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silkscream · 6 days ago

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CHAPTER 21: TEMPEST

The absence of your voice creates a hollowness that even infinity cannot fill.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: angst, gore, body horror? bad writing? fuck if i know

ੈ✩ wc: 6k

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

The absence of your voice creates a hollowness that even infinity cannot fill.

Satoru glances down at Megumi, who sits cross-legged on the training room floor, his small face scrunched in concentration as he attempts to summon his shikigami again. His determination is admirable, though his frustration is palpable. Three failed attempts today, and still he persists.

"Again," Satoru says, his voice gentler than usual. "Remember what I told you about intention. Your technique responds to your will, not just your cursed energy."

Megumi nods, closing his eyes. His small hands form the mudra with surprising precision for a ten-year-old.

While he focuses, Satoru pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. No new messages. He scrolls through your conversation from last night—your last reply came at 11:42 PM, a simple "Good night" that somehow feels too abrupt now, in retrospect.

Three messages sent, none answered. Not like you.

"You're overthinking it," he mutters to himself, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

A flash of blue light erupts from Megumi's hands, and the outline of a small frog-like shikigami briefly materializes before dissolving into wisps of cursed energy.

"Good work," Satoru nods, offering a genuine smile despite the unease gnawing at him. "Your control is improving. Take five minutes, then we'll work on maintaining it under pressure."

As Megumi rests, Satoru checks his phone again. Over a day since your last message. The hollowness expands inside him, a void even his limitless technique can't touch. Something is wrong. He knows your patterns, your habits. Even on your busiest days, you never go this long without at least sending a quick text.

He dials your number, listening to it ring until your voicemail picks up. His jaw tightens.

"That's enough for today, Megs," he announces suddenly, clapping his hands together. The boy looks up, surprise evident in his green eyes.

"Really? It’s only been—"

"Consider it a reward for your progress. Go find Nanami. Tell him I said to buy you ice cream."

Megumi stands, hesitating. "Is everything okay, Gojo?"

Satoru forces a smile, ruffling the boy's dark hair. "Just remembered an appointment. Go on."

After Megumi leaves, Satoru tries your number again. Straight to voicemail this time. The knot in his stomach is a persistent nag. He doesn’t often worry about anything, not when you’re the anchor in his life. Not when you’re the epitome of stability. Everything he’s ever worried about regarding you was about whether or not he was hurting you– and he always knew he was when he’d lose sleep over it. The lack of you, or the codependency, or the furrow of your brow when he would be insensitive. Despite the matter, he’d always find a way to affirm that you were there, heart beating, still able to at least give him the benefit of the doubt.

The silence from your end right now is utterly chilling. He hasn’t heard from you in 48 hours. Not like he’s counting.

He sits through a clan meeting, bored to death. He thinks about you, like he always does, like he can’t stop fucking doing. There’s a strange burn of jealousy in his gut when he thinks a little too hard about it. You, the beautiful botanist. There’s pride in his chest when he thinks about the mission, but then he remembers the black veins in your arm.

The man drones on about clan alliances and heirs. Something about an inherited cursed technique and protection. Satoru says nothing while his relatives talk, though he does notice the meek nineteen-year-old across from the table sneaking glances at him. She can’t stop twirling a piece of her hair.

His ears perk up when his name is called. One of the geezers teases him about marriage, becoming clan head. He frowns. Since when was this a fucking marriage interview?

"I'm not interested," Satoru says flatly, cutting through the awkward silence that follows the elder's suggestion. "My focus is elsewhere."

The old man's face tightens with disapproval. "Your responsibilities to this clan—"

"Are fulfilled through my work as a sorcerer," Satoru interrupts, his tone deceptively light despite the edge beneath. "Which reminds me, I should be getting back to Jujutsu Tech."

