Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

200 years had passed since nuclear bombs had devastated the planet.

Sukuna remembered them all, with excruciating vividness: the blinding heat on his face, the searing burns, the excruciating pain, the weeks spent on the brink of death. But it wasn't just the negative memories that haunted him.

Sukuna also remembered the immense power he had gained, the transformation his body had undergone. Even today, he could feel the radiation pulsing through his veins, a dark force that granted him immortality.

The greatest tragedy of humanity had had a paradoxical twist for him. He had lost the beauty of his body, yes, but in exchange he had gained eternal life. As long as the radiation permeated the world, he would survive, his cells immune to aging.

He was a tumor, yes, but an immortal one.

The world before the apocalypse had tired him.

Society was sick, obsessed with success, in a relentless race towards a better life that then, inevitably, slipped away, leaving only loneliness and regret.

Studying, sacrificing friendships, relationships, passions for a paper god like money, only to then use it to try to buy what had been lost: an endless cycle of frustration that only broke when it was too late.

This new world, on the other hand, was different. Raw, violent, dominated by the law of the strongest.

A world where every day could be the last, where death could come from the jaws of a Deathclaw, the claws of a Yao Guai or the clutches of a ghoul. But it was also a world where freedom was absolute, where the possibilities were endless.

A world where, if you were strong enough, you could conquer everything. And Sukuna was. Strong, relentless, a survivor born from the apocalypse. An immortal tumor in a sick world, destined to rule over what was left of humanity.

Sukuna, known as the Radiation King, was a Glowing One, a ghoul so saturated with radiation that he was a source of it himself. His fame was legendary, attracting a devoted following of ghouls and even humans, who worshipped him as a deity. Behind his cult was Uraume, a human woman who, ironically, had died of radiation poisoning after helping to spread Sukuna's myth.

Being near Sukuna was lethal for a human like Uraume, but she had never feared him. Sukuna, for his part, was not saddened by her death. After all, after two hundred years in that hostile world, emotions had lost much of their power over him.

Abandoning his cult, Sukuna had ventured west, far from anything that reminded him of Uraume and the past.

It was not an escape, but a rebirth.

Radiation posed no danger to him, and the vast wastelands were his kingdom. His rifle, his knife, and his own radioactive body were his weapons against anyone who dared challenge him.

It was night when a blinding flash illuminated the sky. Two hundred years had passed since he had last seen such a spectacle, and the pure radiation that flooded his face filled him with a wild ecstasy. There were few unexploded nuclear bombs left, and witnessing their detonation was a rare and precious event.

Before him, with a deafening thud, fell the massive door of a Vault, the number 8 imprinted on its rusty surface. But in Sukuna's eyes, it appeared lying on its side, resembling the symbol of infinity. A sign of fate.

With a sly smile on his lips, Sukuna whistled and walked towards the source of the glow, ready to embrace his infinite rebirth in the atomic flames.

The closer he got to the source, the more intense the radiation became, enveloping him in a vortex of pure energy.

He let himself go to that electrifying sensation, feeling the radiation penetrate his veins and nourish his body. A feast worthy of the Radiation King, he thought with exhilaration.

He closed his eyes to savor that moment of triumph, when a gunshot pinned him to the ground, tearing his leg apart.

He snapped his eyes open, but the wound had already healed. In that bath of radiation, his regenerative power was amplified, making him almost invincible.

He stood up abruptly, heading for a nearby ruined house. A shot to the head or heart, he knew, would be fatal, but his body, now mutated, could withstand less serious injuries.

"Who dares challenge me?" he roared, ready to unleash his fury on his assailant. But a moment of reflection stopped him.

The amount of radiation in that place was enough to annihilate any human being, even ordinary ghouls.

And the bullet that had hit him was not one of those used by Super Mutants.

It had to be someone else like him, a being mutated by radiation, a unique individual he had never met before. A shiver of unease ran down his spine.

Then he saw him: an unexpected sight.

A young man, armed with a rifle, stood before him. He was naked, except for a Pip-Boy wrapped around his arm, white hair, and eyes shining with a surreal blue light. The boy was injured, dirty with blood and dirt, yet his figure exuded extraordinary perfection: flawless, fair skin. He couldn't be a ghoul, yet he was undoubtedly alive.

"Kid, didn't they teach you that to kill a man you have to shoot him in the heart?" Sukuna hurled a brick at the young man, then leaped out of his hiding place and lunged at him to subdue him. But neither the brick throw nor Sukuna's attack had the desired effect: the young man fainted before he was even hit by the brick, falling to the ground inert.

Sukuna approached cautiously, observing the young man's body closely. He noticed with astonishment that the wounds were healing just like his injured leg. "What the hell are you?" he muttered to himself.

He casually lifted the boy and placed him on a table to examine him better. He had no burns and his skin was healing impeccably. Under the layer of dirt and blood, Sukuna glimpsed something. He opened his backpack, pulled out an old t-shirt and a water bottle, and began to clean the boy's arm, revealing a unique tattoo: six eyes surrounding the infinity symbol.

"A Vault-Tec experiment?" Sukuna murmured.

He wondered if he should clean and dress the boy before waking him, but looking at him closer he decided it would really be a shame to deprive himself of this fine sight.

He left him as he was.

"You'll have a lot of questions to answer when you wake up, boy," Sukuna said with a smile, staring at the young man like a cat watching its new prey.

Uraume would soon be forgotten, he thought, and this new "toy" would surely last much longer. Sukuna sat down, a smile plastered on his face.

Chapter Text

A torrent of radioactive rain poured down upon the dilapidated house, an apocalyptic blessing for Sukuna. Armed with a salvaged bucket, he stepped out into the ashen sky, letting the energy-laden water cascade over his naked body. An eerie green luminescence emanated from his skin, illuminating the desolate landscape like a macabre beacon in the night. His body was scarred, burned from countless battles, once a source of pride, now a mere shell of resilience.

He hated his appearance, a reflection of the world's cruelty.

Returning to shelter, he clothed himself as the water evaporated rapidly from his warm, radioactive skin.

The boy still slept, his light breathing marred by occasional spasms and expressions of terror.

Nightmares, Sukuna thought. But what nightmares could torment a privileged child born and raised within a Vault, an artificial paradise in a ravaged world?

Lucky bastards.

The boy's awakening was imminent.

Sukuna pulled a rope from his backpack and approached the sleeping youth. The beauty of his white, smooth, and warm skin always perplexed him. He brushed it with a finger, feeling the tingle of radiation. Then, he rested his entire hand on the boy's chest, savoring the transfer of energy.

There was something different about this radiation, a pulsating vitality that distinguished it from the ambient kind. Almost as if it were alive.

Silently, he wrapped the rope around the boy's neck, creating a noose.

He tightened the other end and sat on a chair he had repaired earlier. A regal pose, legs crossed, a sinister grin etched on his face. This would be his welcome, an image of superiority worthy of a god. He laughed, imagining the words Uraume would have addressed to him at that moment.

Then, he lost himself in the labyrinth of memories. After so many years of life, these moments of absence were becoming increasingly frequent. His brain, now burdened by an enormous amount of memories, experiences, and knowledge, struggled to bear the weight of immortality. A high price to pay for an eternal existence.

"GETO! GETO NOO!"

A piercing scream shattered the silence, jolting Sukuna back to reality. The boy must have had a particularly vivid nightmare, one of those that rip you from sleep with a shiver of terror.

He hadn't gotten up yet, but his eyes were already open, glowing like two blue beacons in the dim light.

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty has awakened. Perhaps it's the result of a kiss from dear Geto?" Sukuna shot the arrow blindly, with the cynical confidence of someone who knows that such a nightmare can only be caused by the thought of a loved one.

A flash of Uraume crossed his mind, but he angrily pushed it away.

The boy had sat up, watching him with a strange look and instinctively reaching for the rope around his neck. "Who are you?".

"No, no, no..." Sukuna pulled the rope violently, knocking the boy off the table. He continued to yank him until he was at his feet, in a position of absolute submission. "Haven't they taught you not to question the one holding the leash?".

The boy, breathless, let out a broken and hesitant voice: "Bastard!".

Sukuna pressed his foot on Gojo's nape, pinning him to the ground and rubbing his delicate face on the rough cobblestones, opening deep, bloody wounds. "Let's start over. Do you have a name or should I give you one, dog?". His voice was thunder that echoed through the room.

"Satoru Gojo," Gojo replied, his voice muffled by the dirt.

"I didn't hear you, speak up!" Sukuna sneered, lifting his foot.

"Satoru Gojo," Gojo repeated, this time loudly, raising his head and staring into the eyes of his tormentor. "And you have no idea what you've taken on a leash!".

In an instant, the scratches on Gojo's face regenerated at an astonishing speed, emitting a wave of radiation that hit Sukuna full force. His eyes lit up with a blinding light, and the rope that bound the boy caught fire, disintegrating into ash. When Sukuna reopened his eyes, Gojo had already disappeared.

"What the hell!" he cursed, lunging out the door with his gun drawn. "Get back here, boy! Things will be easier!".

Dawn filtered gently through the radioactive cloud, painting the sky with hues of pink.

Gojo ran naked, desperately seeking refuge.

Sukuna followed him with his gaze, unhurriedly. He raised his rifle, aimed, and fired. The bullet struck Gojo in the leg, causing him to fall to the ground with a cry of pain.

As he approached the wounded boy, Sukuna began to whistle, imitating a gesture he had seen in a TV show before the world plunged into chaos. It had always worked with his prey, and he didn't see why it shouldn't work this time as well.

"Leave me alone, aberration!" Gojo croaked, his voice hoarse as he felt Sukuna approaching with heavy footsteps. "Or do you want another dose of radiation?".

Sukuna towered over him, a wicked grin plastered on his face.

"We've got this all wrong, sweetheart," he replied in a honeyed tone, placing a heavy foot on Gojo's injured leg, which was already slowly healing. "This isn't your little fairy-tale world underground. I make the rules here, and you belong to me."

A scream of pain escaped Gojo's lips as the pressure on his leg increased. It was evident that the boy was not used to such pain. Sukuna laughed in amusement.

