The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled wet.
Nanami stepped outside the building, adjusting his tie out of habit. His shoulders felt heavier than usual. Two weeks of no real sleep would do that.
Someone was already waiting near the corner of the street.
White hair. Hands in pockets. Way too relaxed for someone who should've been busy.
"Yo, Nanamin~" Gojo waved like they were meeting for coffee. "Long time no see. You look awful."
Nanami sighed. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
Nanami stopped a few steps away. "What are you doing here, Gojo?"
Gojo tilted his head. "Can't I just walk around my own city?"
"You hate walking."
"Okay, rude but accurate."
They stood in silence for a moment. Wind moved through Gojo's coat. Nanami's eyes stayed sharp, careful.
Gojo spoke casually, but his voice had a different edge now. "Nami… were you at the school that night?"
Nanami didn't react fast. That was his first mistake.
He adjusted his glasses instead. "Which school?"
"You know which one," Gojo said lightly. "Cursed womb mission. Rain. Bloody mess. Emotional damage for teenagers."
Nanami looked away for a second. "Yes. I arrived late."
Gojo smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Late, huh?"
Nanami frowned. "Why are you asking?"
Gojo walked closer, hands still in his pockets. "Because when I showed up… I felt something strange."
Nanami's jaw tightened just a little.
"Something old," Gojo continued. "Something I shouldn't have felt."
Nanami kept his voice calm. "You were exhausted. Anyone would misread their senses in that situation."
Gojo stopped right in front of him. "You think I don't know the difference between imagination and memory?"
Nanami met his gaze. "I think you look for things that hurt you."
That made Gojo quiet.
"…That's a low blow, Nanamin."
Nanami didn't apologize. "You asked."
Gojo looked away, staring at the empty street. "I thought I felt her."
Nanami's fingers curled slowly at his side.
Gojo laughed softly. "Crazy, right? She said she'd never come back. And I believed her."
Nanami spoke carefully. "Some promises are made to survive, not to be kept."
Gojo turned back. "So tell me—did you see anything strange that night?"
Nanami held his gaze, steady and honest-looking.
"No," he said. "Only blood. Rain. And a boy who should've been dead."
Gojo searched his face like he always did—too sharp, too perceptive.
"…You're bad at lying," Gojo said.
Nanami replied flatly, "And you're bad at letting go."
Silence again.
Gojo finally sighed. "If she were to return - "
Nanami interrupted gently, "She left for a reason."
Gojo smiled, but it was tired. "Yeah. And I was part of that reason."
Nanami turned away first. "I have work."
Gojo watched him go. "Nanamin."
Nanami paused but didn't turn.
"If you're hiding something," Gojo said softly, "do it well. Because when I find it… I won't pretend anymore."
Nanami didn't answer.
****************************
Strong.
She used to believe that word belonged to her.
Outside Tokyo, far from teachers and legends and names like Gojo Satoru, she had survived alone. She had hunted curses that didn't make the news. Creatures that lived in abandoned temples, rotting villages, forgotten highways where no one screamed anymore because no one was left to hear.
She killed them.
Again and again.
Each time she stood over a dissolving body of cursed flesh, she told herself:See? You're not weak.You're nothing like that girl who ran away.
Years passed like that. Blood on her hands. Silence as her only praise. No applause, no witnesses—just her and the echo of her own breathing.
And slowly… she started believing it.
She started believing she was strong.
Strong enough to face anything.Strong enough to never need anyone.Strong enough to control even monsters.
Strong enough to face Sukuna.
Her fingers curled against the thin blanket. Pain shot through her arm, sharp and ugly, but she welcomed it. It reminded her she was still here. That she hadn't disappeared like all her confidence had.
She laughed quietly. A broken sound.
"Strong?" she whispered. "What a joke."
All those curses she killed—most of them were weak. Hungry. Mindless. Running on instinct. They were nothing like Sukuna. Nothing like real terror. She had mistaken survival for strength. She had confused endurance with power.
When Sukuna looked at her, he didn't see a threat.
He saw entertainment.
That hurt more than any wound.
Her chest tightened when she remembered his eyes—amused, curious, bored. Like she was a toy he hadn't decided whether to break or keep.
She had charged at him with everything she had.
Every technique.Every drop of cursed energy.Every belief she had built over years of blood and loneliness.
And none of it mattered.
It didn't slow him.It didn't scare him.It didn't even impress him.
She wasn't strong.
She was loud.
She was desperate.
She was a girl swinging at a god and calling it bravery.
Her jaw trembled. She turned her face to the side, pressing it into the pillow so no one would hear the sound that escaped her throat.
She hated it.
She hated how weak she was.She hated how easily she broke.She hated how she had believed her own lies.
Worst of all—she hated that she had dragged a child into it.
Yuji.
His face flashed in her mind. His fear. His blood. The empty space in his chest.
Her breath hitched.
"I thought I could protect you…" she whispered. "I thought I was enough."
She wasn't.
She had stood there, powerless, watching a boy die because she believed in a strength she didn't have.
Tears slid silently into her hair.
Outside Tokyo, she had been a hunter.
Inside Tokyo, she was just another weak sorcerer standing next to monsters who called themselves teachers.
Gojo. Nanami. Yaga.People who carried battles like breathing.
And her?
She couldn't even carry her own mistakes.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest aching harder than her wounds.
"I killed so many curses," she whispered. "So why couldn't I save one boy?"
The answer hurt too much to say out loud.
Because killing isn't the same as protecting.Because surviving isn't the same as being strong.Because real strength isn't loud—it's steady.
And she wasn't steady.
Not yet.
But deep under the pain, under the shame, under the regret—something small still burned.
Not confidence.Not pride.
Just a quiet, stubborn refusal to stay this weak forever.
She wiped her face with shaking fingers.
"If I'm weak…" she murmured, staring at the ceiling again, "then I'll become strong the right way this time."
Not through running.Not through killing blindly.Not through lying to herself.
But through learning.Through facing fear.Through becoming someone who doesn't break when monsters smile.
Her body was broken.
Her pride was shattered.
But her will?
That… was still breathing.