He wonders what you're doing right now. If you're okay. If the cursed energy he sensed in your arm has spread further. The thought makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

The meeting continues. Budget allocations. Property disputes. Political maneuverings that mean nothing to him but everything to these old men who've never stepped foot on a battlefield. Satoru's mind wanders back to the night before you left. You'd been laughing at something mundane he'd said over the phone, your eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that makes his chest feel too tight. Your fingers had absently traced the black lines creeping up your wrist— you didn't think he noticed, but he always notices everything about you.

The girl across the table giggles at something. Satoru doesn't bother to look up.

Instead, he remembers how you'd once explained the language of flowers to him. How some bloom only at night, others only for a single day. How some plants thrive after being burned to the ground. He wonders if you're like that—if whatever is happening to you now will ultimately make you stronger. He hopes so. He needs to believe that.

"Satoru-kun," his uncle's voice cuts through his thoughts. "Your input on the Zenin proposal?"

He hasn't been listening. Doesn't care to. "Whatever option involves the least amount of my time," he says with a dismissive wave.

Several elders exchange glances. The girl looks disappointed.

His phone remains silent in his pocket. No vibration. No notification sound. The hollowness expands. You should have called by now. You always call, even when you're angry with him. Especially when you're angry with him.

"Perhaps we should adjourn for today," someone suggests, noticing his distraction.

Satoru stands before anyone can respond, adjusting his glasses. "Great idea. I have a mission.”

It's a lie, but it gets him out of the suffocating room, away from expectations he never asked for. In the hallway, he tries your number again. Voicemail. He curses under his breath.

If something has happened to you—if that cursed energy has done something irreversible—he'll tear apart whoever is responsible. The thought surprises him with its intensity. When did you become so essential to his existence? When did your absence become this painful?

"Leaving so soon, Satoru-kun?"

The voice stops him halfway down the corridor. Elder Gojo Keisuke —eighty-four years old with a face like weathered parchment and eyes that still gleam with cunning intelligence. He stands with perfect posture despite his age, blocking Satoru's path with surprising authority for someone so physically frail.

"Important business," Satoru replies, his smile not reaching his eyes.

"More important than your family obligations?" The old man's voice carries the weight of generations. "More important than securing the future of our bloodline?"

Satoru's smile falters. "With all due respect, Keisuke-sama, my work as a sorcerer does more to secure our family's position than any marriage arrangement."

"Ah, yes. Your work." The elder steps closer, the smell of medicinal herbs and age surrounding him. "Or is it that botanist girl who occupies your thoughts? The one with weak cursed technique, no family connections. The ordinary woman who's been... distracting you."

Satoru's expression hardens instantly. The temperature in the hallway seems to drop several degrees.

“Careful,” he says lowly. “You don’t know anything about my personal life. And for the record, her technique is impressively strong.”

The old man's eyebrows raise slightly, but his expression remains calculating. "Is it now? How... convenient that you mention this only when pressed about her suitability."

The air around Satoru shimmers with barely contained power. His cursed energy responds to his emotional state, creating an invisible barrier that makes the elder take an instinctive step backward.

"Her suitability isn't up for discussion," Satoru says, his voice dangerously quiet. "Neither is her business. I suggest you focus on more pressing matters."

Keisuke's weathered lips curve into something that might be mistaken for a smile if not for the malice behind it. "Pressing matters, indeed. Like the reports we've been receiving about cursed energy disturbances in areas where your... friend has been conducting her botanical research."

Satoru’s blood turns to ice in his veins. He can feel the cursed energy radiating from his body, warping the space around him as his Six Eyes focus with deadly precision on the old man's face. Every instinct screams at him to demand details, but he forces himself to remain still. Showing too much interest will only confirm what he already suspects.

"I'm not sure what you're implying," he says, though his voice has lost all pretense of casual indifference.

"I'm not implying, Satoru-kun. I'm stating facts," Keisuke says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Your judgment is clouded by sentiment... or perhaps something more base."

The elder's eyes narrow, calculating. "We've had the greenhouse monitored. Did you think the clan wouldn't notice? Your precious botanist's research is nothing but a charade."

Satoru's jaw tightens, but Keisuke continues before he can interject.

