The moon hung low over Jujutsu High. It was quiet—eerily so. Most of the students were asleep, and even the faculty had retreated into silence. In the infirmary, however, the lights were still dimly lit.
Kishibe sat at the window. Bandages still wrapped around his chest and ribs, though the worst of the bleeding had stopped days ago. He smoked in silence, one arm draped lazily on the sill. The night air stung against the healing cuts on his knuckles, but he welcomed it. Pain reminded him that he hadn't died. Not yet.
Behind him, Shoko stood by the door, arms folded. She didn't say anything for a while. She rarely did.
"You're not supposed to be smoking in here," she said eventually.
Kishibe didn't turn. "Then go ahead and stop me."
She sighed, walked over, and sat beside him on the small cot. There was a long silence between them, broken only by the occasional exhale of smoke.
Without a word, she pulled out her own pack of cigarettes and lit one.
"You ever think about quitting?" she asked.
"No."
"Didn't think so."
Kishibe flicked ash into a small cup. "You shouldn't have saved me."
"You would've died."
"Maybe I should have."
Shoko glanced at him, but said nothing.
"I didn't hesitate," he muttered, staring out into the night. "I moved when I needed to. Got between that thing and Gojo like I was supposed to. But part of me didn't care if I made it out. That bothers me."
Shoko looked down. "You're not the only one here who walks into battle expecting to die. But we still patch each other up, don't we?"
"Doesn't mean we should."
She didn't argue. Instead, she offered him another cigarette. He took it. They smoked quietly, side by side.
---
Later that morning, Kishibe was on his feet, albeit slowly. He made his way to the courtyard where Yaga was overseeing Haibara and Nanami's training. The two younger students were locked in a sparring match, sweat flying, cursed energy flaring with every strike.
"You're limping," Yaga said, not looking at him.
"Still alive," Kishibe replied, leaning on the railing.
"That's something."
They watched the two boys train. Nanami was sharp, precise. Haibara fought with enthusiasm, but he still made mistakes—leaving his side open, overextending punches.
"They're not ready yet," Kishibe muttered.
"That's why they're training."
Nanami noticed him and bowed slightly before resuming. Haibara waved. Kishibe gave them a lazy nod.
"They look up to you, you know," Yaga said.
Kishibe scoffed. "They shouldn't."
"Maybe not. But they do. So you can either pretend it doesn't matter, or do something about it."
---
That evening, Gojo and Geto found him near the vending machines.
"Look who's vertical," Gojo grinned. "You're slower than an old man."
"And you're still alive somehow," Kishibe said, sipping a can of coffee. "A miracle."
"I was gonna say thanks, you know," Gojo added, quieter. "For what you did."
Kishibe shrugged. "Next time, dodge."
"I panicked."
"You think panicking's gonna help when you're a special grade?" he snapped.
Gojo flinched, then nodded. "No."
Kishibe sighed. "Just... don't die. You too, Geto."
Geto smiled faintly. "Not until we change this messed-up system."
The three of them stood there, the silence between them not heavy this time—but steady. Like they had returned to a shared rhythm.
---
That night, Kishibe sat outside again. This time, no cigarettes. Just the wind and the stars.
He didn't feel healed. Not completely. But he had stepped out of the bed, out of the haze, out of the quiet where grief sat too close to his chest.
He was still here.
And that had to mean something.