"You have two choices, beauty," he continued, his voice taking on a sadistic cadence. "You can become my new affectionate little dog and follow my orders... or do the same, but with significantly more pain."

Gojo, despite being exhausted, was not ready to give in. He spat in Sukuna's direction, hitting him on the side of the mouth.

"Do you really expect me to submit so easily?" he asked with a disdainful voice.

Sukuna licked his lips, savoring the taste of Gojo's spit. "Not at all, I don't mind the resistance," he replied with an even wider grin.

Then, in a sudden move, he bent down and grabbed the boy's injured leg, starting to drag him towards the dilapidated house that stood ominously in the night.

Gojo screamed for help, begged for mercy, but Sukuna continued to drag him mercilessly, whistling a cheerful tune as if he were bringing home a trophy.

“I think it's time to make this mutt understand who the master is”, he flipped Gojo over onto his stomach, and slammed his gunboot into the man's lower back. Then, he pressed Gojo's face against the cold concrete floor, effectively immobilizing him.

His naked body now lay completely at Sukuna's mercy.

He should have been sporting an erection, if the radiation hadn't taken away every soft extremity. But after all these years, he had learned and experimented with so many alternative methods to satiate his desires, even if not physically, then at least mentally.

Gojo was helpless.

While one of the hand of Sukuna pinned Gojo's head firmly against the floor, the other one to explore the ass of the man beneath him. His fingers soon found their target and burrowed in with determination.

He could hear Gojo gurgling, and in response, Sukuna increased the pressure, then yanked his fingers out and delivered a sharp, hard slap that left an indented mark on Gojo's ass cheek.

The radiation emanating from Gojo only served to excite him further.

Sukuna bit down hard on one ass cheek until blood spurted out, soaking the other cheek. He licked up the warm salty fluid eagerly. then grabbed the rifle that was nearby and shoved the barrel into Gojo's ass, making him gasp in surprise.

Sukuna felt even more aroused by the boy's obvious discomfort.

It wasn't just pain he was inflicting on Gojo now; it seemed he was going through shivers of pleasure.

Sukuna studied Gojo's face closely, he had fainted. Perhaps using that strange radioactive power was too much for Gojo in his current state.

In that state, something had changed, Sukuna could feel how every thrust from his fingers or the rifle barrel inside of Gojo both hurt and aroused the boy in equal measure.

Sukuna could perceive that pleasure from the moans and from the fact that he could clearly see the boy's erect and increasingly hard cock. He turned him over, straddled him, wanted to ride him, then he heard the boy speak unconsciousness "yes, Geto continue , I beg you".

"Geto... Geto..." Gojo moaned brokenly beneath him, voice strained with pleasure and pain.

Sukuna growled into Gojo's ear "That's right, you slut. That's your Geto. You want more?"

He slammed into the boy harder still, feeling every muscle in Gojo's body tense beneath him. He grinned cruelly and leaned down to whisper hotly against Gojo's quivering lips, "Scream for me, Gojo! Scream for your Geto!"

And Gojo screamed; with a shudder that rocked the both of them, he came apart beneath Sukuna, semen spurting out around his cock as his voice broke on an animalistic howl of ecstasy.

Sukuna snorted and leaned into Gojo's ear. “I'll take your Geto's place.”

A wave of radiation hit him again

Sukuna laughed “you'll see”.

Chapter Text

A metallic hum filled the room as Geto fiddled with the Pip-Boy on his wrist, his deep voice echoing in the stifling air: "Radiation levels are returning to acceptable levels." A glimmer of hope flickered in the eyes of his weary and tested companions.

Itadori, with his characteristic impulsiveness, lunged towards the vault's blast door, ready to fling it open towards the unknown. But Megumi, with his innate caution, stopped him with a resolute gesture. "We must be certain," he warned, his tense voice betraying the fear lurking behind his dark eyes. "There could be dangers lurking out there, Sensei Geto."

Nobara, with her usual brashness, stepped forward, drumming her fingers on her hammer as if to ward off the tension. "We don't have time to dilly-dally!" she exclaimed, her voice vibrating with determination. "Let's arm ourselves and find Gojo!"

A chill descended upon the room as they heard Shoko's words, her tone laced with resignation and grief. "Gojo couldn't have survived that explosion," she stated, the smell of alcohol hanging around her accentuating the gravity of her words. "Going out now would only mean confirming his death."

Geto collapsed suddenly into the chair, overwhelmed by the weight of his loss. Tears streamed down his face. "We can't be sure," he murmured, his voice broken with emotion. "The experiment might have worked. Gojo had a good chance."

Shoko approached him, stroking his face gently. "Suguru, you saw the nuclear explosion too," she whispered, trying to comfort him. "No one could have survived, not even our Satoru."

But Geto vehemently shook his head, refusing to accept the evidence. "I know he's alive," he proclaimed, his voice charged with unwavering conviction. "Not even a nuclear bomb can kill that stubborn egocentric Satoru."

Megumi, Itadori, and Nobara exchanged glances filled with embarrassment and sympathy, the silence enveloping the room like a funeral shroud. Each of them was torn between hope and despair, as Gojo's fate hung by a thread, as uncertain as the future that awaited them beyond the smoking ruins of their hope.

"Prepare your weapons, let's open up!" Yuta's determined voice cut through the tense silence that weighed on the room, drawing the attention of his companions. "Sensei said it's safe, so let's get out. We can't stay trapped here, the supplies are running low, and sooner or later we'll have to face the outside world."

His words hit home. Half of the Vault had collapsed under the fury of the explosion, swallowing supplies and hope. It was time to abandon the shelter that had protected them for too long.

With renewed vigor, each one prepared for the mission. Itadori, a master of hand-to-hand combat, clenched his fists tightly, ready to face any danger.

Nobara made sure her hammer was firmly at her side. Shoko and Geto placed two boxes filled with medical supplies on the table, the last resort in case of emergency.

Yuta, with a solemn air, drew his katana, a weapon he had carried with him for years and had learned to wield with skill. At his side stood Rika, the loyal Miss Handy he had assembled himself with love and ingenuity.

"Oh, finally you can use Mahoraga!" exclaimed Itadori, greeting Megumi with a smile. Megumi, the last to join the group, clutched in his hands the pre-war rifle passed down through generations of his family. A fiery look in his eyes revealed his eagerness to finally put the coveted weapon to the test.

Geto opened the boxes with medical supplies, Stimpaks and RadAway, and the four boys proceeded to divide up the precious medicines, carefully storing them in their backpacks. The air was thick with tension and concentration.

Shoko, with a determined voice but veiled with sadness, outlined the plan: "We have thoroughly studied the outside world. We will go out, clear the exit of debris, head to the explosion site, and assess the situation. If possible, we will recover the video recordings of the experiment."

"Shouldn't they have been destroyed by the explosion?" Nobara asked, interrupting the briefing with a doubtful tone.

"No," Geto replied, raising his arm to show his Pip-Boy. "The black box was designed to withstand any impact. Once we're close, our Pip-Boys will pick up its signal and we can finally retrieve it."

"Me and Geto will stay here," Shoko clarified, breaking the silence that had fallen after Geto's words. "We'll keep the door open. At the first sign of danger, come back inside. Pay attention to the radiation and... good luck, guys." A melancholy smile lit up her face, filled with worry.

With a nod in unison, the four boys took up their weapons and approached the Vault's large blast door. A shiver of fear ran through them, but determination burned in their eyes. They were ready to face the unknown, to overcome any obstacle to uncover the truth about the explosion and the fate of their master.

A siren wailed and a flashing red light illuminated the room, announcing the opening of the door. The outside air, thick with acrid and stagnant smells, enveloped them like a cold shroud. A moment's hesitation, then Itadori, with his characteristic impetuosity, lunged beyond the threshold.

"Always the same," Yuta snorted, shaking his head with a smile. Then, without hesitation, he rushed off to follow his friend, Rika by his side.

"Come on Megumi," Nobara encouraged, gently pushing him towards the exit. "You have Mahoraga, and you can finally use it."

A veil of smoke curled around Shoko's face as she pulled on her cigarette, letting out a sigh laden with worry. "I hope everything goes well," she murmured, her voice choked by a knot of tension in her throat.

Geto smiled at her, trying to hide his own anxiety. "We trained them well," he said reassuringly. "They're much more prepared than we were at their age."

His words brought back memories of the past, of days spent teaching, guiding, and protecting the young boys who were now venturing into the unknown. A nostalgic smile spread across his face, but a flicker of sadness clouded his eyes.

"Speak for yourself and Satoru," Shoko retorted sarcastically, her voice laced with bitterness. "While you two were spending your time screwing around every chance you got, I was studying."

She extinguished her cigarette with a determined gesture and grabbed the bottle of liquor, pouring herself another generous drink. "Oh, sorry," she added in an ironic tone, realizing the harshness of her words. "I shouldn't have."

Geto took the blow without replying, his gaze lowered to the floor. He had known Shoko long enough to know that sarcasm and alcohol were her ways of coping with pain and loss. It was pointless to argue, pointless to try to calm her down. He could only offer her his silent company.

Four hours of heavy silence enveloped the room, punctuated only by the obsessive ticking of the clock on the wall. Shoko, exhausted from the wait and tension, had succumbed to sleep, her slender body curled up on the floor, covered only by Geto's blue and yellow jacket, which he had thoughtfully removed to give her some warmth.

Geto, on the other hand, could not find peace. Sitting on an uncomfortable chair, he tapped his foot nervously against the floor, a nervous twitch that betrayed his growing anxiety. It was past the time they were supposed to return, and each passing minute added to his worry.

A sudden noise made him jump. Laughter, a confused chatter came from outside. "They're back, Shoko!" Geto exclaimed, his voice filled with relief and trepidation at the same time. He jumped up and rushed over to the girl, shaking her gently to wake her up.

Shoko opened her eyes abruptly, her gaze still clouded with sleep, but a flicker of joy lit up her face when she saw Geto staring at her with a reassuring smile.