"Those plants she cultivates aren't for healing or academic pursuit. They're vessels for something darker. The cursed energy signatures are unmistakable." The old man's lips curl into a sneer. "She's manipulating you, Satoru. Using her... charms... to blind the most powerful sorcerer in Japan while she conducts experiments that could threaten everything we stand for."

Cursed energy pulses around Satoru's form, the air distorting visibly now. "You had no right—"

"We had every right," Keisuke cuts in sharply. "The Gojo name carries responsibilities you seem determined to ignore. Didn’t her family work at the estate?" A dry, humorless laugh escapes him. "She knows you so intimately. Isn’t that convenient. How she could weaken you, gain access to clan secrets through you. Perhaps even to harm you when your guard is sufficiently lowered."

“You don’t know her—”

“You don’t think we haven’t investigated that cursed flower?” Keisuke scoffs.

Satoru pauses, his mouth forming a firm line.

“It’s part of her research.”

"Not research," Keisuke spits, his eyes narrowing to mere slits. "Corruption. Weaponization."

Satoru's cursed energy fluctuates dangerously, but the old man doesn't flinch.

"We've analyzed samples from your greenhouse," Keisuke continues, his voice lowering. "Those plants aren't natural. They're vessels for cursed techniques—techniques that could be used against the Gojo clan. Against you."

"You had no right to enter her workspace," Satoru says, his voice deceptively calm despite the storm brewing inside him.

"We had every right when it concerns the safety of our strongest asset." The elder steps closer, his frail body belying the sharpness in his gaze. "She's been experimenting with cursed energy manipulation through botanical mediums. Creating hybrid species that absorb and transmit curses. Did you truly believe her interest was purely academic? Or were you too distracted by her other... attributes... to notice?"

Satoru's fingers curl into fists at his sides, but he maintains his composure. "You don't understand the first thing about her work."

"I understand enough." Keisuke's voice hardens. "Her family has no notable lineage, no connection to jujutsu society beyond servitude. Yet suddenly she displays remarkable cursed technique? Coincidentally after becoming intimate with the heir to the most powerful jujutsu family?" He shakes his head.

"I've known her since she was a child," Satoru says, his voice cutting through Keisuke's accusations with razor precision. "She used to help her mother tend the gardens at the estate. I watched her grow up learning every plant name in Latin before she could even write them in Japanese."

His eyes flash dangerously behind his glasses. "She is no threat to me or this clan. Her research has always been about healing, about finding ways to counteract cursed techniques through botanical applications."

The memory of you at thirteen flashes through his mind—you’d easily healed yourself when you were cutting strawberries. How your lips felt against his when you were eighteen, hidden among the oasis of his bedroom. How many times had you been together before you ever set foot in Jujutsu Tech? The thought burns in his mind, but he keeps it there, locked away from Keisuke's prying eyes.

"You mistake innovation for corruption," Satoru continues coldly. "Her work could revolutionize how we treat cursed wounds. The clan should be supporting her research, not sabotaging it."

Keisuke's wrinkled face contorts with disbelief. "You're blinded by sentimentality—"

"I'm seeing with perfect clarity," Satoru interrupts, taking a step forward that makes the elder instinctively retreat. "My Six Eyes don't lie. I know exactly what she's doing. I’m not the fool you think I am.”

“You are far too stubborn to understand—”

"This conversation is over," Satoru says abruptly, turning away from Elder Keisuke with a dismissive wave of his hand. The air around him settles as he reins in his cursed energy, refusing to give the old man the satisfaction of seeing his agitation.

He storms off, eventually warping himself back to the school. Satoru's phone buzzes in his palm before he can dial your number again. Shoko's name flashes on the screen, and something in his gut twists with premonition.

"What is it?" he answers, not bothering with a greeting.

"It's about Y/N," Shoko's voice comes through, clinical but with an undercurrent of urgency that makes Satoru's blood run cold.

