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Gojo Satoru was split into two halves.
One half is a man who constantly fails to see anything on this earth aside from what remains of his body's insolence. He yearns to eat and drink like anyone else. He desires to live. In sooth, he desires nothing more than to live.
The other half is a man who despises the fact that he is still alive, and who hopes against hope to perish. To lose consciousness. To rest and never wake up again. He's hoping for a slight somnolence, to dip his toes into the waters of demise, and perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.
He allows his gaze to wander, a quiet wish to admire what little his eyes forgot to notice before it was too late. Shinjuku is one of the most charming districts in Tokyo, and for that, he can't bring himself to hate it.
In the midst of silence, he speaks to the stars above him, Stay blessed. And to the dying greens and destroyed buildings, Thank you, and I hope you forgive me one day. Then eventually, he addresses them, Stay if you want, and absolve me if you can. And by them, I mean those who he left behind. Those who were foolish enough to believe in him and those who weren't and who didn't.
The king speaks somewhere in front of him, something about not forgetting him, sometime after he takes his last breath.
Satoru doesn't listen. And as he closes his eyes, nothing on a scrap of dignity barely clawing itself to a tattered shirt, a pathetic prayer to his children and friends leaves his lips and reaches no farther than his own ears. And if tears escape the corners of his eyes, no one needs to know.
Because after that moment, the strongest was no longer.