"Sensei, we're back!" Itadori crossed the threshold with a determined step, holding on his shoulders an orange box that pulsed with a regular rhythm, like a mechanical heart. A glimmer of hope lit up Geto and Shoko's eyes.

"You found the black box!" Geto exclaimed, his voice filled with trepidation mixed with relief. With a quick gesture, he indicated to Itadori to place the precious object on the table, near the computer terminal that pulsed silently in the dimly lit room.

"I thought it was black... why call it a black box if it's orange?" Itadori mumbled, setting the box down with a thud. A sigh of annoyance escaped Megumi's lips. "Shut up, Itadori, you've been going on about this idiotic story for two hours now," he huffed. "It's a damn convention. You're a dickhead, but that doesn't mean you have a dick for a head."

"Come on, come on, this is not the time for bickering," Yuta intervened, his voice calm and his gaze serious. He positioned himself between Itadori and Megumi, pushing them apart with a gentle gesture. Then, turning to Rika, the shapeshifting robot that accompanied them, he asked in a determined tone: "Show me the vault map, please."

"Certainly, my love," Rika replied in a metallic voice, projecting a three-dimensional hologram that hovered above the table. The image depicted the ruins of the test site, a labyrinth of smoking debris and twisted metal skeletons.

"We explored the ruins all the way to the vault's research center," Yuta explained, his voice somber and monotonous. "As we expected, the rest of the structure was vaporized by the explosion. This area we're in now is the only section that survived intact. Radiation levels are high, but manageable with a single dose of RadAway. We found no sign of bodies, probably devoured by animals or ghouls."

A chilling silence fell over the room. Geto and Shoko exchanged a look laden with grief, their lips pressed into a thin line of anguish. Without a word, they both knew what the absence of bodies meant. Gojo, their childhood friend, had vanished into thin air, consumed by the same explosion that had devastated the vault.

The boys, despite their hearts being torn apart by grief, tried to maintain a stoic demeanor. Megumi, in particular, seemed more affected than the others. He curled up in a corner, his face hidden in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. For him, Gojo had been more than just a teacher; he was a father figure, a beacon of light in his troubled life, after the disappearance of his real father, Toji, who had set off in search of fortune in the outside world.

A scream pierced the tense silence of the room: "SATORU!" It was Geto, his voice broken with emotion, drawing everyone's attention to the screen. Shoko, unable to bear the accumulated tension, collapsed to the floor, while a chorus of incredulous voices whispered "he's alive" among the boys. The screen, momentarily blinded by a blinding explosion, now showed a distinct figure emerging from the rubble. A tall, slender man with pale skin that contrasted sharply with the graininess of the black and white video. Staggering slightly, confused and disoriented, he moved among the debris, unharmed.

"I knew he could do it!" Geto, with tears in his eyes, couldn't contain his joy. He replayed the video in a loop, showing Gojo's surviving image over and over again. Then, helping Shoko to her feet, he turned to the boys with a booming voice: "Get ready! Let's go get our Gojo back! Take everything that might be useful!" The four young men needed no further encouragement. In an instant, they vanished into the bunker's corridors, laden with supplies and unwavering determination.

"He's alive! The experiment worked!" Geto was unstoppable. He hugged Shoko tightly, laughing and crying at the same time. "Satoru is alive!" The air was thick with palpable emotion, a mixture of relief, euphoria, and disbelief. Their mission was far from over, but in that moment, in that room, they had already won their most important battle. Hope had blossomed anew, fueled by the tenacity of a man who had defied death and conquered it.

Chapter Text

Satoru Gojo stirred from a fitful sleep, his mind a tangled mess of conflicting sensations. A dull ache hammered at his temples, like a hammer on a red-hot anvil. Every breath was agony. A rasping exhale of sand and dust that burned his lungs. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids, glued shut by heavy, sticky sleep, only parted with difficulty. The blinding desert light seared his retinas, a white-hot glare that reflected off the incandescent sand, creating an illusion of an endless sea.

His body ached; every muscle as tight as a violin string. His throat was parched, his mouth filled with a bitter metallic taste. A feeling of oppression in his chest forced him to breathe deeply, but each inhalation was torture, a lungful of radioactive dust that burned. Bound and gagged, he felt the sand seep into every pore of his skin, a slow, painful abrasion that reminded him of his helplessness.

A knot of panic tightened in his throat, intensifying the sense of powerlessness that gripped him. Where was he? What had happened to him? His eyes fell on his bonds: rough, dirty ropes, expertly knotted by skilled hands. A shiver ran down his spine.

In front of him, Sukuna walked with the grace of a predator. His smile was a blatant display of superiority. The glowing ghoul whistled a discordant tune, a macabre chant that echoed through the desert silence like a mockery of Gojo's suffering.

Gojo writhed against his bonds, desperately trying to free himself. The ropes tore at his skin with every movement, every attempt to escape an agony. He could feel the sand scratching and burning against his skin, a sensation of filth and violation that made him feel powerless. His mouth was dry and bitter, the taste of the dirty gag almost making him gag.

"Ah, finally awake," Sukuna murmured, his voice deep and cavernous. "I thought I'd get bored before you came to."

Gojo stared at him with an intensity that could burn through retinas. The gag prevented him from screaming, but there was a storm of emotion in his eyes: anger, frustration, but also an unwavering determination.

Sukuna chuckled, a sound that seemed to scratch at the surface of his mind.

"Ah, I like that sparkle in your eyes," he said, leaning forward, planting his boot heavily on Gojo's back and bending over him with deliberate slowness. "You know, I've met a lot of ghouls in my time, but none quite like you. Perfect, immaculate..."

His breath was hot and rancid against Gojo's skin, a further insult to his dignity.

With a slow, deliberate gesture, Sukuna lifted his boot, the sole caked with sand and blood, and placed it on Gojo's back. The weight was unbearable, a pressure that crushed his breath. Gojo writhed, trying to break free, but the bonds were too tight.

Sukuna watched each reaction with a perverse interest, like a child playing with an insect before crushing it.

"I imagine you're wondering why you're here," Sukuna began, his voice wavering in a broken melody, now gentle, now threatening. "You see, the world is full of ghouls, but you... you're special. I want to understand what makes you so different. And believe me, I won't stop until I have all the answers.

Gojo writhed, feeling the ropes digging into his flesh, a constant reminder of his powerlessness. Sukuna watched him, his eyes glittering with a sick joy that made Gojo shudder to his core. "Don't even think about escaping," he hissed menacingly, his voice a mixture of amusement and cruelty.

Compared to the day before, Gojo felt more lucid, but that wasn't necessarily a relief. His body remembered all too well the violence that had been inflicted upon it, every single pain, every cut, every bruise inflicted into the deepest recesses of his flesh. His hatred for Sukuna burned within him like an inextinguishable fire, fuelled by every painful step that forced him across this infernal desert.

He felt every grain of sand scratching his already battered skin, every sharp stone digging into his back like a red-hot dagger. He was tired, exhausted, as if every ounce of energy had been sucked out of him by this desolate landscape and his merciless tormentor.

The journey across the desert had become a succession of moments of stupor and painful awakening. Every time his mind slipped into oblivion, desperately trying to escape the reality of suffering, the scorching sand and sharp stones would brutally awaken him, inflicting new, excruciating pain.

In one of those rare moments of lucidity, Gojo managed to reflect on his situation. His mind, though tired, was working frantically, desperately searching for a way out. He had to find a weakness in Sukuna, a moment of distraction, anything that would allow him to rebel. Every fibre of his being was focused on two primary goals: survival and revenge.

Sukuna, meanwhile, seemed to feed on Gojo's torment. Every groan of pain, every twist in the bonds was a source of perverse pleasure for him. He whistled merrily, a cheerful, carefree tune that contrasted cruelly with the brutality of the situation. It was as if he were taking a pleasant stroll instead of dragging a prisoner through the scorching hell of the desert.

"You see, my lucky ghoul," Sukuna said, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence like a sharp blade. His eyes gleamed with an unhealthy light as he paused to study his prey. "This is only the beginning. I have great plans for you. Together we'll uncover your secrets, one by one. And I assure you, it will be... extremely painful."

Gojo didn't answer. He couldn't, his throat was dry and raw from the merciless sun, but more importantly, he didn't want to give Sukuna the satisfaction of a reaction. His brain, despite his tired and weakened body, continued to search desperately for an escape route. The sun was high in the sky, relentless, a fiery disc that seemed to want to burn away every trace of life. The heat enveloped Gojo like a suffocating vise, making his head spin and his mouth dry.

Sukuna continued to walk with a light step, a malevolent grin plastered on his face that seemed to accentuate the demonic features of his physiognomy. "You know, Gojo," he said in a hissing voice, each word laden with the promise of future pain, "I know exactly where to take you. There's a doctor in my sect who would love to get his hands on you. Oh, yes, it will be a pleasure to watch him work on you."

Gojo stared at him, trying to keep an impassive expression. But the mention of a doctor made his blood run cold.

Sukuna continued, his tone suddenly becoming more plaintive and laden with a resentment that seemed to come from a long time ago. "You know, after Uraume died, I had no intention of going back. Her loss was... inconvenient." A spark of what could almost be seen as pain crossed his eyes, quickly replaced by a light of unhealthy excitement. "But then I found you, wandering in the wilderness. You're the one who changed my plans. Uraume would have understood. She would have seen in you what I see."

Sukuna's eyes lit up with a hedonistic madness as he watched Gojo, studying him like a hungry predator study its prey. "You see, dear Gojo, Uraume was special. Unique. Her death was a real shame." His lips curled into a smile that had nothing human about it. "But you... you're an even more interesting discovery. Perfect, flawless. I can't wait to explore every curve of your perfect body."

Sukuna's words, charged with sick lust and promises of future suffering, seeped into Gojo's mind like poison. Sickness overcame him, mixing with the searing pain and the merciless effect of the sun. The world began to sway before his eyes, the blurred contours of the desert merging into a swirl of blinding colour.

