Chapter Text
Death is like a warm cradle,
A gentle rest, a fleeting sigh,
From one life’s end, to another’s start,
A cycle born, to live, to die.
Death is not the end
Chapter - 1
Death was said to be a warm cradle, the kind that mirrored the hold of a mother. It was a path, eternal and unbroken, welcoming those who wandered onto it with quiet, tender warmth. A soft, golden glow, like the first kiss of winter sunlight after the endless stretch of dark, biting nights.
Satoru Gojo had expected rest. Craved it, really. He was ready to let his students take the stage, their shoulders bracing the weight he’d carried for far too long. It was someone else’s turn to bear the title, to shoulder the burden of being the strongest.
And maybe—if some flicker of mercy existed in the universe—Suguru would be there, too. The thought twisted something sharp and unbearable in his chest, leaving him breathless. What would he do first? Slap the shit out of him for all the pain he left behind? Or crush him in a hold so fierce it would shatter whatever afterlife they had stumbled into? Probably both. Definitely both.
Life as a Jujutsu Sorcerer was a relentless, unforgiving grind. It demanded everything and returned nothing. But surely, just this once, the cosmos could be kind. Surely, it could let him see his best friend again, even if only for a fleeting moment. Didn’t he deserve that much? He wasn’t just anyone, after all. He was Gojo Satoru. The Six Eyes. The Limitless. The strongest of all time.
And yet…
And yet, this wasn’t what he’d expected.
Not at all.
Even the Six Eyes couldn’t have predicted this nightmare.
Satoru woke gasping, choking on air that felt jagged in his throat, as if some cruel hand had snatched it away and then shoved it back in with force. His vision adjusted with unnatural speed, every detail rushing at him in sharp, painful clarity. He could sense everything—every shift, every particle—but what screamed loudest was the relentless, searing pain radiating from his right arm.
It was agony, raw and unfiltered, as if his own infinity had betrayed him.
His gaze dropped, and his breath hitched. Blood. So much blood. It poured from his arm in sluggish rivulets, pooling beneath him in a dark, accusing smear. The cuts ran deep, harsh grooves carved into his flesh, as if mocking the idea that he could ever be untouchable.
He healed them with ease—a reflex born of endless battles and sheer necessity—but the blood remained, staining the floor in thick, unrelenting crimson. It almost touched his shorts (when the hell had he worn that?), and he shifted instinctively, trying to avoid the sticky warmth that clung to the ground like a warning.
His left hand tightened, almost involuntarily, and that’s when he felt it.
The sharp, biting weight of something cold and foreign nestled in his palm, cutting into his skin like it
A razor.
The realization struck like a shard of glass, sharp and unforgiving. He winced as it clattered to the floor, the sound hollow against the tile. His wounds knitted back together almost instantly, but the phantom sting remained, a cruel echo.
What the fuck?
His head throbbed, pulsing with an ache that felt too big for his skull, like his senses were caught in an endless loop of overload. The room swirled with residual energy—something faintly cursed, yet not quite. Six Eyes registered it as fragments, faint and scattered, smeared like fingerprints across the bathroom walls (how the fuck did he end up in a bathroom?).
Legs trembling like they’d forgotten their purpose, he pushed himself upright. Each movement felt foreign, wrong, as though his body wasn’t his own. And then his gaze caught the mirror.
The reflection stared back—a stranger wearing his face.
His clothes hung loose and disheveled, soaked in streaks of blood that clung to the fabric like accusations. The pristine white of his shirt was long gone, swallowed by a deep, clinging crimson. His frame looked thinner, frailer, like the life had been siphoned out of him. His complexion was ghostly, a sickly pale hue that made his crystalline eyes seem brighter than they ever had—an unsettling glimmer in a face that barely felt like his.
Even his hair betrayed him. Once luminous and weightless, it now hung in messy knots, dull and lifeless. And his height—he swore he felt shorter, as if he’d been pulled down, compressed into something weaker.
He leaned closer, the mirror fogging slightly from his breath, catching the raw, disjointed edges of his reflection.
“What the fuck,” he rasped, his voice grating and hoarse, as though something had clawed its way out of his throat. The ache there was sharp, invasive—a lingering reminder of hands that might have been his own. Or someone else’s.