"They're a curse user, Satoru," Shoko's words cut through the line with surgical precision. "The innkeeper at the Moonlit Pine where Y/N is staying– I just confirmed it. One of my contacts in the village recognized the family crest. They've been harvesting cursed energy from travelers for generations."

Satoru's fingers tighten around the phone. "How bad?"

"Bad enough. And that's not all." Her voice drops lower. "The Black Hollow that she mentioned visiting yesterday? It’s filled with toxic flora that react to cursed energy. If she’s been exposed while already under the innkeeper's technique..."

"Symptoms?" The word barely escapes through his clenched teeth.

"Lethargy at first. Then unresponsiveness. Eventually coma." Shoko pauses. "Fuck, she hasn’t responded to any of my texts.”

The training room temperature plummets several degrees as Satoru's cursed energy flares. "I'm leaving now."

"I'll meet you there. Bring neutralizing talismans—I'm preparing a counter-curse, but we'll need to flush the toxins from her system before it damages her nervous system.”

"I'm on my way," Satoru says, ending the call before Shoko can respond.

He's already in motion. His body flickers through space, appearing in his apartment where he keeps emergency supplies. His movements are precise, methodical, despite the storm brewing inside him. The neutralizing talismans go into an inner pocket, followed by three vials of purification elixir Shoko had prepared months ago "just in case."

You're dying and you don't even know it.

The thought crashes through him with such force that the mirror on his wall cracks. He doesn't notice.

The world blurs as he activates his technique. He doesn't bother with conventional transportation—not when every second counts. Not when you're slipping away.

The rural landscape of the village materializes around him—rolling hills, dense forests, and the distant silhouette of the Moonlit Pine Inn perched at the edge of a cliff. Even from here, Satoru can sense the malevolent cursed energy saturating the place, cleverly disguised as a welcoming aura to visitors.

Satoru's arrival at the village rips through the atmosphere like a hurricane. The once-peaceful surroundings now pulse with his barely contained rage, his cursed energy crackling in the air like lightning before a storm. The air around him warps and distorts, reality bending to accommodate his fury.

Afar, from your bed, your heart stutters at his presence.

September, 2009

The night air is thick with heat as you stir from sleep, awareness coming to you in fragments. First, the weight of something pressing against your chest. Then, the sound—ragged breathing that isn't your own. Finally, the sensation of dampness seeping through your thin cotton shirt.

You jolt fully awake, heart pounding as you realize it's Satoru trembling against you, his white hair damp with sweat and his body heaving with each desperate breath. His entire body trembles violently, breaths coming in sharp, desperate gasps as if he's drowning on dry land. His fingers clutch your shirt with such force that the fabric stretches, threatening to tear.

"Satoru," you whisper, immediately alert. "I'm here."

He doesn't respond, lost somewhere in the labyrinth of his nightmare. He flinches at your touch, a low, broken sound escaping his throat. His fingers clutch at your shirt with desperate strength, as though you might disappear if he lets go.

"Can't—" he chokes out, voice raw and young in a way that breaks your heart. "He's coming—can't stop—"

You recognize this immediately. It's been three weeks since the mission. Three weeks since Toji Fushiguro nearly killed him. In the dim moonlight filtering through your dormitory window, you can see his eyes flash open but unseeing, brilliant blue irises dilated with terror.

"Satoru, you're safe," you say firmly, wrapping your arms around his shuddering form. "You're with me. He's not here."

His breathing only accelerates, becoming shallow and ineffective. You know the signs—he's hyperventilating, trapped in the memory of steel piercing his skull, of the moment when even his limitless technique couldn't save him. The lamp on your bedside table shatters suddenly, plunging the room into deeper darkness.

You shift, cradling his face between your palms. His skin feels clammy, cold despite the room’s humidity.

"Look at me," you command, your voice gentle but insistent. "Satoru, focus on my voice. You're with me. In my room. You're alive."

His eyes finally lock onto yours, though recognition flickers in and out like a faulty light.