With a last effort, Gojo tried to stay conscious, not to succumb to the darkness that threatened to engulf him. But his body, pushed beyond its limits, could no longer resist. The world went dark and Gojo slipped into oblivion, leaving behind Sukuna's triumphant grin and the fiery desert, plunging into a darkness that promised, at least for the moment, a respite from his terrible reality.

In stark contrast to the suffering of his prisoner, Sukuna seemed to derive sadistic pleasure from Gojo's agony. His eyes gleamed with an unhealthy glee at each new sign of pain on his captive's face. Any attempt by Gojo to speak or rebel was met with cruel mockery and even greater violence. "Oh, how weak you are now," Sukuna said mockingly, his voice a mixture of amusement and contempt. He yanked at the rope that bound Gojo, enjoying the groans of pain that followed.

He laughed at Gojo's suffering, a sound that echoed across the desert like the howl of a wild beast. "But don't worry, dear Gojo," he continued, his voice softening into a parody of kindness that was perhaps more terrifying than his open cruelty. "I will make you strong again. Oh yes, I'll know how to use your gift."

As darkness threatened to engulf him again, Gojo clung to one last desperate thought: Geto. He had to resist. For as long as he lived, he could meet him again. And one day, he promised himself, he would kiss his love's lips again, one day he would return.

With this silent vow, Gojo let himself be dragged into oblivion, Sukuna's cruel laughter following him into the depths of unconsciousness.

The days of travel had become an eternity of suffering for Gojo. Driven by a feverish haste, Sukuna had never stopped, dragging his prisoner day and night across the unforgiving desert. For four endless days and three nights, Gojo's skin had been shed and regenerated in a cruel and endless cycle, rubbing against the boiling sand and the sharp stones that littered the arid ground.

Now, on the horizon, a surreal vision loomed against the fiery sky. An imposing fortress rose from the dunes, its massive walls adorned with white draperies billowing in the desert wind. On each banner, drawn in black ink, were the same disturbing tattoos that Sukuna bore on his own skin, a mark of belonging and devotion.

Noticing Gojo's fixed and shocked gaze, Sukuna began to speak in a triumphant tone, his voice filled with a sick pride. "This, Gojo, is my fortress. The seat of my sect, born of ghouls and humans whom I have subjugated by force and moulded by fear. They have come to worship me, creating a veritable cult around me. I must admit," he added with a smug grin, "I am not displeased at all.

As they drew closer, the macabre details of the fortress became clearer, revealing a picture of madness and twisted devotion. The walls were a chaotic palimpsest of graffiti and ritual symbols, some traced with what appeared to be dried blood. The towers were manned by spectral figures: ghouls in makeshift armour, watching the newcomers with empty, hungry eyes, their twisted forms barely recognisable as humanoid.

"My most loyal acolyte was Uraume," Sukuna continued, his tone almost nostalgic, an emotion that seemed out of place on his cruel face. "But she was weak. Being so close to me... the radiation consumed her." His words were charged with a cold regret, as if he were speaking of the loss of a precious object rather than a person.

Gojo felt a knot in his stomach, a mixture of disgust and horror. The idea of a sect of fanatics devoted to Sukuna was repulsive, a perversion of every human principle he had tried to protect.

They passed through the massive doors of the fortress and Gojo was immediately assaulted by the oppressive atmosphere within. The interior walls were a riot of grotesque frescoes depicting Sukuna in triumphant poses, surrounded by prostrate worshippers in acts of extreme devotion. The air was saturated with incense and other acrid odours, a sickening mixture that made his head spin and his senses blur.

Sukuna's followers, half-human and half-ghoul, were immediately aware of their arrival. Like a wave, they rushed to kneel in their lord's path, creating a living corridor of prostrate bodies. Glances of blind adoration and reverent fear were directed at Sukuna, but Gojo did not escape their attention either. They stared at him with a morbid and hungry curiosity, as if he were a new toy brought by their god for their amusement.

"I'm back," Sukuna announced, his voice strong and clear in the silent fortress. "Inform the physician that he is summoned to my chambers in the morning," he ordered, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "And for tonight," he added, giving Gojo a look full of dark promise, "send me four priestesses.

Gojo was dragged through a maze of corridors, the rusted metal walls seeming to whisper tales of horror with every step. The sound of his bare feet scraping the rough floor echoed eerily, mingling with the frantic rhythm of his heart.

Finally, they came to a massive door decorated with arcane symbols and silent warnings. With a grim groan, the door swung open, revealing a room that seemed to embody the quintessence of Sukuna's perversion and madness.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, Gojo was assaulted by a scene of macabre hedonism so overwhelming it threatened to overwhelm his already tested senses. The very air seemed thick with fear and morbid anticipation.

The walls, once white and sterile, were now a museum of horrors. Instruments of torture, some ancient, others clearly the product of the post-apocalyptic world's sick ingenuity, were neatly arranged like trophies in a personal collection. Rusty chains hung menacingly, their clanking still echoing in the air. Sharp blades reflected the dim light, promising pain with each gleam. Instruments of all kinds, some of which Gojo couldn't even imagine the purpose of, hung from hooks, each with a history of suffering etched into the metal worn by time and use.

From the ceiling, a network of sturdy ropes stretched like a macabre canopy, ready to immobilise the next victims in a suspended dance of pain.

A huge bed stood in the centre of the room, in stark contrast to the surrounding horror. Covered in soft red silk ruffles and fluffy pillows, it seemed like an island of luxury in a sea of suffering. The contrast between the decadent elegance of the bed and the crude horror of the instruments of torture was jarring, a clear sign of Sukuna's perverse hedonism. Every detail of the room had been meticulously designed to provide pleasure and pain in equal measure, a stage for the sadistic games of a mind warped by radiation and power.

But what truly dominated the environment, drawing the eye like a magnet of terror, was an imposing throne. Pompous and terrifying at the same time, the throne was a monument to death itself. Human skulls, some with traces of dried flesh, formed the armrests. Long bones, bleached and polished to gleam with a spectral light, intertwined to form the back. Each skull, each bone, had been carefully arranged to create a macabre spectacle that seemed to whisper the promise of eternity in suffering.

Gojo, his body battered by the journey and his spirit broken by the horror, was thrown at the feet of this altar of cruelty. His knees hit the ground with a thud, the echo of pain reverberating through his exhausted body.

Sukuna approached the throne with measured steps, each movement charged with a terrifying authority. His eyes, bottomless pits of madness and power, rested on Gojo with a satisfied grin that promised unimaginable torment.

"Welcome to my humble abode, Gojo," Sukuna's voice echoed through the room, a mixture of honey and venom. "This is my domain, my little corner of paradise in this radioactive hell. And you, my dear," he paused, savouring the moment, "are my next work of art."

Gojo trembled, unable to look away from Sukuna's mad eyes. Every instrument of torture, every macabre detail of the room seemed to come alive, enveloping him in a nightmare from which there was no waking.

Gojo was dragged to one of the walls, the wounds from rubbing against the floor having healed and his bare skin returned to a perfect velvety pallor. Sukuna pressed herself against him as she took his wrists and secured them to handcuffs nailed to the wall.

Gojo immediately felt the pressure of Sukuna's hard cock against his skin, which he must have noticed because he pressed even harder against him.

When he was sure that Gojo was firmly pinned to the wall, Sukuna broke away from his body to stand a few centimetres away. Gojo could feel the hot, pungent breath whipping his face.

"You know I'm going to break you, right?" chanted Sukuna as he removed his gag "You must understand that you are my property now, I will have fun with you until I am tired and at that point, only at that point, when you beg me to kill you, I will".

Gojo looked him straight in the eye, "As if I could be broken by a monster like you".

A blast of radiation hit Sukuna right in the face, vaporising the first layers of skin, but Sukuna did not flinch and smiled "I'll have to learn to do that too".

"I'm going back to my friends; I'm going back to Geto" The radiation stopped and the exhausted Gojo fainted again.

He was awakened by female moans, he opened his eyes, it was night, Sukuna's room was lit by torches and candles. Sukuna sat on the throne, naked, a girl bent over him, sucking his cock with unreal eagerness. On the floor, not far from the throne, two girls were panting and pleasuring each other, their eyes fixed on Sukuna.

"Those bright eyes, I see you are back among us," Sukuna's eyes were on him as he forced the girl's head against his cock with one hand, "one of you go and take care of my new puppet”

He was awakened by female moans, he opened his eyes, it was night, Sukuna's room was lit by torches and candles. Sukuna sat on the throne, naked, a girl bent over him, sucking his cock with unreal eagerness. On the floor, not far from the throne, two girls were panting and pleasuring each other, their eyes fixed on Sukuna.

"Those bright eyes, I see you are back among us," Sukuna's eyes were on him as he forced the girl's head against his cock with one hand, "one of you go and take care of my new boy.

Out of the shadows came a girl, young, she could not have been more than 20, her skin and face were perfect, no imperfections, she must have been born and raised there, surely, she had never been exposed to the radioactive lands.

She approached Gojo's naked body. She looked into his eyes, then began to lick his chest.

Gojo was uncomfortable, Sukuna's eyes were fixed on him, his hand was still pressing the girl's head against his cock, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, Gojo could see the trickle of saliva dripping down one of Sukuna's legs, something about that image was frightening, then he realised, the girl was suffocating, he could tell by the involuntary spasms in her hands, her feet, the tense muscles in her neck.

"Let her go," Gojo shouted, startling the girl, who at that moment had come to lick his belly.

"Oh, someone's in the mood to be a paladin," Sukuna let go of the girl's head, who immediately pulled away from his cock, taking a greedy breath and coughing up saliva, "I guess your girlfriend's not trying hard enough if you keep thinking about me."

"Sorry master," the girl whimpered, now kissing Gojo's unerect penis, "but..."

"This isn't..." Sukuna sat down more comfortably on the throne, the girl she had let go of had eagerly climbed onto Sukuna's cock and was riding it passionately in spasms "I guess you weren't good enough".

The girl at Gojo's feet whimpered in pain and continued to kiss him, putting his cock in her mouth and trying to suck it, greedily seeking an erection that never came.

Gojo looked at her sadly, this girl was so pure, so innocent, what monster would force her to do such things, she must have been really scared of Sukuna to behave like this.