He didn’t know.
This is wrong.
A voice, faint and haunting, whispered from the recesses of his mind, threading unease through every thought. His technique clung to him like a second skin—an extension of his very existence—but now it felt oppressive, unbearable. Infinity, once his shield, now suffocated him, pressing down like an unyielding weight.
Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision. It wasn’t grief or fear or regret, not entirely. It was the overload—the sheer volume of information crashing into him like a tidal wave, the Six Eyes working overtime, feeding his mind data it couldn’t process fast enough. This had happened before, in moments of exhaustion, when his body and mind had been stretched too thin. But this was different. This was worse.
Yet he couldn’t focus on it. Couldn’t focus on anything.
He felt numb, his thoughts spiraling into chaos.Where was he? What happened? Hadn’t he died? Was this the Prison Realm? Were his students—his friends—dead? Was this real? Or just some cruel hallucination?
Is this a dream?
It had to be. That was the only explanation. That’s why the reflection staring back at him looked so wrong, so small. He looked like a teenager—barely a fragment of who he’d become, as though the universe had decided to wind the clock back to the moment before everything broke. Before he became the strongest.
He hadn’t dreamt of his younger self in years. But this… this felt too vivid, too sharp to be a dream. And yet the pain was there. Real and raw. He could feel it as clearly as the blood that dripped from his arm, pooling at his feet.
Pain like this didn’t belong in dreams. Did it?
He couldn’t tell.
His technique pulsed, constricting tighter with every beat of his heart, growing heavier until it felt like it might crush him from the inside out. The nausea churned, climbing his throat, clawing with desperate fingers at the back of his tongue. Something was wrong— so wrong —and his body recoiled from it like it was fighting off a poison.
Had he eaten something?
The thought burned through the haze, and his hands tightened instinctively, his nails biting into his palms until blood seeped between his fingers. The sharp sting jolted through him, a fleeting flicker of clarity amidst the chaos. He didn’t feel pain in dreams. He never did. Not like this.
Was the fight with Sukuna a hallucination, too?
God, he hoped not.
He refused to heal the wounds. The shallow cuts stung, raw and biting, but they were real. Real meant he was alive. Real meant this wasn’t some sick delusion.
The sting was grounding, a painful reassurance that this wasn’t some distorted dream, no matter how wrong it felt. He’d felt himself die—his heart faltering, the breath slipping from his lungs, his world narrowing to nothing. He could still see Sukuna’s smirk, twisted with malice, and hear the faint echo of something mocking he’d said. Maybe something respectful too, but he couldn’t remember.
Satoru gritted his teeth, his fingers twitching as he forced himself to focus on the ache rather than the memories. Don’t heal. Don’t fix it. Let it hurt.
But the warmth came anyway.
He cursed under his breath as the familiar tingle of Reverse Cursed Technique surged to life, the energy flowing instinctively despite his resistance. He didn’t have to look to know the wounds were knitting themselves closed, the raw sting fading into a dull, infuriating nothingness.
His body had always known better than his mind, operating on instincts he couldn’t override. It was an unyielding mechanism, a self-preservation that worked even when he didn’t want it to.
The room fell silent except for the soft hum of cursed energy retreating, leaving his skin smooth and unblemished where the cuts had been. He stared at his hands, flexing his fingers as the faint warmth dissipated entirely.
The pain was gone.
And with it, the fragile proof that he was still here. Still alive.
He stumbled, his back colliding with the cold, tiled wall of the bathroom. The mantra pounded in his head, is this real, is this real, is this real , the rhythm matching the erratic thrum of his pulse.
His hand—bloody and bruised—pressed against his mouth, the metallic tang of blood bleeding onto his tongue. It twisted his stomach further, coiling the nausea until it reached a breaking point. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, unflinching and hollow.
Those crystalline eyes. They carried entire galaxies within them. They shouldn’t still glow like that.
They should look dull.
Like the eyes of a dead man.
He doubled over as the vomit surged up, acidic and unforgiving. It tore through his throat like fire, each heave more brutal than the last. His chest burned, his breaths ragged and broken, choked on bile, air, and—was that blood? He didn’t know. Didn’t care.
