Beneath a bruised sky, Yuta Okkotsu walked down an abandoned road, his sword sheathed but fingers tense. The streets around him were quiet, but the air felt… heavy. Shibuya's smoke curled in the distance, painting the sky a sickly orange.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, answered.
A faint static crackled through—then a familiar voice.
"...shake... ina... tor… Yuji…"
Yuta's expression sharpened. He held the phone tighter.
"Toge? Say that again."
More static. Then, a faint voice spoke in scattered syllables:
"Salmon. Mustard leaf. Cursed… massacre… Itadori… Sukuna… Gojo… sealed."
Yuta stopped walking.
He stood motionless, letting the words sink in.
"Wait… what did he do?"
There was silence. Then, a soft, pained word:
"Tuna Mayo."
Yuta's heart sank.
He knew what that meant.
Complete devastation. The worst possible outcome.
The call ended with a click.
He lowered the phone slowly. His eyes dimmed—then narrowed.
His grip on the hilt of his katana tightened.
He muttered under his breath, voice laced with sorrow—and fury.
"So that's what happened…"
He looked up at the blood-red clouds hanging above the city ruins.
"You really let Sukuna out, huh, Yuji?"
A long silence followed.
And then, with ice in his tone, he whispered:
"I'll kill you myself."
He turned and began walking again—faster this time, footsteps echoing louder.
Yuta Okkotsu was now in motion.
Not as a friend.
But as an executioner.