Three knocks. Hesitant. A pause.

On the other side of the door, Gojo Satoru looked up from his laptop, fingers pausing over the keyboard. His white hair was still slightly damp from a late shower, and his glasses sat low on his nose, reflecting the glow of three stacked monitors.

He checked his phone. No messages. No calls.

Frowning, he pushed back his chair, padded to the door in socked feet, and opened it.

The first thing he registered was the pink.

A cropped baby tee, soft and worn. Below it, a strip of skin. Low-rise jeans sitting on hips that his eyes—briefly, traitorously—lingered on before snapping up.

He adjusted his glasses.

She'd looked at him then, and he'd looked away first.

Behind him, the glow of his monitors painted the dark room in blue and white. A timeline was visible. Clips. Frames. Someone's footage.

His footage. Her footage—or at least, a rough draft of it, pulled from the shared drive.