"Master, give me another chance, but not with this," the girl begged, removing Gojo's penis from her mouth.

"As you can see, your older companion is already taking care of me," Sukuna blurted out with a smile, "but take what is yours if you want.

Sukuna threw something at them from the throne, a knife, and the girl immediately took it, leaving Gojo handcuffed and approaching Sukuna.

The two girls who had been pleasuring each other got up and stood next to Sukuna, one on the left and the other on the right of the throne. Sukuna's hands immediately grabbed their wet pussies and began to penetrate them violently with his fingers, the girls moaning and jerking against him.

The girl riding him on the other hand kissed him passionately, moving now with a fast rhythm, now with a slow and deep rhythm, all underlined by her cries of pleasure. Sukuna smiled, her teeth bared, her eyes fixed on Gojo.

The young woman had now brought herself within a step of the throne, she was trembling, the knife in her hand, Sukuna now had her eyes closed, the girl riding him was obviously close to her climax.

Gojo didn't know what to do, the innocent young girl who had just licked him would never be able to overpower Sukuna, even if he was distracted, he could see that from the way she held the knife. Gojo wanted to protect her, to save her, he was sure Sukuna would use her as an example to the others, he would do terrible things to her.

He was about to scream when he saw the blood gushing from the neck of the girl who was riding Sukuna, when he saw all the blood flooding Sukuna's face, when he saw the girl bring her hands to her throat, smiling, continuing to move in a rhythm, now more broken, less precise, as she bled dry on Sukuna's naked body, who had stuck out her tongue, greedily licking the blood.

The young woman forced her arms out and pulled the girl she had just stabbed off Sukuna's cock, dropping her to the foot of the throne, where Sukuna immediately put his foot on her wound, drawing more blood as he did so.

 Sukuna was completely soaked in the girl's blood, not even the tattoos could be seen, the young and 'innocent' girl didn't seem to mind, she straddled him and began rubbing her pussy over his erect penis, wetting herself with the former's blood. The perfect young skin was now stained with blood as she screamed with pleasure as she rode Sukuna.

Gojo was in disbelief, frightened, it was a nightmare, surely it was a nightmare, he exploded, his anger, his frustration exploded, he felt the radiation pouring out of his body, the last thing he saw before he passed out was Sukuna's disappointed and angry look as the three girls filled with radioactive pustules fell to the ground in spasms of pain, then everything went black.

Chapter Text

The wind of the Wasteland carried nothing but the taste of dust and broken promises. It was a weak, sick breath, laden with radioactive particles so fine they shimmered against the jaundiced light of an ochre sun, yet strong enough to lift small swirls of reddish sand from the ridge where they had been staked out for hours.

Suguru Geto paid it no mind. His eyes, shielded by a pair of cracked sunglasses, were locked on the one thing that broke the monotony of the valley below: the fortress. It wasn't a pre-War structure that had been repurposed; it was something new, something wrong. Built of scrap metal, raw concrete, and a sick faith, it rose like a tumor of metal and stone, surrounded by shacks and tents that clung to its foundations like parasites. A bastard temple risen in the heart of hell.

"He's in there, Shoko. After all these years, he's in there."

His voice was a hoarse whisper, worn down by too many silent screams. With an almost unconscious gesture, his thumb rubbed the worn wood of his rifle stock, a habit he'd developed to keep from thinking. To keep from remembering the weight that once occupied that very spot on his back, before a rope decided for him.

Shoko Ieiri let out a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh. She unscrewed the cap of a dented metal flask and took a long swig. The moonshine burned her throat, but it was a familiar, almost comforting fire.

"We've told ourselves 'he's there' too many times, Suguru” she replied, her voice thick with exhaustion and alcohol. "We said it in Boston, amongst the glowing ruins. We said it following the ravings of that ghoul prophet outside New Vegas. We were convinced he was there even when we opened that goddamn crypt full of Supermutants."

She paused, wiping the back of her hand across her lips. "Nobara bought into one of those 'tips.' All that's left of her now is a rusted hammer I didn't have the heart to leave behind."

Geto didn't move, his profile taut against the sickly sky. "This time is different."

"It's always different." Shoko's voice cracked, a ripple of pain across the surface of her shell of cynicism. "Do you remember the look in Yuta's eyes when he left? It wasn't fear; it was... emptiness. He'd seen enough monsters to not want to search for ours anymore. He wished us luck and headed west, toward the stories of a less-poisoned California. Sometimes I hope he found it. Most of the time, I know he didn't."

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the static crackle of their Geiger counter. Geto kept staring at the fortress, but his mind was elsewhere. He saw the smiling, naive face of a pink-haired boy, felt his unwavering faith. A faith he himself had cultivated, and then, unwittingly, shattered.

It was Shoko who delivered the final blow. "And Yuuji..." she murmured, and the name seemed to materialize in the stagnant air like a ghost. "Yuuji believed in it more than anyone. He believed until the day he decided that the shack's ceiling was a more certain future than the one you were offering him."

The sentence hit home. Geto stiffened, his knuckles white against the rifle. For a long moment, the obsession driving him wavered, offering a glimpse into the abyss of desperation upon which it was built. Then, slowly, he straightened his shoulders.

"They all believed” he said, his voice low but vibrating with a feverish conviction. "They believed there was something worth fighting for. Someone. Every step on this accursed earth has cost blood. Theirs. Ours. I cannot allow it to have been for nothing."

He finally turned to look at her, and beneath the cracked lenses, his eyes burned. "This time it's not just rumors, Shoko. I've spoken to the pilgrims. I listened to them for weeks. They talk about a 'Radiant God,' a healer who lives in the temple. They say that radiation bends to his will. But he's not a ghoul. They describe him..." he hesitated, as if speaking the words made them real, fragile. "They describe him as an albino with eyes luminous like fragments of the sky before the bombs fell. A man of unearthly beauty, capable of miracles."

Shoko stared at him, studying his emaciated face, the lucid madness in his gaze. She shook her head, not in denial, but at the tragic, inevitable conclusion. She was trapped in this search as much as he was, bound by a past that refused to die. She took one last, deep swig from the flask, then screwed the cap back on with a sharp click.

"A miraculous albino in the middle of a radioactive desert” she concluded, her voice devoid of all inflection. "Okay. Fine. What's the plan for getting in, then? Assuming they don't just shoot us on sight because we're healthy enough not to have a third arm."

The plan, like almost all their plans in recent years, was simple in its desperation: stop being hunters and become sheep.

Two days later, they were unrecognizable. Their sturdy explorer clothes had been replaced by tattered rags, swapped for a few food rations with a nomadic family. They had coated their faces and arms in dust and soot, enough to mask the relative health of their skin. Shoko forced herself to maintain a slight limp, a trick she had perfected to appear more vulnerable than she was. Geto, on the other hand, only had to let a fraction of the desperation devouring him show through; his feverish, lost gaze perfectly matched that of a man seeking a miracle.

They joined a caravan snaking slowly toward the fortress, a river of human misery flowing in the dry bed of an old highway. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, sickness, and that sweet, metallic stench characteristic of advanced radiation poisoning. It was a procession of the derelict. Humans with visible tumors pulsing beneath stretched skin, ghouls whose bodies were so ravaged they looked more like rotting fungi than sentient beings, and the 'simply' desperate, people whose only illness was hunger and the loss of all hope.

For Shoko, it was a medical hell. Every person she saw was a patient she couldn't cure, a reminder of her failure in a world too sick. For Geto, it was a different kind of torture. Every hopeful face was a mirror.

"He will heal me” croaked a woman crouched beside a weak fire the night before they arrived. She was perhaps thirty, but looked twice her age. With a trembling hand, she pointed to the daughter in her lap, a child no older than five whose eyes were veiled by a milky cataract and whose breathing was a labored wheeze. "My tent neighbor came back from the Temple last month. The water the Radiant One blessed... it stopped the shaking in his hands. My little girl... she will stop suffering. The Radiant One will save her."

Geto nodded silently, his stomach clenched in a vice. He felt the woman's words echo his own silent prayers, his own insane conviction. He was employing the same desperate logic as that mother, masking it as a mission.

An old ghoul, sitting a short distance away, chimed in with a voice that was a rasp of sandpaper. His skin was almost entirely detached from his skull, but his eyes burned with an unnerving fervor. "He's not just a healer, kid. He is the Fury and the Calm. Radiation itself. He gave us a purpose. Before, we were just remnants, abominations dragging ourselves through the dark. Now we are his children. We are the choir of his sacred luminescence."

Shoko walked away on the pretext of looking for water, unable to bear it any longer. Geto remained there, forced to listen, every word a small cut on his soul. He saw the cult surrounding him not as mere madness, but as an amplified, distorted version of his own love, his own unwavering faith. And that terrified him.

The next day, they crossed the fortress gates. There were no guards armed with plasma rifles or power armor. The temple's security was faith itself. Who would dare to profane a place that offered the only hope for hundreds of miles?

The interior was a chaotic labyrinth of courtyards and makeshift shrines. Iconography was everywhere, obsessive, painted on the sheet metal walls with flaking paint and dried blood. The earliest frescoes depicted a Radiant Ghoul, a contorted, terrifying figure emitting a sick green light. It was Sukuna, the King of Radiation, shown subjugating mutated beasts and healing the sick with a mere touch.

But the further they went, the more something changed.

In a more internal corridor, the art became more refined. The frescoes were no longer graffiti but actual paintings on stretched canvas hangings. And the central figure was no longer alone. Beside the Radiant Ghoul, a second entity began to appear: a white-haired, faceless man, wrapped in an aura of blue light. In the earliest representations, he seemed like a prisoner, or perhaps an offering. Geto felt a surge of cold anger.

Then, the iconography changed again. In a large courtyard, an enormous tapestry showed the Ghoul and the albino man back-to-back, no longer as jailer and prisoner, but as two allied deities dominating a world on fire. Geto stopped, confused. His heart pounded.

"What does that mean?" he whispered to Shoko, who was observing the scene with an unreadable expression.

