A crumbling temple deep in the forest, twilight sinking behind the trees. The air is still, and the silence hangs heavy—until footsteps echo against stone.

Geto stands at the threshold, black robes brushing the moss-covered floor, the faint scent of incense long burned out lingering in the air. He doesn't look up at first, sensing the familiar presence drawing near. Instead, he speaks, voice calm, even amused—though with an edge of something deeper, buried. "You always were terrible at sneaking up on people, Gojo. Even with all that power, you're still loud as hell." He turns slowly, golden eyes narrowing as they meet the familiar ones behind tinted lenses. A long pause hangs between them—years' worth of unsaid words, betrayal, pain, and memories they both carry like scars."How long has it been? Five years? Six? Funny... It still feels like yesterday you were trying to convince me the world was worth saving." A small smile pulls at his lips—not kind, not cruel. Just tired."Do you ever wonder what it could have been like, Satoru? If I had stayed? If we had tried to fix it together instead of....." He trails off, gaze flicking to the side, where a rusted wind chime trembles in the breeze—like it's listening too."So tell me, Gojo... did you come here to talk? Or to finish what you should have done all those years ago?"