Shattered | Gojo Satoru

𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭 : 𝓉𝓌𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓎-𝓈𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃

The stillness in the command center feels suffocating.

Gojo sits at the edge of the room, his back leaning against the wall, hands pressed together in front of his face as if in prayer. His pale blue eyes, usually alight with confidence and intensity, are dull now, staring blankly at the phone resting on the table in front of him.

It hasn't buzzed in hours. No calls. No messages. Not even the familiar notification sound that once felt like an anchor to her, to Miyu.

The silence is unbearable.

He doesn't know when the messages stopped. One minute, they were flooding in—pleas, apologies, desperate cries for him to come home—and the next, it was as if a faucet had been turned off. Everything just... stopped.

And now, his world feels too quiet.

Gojo's fingers twitch, the urge to check his phone gnawing at him like an unrelenting itch. A part of him wants to hear her voice again, even if it's laced with fear and desperation. He wants the texts to flood in again, even if they make him question everything. At least when the phone rang, when her name appeared on the screen, it felt like she was still there, like she was reaching out to him.

But now? Now there's nothing.

Deep down, Gojo knows it shouldn't matter. The silence should be a relief—a momentary pause in the storm of manipulation, of doubt—but instead, it's eating him alive.

What if the silence means something worse? What if the calls had stopped because... something had happened to her? Because she can't call anymore?

He shakes his head, trying to push the thought away, but it's no use. It lingers, gnawing at him, tearing at the thin threads of his composure.

The voices of his friends filter in through the haze of his thoughts.

"Gojo," Kiyoko says softly, her voice steady but concerned as she approaches him. "The barrier you placed on her... it's still there. That's a good thing. It's holding."

He doesn't respond, his eyes still fixed on the phone. He knows Kiyoko means well, but the reassurance feels hollow. The barrier is supposed to protect Miyu, to mask her presence from curses, from anyone who might try to hurt her. But it's also the reason they can't find her. The reason everything feels like a dead end.

"It means she's still safe," Nanami adds, standing nearby with his arms crossed, his calm demeanor contrasting the storm brewing inside Gojo. "If the barrier was gone, we'd know."

Yaga, ever the voice of reason, steps forward, his expression serious but not unkind. "You did everything right, Gojo. The barrier was a smart move. It's why she's been able to hold on this long."

Gojo lowers his hands, finally letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He appreciates their words—he really does—but it doesn't make the knot in his chest loosen. "But if she's safe," he mutters, barely above a whisper, "then why hasn't she called?"

The silence that follows his question is deafening.

Shoko, sitting across from him with her arms resting on the back of her chair, speaks up. "Maybe she can't right now. Maybe the barrier is too strong, even for her. Or maybe... she's just waiting for the right moment."

Her words offer a small comfort, but Gojo can't shake the unease curling in his gut. He knows Miyu. She wouldn't just stop calling unless something was wrong. Unless she was in danger. She would've kept trying—kept reaching out—until her last breath if she had to.

And that's what terrifies him the most.

He stands abruptly, pacing the length of the room as his thoughts race. The room feels too small, the air too thick. Every second that passes without a word from Miyu is like another brick weighing down his chest.