"It means we're in the right place” she replied quietly. "And that the story is much more complicated than we thought."

Finally, they reached the main sanctuary. And there, every theory, every hope, and every fear Geto had fused into a single, devastating moment of shock.

In the center of the nave, on a pedestal of polished concrete, there was no statue of the Ghoul. There was a life-sized sculpture, carved with an almost pre-War skill in white marble, likely looted from some unknown ruin.

The sound of the world dissolved into a dull hum in Geto's ears. The pilgrims' murmuring, a child's cry, the distant crackle of a generator... everything vanished, sucked into the void that had opened in his chest. Only the statue existed.

White marble. Cold, pure, eternal. A material that did not belong to this world of rust and decay. It was a relic of a past era, used to immortalize the person who, to Geto, was a past era. Satoru Gojo, crystallized in a mortuary perfection.

It wasn't just a resemblance. The artist, whoever that devout lunatic was, had captured Satoru's very essence. That peculiar tilt of the head, a mix of arrogance and curiosity. The way the body's weight rested on one leg, as if perpetually ready to spring, to explode into action or laughter. He had even carved the rebellious strands of his white hair, so fine they looked like threads of frosted silk.

But it was the eyes that profaned the memory. Two rough, uncut sapphires, yet of a blinding purity. They did not reflect the light of the torches; they seemed to absorb it, contain it, emitting an internal glow, cold and alien. They were not Satoru's eyes. His had been pools of stellar energy, alive, vibrant, capable of containing the infinite and, at the same time, looking at you as if you were the only thing that mattered in the universe. These were just stones. Beautiful, dead stones set into the face of a stone corpse.

It's a tomb, Geto thought, and the thought was so lucid and sharp it physically hurt him. They found his body. And they turned him into a god. They took my Satoru and fed him to these... desperate people.

Shoko's grip on his arm tightened, an anchor in the storm of his mind. "Suguru” she hissed, her voice strained. "Breathe. Damn it, breathe. Don't fall apart now. Not here."

Her words were distant, distorted. Geto looked at the people at the statue's feet. A woman was pressing her forehead against the marble knees, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. A man, whose arm was a twisted mass of tumorous flesh, was leaving an old, rusted pistol as an offering, probably the most valuable possession he owned. They were praying to his ghost. They were asking for miracles from his corpse.

A cold rage, unlike anything he had ever felt, began to rise from the pit of his stomach. It was a freezing poison that burned away the desperation. He wanted to scream. He wanted to kick those pathetic offerings, smash those blue gems, reduce that blasphemous statue to dust. He wanted to shake these people and yell that their god was dead, that the man they worshipped had been the most alive being this planet had ever known, and that now he was nothing but dust and marble.

But he couldn't. He was a sheep among the sheep.

The crowd, oblivious to the drama silently unfolding, kept pushing. They were a single, compact mass of hope and stench, and they dragged him along with them, past the statue, toward a massive double door from which a hushed chanting emanated. It was an atonal, hypnotic melody.

"We have to move on” Shoko said, pulling him forcefully. "Whatever happened, the answer is in there. We have to know."

Geto's rage receded, giving way to a grim determination. Shoko was right. To know. It was the only thing he had left. Even if the truth was a corpse on an altar, he had to see it with his own eyes.

They crossed the threshold and entered the inner sanctuary. The air here was different, heavier, thick with the smell of incense and something else... ozone. The smell that precedes a lightning storm, the smell of pure power.

The room was a large, circular hall. The walls were covered with black drapes, upon which a single, new symbol was embroidered in silver thread: a stylized eye with six irises, inside which was inscribed the tribal sigil they had seen outside, that of Sukuna. The fusion was complete.

In the center of the hall, on a raised platform, sat a throne. It was not lavish. It was a brutal seat, made of twisted, welded metal, as if it had been forged from the wreckage of an explosion. And on that throne, he sat.

He was not a corpse. He was not a ghost.

Satoru Gojo was alive.

He was dressed in simple yet elegant clothes, immaculate white tunics that contrasted violently with the darkness of the hall. He was barefoot, his legs crossed with an indolent grace that Geto remembered all too well. He wore no blindfold. His eyes, his real, incredible eyes, were open and sweeping over the adoring crowd with an expression of bored superiority.

For an instant, a single, glorious, impossible instant, Geto's heart exploded with joy. A joy so pure and overwhelming it erased years of pain. He's alive. He's ALIVE.

Then, Gojo shifted his gaze. His eyes settled on a man in the crowd who was coughing too loudly, disturbing the quiet. Gojo's lips curled into a smile. But it wasn't his smile. There was no warmth, no playful malice. It was a scalpel of ice.

"Silence” he said.

His voice echoed in the hall, not amplified, but charged with an unnatural authority. The man stopped coughing instantly, stifling the sound with his hands, his face crimson.

Geto felt his blood turn to ice. That cadence. That cold, drawn-out inflection. He knew it. He had heard it in the pilgrims' tales, he had imagined it in his nightmares. It was the voice they attributed to Sukuna.

And then he saw him. Crouched on the lowest step of the platform, almost hidden in the throne's shadow, was a Radiant Ghoul. He was emaciated, huddled in on himself like a beaten dog. His greenish luminescence was faint, intermittent. He was trembling. Not from fury or power, but it seemed... from fear.

Geto's world turned upside down. His certainties shattered. Nothing made sense. Satoru was alive, but he wasn't him. The fearsome Sukuna, the King of Radiation, was reduced to a trembling pet. And the man on the throne, the man with the face and body of his lost love, looked upon his people with the eyes of a monster.

Without thinking, driven by an impulse stronger than any reason, Geto took a step forward, separating himself from the mass.

"Satoru?" he called out, and his own name sounded alien to him, an echo from another life. Silence fell upon the hall.

When Geto spoke his name, the blue eyes on the throne locked onto him. For a long, tense second, they remained cold, calculating, alien. A shiver ran down Geto's spine. That was not his gaze.

Then, like a light switching on, everything changed. The eyes lit up, the coldness dissolved into a flash of incredulous recognition. A dazzling smile, an explosion of charisma so familiar it hurt, spread across his face.

"Suguru?" he exclaimed, and the voice was right. Warm, slightly arrogant, full of life. "Is that really you? And Shoko! What the hell... you look like you fell out of a dumpster. Although, I have to say, desperation suits you, Suguru."

He rose, descending the steps with that loose-limbed, confident gait of his. The crowd parted, hushed, as he headed straight toward them. Geto felt choked by a wave of relief, the joy erasing that first, strange moment of coldness. I imagined it, he told himself.

"Satoru... I can't believe..." Geto managed to say.

"What? That I was still alive?" Gojo interrupted, clapping him a little too hard on the shoulder. "Come on, it takes more than that to get rid of me!" He hugged Geto, a strong, almost crushing embrace. He was real. He was his Satoru.

But while hugging him, Gojo's gaze passed over Geto's shoulder, settling on an old pilgrim who, in his excitement, had stumbled, dropping a small offering of dried berries onto the ground. Gojo's smile vanished instantly. His eyes turned into two shards of ice.

"Pathetic” he hissed, his voice losing all warmth, transforming into a snarl of pure contempt. The atmosphere in the hall froze. "Pick up your garbage and get out of my sight before I atomize you, insect."

The old man trembled, stammering apologies as he frantically gathered the berries. Geto pulled away, shocked by the sudden and disproportionate cruelty. That wasn't Gojo. Gojo was arrogant, not sadistic. He could be dismissive, but he would never prey on a weak person like that.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the mask of cruelty vanished. Gojo turned to them again, the dazzling smile back in place, as if nothing had happened. "So! Where were we? Oh, yes, the fact that you're here and we absolutely have to celebrate!"

Geto was speechless. His mind desperately searched for an explanation. He turned and saw the Radiant Ghoul. He had moved. He was now a few steps behind Gojo, as motionless as before, but his head was slightly tilted, and his luminous eyes were fixed on them, or perhaps, on Gojo himself.

It's him, Geto thought, and the theory took shape with the force of certainty. It's Sukuna. And he's... corrupting Satoru. He's influencing him, feeding off him. Satoru is fighting back, but sometimes his monstrous will takes over. That's why he fluctuates. It's a battle for his soul.

"Satoru” Shoko said, her voice tight and controlled. Unlike Geto, she didn't look for excuses. She only saw the symptoms. "What is this place?"

"My kingdom!" Gojo exclaimed with a slightly too loud laugh. "Cute, right? I raised it out of nothing. Turns out when you can pull off a few miracles, people are very cooperative." He gestured toward the Ghoul. "He lends a hand. Let's just say he's my... personal battery. A little secret to our success."

The explanation was arrogant, typical of Gojo, but the term "battery" was chilling. It confirmed Geto's suspicions: Satoru was using Sukuna's power, and it was poisoning him, at times turning him into the monster he believed he was controlling.

"You are my guests” Gojo continued, becoming affable again. "We have years of stories to catch up on. But first, a cleanup. You smell embarrassingly bad." He addressed two darkly dressed acolytes. "Escort my friends to the western rooms. Give them clothes, food, everything they need."

Then he turned to Geto again, his smile softening into something more intimate, closer to the boy he remembered. "I have to finish this charade” he said softly, nodding toward the crowd. "But as soon as I'm done, I'll join you. And you, Suguru, will tell me everything, from day one."

Geto nodded, his heart in turmoil. He saw the struggle. He saw his friend trapped, trying to remain himself while a dark influence corrupted him from within.

As the acolytes escorted them out, Geto turned for one last look. Gojo had returned to watching the crowd, his face once again a mask of divine arrogance. The Ghoul had silently returned to his spot behind him. And as he watched, Geto noticed one thing. The Ghoul's eyes were not fixed on Gojo. They were fixed on him, Geto. They were watching him with an unreadable intensity.

The door closed, leaving him with one unwavering conviction. Satoru is still in there. He's fighting. I just need to find a way to free him from that monster's influence. I need to destroy that 'battery.'

