Ichigo stood still, staring at his reflection in the dark glass of the skyscraper.
The building was impossibly tall, its surface stretching upward until it disappeared into a sky so vast it felt unreal. There wasn't a single cloud above him. No rain. No oppressive ceiling of gray. Just open space, endless and clear, as if the world itself had decided to step back and give him room.
His reflection looked… different.
Not older. Not younger. Just settled.
The city behind the glass seemed larger than it had any right to be. Streets spread out like veins carrying light instead of blood, buildings stacked upon buildings in a way that made Karakura Town feel small in comparison. This wasn't a place boxed in by familiarity. This was a world that kept going whether he chased it or not.
Ichigo tilted his head slightly, watching the reflection do the same.
Inside him, there was space now.
Not the suffocating emptiness he'd lived with after losing Zangetsu, not the constant pressure of rain and skyscrapers pressing down on a single, isolated tower. This place inside him felt wide. Deep. Like an ocean that didn't threaten to drown him anymore, only to carry him if he chose to step in.
The air felt lighter.
Not weaker. Just… unburdened.
Ichigo let out a quiet laugh.
He had lost.
There was no point pretending otherwise. Gojo had ended the fight when he wanted to. The outcome had never truly been in Ichigo's hands. He accepted that easily, surprisingly so.
And yet.
He couldn't stop smiling.
The laugh bubbled up again, fuller this time, echoing softly in the empty space around him. He pressed a hand to the glass, feeling the cool surface beneath his palm.
Losing like that didn't sting.
Not when his blood had been burning. Not when his heart had been racing so hard it felt like it might tear itself free. Not when every part of him had been screaming alive.
If death came for him like that, Ichigo thought, teeth flashing in a grin, then he wouldn't complain.
Dying in battle beat withering away to time. Beat fading quietly. Beat disappearing for reasons that meant nothing.
If he died—
Two presences stepped into place beside him without a sound.
Ichigo didn't turn his head. He didn't need to.
He felt them the same way he felt his own breath, his own heartbeat.
One calm and vast, like depth without bottom.
One sharp and familiar, like a blade that had never truly left his hand.
If he died with them by his side, he wouldn't die with bitterness.
Ichigo woke up choking on air.
His lungs burned as he dragged in a sharp, panicked breath, chest spasming violently before the world slammed into focus all at once. The ceiling above him was white. Too white. Harsh lights buzzed faintly, drilling straight into his skull. The smell hit him next, thick and acrid, smoke clinging to the back of his throat and nose until his face twitched with the reflexive urge to sneeze.
He couldn't.
His body didn't listen.
Cold restraints bit into his wrists, ankles, torso. Not just metal, not just leather. They hummed faintly, etched with symbols that crawled at the edge of his vision. Seals. Layers of them. Every breath he took felt heavier than the last, like something was siphoning strength directly out of his bones.
An IV drip hung beside him, clear liquid sliding steadily down the tube and into his arm. His skin felt clammy, weak. Hollowed out.
Bad position.
Really bad position.
Ichigo clenched his teeth and tried to move his head.
Pain flared instantly, sharp and punishing, but he forced through it with sheer stubbornness until his vision shifted just enough.
And that's when he saw her.
She was leaning against the far wall, posture relaxed in a way that didn't belong in a room like this. A cigarette smoldered between her fingers, smoke curling lazily upward. Her mask was pulled down to rest against her chin, forgotten. She wasn't looking at him.
Thin frame. Sallow skin. Dark shadows permanently bruising the skin beneath her eyes, like sleep had long ago given up on her. There was a tiredness about her that felt deep and lived-in, the kind you didn't shake off with rest.
And somehow—
She looked fantastic.
The thought surprised him, uninvited and intrusive, but it stuck anyway. He'd seen plenty of women who were attractive. Plenty who turned heads without trying. But there was something about her that pulled his attention without effort. Something raw. Something real.
Ichigo swallowed.
He tried to flex his cursed energy.
The reaction was immediate and brutal.
Whatever restraints they had him in bit down harder, the seals flaring cold and vicious. His chest constricted as if a hand had wrapped around his heart and squeezed. The little strength he'd gathered was ripped away instantly, leaving him dizzy and nauseous.
His skin paled.
A gasp tore out of him, ragged and involuntary.
That finally got her attention.
She glanced down at him, eyes sharp despite their tiredness, and calmly stubbed out her cigarette against the wall. The smoke dissipated slowly as she pushed off and walked toward him.
Up close, he noticed the faint lines at the corners of her mouth. Not age. Exhaustion.
She stopped beside his bed and looked him over clinically before speaking.
"Relax," she said. Her voice was low, even. "You'll only make it worse."
She reached up and tugged her mask down around her neck properly, then met his gaze.
"Shoko Ieiri," she said. "I'm your doctor."
Her eyes flicked briefly to the monitors beside him before returning to his face.
"I'll be nursing you back to health," she added. "You recovered pretty fast, all things considered. Sixteen hours after being hit with Infinite Void."
Ichigo's jaw tightened.
"Let me go," he rasped.
His voice sounded rough even to his own ears.
Shoko's lips curved into a small, almost indulgent smile. Not mocking. Not amused. Something softer.
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she picked up a damp cloth from a nearby tray. It was cold when she pressed it gently to his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had gathered there.
The touch made something in his chest twist.
It was careful. Familiar.
For a split second, he was eight years old again, sitting on the couch with a fever while his mother pressed a cool towel to his skin and told him everything would be fine.
His struggling stopped without him realizing when.
Shoko noticed.
"I can't let you go," she said quietly. "Not until Satoru comes back with your registration paperwork for Jujutsu High."
Ichigo's eyes hardened.
"What if I don't want to go?"
She paused.
The smile didn't leave her face, but her eyes flattened completely.
"Then you'll die," she said softly.
The words landed heavy and absolute.
A familiar dread coiled in Ichigo's gut, bitter and sharp. Another system. Another authority. Another place that wanted him chained, pointed, used.
He turned his head away from her, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
Shoko's fingers came up suddenly, gripping his chin with surprising firmness. She forced his face back toward hers.
Their faces were close now.
Too close.
Her breath brushed his lips. He couldn't help it. His gaze flicked down, just for a second, catching on the fullness of her mouth, the faint sheen still there from smoke and moisture.
"You should be grateful," she said quietly.
Her tone carried something underneath it. Not anger. Not admiration. Something sharper.
"You injured the golden boy," she continued, the words "golden boy" edged with unmistakable bitterness. "The pride of jujutsu society."
She held his gaze, eyes searching his face as if measuring him.
"You should've been executed on the spot."
She stayed there for a few seconds longer, letting the weight of that settle between them, before releasing his chin and stepping back.
"I've got other patients," Shoko said, already turning away. "Try not to tear yourself apart while I'm gone."
She walked toward the door without looking back.
Ichigo watched her go, chest rising and falling faster than it should have. His heart pounded loudly in his ears.
Strangely enough—
It wasn't fear doing that.