The contents hit the floor with a wet splatter, mingling with the dark pool of blood already staining the ground. The metallic stench clung to the air, sharp and suffocating.
When the retching finally stopped, he collapsed against the wall. The cold surface pressed into his back, anchoring him, though it did nothing to calm the chaos roaring inside. His breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps, and he stared blankly at the mess before him, the nausea lingering like a cruel reminder.
Everything was wrong.
The residuals in the room felt… off. They clung to the air, unfamiliar and wrong in a way that made his skin crawl. There shouldn’t be cursed energy here. There wasn’t cursed energy in his dreams. So why was it here now?
Had he survived Sukuna?
He didn’t know.
Did Shoko heal him?
He didn’t know.
Was this a dream?
He didn’t know.
Should he clean this up?
He didn’t know .
The voice cut through the silence, low and venomous. Pathetic.
His head snapped toward the sound, his heart stalling as his eyes locked onto the corner. A void of nothingness lingered there, black and all-consuming.
Was it even real? Was any of this real?
“Get out,” he snarled, his voice rough and broken, but the figure vanished like smoke into the air.
His head fell back against the wall as his breath slowed, ragged and uneven. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t know anymore. He couldn’t.
The exhaustion weighed him down, heavy and merciless, pulling at his every thought and limb. He wanted to pass out—right here, right now. Let oblivion take over, drag him under, where none of this could touch him.
Be dead.
That’s what he was supposed to do.
His body, stubborn and cruel, seemed to hate him for it. It refused to give in, refused to let him slip away. Instead, it kept him awake, tethered to this broken reality, mocking him with every breath.
`~`~`
He cleaned it all up. Not out of guilt or shame—he didn’t care enough for that—but because his Six Eyes refused to endure the chaos of an unclean space. The mess was unbearable, and he couldn’t take it.
The hand shower sputtered to life in his hand, the water hitting the tiles in a cold, biting stream that almost made his skin ache. Was it winter? Maybe. He wasn’t sure. Everything around him felt distant, hazy, and yet the greenish tint of the residual energy lingering in the bathroom was too bright. Too vivid.
He didn’t understand.
Was this the Prison Realm?
It felt like it. The kind of place where his mind twisted reality into hallucinations crueler than any curse. He’d spent what felt like centuries there—fighting shadows, memories, regrets. They clung to him like ghosts, haunting every breath, every thought.
Maybe this was just another trick, his mind finding new ways to break him, piece by jagged piece.
But now, the bathroom was clean. Not perfect, but good enough. Good enough that no one would mistake it for a crime scene. Or a suicide scene.
Why was he even bothering?
This had to be a dream. He was sure of it. Any moment now, one of his friends or students would walk through the door—only for him to watch them die all over again. That’s how it always went. And it would all be his fault. It always was. He was the strongest, wasn’t he?
Maybe he’d wake up gasping, back in the box of the Prison Realm, suffocated by its silence. Or maybe—just maybe—he’d open his eyes somewhere softer, with Suguru and the others who couldn’t survive.
Finally dead.
But no. He wasn’t dead. Not yet. He wasn’t even sure what this was anymore. The pain tethered him to reality, sharp and unrelenting. It was the only thing he could trust, even if it felt like he was the one keeping it alive, dragging it out.
Then, he felt it—a presence. Something unfamiliar. Something wrong. It wasn’t cursed energy, not exactly, but close enough that Six Eyes flared in response. He tracked it instinctively, the sensation growing stronger as the figure behind it approached.
His head snapped toward the door just as a voice called out.
“Satoru! I’m home!”
A girl’s voice. It echoed with an energy that felt eerily similar to the one saturating the bathroom. The same green that had been everywhere.
He didn’t know her. Six Eyes didn’t recognize her energy, either. Who the fuck was she? His mind scrambled for answers, but all he found was static. Maybe she was part of the dream. Or someone he’d long forgotten, buried deep in the haze of memories he never revisited.
“Satoru!” she called again, her cursed energy pressing closer to the door.
His throat felt dry, the words caught there for a moment before he forced them out. “Coming!” he shouted back. If this was another cruel illusion, it would play out like the others. It always did. “Just—give me a second.”