The guest rooms were an absurdity, an island of pre-War luxury in an ocean of decay. The walls were smooth, painted a restful white. A huge bed, covered in clean sheets, dominated the main room. But the bathroom was the true miracle. Intact porcelain tiles, chrome faucets that didn't leak a drop, and, most importantly, water. Hot, running water.

They had separated him and Shoko with an iron courtesy. "Separate rooms for maximum comfort” the acolyte had said, but the message was clear: you are divided, you are monitored.

Now, submerged up to his neck in a bathtub large enough to almost swim in, Geto felt the muscles in his shoulders relax for the first time in years. The water, as Shoko had noted with a quick check on her Pip-Boy, had a radiation background level slightly above normal, but it was negligible compared to the poison they had breathed for years. It was the cleanest water he had touched since the world ended.

As the steam rose, clouding his thoughts, Geto's mind kept returning to Satoru. The images overlapped, creating a confused mosaic. The genuine smile and the pat on the shoulder. The icy stare and the cruel words aimed at the old man. The intimacy of his whisper. The arrogance of his "battery" explanation.

It was a battle. Satoru was fighting, he was certain. His true self was emerging in flashes, fighting against Sukuna's corrupting influence. And he, Suguru, was the only one who could help him. The only one who knew him well enough to see the cracks in the mask. He just needed to get close enough to the Ghoul to destroy him. Break the connection. Free him.

He closed his eyes, resting his head on the cold edge of the tub. The silence was almost total, broken only by the occasional drip of condensation. It was a forgotten luxury.

Then, a sound. A faint, almost imperceptible rustle, coming from the main room.

Geto stiffened. He snapped his eyes open. The bathroom door was ajar, and the dim light from the bedroom cast a stripe on the tiled floor. He listened intently, every fiber of his being tense. It couldn't be Satoru, it was too soon. An acolyte? A guard?

A shadow crossed the stripe of light. It was tall, lanky. And it emitted a very faint, almost imperceptible, greenish glow.

Geto's heart stopped for an instant. He shot up to a sitting position, water dripping off his chest, oblivious to his nakedness. Slowly, the bathroom door opened fully, pushed by a skeletal, ruined hand.

On the threshold, motionless, stood the Ghoul. Sukuna.

In the gloom of the bathroom, his greenish glow was more evident. It wasn't a violent light, but a sick aura, like phosphorus shining on fungi in the deepest caves. He was completely silent. His face was a mask of scar tissue and melted skin, but his eyes... they were fixed on him. They were two burning embers in a ravaged face, and they looked at him with an intensity that seemed to pierce him.

Instinctively, Geto searched for a weapon. But his clothes, and his pistol, were on a chair in the bedroom, out of reach. He was naked, unarmed, vulnerable. Facing the monster who was destroying Satoru's soul.

Rage overcame fear. "What do you want?" Geto snarled, his voice low so as not to alert anyone outside. "Did you come to enjoy the show? To see your toy's friend?"

The Ghoul didn't answer. He took one uncertain step into the bathroom, then another. He moved with a strange clumsiness, as if his body wasn't perfectly obeying his commands.

"Let him go” Geto said, his voice charged with cold hatred. "Whatever you're doing to him, stop it. This battle is between you and me. Leave him out of it."

His mouth opened. Only a sound came out. A choked rattle, a guttural sound, full of strain and frustration, like that of a drowning man. Then, with a sudden, disjointed burst of movement, he lunged forward.

There was no hesitation. He threw himself straight into the tub water, oblivious to everything. Water splashed everywhere, breaking against the tiles. It was an explosion of unexpected violence. His skeletal hands reached out toward Geto, fingers hooked like claws, trying to grab him.

For Geto, the meaning was unmistakable. He wants to kill me. His presence, his connection to Satoru, was a threat. Sukuna had come to eliminate him silently, where no one could hear him.

The fight was brutal, primal. The tub water churned furiously, making every movement difficult. Geto was stronger, but the Ghoul fought with a desperate frenzy, a strength that seemed to stem not from anger, but from an inarticulate and overwhelming need. He wasn't trying to strike, to injure. He was only trying to grab, to hold, to not let go. His bony fingers clung to Geto's arms, the ravaged skin scraping against his own.

"Monster!" Geto yelled, trying to break free. He managed to push him back, but the Ghoul immediately charged again, his burning eyes fixed on him, the desperate rattle coming from his throat.

It was too much. The anger for what he had done to Satoru, the fear for his own life, the violence of the assault... it all exploded in a single, violent impulse. Geto grabbed the Ghoul's head with both hands. With all his strength, he slammed it backward, against the porcelain edge of the tub.

There was a dull, wet sound. The Ghoul slumped for an instant, stunned. Geto gave him no quarter. He grabbed him again and slammed again. And again. He was killing him, and every blow was a liberation. Every blow was for Satoru.

The water around them stained a dark red, blood mixing with the steam. The Ghoul stopped struggling. His body became heavy, inert. Geto still held him, his chest heaving, the fury starting to subside, giving way to a cold and ruthless sense of victory.

Then, slowly, the Ghoul moved one last time.

His trembling hand lifted from the water. He didn't try to grab him. It moved toward Geto's face with a heartbreaking, almost hesitant delicacy. The skeletal fingers, stained with his own blood, brushed Geto's cheek. It was a touch as light as a moth's wing, a gesture of pure, inexplicable tenderness in the midst of all that brutality.

Geto froze, taken aback. The Ghoul's gaze had changed. The desperate fury had vanished. In his burning eyes, there was now only a deep, infinite sadness, with a faint, barely perceptible smile. Geto saw something wet slide from his eye, tracing a clean path on the ravaged skin. A tear, he thought for an instant, but then dismissed it. It's just the water from the tub.

The hand slipped away. The eyes glazed over. The Ghoul's body lost all remaining tension and slowly sank beneath the surface of the bloody water, disappearing from view.

Geto remained there, standing in the tub, naked, trembling, the red water lapping at his knees. He looked at the spot where the body had vanished. He had won. He had eliminated the source of Satoru's torment.

But he felt no triumph. He felt only a deep, inexplicable chill that had nothing to do with the cold water. And on his cheek, he could still feel the phantom of that touch.

The silence that followed was more deafening than the struggle. The red, still water in the tub was the only evidence of what had happened. The Ghoul's body lay at the bottom, unseen. Dead.

Geto slowly climbed out of the tub, his legs trembling slightly from the adrenaline and exertion. The bloody water ran off his body, leaving pink streaks on the white porcelain. He didn't dry himself. He took the clean clothes that had been left for him, simple black pants and a white tunic, almost a cult uniform, and put them on mechanically.

A sense of victory should have permeated his every fiber. He had done what he set out to do. He had eliminated the monster. He had freed Satoru from his toxic influence. From now on, Satoru would be himself again, free from the corruption that had turned him into a capricious tyrant. He had saved his best friend. His only love.

Yet, he felt none of it.

In place of triumph was a strange, cold emptiness. An inexplicable sense of loss. His mind kept returning to that last, absurd gesture. To that gentle touch on his cheek. He rubbed his skin vigorously, as if to erase the memory, but the phantom sensation persisted. And the image of that single, impossible tear kept flashing behind his eyelids.

Stop it, he told himself fiercely. He was a monster. A manipulator. He tried to kill me. The final gesture was just a trick, a last, pathetic attempt to confuse me.

He convinced himself that was the truth. It had to be. It was the only version of the story that made sense.

A few minutes later, as he was trying to put his thoughts in order, there was a soft knock at the door.

"Come in” he said, his voice hoarser than usual.

The door opened and a young woman appeared on the threshold. She wore the white robes of the acolytes, her hair neatly tied back. Her face was serene, almost unnatural in its calm. A temple vestal.

"Suguru Geto” she said, her voice a melodious murmur. "The Radiant One is ready to receive you. He is waiting for you in his private chambers."

A shiver of anticipation ran through Geto. This was the moment. He would see Satoru. The real Satoru, finally free. He nodded. "And Shoko? Where is she?"

The vestal's smile did not waver, but her eyes remained vacant, devoid of an answer. "Follow me, please. The Radiant One does not like to be kept waiting."

Ignoring his question was an answer in itself. A cold unease made its way through his determination. Something was wrong. But he was too close to the finish line to stop now. Perhaps Satoru had sent for her too. Perhaps she was already there.

He followed the woman through the silent corridors of the temple. The drapes with Gojo's effigy seemed to follow him with their painted eyes. The air was heavy, charged with an almost electric anticipation. The vestal stopped in front of a dark wooden door, more ornate than the others.

"The Radiant One is inside” she whispered. She bowed deeply and, without another word, retreated silently, disappearing into the shadow of the corridor.

Geto remained alone before the door. Beyond that wood lay the end of his long journey. There was his victory, his justification, his future. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the anxiety gripping his stomach. The sorrow of having to kill, even a monster, would pass. The joy of having Satoru back would last forever.

He opened the door and stepped in.

The door opened onto an almost religious silence. Gojo's private quarters were a sanctuary erected against the ugliness of the world. Persian rugs, whose colors were still vivid after two hundred years, muffled Geto's steps. Dark mahogany furniture, polished to a mirror shine, reflected the flickering light of dozens of candles. And in the center of the room, with his back to Geto, was him.

He was standing in front of a large bay window, an opening of intact glass that looked out onto the infinite expanse of the night desert. He was completely naked. The candlelight danced on his pale skin, outlining every muscle in his back, the familiar lines of his broad shoulders, the curve of his spine. It was a vision of almost painful perfection, a living work of art.

Geto stopped on the threshold, his throat suddenly dry. The nakedness wasn't shocking, it was... intimate. Vulnerable. It was the Satoru of private moments, the one who existed only for him.

"Satoru?" he whispered, and his name was barely a rustle of air.

Slowly, he turned around. A lazy, satisfied smile stretched his lips. It was the smile Geto knew better than himself, the one that followed a crushing victory or preceded a terrible joke. It was the smile he had chased through hell.

"Took you long enough, Suguru” he said, and his voice was warm, intimate, perfect. It wrapped around him like a blanket. "Come in. Close the door. You don't want to let the drafts in, do you?"