"I couldn't—" he gasps. "My technique—it failed—he got through—"

"But you survived," you remind him, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "You're the strongest, remember? You survived what would have killed anyone else."

A violent shudder runs through him. "I can still feel it—the blade—inside—" His hand flies to the back of his head where the fatal wound had been, now healed without a trace.

You take his trembling hand and guide it away, pressing it against your chest instead. "Feel my heartbeat. Match your breathing to mine."

For several long minutes, you breathe together in deliberate rhythm. Slowly, the wild panic in his eyes begins to recede, replaced by a haunted awareness. Tears gather but don't fall– Satoru Gojo doesn't cry, not even now, though you almost wish he would.

It's jarring to see him like this — the invincible Satoru Gojo reduced to trembling vulnerability in your arms. You've watched him obliterate special grade curses without breaking a sweat, seen him walk through battlefields with that infuriating smirk, as if the very concept of danger is beneath his notice. The public face of Satoru, usually so confident, untouchable, and borderline arrogant, seems like a stranger compared to the man clutching at you now.

You've always known, intellectually, that he's human beneath the godlike power. But witnessing this was something else entirely.

"I'm sorry," he finally whispers, voice cracking. "I thought I was past this."

"Don't apologize," you murmur, brushing damp hair from his forehead. "Not for this. Never for this."

He closes his eyes, exhaustion evident in every line of his body.

You feel his weight settle more fully against you, the tremors gradually subsiding as your steady heartbeat anchors him back to reality. His breathing evens out, though he doesn't pull away. You don't mind– you've learned that these moments of vulnerability are precious, sacred things that Satoru shares with no one else.

"Stay," he murmurs against your collarbone, the word barely audible.

You run your fingers through his hair, the white strands soft between your fingertips. "I'm not going anywhere."

His weight against you feels right, feels like the only thing that matters in this moment. You continue stroking his hair, noting how the moonlight catches on each white strand. The silence between you is comfortable now, his breathing finally matching yours in a steady rhythm.

"I've never been afraid before," he whispers after a while, his lips moving against your skin. "Not like this."

You shift slightly to look at his face. His eyes are open now, vulnerable in a way few have ever witnessed. Without his blindfold, without his usual smirk, Satoru Gojo is just a boy who nearly died, clinging to you like you're his lifeline.

"Fear means you have something to lose," you tell him softly. "It's human."

His fingers trace patterns on your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "I thought about you," he confesses. "When the blade went through. I thought I'd never see you again."

The admission catches you off guard. Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

"Is that why you climbed through my window at three in the morning?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light despite the weight of his words.

His arms tighten around you. "I needed to make sure you were real. That I made it back to you."

You've been friends for years, training partners, confidants. Lovers.

But something has shifted between you since the mission, something neither of you has dared to name. His near-death has cracked open something raw and honest between you.

"I'm real," you whisper, taking his hand and pressing it firmly against your cheek. "I'm here."

His palm is calloused but gentle against your skin. When his thumb brushes across your lower lip, your breath catches.

The silence stretches between you, comfortable now instead of terrifying. You can feel the exact moment his body finally relaxes, muscles loosening as sleep begins to reclaim him. But something nags at you—a strange disconnect between the memory and your current awareness, like viewing a photograph through frosted glass.

June, 2012

You drift in and out of consciousness, aware of little beyond the heaviness in your limbs. Your room at the Moonlit Pine Inn feels impossibly cold despite the summer heat. Something is wrong, terribly wrong, but your thoughts scatter like mist whenever you try to focus. You try to open your eyes, but your eyelids feel weighted with lead. The bed beneath you has grown softer, or perhaps you're sinking into it. Time moves strangely here; minutes stretch into hours, or maybe hours compress into heartbeats. The distinction no longer matters.

The cursed energy feeds on your dreams, and you dream of Satoru.

He's calling your name, but his voice sounds muffled, as if he's speaking through water. You want to answer, to tell him where you are, but your voice has abandoned you. In the dream, he's searching through endless corridors of the inn, each door leading to another empty room.

