Chapter Text
Gojo Satoru immediately knows he’s somewhere he’s not supposed to be the moment he opens his eyes and finds himself lying on a sofa, Shoko leaning over him with that clinical stare of hers.
“Did I die or something?” he asks, voice rough. His Six Eyes are already making his brain ache. Where’s my headband? What is this place?
Shoko sits down beside him, deadpan as ever.
“No, dumbass. You had a heat stroke.”
He barks out a laugh. “You’re a riot, Shoko. Now seriously—how did you manage to unseal me?”
The humor drains from him in an instant. He freezes when he senses it—nothing. No cursed energy from her at all. His eyes widen.
Shoko frowns. “I think we should really go to the hospital, Satoru.”
“You are the hospital, Shoko…” He sits up, staring at her, his tone sharper now. “So tell me what the hell is going on.”
Shoko only sighs, grabbing her car keys from the table.
“Come on, man. We actually need to get you some help. Whatever concussion thing this is, it’s not looking good.”
His Six Eyes are screaming at him. The place, the air—everything feels different. The last thing he remembers is staring into Suguru’s eyes. No, not him. The last thing was the seal snapping shut.
And this? This is not a seal effect.
It’s something else entirely. A different world. Shoko without cursed energy is a sight to behold, honestly. Strange, wrong, but almost peaceful. He needs to calm down. He needs to figure out what this place is, and then go back. The kids need him.
It doesn’t take long for him to realize the truth. He’s been in this world for over a month now, and it’s laughable how easy people have it here. There are no curses. Just like that.
So, of course, no sorcerers. No Jujutsu High. Which makes him useless in this dimension.
The only thing that hasn’t changed? He’s still lonely.
The clans exist, but not as sorcerer dynasties—more like business empires. He nearly choked on his spit when his assistant (apparently he has one here) emailed to ask if he was free to meet with the Zenin Group.
Yes. He has an assistant. Because why the fuck not, in this insane version of reality?
Here, he runs the Gojo Clan’s businesses. He’s still considered arrogant, a prick to many, according to Shoko. Some things never change.
But there are surprises. Pleasant ones. Shoko is still here, still his closest friend.
The not-so-pleasant one? He’s dead. Don’t ask. Don’t even think about it.
Nanami is here too, which is either cosmic comedy or cruelty. His company’s most valuable accountant, perpetually exasperated, and still, begrudgingly, his friend. No trace of Haibara, and he doesn’t dare ask.
The irony isn’t lost on him—having all the power in a world that doesn’t need it, while the world that does need it is without him.
He manages to adapt. Barely. His soul refuses to rest even here. His apartment is decent—modern, comfortable, up to his standards. Different, but familiar enough.
One evening, Shoko suggests hanging out at her place. He sits in his car, debating how to ask for the address without blowing his cover. Teleporting is out of the question; he has to play the part of whoever’s life he’s cosplaying. Eventually, he caves and asks. He makes up some story about taking a wrong turn, and, to his surprise, she sends it.
They end up sitting on the floor of her apartment, pizza boxes spread between them. Shoko munches casually while he stares, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. When was the last time they hung out without a patient bleeding out nearby? Without curses looming over their heads?
He hates it. Hates how much he would have loved this life if those damn curses hadn’t existed.
He tunes out when Shoko picks up her phone, scrolling through his own. It’s a habit he’s picked up in this world—he can’t sit with his own thoughts for more than five minutes, or else he’ll replay the mess he left behind. How easily he was outsmarted. How he refused to hand over his ex-best friend’s body.
Shoko hangs up, returns her attention to the TV. “Can you believe sleep deprivation made me bring the wrong backpack home?” she mutters, sipping her beer.
“I suggest you start sleeping instead of drowning in alcohol,” he says, snatching at the can.
She shakes her head. “Naa. He’s going to be here any minute. Said his apartment keys are in there.”
“He knows your apartment? Shoko, are you sure this isn’t some new form of flirting in the medical department?”
“Ewwww, Satoru.” She scrunches her face in disgust. “He’ll kill you if he hears that.”
“I’m just calling it like I see it.”
She glares. “You do realize the one who called is Geto, right?”
His breath catches sharp in his throat. His mind spins. No. No, this has to be the seal. It’s messing with me. Trying to drive me insane.
He barely hears Shoko talking after that. The doorbell cuts through the haze.
“Open the door, Gojo. I can’t see straight,” Shoko says.
“No. No, I can’t,” he replies instantly, shaking his head.
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, Satoru. He hates waiting.”
His chest is tight as he prepares himself for whatever nightmare waits on the other side. He opens the door—
He braces himself for whatever’s on the other side.
And then… he freezes.
Suguru Geto is standing there.
Purple eyes. Same as always. Hair in that damn high school bun, a stray strand falling across his forehead like he hasn’t aged a day. He looks beautiful, infuriatingly so. And… different. No cursed energy. None. Just scrubs.
Gojo’s brain is screaming. His chest tightens. For a second, he actually thinks this is a trick, the seal finally trying to mess with his head properly. But no—this is real.
“Suguru,” he blurts, and the word tastes like something he shouldn’t have spoken.
Suguru’s eyes widen. “Did you just call me Suguru? Are you drunk, Gojo?”
Hearing his voice is the final straw. Gojo’s hands start shaking. His stomach flips. The room spins too fast. He stumbles toward the sink, barely making it before he’s heaving, gut emptying itself like it’s trying to eject the world he left behind.
From somewhere behind him, he hears Suguru talking. Calm, casual, alive.
“What’s up with your friend, Shoko?”