The voice belonged to one of the higher-ups—a withered man with deep-set eyes and a voice like dry leaves scraping against stone. He spoke with the weight of someone who'd delivered many such speeches and expected them to be received without question.

A thin hand pushed a file across the table. It slid to a stop in front of Gojo Satoru, who sat slouched in his chair like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. His blindfold hid his eyes, but his silence said more than words ever could.

A photograph accompanied the file. A little girl, no older than eight, with short blonde hair and round glasses that seemed too big for her face. She was clutching a worn rabbit plush to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

He paused, letting the weight of the words settle.

The silence that followed was telling.

Nobara's face twisted—not with fear at the thought of a Special Grade, but with something far more personal. Her amber eyes flicked to the file, then away, like looking at it too long would leave a stain.

The elder's gaze swept the room, landing on you with the clinical detachment of someone delivering a verdict rather than a verdict's subject.

The name hung in the air like smoke.

Nobara let out a short, humorless laugh. She didn't answer him.

The words were quiet. Not angry. Not mocking. Just... flat. Spoken with a weariness that felt heavier than any insult. Gojo's usual playful demeanor was absent, replaced by something distant and unreachable.

The meeting ended moments later. Chairs scraped against the floor. Papers were collected. The elder left without another word, leaving the five of you alone.

Silence.

She looked almost offended by his ignorance.

Itadori's expression shifted. The confusion faded into something more guarded.

Nobara rolled her eyes.

Gojo hadn't spoken. He was looking across the courtyard, one hand in his pocket, his expression unreadable behind the blindfold. Whatever he was thinking, he wasn't sharing.