A pause hung in the air, thick with something unspoken. Her energy wavered, flickering like a candle about to go out.
“…Alright,” she finally said, softer now, as if unsure whether to believe him. “I’m making dinner.”
He stayed there for a moment longer, staring at the door as her presence faded, retreating like the tide. His hand trembled faintly at his side, but he ignored it. Relief, dread—whatever it was—he’d sort through it later.
The door opened with a faint click as he stepped out.
He was met with a living room. Small, humble, unfamiliar. The beige walls carried an air of sterility, as if this place was meant to feel like home but didn’t quite manage. Black sofas were neatly arranged around a modest TV, the faint hum of static filling the quiet.
On the stand beneath the TV were two framed photos. One of a man who looked eerily like his father, and another of a woman—her face foreign to him, yet oddly comforting. Incense sticks burned faintly in front of the pictures, their smoke curling lazily upward, the scent heavy and cloying.
Above the TV, a narrow shelf held a family photo. He stared at it as if it had personally affected him. And maybe it did.
Two adults stood on either side of two children. The man had his face, or something close enough to it that he almost flinched. The woman was softer, gentler, with dark hair and pale skin. The boy in the photo—him, presumably—stood with his usual messy white hair, his crystalline eyes gleaming. Beside him, a girl, her black hair sleek and shining, her eyes dark and piercing. She had their mother’s hair, their father’s eyes, and a pale complexion that mirrored both.
It looked…familiar. Unnervingly so.
Has he seen this before?
He frowned, his chest tightening. No. He hadn’t. He was certain of that. And yet, it lingered in the back of his mind, like a memory he couldn’t quite grasp.
“Satoru—”
He startled, his head snapping toward the voice.
The girl emerged from the kitchen, the same one from the photo. Older now, though. By a year, maybe two, judging by her height and the confidence in her movements. Her uniform was crisp, a black shirt cinched with an obi, a skirt that ended just above her knees, paired with dark blue leggings.
“Oh. You’re already out,” she remarked, her tone nonchalant as she turned back to whatever she was cooking. “I’m making tsukemono with miso soup.”
Food.
The word hit him like a wave, churning his stomach. His nausea returned in full force, the ghost of bile burning his throat. He had puked not long ago—minutes? Hours? Time felt elastic, stretching and compressing until it lost meaning.
The coppery taste of blood still clung to his tongue, stubborn even after brushing his teeth multiple times. The thought of eating made his stomach twist painfully.
But he said nothing. He stood there, motionless, watching her as she hummed softly, the faint melody blending with the quiet clatter of utensils. The normalcy of it all clawed at him, scraping against the raw edges of his nerves.
Eventually, he moved, his steps heavy as he made his way to the chair by the counter. Two phones rested there, side by side. One was dull blue, plain and unassuming. The other had a purple keychain attached, glitter catching the light like shards of broken glass. He stared at them, his brows furrowing.
One of these had to be his.
His fingers hovered before picking up the glittery one. It wasn’t his style—he wasn’t the type to care for flashy accessories, if not for annoying Nanamin or Megumi—but he couldn’t imagine the dull blue phone belonging to the girl either.
He powered it on, the screen lighting up as he swiped. Password locked.
Of course.
His lips twitched into a humorless smile. So much for dreams bending to his will.
“Nee-san,” he called out, his voice rough but forcing a lighthearted tone. “Guess my password!”
She turned, raising an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Huh?”
He managed a grin, his throat still raw and burning. “Come on. Take a guess!”
“It’s your birthday, dumbass,” she replied, as if it were obvious.
“And when’s my birthday~?” he teased, the banter almost instinctive, as if his body knew how to play this part. This was normal between siblings, right? He didn’t have any siblings, but he’d seen Shoko and her sister bicker once or twice.
She rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed but indulging him. “07/12/89.”
His birthday.
Of course, it was right. Of course, this was a dream.
“Correct!” he said with mock enthusiasm, punching in the numbers. The phone unlocked, the screen revealing its contents.
He clicked on the messenger app, curiosity outweighing his caution. The layout was different, unfamiliar, the colors brighter and the icons strange. He scanned the top contact list.