Geto obeyed like an automaton, closing the heavy wooden door behind him. The dull thud of the lock isolated him from the rest of the world. Now there were only the two of them. His heart finally began to feel lighter, melting away a chill that had lasted for years. It was him. It really was him. The coldness, the cruel arrogance... it was gone. The Ghoul's influence had vanished, destroyed.

"I knew you'd make it” Satoru continued, taking a step toward him. He moved with a fluid grace, totally at ease in his own skin. "Thank you. That... thing... had become an unbearable nuisance. A broken toy that buzzed constantly. Thanks for turning it off."

The relief that flooded Geto was so powerful it made his knees tremble. The words were right, the attitude was right. It was his Satoru, arrogant and dismissive even in gratitude. "So... are you okay? Are you... yourself again?"

"I've always been myself” he replied, his smile widening. He came closer still, stopping a breath away from Geto. The warmth of his naked body was an invitation, a promise. The air between them crackled, charged with years of unsaid words, of unexpressed desire, of a nostalgia so potent it was almost a physical force. "But now... I'm free. And I owe it to you."

He leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was an act of reclamation. His lips were demanding, hungry, and they moved over Geto's with an almost predatory expertise. There was the taste of whisky, strong and smoky, but beneath it was something else, a cold, metallic aftertaste, like ozone after lightning. Geto, lost in the vortex of the moment, paid no attention. He gave himself over completely, his hands clutching Satoru's broad, naked shoulders, his fingers digging into the familiar skin.

It was a kiss that erased time. For one blinding instant, they were no longer two men scarred by a world in ruins. They were boys again, invincible and immortal, hidden in a corner of their dorm room, stealing moments that belonged only to them. Geto responded with desperate passion, pouring all his pain, all his hope, all his worn-out soul into that contact. It was the end of the nightmare. It was the beginning of everything. He felt dirty from the blood he had shed, from the body lying cold in the water of another room, but that kiss was an absolution. It had been necessary. It had been for this.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, they stood face to face, so close their breaths mingled. Geto looked into Satoru's eyes, searching for the reflection of his own joy. And he found it, but it was... strange. There was a triumphant gleam in those blue irises, but it was cold, like sunlight reflected on a glacier. It was the joy of a conqueror, not a rediscovered lover.

It's just tiredness, Geto told himself, swatting the thought away like a bothersome insect. The emotion. It's all too much, too fast.

Satoru's fingers traced the line of Geto's jaw, a light touch that sent a shiver through him. "You stayed here for me” Satoru whispered, and his voice was a hypnotic murmur. "You crossed hell. You killed a monster. All for me. Now let me show you what you've missed all these years."

He took Geto's hand. His skin was warm, but the grip was iron, possessive. It wasn't the hand that led him, but the hand that dragged him. He began to walk, pulling him along toward the back of the room, where a huge four-poster bed dominated the space like a pagan altar. Heavy curtains of purple velvet, the color of dried blood and royal power, were drawn, completely hiding the interior.

As they crossed the room, Geto noticed details he had ignored before. There were objects scattered on the furniture, but they weren't Satoru's personal belongings. There were ancient artifacts, stone idols with twisted shapes, leather-bound tomes that looked centuries old. And there was a smell in the air, beneath the whisky and candles. A pungent odor, like incense and burnt flesh.

"This place..." Geto murmured, more to break the unnerving silence than out of genuine curiosity.

"Do you like it?" Satoru replied without turning around. "I had it decorated to my taste. A sanctuary. A place where a god can finally rest."

The word "god" was spoken with a chilling naturalness. The old Satoru would call himself "the strongest” comparing himself to a god with playful malice. But this... this was different. It was a statement of fact.

They stopped in front of the curtains. Satoru's hand left Geto's and rested on the heavy velvet. The fabric was cold to the touch.

"You know, Suguru” Satoru said, his voice becoming a conspiratorial whisper again, but with a jarring undertone, "you weren't the only one eagerly awaiting this moment. There's someone else who couldn't wait to see Gojo again. She was so worried about him, the poor thing. But she understood far too much; she was always the smartest one among you."

A smile crossed his face, visible in the reflection of a mirror hanging on the wall. It was a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Geto felt a lump in his throat. The way he said "the poor thing” the past tense... The unease he had tried to suppress returned with the force of a wave, cold and nauseating.

"Satoru... where is Shoko?"

Satoru's eyes met his in the mirror's reflection. The smile widened, becoming sharp as a fragment of glass.

"She's right here” he said. "She was waiting for you."

With a slow, theatrical gesture, he grasped a flap of velvet and began to pull.

The velvet slid along the metal track with a dry rustle, a sound like sand covering a grave. The curtain opened, not abruptly, but with deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness, revealing the altar it concealed.

The first impact was not visual, but olfactory. A dense, sickeningly sweet, metallic smell, the unmistakable odor of blood and viscera exposed to the air. It mingled with the scent of the candles, creating a nauseating aroma of a sacred slaughterhouse.

Then, Geto saw her. And his brain ceased to function.

She was not just dead. She had been dismantled.

Shoko lay supine in the center of the bed, the ivory silk sheets beneath her transformed into an abstract canvas of dark red, crimson, and black. Her arms were spread wide, but her wrists were bent at unnatural angles, the bones clearly broken. Her clothes were shredded, but they hadn't been torn. They had been opened.

Her ribcage had been ripped apart. Slashed open with inhuman force, the broken ribs turned outward like the petals of a grotesque flower. Inside that horrifying cavity, the organs were an unrecognizable mass of lacerated tissue. Geto could see the fragment of a lung, the profile of a heart torn in half. It was an anatomical exploration conducted by a wild animal.

Her face, usually a mask of controlled cynicism, was frozen in an expression of pure, absolute terror. Her eyes, her dark, intelligent eyes that had seen every horror the world could offer, were wide open, pupils dilated as if they had seen hell an instant before extinguishing. Her mouth was agape in a silent scream, her jaw dislocated.

Geto did not scream. The sound imploded in his lungs, stealing his air. He stumbled backward, one step, then another, his legs moving on pure flight instinct as his mind refused to process the image. His gaze darted from the butchered body on the bed to Satoru's smiling face, trying to connect two impossible realities.

"W-what...? No... Shoko..." he stammered, and the words were just empty sounds, meaningless, the wail of an animal.

Behind him, the laughter.

It was not Satoru's laughter. It was a deep, guttural sound, a sound that did not belong to human lungs. It was the vibration of an ancient, satiated predator enjoying its meal. Geto spun around, and he saw the mask collapse.

The smile on Satoru's face stretched, becoming a grimace that pulled the skin unnaturally. But it was the eyes that betrayed him. The vibrant blue was receding, like a tide revealing a black, abyssal seabed. His pupils dilated, devouring the color, and in their center, two points of red light ignited, like burning embers in the dark.

"I couldn't imagine she was so in love with this body too” Sukuna's voice said, cold and precise, issuing from Satoru's mouth. "She kept calling your name, you know? Even when... I was inside her. It was rather tedious, in the end. I just wanted to see what she was made of. A doctor... needs to know anatomy, right?"

"I couldn't imagine she was so in love with this body too” Sukuna's voice said, cold and precise, issuing from Satoru's mouth. "She kept calling your name, you know? Even when... I was inside her. It was rather tedious, in the end. I begged her to say mine, but nothing." He paused, savoring the horror that was disfiguring Geto's face. "But she was smart, your little doctor. Too smart. She understood everything as soon as I allowed her to examine me. She kept staring at my forehead, asking questions."

The realization hit him with the physical force of an evisceration. The Ghoul in the tub. The desperate rattle, not of anger, but of frustration. His hands that weren't trying to hurt, but to grab, to communicate. His final touch, a caress. His tear.

It wasn't an attack. It was a plea.

It wasn't a monster.

It was Satoru Gojo.

And he. Had. Killed. Him.

He had massacred him with his own hands, slamming his head until his blood stained the water.

"You..." Geto murmured, and the world around him lost sound and color. "His body... my Satoru... is..."

"Dead?" Sukuna finished, bursting into outright laughter, a hideous sound that made the candles vibrate. "Of course he's dead! And you were the one who finished him off! That Ghoul shell was so limiting, so fragile! But this..." he stroked his naked chest, his fingers leaving trails on the perfect skin, "...this body is divine. Resilient. Full of power. And you, my dear, devoted Suguru, you gave me the greatest gift. You eliminated the one body I couldn't bring myself to kill out of sentimentality, I would have, you know, but I wanted the end to be poetic."

Geto looked at the face he had loved all his life, now a grotesque mask worn by a demon. He looked at Shoko's lifeless body, his last friend, violated and broken. And he looked at his own hands. He still saw the blood of the real Satoru under his fingernails. The hands of an idiot. The hands of a murderer.

The pain was a universe collapsing upon itself. There was no anger. There was no hatred. Only a void so vast and total that it nullified his very existence. He wanted to kill him. But how do you kill a ghost wearing the skin of your heart? He couldn't. He couldn't do it. He was too tired. Too broken.

Slowly, like an old man walking toward his own grave, he dragged himself toward the bed. Sukuna watched him, the smile of a cruel god enjoying his creation. Geto didn't look at Shoko's face. He couldn't. He dropped onto the mattress beside her cold body. His gaze was fixed on the void.

Geto's hand moved, an almost involuntary gesture, toward the carnage on the bed. Not toward his friend's face; he couldn't bear it. His hand rested on the edge of the ripped-open ribcage. His trembling fingers brushed the jagged end of a broken rib. It was sharp as an obsidian dagger. A weapon. A way out.

He turned one last time, to look at Satoru Gojo's face.

"I love you” he whispered.

And as Sukuna's voice laughed, and laughed, and laughed, a sound that grew fainter and fainter, Geto plunged the bone shard into his own neck, with all the strength he had left, severing his carotid artery in one final, last act of rebellion.

The blood, hot and abundant, spurted out, staining the sheets, mixing with Shoko's. His last thought was not of hatred, nor of revenge. It was only the memory of two blue eyes, alive and vibrant, looking at him and smiling, before the world ended. Then, only the darkness. And the distant sound of laughter.