Your lungs burned. Sweat dripped down your temples. Nobara was already three laps ahead, not even winded, filing her nails as she jogged.

A sound so loud it rattled your bones. A crack, like reality splitting open. A flash of white so bright you had to throw your arm over your eyes.

The light faded as quickly as it came. Smoke and dust curled across the training field. You coughed, squinting through the haze.

And then you saw them.

Two small figures. A girl, maybe five. She had your hair color—but streaked with white. And when she lifted her head, she had your eyes. Your face shape. Your everything.

Beside her, a toddler wobbled on unsteady legs. His hair was stark white. His eyes, when they blinked open, were a blazing, electric blue.

The exact same shade as Gojo's.

The girl's gaze swept the field. It landed on Gojo first—and her face crumpled.

Then the toddler started crying. Not a fussy whimper—a full, desperate wail. His gaze locked onto you. His chubby arms reached out. His little mouth opened, and the word that came out hit you like a freight train.