‘Yumi <3.’
The profile picture matched the girl. So, her name was Yumi.
Before he could delve deeper, a soft purr broke the silence.
“Oh, you’re awake too,” Yumi said, her voice casual as she stayed focused on the food. She didn’t even turn around.
His gaze followed the sound, landing on a small black kitten emerging from the shadows. Its coat was sleek, dark as midnight, but its violet eyes gleamed like fractured amethysts.
It padded toward him, tiny paws silent against the floor, and rubbed itself against his leg.
He hesitated for a moment before reaching down and scooping it up. The kitten was warm, impossibly small, its fur soft against his fingertips.
A girl, he realized, as his eyes caught the delicate silver name tag hanging from her collar.
‘Suki.’
“Don’t put her on the counter, you dumbass!” Yumi’s voice snapped through the haze, sharp and reprimanding. “We eat there!”
“Whatever.” The word left him without care, loud enough to earn a glare from her. He relented, setting the kitten down gently, Suki padding off with an indignant flick of her tail.
The kitten reminded him of Suguru.
Too much, in fact.
It was eerie how a tiny creature could hold such resemblance, like a ghost in a smaller, softer body.
“At least curse me a little at the very end.”
The memory crept up like poison, whispering through the cracks of his mind. He pushed it down, the weight of it threatening to crush him. He ignored the ghost of Suguru’s violet eyes, once so vibrant, now lifeless and empty. He ignored the image of blood pooling, of a body growing cold in his arms. He ignored the rain, how it clung to him like grief, soaking through as if it could seep into Suguru and bring him back to life.
“Satoru.” A hand waved in front of his face, snapping him back to reality—or whatever this was. Yumi was staring at him, concern etched into her features as her cursed energy faintly flickered in her palm.
“You back now?” she asked, her voice softer this time as she slid into the seat across from him. A bowl of soup landed in front of him with a soft clink. “What’s wrong with you today? First, you refuse to go to school, then you bail on Kaito-san, take forever in the bathroom, and now you’re just… spaced out.”
Her tone carried the weight of concern, even if she tried to mask it.
“I’m fine!” he said, forcing a grin, the lie catching in his throat like splinters. “Just a little tired.”
She frowned, leaning back in her chair. “Is your quirk acting up again?”
Quirk?
“No,” he replied quickly, careful not to let his confusion show. His mind raced. What the hell was a quirk? Did she mean quirky? Or was it something else entirely—like the strange, green-tinged residuals that seemed to linger everywhere?
Yumi hummed, clearly unconvinced but letting it slide. “Well, eat up! It’s going to get cold, and I’m not heating it again.”
The mention of food churned his stomach violently, memories of bile and blood clawing their way back. The raw burn in his throat lingered, duller now but still present. Maybe his Reverse Cursed Technique had kicked in on instinct—a defense mechanism honed over years of torment.
“Yeah, yeah.” He mumbled, lifting the spoon with a hand that shouldn’t even be there. He inhaled sharply and braced himself as he took the first sip.
It didn’t kill him.
The warmth slid down his throat, soothing and painful all at once. His stomach twisted, but not from nausea. The taste—simple, familiar—settled deep inside, something like relief blooming in its wake.
When was the last time he ate?
He didn’t remember.
Before he could dwell, he found himself shoveling the soup down, spoonful after spoonful, as though his body had been starving for years.
“Bro—chill,” Yumi muttered, half-laughing. “I know I cook well, but you’re gonna choke at that rate.”
“Whatever,” he mumbled again, his voice muffled by the next bite, his hands steady now.
`~`~`
“You have to go to school tomorrow,” Yumi said firmly, crossing her arms as she stood in the doorway. There was a sharpness to her tone, but beneath it, a hint of unease lingered. “I don’t know if we can afford another school year otherwise.”
Financial problems?
Satoru hummed absently, a vague noise of acknowledgment, as his gaze drifted past her toward the hallway. The words were like background noise, their significance barely registering as his mind remained tangled in far heavier things.
The thought of school, the idea of normalcy, felt so alien it bordered on absurd. Yumi’s insistence felt misplaced, like a bad script someone was forcing her to read. None of this made sense—the quirks, the cursed-energy-that-wasn’t, the unsettling sense of familiarity that gnawed at him every time she called him brother.