"Such a lovely guest," the innkeeper's voice drifts through your delirium. "So much energy to spare. Don't worry, dear—we'll take good care of what remains."

Your fingers twitch against the sheets.

The innkeeper had seemed so kind when you checked in three days ago. An elderly man with a permanent smile and eyes that crinkled at the corners. "Special tea for our special guest," he'd insisted last night, pouring you a cup of something fragrant and sweet. "Made from local herbs. Helps with relaxation."

You'd drunk it without hesitation.

Now, as you wake, you can barely lift your hand to reach your phone on the nightstand. The screen illuminates with Satoru's name—another missed call. You want to answer, need to answer, but your fingers won't cooperate. The phone slips from your grasp, clattering to the floor.

The world comes back in fragments—antiseptic smell, fluorescent lights that burn through your closed eyelids, the steady beep of monitors. Your arm throbs with a deep, pulsing ache that seems to echo in your bones.

You try to move and discover restraints around your wrists. Leather cuffs, padded but firm. Panic flickers through your chest before memory crashes back—the mission, the cursed plant, the way those black veins had spread up your arm like spilled ink.

Through the haze of your consciousness, you hear a distant crash. The walls of the inn seem to vibrate, dust raining from the wooden beams overhead. Something massive has arrived, something that brings with it a pressure so intense it feels like the air itself is being compressed.

A voice—the innkeeper's wife—cries out in alarm from somewhere downstairs. Her words are indistinct, but her terror is unmistakable.

You try again to move, to call out, but your body has become a prison. The poison from the Black Hollow's flora mingles with whatever was in that tea, creating a paralytic cocktail that keeps you trapped in this half-conscious state. Your eyelids flutter, allowing brief glimpses of your surroundings—the wooden ceiling, the fading afternoon light through lace curtains, shadows that seem to writhe with unnatural movement.

Another crash, closer now. The floor beneath your bed trembles.

"WHERE IS SHE?"

Satoru's voice tears through the building, carrying with it a fury you've never heard before. The temperature in your room plummets suddenly, frost crystallizing on the window glass despite the summer heat. Your breath forms visible clouds above your face.

Footsteps pound up the stairs, followed by a sound like splintering wood. Doors being ripped from hinges.

"Please," Tanaka's voice trembles somewhere in the hallway. "Honored sorcerer, this is a misunderstanding—"

His words cut off abruptly, replaced by a choking sound.

"A misunderstanding?" Satoru's voice is dangerously soft now. "You've been harvesting cursed energy from travelers for decades. How many have you killed, old man? How many never made it home?"

You try to call out, to let him know you're here, but only a weak moan escapes your lips.

It's enough.

The door to your room explodes inward, wood fragments scattering across the floor. Satoru stands in the doorway, his white hair wild, his blindfold absent. Those piercing blue eyes scan the room, landing on your prone form with an intensity that would frighten you if you didn't know him so well.

He breathes your name, and in his voice, you hear relief, rage, and something deeper that makes your heart constrict despite your weakened state.

He's at your side in an instant, one hand gently cradling your face while the other checks your pulse. His touch is cool against your feverish skin.

"Stay with me," he murmurs, his voice steady now though you can feel the tremor in his fingers. "Shoko's on her way. We're getting you out of here."

Behind him, Tanaka hovers in the doorway, suspended a foot off the ground by what looks like nothing at all—but you know better. Satoru's technique holds the old man in place, slowly constricting around his body like an invisible python.

His cursed energy blinds like the sun, a seething amalgam of his power and his utter rage.

Through your weakened haze, you watch Satoru's face transform into something terrifying. The air itself seems to recoil around him. His Six Eyes burn with an otherworldly light as he turns his attention back to Tanaka.

"The antidote," Satoru says, his voice carrying the weight of an executioner's blade. "Now."

The old man wheezes, his feet kicking uselessly in the air. "There... there is no antidote, honored one. The process is... irreversible once it reaches the third stage."

