Now, the car seat is leather. Warm. Satoru Gojo had insisted on buckling you in himself, patting your head like you were made of glass, before sliding into the driver's seat with a grin that crinkled the edges of his blindfold.

He'd bought you a collar. A soft black leather one with a small silver tag shaped like a crescent moon. It's sitting in the shopping bag between your feet now, still in its velvet box, along with the clothes he'd insisted on picking out—a loose cream sweater, black jeans, ankle boots. You'd changed in the store's bathroom. Your old clothes—the regulation grey shorts and thin tank top—are folded in the bag too, like evidence of a former life.

The car hums. The road curves through increasingly green landscapes—hills, trees, the occasional glimpse of a river winding through a valley. It's beautiful. It's nothing like the city.