And yet, there was something undeniably soft in the way she spoke to him, even when she snapped.
Her care wasn’t overt—it wasn’t in her words, but in the subtle things. The way she’d cooked dinner despite grumbling about it under her breath, the way she’d handed him the soup earlier with just the right amount of concern. Even now, her irritation seemed half-hearted, an emotion she didn’t fully commit to.
She’d changed out of her uniform into pajamas—an oversized white top and soft Hello Kitty pants. Her black hair, no longer tied back, brushed her shoulders as she leaned against the wall.
If she were an assassin, she would’ve made her move already. Not that anyone could harm him—not with Infinity as his constant shield—but her demeanor didn’t carry the chill of someone with murderous intent.
Instead, it carried warmth. An irritating kind of warmth.
He felt his chest tighten.
Suguru had once been like that too.
Suguru, who had shared his laughter, his frustrations, his burdens. Suguru, who had been his equal, his opposite, his constant. Suguru, who had smiled even as he stepped away—no, turned his back.
The memory of Suguru had been clawing at Satoru all evening, sharp and unrelenting. It pressed into every corner of his mind, leaving no room to breathe. Every glance Yumi gave him, every soft sigh or fleeting look of concern, felt like a knife twisting deeper, like she was unknowingly brushing against wounds that had never fully closed.
Suguru’s voice whispered at the edges of his consciousness, low and familiar: I’ve decided how I’ll live my life now.
But all Satoru could hear was the weight behind those words, the unsaid truth they carried. I’ll live my life without you.
Without him. Without the bond they’d built, without the promises they’d made when they thought the world couldn’t touch them.
And Suguru had been happy with that choice.
The thought settled like poison in his chest, cold and biting. Satoru gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening against the flood of memories. The ghost of Suguru’s words twisted cruelly, reshaping themselves with every replay. Maybe he hadn’t been enough. Maybe that’s why Suguru had fallen so far—because Satoru hadn’t been able to reach him, to save him.
Save everyone.
He knew about all of this. He had thought about all this, and yet, he couldn’t stop the fucking thoughts from infiltrating his mind.
“To earth?” Yumi’s voice cut sharply through his spiraling thoughts, shattering the fragile haze. Her hand waved insistently in front of his face, her irritation now tinged with confusion. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been spacey all day. Do you need painkillers or something?”
“Nope,” he said, shrugging with deliberate carelessness. The lightness in his tone felt as brittle as glass. “Just sleepy.”
“Then go to bed,” she said with an exaggerated sigh, her voice carrying the exasperation of an older sibling trying to keep her patience. “Good night.”
“Good night,” he murmured, slipping into the darkened room.
The air inside was heavier than he expected, pressing down on him in a way that made his chest ache. The walls, painted in muted tones, seemed to close in as he took in the space.
A bathroom was tucked into one corner, and across from the bed was a window, its curtains drawn tight. The bed itself was unmade, the white sheet crumpled as though it hadn’t been touched in days. A small desk sat by the wall, books piled haphazardly on top of each other, and a chair beside it bore what looked like a neatly folded uniform.
It felt familiar, in the same way the sound of Suguru’s laughter haunted him—just out of reach, just beyond memory.
Six Eyes confirmed it: he had never been here before.
But his heart whispered otherwise.
The exhaustion hit him then, like a delayed punch to the gut. His legs felt weak, his mind spiraling with too many questions and no answers. He moved toward the window on instinct, his fingers brushing against the curtain as he pulled it back.
The light outside slammed into him like a physical force, sharp and unforgiving. But it wasn’t the glow of city lights or the flicker of passing cars.
It was cursed energy.
But it was mastered, shaped with intent.
It bled through the streets, painted the buildings, clung to the people like an aura of power and potential. It wasn’t just one or two people— everyone had it.
The realization clawed at him, ripping through the layers of his disbelief. His eyes widened, and his breath hitched as the sheer wrongness of it all settled in his chest.
That’s not possible
But it was there, laid out before him like a cruel joke.
“What the fuck,” he breathed, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart.
Where the actual fuck was he?