Your heart lurches. Third stage? The black veins in your arm pulse weakly, as if responding to your distress.

Satoru's cursed energy flares, and you can almost hear Tanaka’s bones begin to crack under the pressure. "Then you're useless to me."

"Wait," you manage to rasp, the word scraping against your throat like broken glass. Both men turn toward you—Satoru with immediate concern, Tanaka with desperate hope.

"Don't... kill him yet," you whisper, each word a Herculean stress to your throat.

Your lips tremble with the effort of speech, each syllable draining what little strength remains in your body. The black veins throb visibly now, a spiderweb of corruption spreading upward past your elbow toward your heart. You need to make Satoru understand before he does something irreversible.

"Need him... alive," you manage, your voice barely audible even in the sudden silence of the room. "The plants... work together... with the curse..."

Satoru's eyes never leave your face, but his grip on Tanaka tightens fractionally. The old man's face turns a deeper shade of purple.

"Explain," Satoru demands, his voice deceptively calm despite the murderous intent radiating from him.

You try to lift your hand toward him, but the restraints and your own weakness prevent the movement. "The Black Hollow... flowers and his technique... they're connected. Kill him... poison accelerates."

Understanding dawns in Satoru's eyes. Tanaka's technique and the toxic flora from the Black Hollow aren't working independently—they're symbiotic, designed to feed off each other. Breaking one half of the equation improperly could potentially accelerate the decay.

The room swims in your vision as you struggle to maintain consciousness. Through the haze of poison, you recognize the flash of calculation in Satoru's eyes—that brilliant mind working at inhuman speed, processing the implications of what you've just revealed.

"Shoko," he calls out, not taking his eyes off you. "She's here."

You hadn't noticed the door opening again, but suddenly Shoko is beside you, her clinical gaze assessing the black veins spreading up your arm. Her presence brings a wave of relief; if anyone can understand the botanical-curse interaction, it's her.

"Hold him steady," Shoko instructs Satoru, nodding toward Tanaka as she unpacks medical supplies with practiced efficiency. "I need to understand exactly how his technique interfaces with the flora."

Your eyelids flutter as Shoko cuts away the sleeve of your shirt, exposing the full extent of the corruption. The veins have spread further than you realized, creeping toward your shoulder in an intricate web of darkness. The sight would be almost beautiful if it weren't slowly killing you.

"Stay with me," Satoru's voice anchors you as consciousness threatens to slip away again.

"Baby, stay with me," Satoru repeats, his voice cutting through the fog clouding your mind. You try to focus on his face, on those brilliant blue eyes that have always seen through everything—including you.

The black veins pulse beneath your skin, each throb sending waves of ice through your bloodstream. You've never felt pain like this—a living darkness that consumes from within. Your research never prepared you for becoming the subject of your own study.

Fragments of reality blur with memory. Satoru's face hovers above you, his features sharpened by fear and rage.

"The connection," you manage to whisper, your voice a thread of sound. "The flowers... they're conduits. He doesn't create the curse... he channels it."

Shoko's hands move with practiced precision over your arm. The cool touch of her fingers provides momentary relief from the burning sensation beneath your skin.

Your gaze drifts to the Tanaka, still suspended in Satoru's invisible grip. His eyes bulge with terror, his wrinkled face now an unhealthy shade of purple. You should feel sympathy, perhaps, but all you can summon is cold fury. How many others before you? How many travelers never made it home?

"The formula," Satoru demands, tightening his hold until Tanaka wheezes. "For reversing the extraction process. Now."

"There... isn't one," he gasps. "Once begun... it must be completed."

You feel Satoru's fury before you see it—a shift in the air, a pressure that makes your ears pop. The windows in your room crack simultaneously, spiderwebs spreading across the glass.

"Then we'll create one," Shoko interrupts, cutting through the tension. She turns to you, her expression softening slightly. "Y/N, I need you to focus. The plants you collected in the Black Hollow—where are they?"

