that rarely ends well."
He steps slightly in front of me then—not blocking my view entirely, just enough that the forest is no longer centred in my line of sight.
"Come on," he adds. "You can explain later. Somewhere that doesn't distort time."
I push myself up, legs unsteady but functional.
As we walk away, I glance back once.
There's no sign of where I entered.
No opening. No scar in the earth.
Just trees.
Waiting.
And for the first time since the cave closed behind me, my head goes quiet.
Not peaceful.
Just… still.
Like something has decided I'm not done yet—
but it can afford to wait.
I don't realise how bad I look until Nanami opens the car door.
Cold air rushes in, headlights catching mud dried into my boots, streaks along my jeans, and blood long since wiped away but still staining the fabric darker than rain ever could. My hands are trembling enough that Nanami notices immediately.
He doesn't comment.
He takes off his coat and drapes it over my shoulders first.
"Sit," he says, firmly.
I obey.
The seat is warm. Too warm. My body reacts late, like it forgot it was allowed comfort. My teeth chatter once before I can stop it.
Nanami shuts the door and circles to the driver's side, but before getting in, he opens the trunk again. A paper bag. Another smaller one.
He returns and places them carefully between us.
"You haven't eaten," he says.
Inside the bag are energy bars, sealed sandwiches, and bottled juice.
I stare at them, then at him. "Do you always… carry a convenience store with you?"
"No."
I pick up the juice. My fingers fumble. He notices.
"I bought them," he adds, eyes forward, starting the engine, "because I knew you'd be hungry."
I twist the cap open and drink slowly. The sugar hits my bloodstream like I've been starving longer than I thought.
"I wasn't hungry in there," I murmur before I can stop myself.
"In the tree?"
I nod.
"Time distortion," he explains. Then, after a pause, "Or worse."
He took out sanitiser.
"You don't like eating with dirty hands," he says.
I turn my palm toward him without thinking.
"That's impressive you reme—"
His gaze drops.
He doesn't reach for the sanitiser.
He takes my palm, turns it slightly, and then stops.
The cut is deep, but not dangerously so. Clean edges.
His thumb stills for half a second before he reaches into the glove compartment again.
Antiseptic. Gauze.
He cleans the wound carefully, slower now, deliberate. The sting makes me flinch, and his grip adjusts immediately
He wraps the gauze neatly and tapes it down with practised ease. Like this is normal.
When he's finished, he sets my hand back in my lap, fingers lingering just long enough to make my chest feel strange.
"Next time," he says, eyes back on the road, "don't use your hands for rituals."
I almost smile.
Almost.
I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite.
I pull my phone out and plug it into the charger built into his console. The screen lights up immediately—too bright, too sudden.
Notifications flood in.
Messages. Missed calls. I ignored it.
And then—there it is.
And then my phone vibrates.
One notification.
Instagram.
Gojo Satoru added to his story.
Nanami sees it.
Not the screen—my reaction.
The way my shoulders lock. For the fraction of a second my thumb hovers, like it's forgotten how to move.
I open it anyway.
Gojo fills the screen immediately. Too close to the camera, like he always does. White hair still damp, pushed back messily, a few strands falling forward no matter how often he tries to tame them. No blindfold covering his eyes, revealing that impossible blue—bright even under club lighting, sharp enough to cut through the neon bleeding behind him.
A mirror shot.
Lights flicker pink and electric violet around his reflection, catching on the curve of his smile.
The caption sits casually at the bottom:
"Late-night training. Don't ask where. 😌✨"
I snort quietly. "He's insufferable."
Nanami says nothing.
But the air in the car shifts—just slightly—like something unspoken has been acknowledged and left alone.
But the silence is different now. Tighter.
"You follow him?" he enquired.
"Fake account," I mutter. "I shouldn't."
He nods once. Slow.
"I assumed."
The word lands heavier than it should.
Before I can respond, Nanami's phone rings.
Gojo Satoru.
Nanami exhales sharply through his nose. Irritated.
He answers. "What?"
"Wow," Gojo says brightly. "You sound busy."
"I am."
"With what?" Gojo asks immediately. Too quick.
Nanami glances at me.
Signals with his eyes: don't speak.
I turn my face away and stare out the window. My reflection looks pale. Smaller than I remember. My nose tingles—dry, itchy—probably dust
"Late-night missions?" Gojo continues. "Or did you finally get a life?"
Nanami tightens his grip on the wheel. "Say what you want and hang up."
There's a pause.
Then Gojo laughs. Soft. Knowing.
"…You're not alone," he says.
Nanami doesn't answer.
Then Gojo laughs—low, amused. The kind that says he already knows.
"…You're not alone," he says.
Nanami doesn't respond.
Gojo hums, thoughtful. "Interesting."
The tickle in my nose spikes. I turn away just in time but—
A sharp, involuntary sneeze cuts through the car, too loud for such a small space.
The call goes quiet.
"…Nanamin," Gojo says slowly, amusement creeping into his voice, "was that a girl?"
Nanami's jaw tightens. "No."
"Oooh," Gojo drags it out. "That was the least convincing no I've heard all week."
Silence stretches.
Gojo chuckles. "Relax. I'm joking. You deserve company. God knows you're unbearable on your own."
A pause. Then—
"Though," he adds lightly, "tell her to stop watching my stories. It's weirdly motivating."
My breath stalls.
Nanami's gaze flicks toward me before he can stop it.
Gojo laughs, unbothered. "Kidding."
"You should put her on speaker," Gojo says, voice bright, almost polite. "She owe me an apologize for stealing my chauffeur—."
Nanami doesn't answer.
He ends the call.
The car keeps moving.
For a few seconds, there's only the sound of tyres cutting through wet asphalt.
Without looking at me, he says, "Rest when we get back."
"I'll wake you up."