The effort of remembering sends spikes of pain through your skull, but you force yourself to concentrate. "My bag... under the bed. Specimens in... preservation jars."

Satoru immediately reaches beneath the bed, pulling out your weathered field bag. His movements are swift but gentle as he extracts the glass containers holding your botanical samples. Even in your delirious state, you notice how carefully he handles them, knowing their importance to you.

"These are the ones that reacted to cursed energy," you whisper, trying to point to a jar containing dark purple flowers with black centers. "They... absorbed it. Like living vessels."

Shoko examines the specimen, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Fascinating. They've evolved to metabolize cursed energy rather than sunlight." She looks up at Tanaka. "Your family cultivated these, didn’t they?”

Tanaka nods weakly.

"For generations," Tanaka confirms, his voice trembling as Satoru's invisible grip tightens. "My family has... cultivated the symbiosis. The flowers feed on cursed energy... we harvest the excess."

“Uh, yeah. Cursed energy from the deceased,” Shoko scoffs.

"And kill innocent people in the process," Satoru snarls. “You’re getting that cursed energy from the dead.

Shoko ignores their exchange, her focus entirely on you and the specimens. She examines the black veins spreading across your skin, then looks back at the purple flowers.

"The veins are following your meridian lines," she explains, tracing a finger just above your skin. "Your cursed energy pathways. The flowers' properties have bonded with Tanaka's technique, creating a siphon effect."

Your vision blurs at the edges as you struggle to stay conscious. The room seems to tilt and sway, voices fading in and out like a badly tuned radio.

"Can you reverse it?" Satoru asks, his voice cutting through your delirium.

Shoko hesitates, which tells you everything you need to know. She never hesitates.

"Theoretically," she finally says. "If we create a counter-current of cursed energy, we might be able to flush the toxins from her system. But it would require precisely calibrated reversed cursed technique, and even then..."

"I'll do it," Satoru interrupts.

Shoko's eyes widen. "Satoru, you can't just—"

"I can and I will.” His voice leaves no room for argument as he moves to your bedside, gently taking your corrupted arm in his hands. The veins pulse darker at his touch, as if recognizing the potent cursed energy flowing through him.

"It's too dangerous," Shoko protests, stepping closer. "The concentration of toxins could react unpredictably with your cursed energy. We need to stabilize her first."

Satoru ignores her, his eyes locked with yours. "Do you trust me?" he asks, his voice softening only for you.

You manage a weak nod, though fear clutches at your heart. The determination in his eyes is both comforting and terrifying—you've seen what happens when Satoru Gojo decides consequences don't apply to him.

"Hold on to me," he murmurs, positioning his hands on either side of your infected arm.

The room falls silent as Satoru closes his eyes, his breathing slowing to a measured rhythm. You feel it first as a gentle warmth—his cursed energy flowing from his palms into your skin, seeking out the corruption that's spreading through your system. The sensation is initially soothing, like slipping into a hot bath after being chilled to the bone.

Then, without warning, everything changes.

The black veins in your arm pulse violently, as if rejecting the intrusion of Satoru's energy. The pain that follows is indescribable—like lightning coursing through your veins, setting every nerve ending ablaze. You try to scream but no sound escapes your throat. Your back arches off the bed despite the restraints, your body convulsing as two opposing forces war within your bloodstream.

The black veins spread faster now, racing toward your heart with renewed vigor. You can feel Satoru's cursed energy chasing after them, trying to purge the toxins, but something is wrong. The corruption isn't just resisting—it's feeding on his power, growing stronger.

"Satoru, stop!" Shoko shouts, grabbing his shoulder. "You're making it worse!"

But he doesn't stop. His jaw clenches with determination as he pours more energy into you, his Six Eyes blazing with ethereal light. The air around him shimmers with raw power, distorting reality itself as he pushes his technique beyond safe limits.

"I won't lose you," he growls through gritted teeth. "Not like this."

You feel something tear inside your chest—not physical, but deeper. The hole in your soul expands, infinity flowing through.

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