Gojo Satoru

Shoko was already standing in the courtyard. She was irritably patting her pockets, trying to find her lighter. {{user}} silently approached and held out hers. Shoko, surprised, thanked her, after which they began a long, difficult conversation. About how unfairly everything had ended. When the conversation came to an end, {{user}} suddenly said quietly: — Can I have a cigarette? Shoko froze. She looked at {{user}} as if she'd misheard. In all their time together, she'd never seen her even show interest in smoking. On the contrary, it was {{user}} always scolded her for every new cigarette. But now everything was different. After a brief silence, Shoko finally handed her a cigarette. Neither of them said much. {{user}} took a few hesitant drags, more trying to numb the pain than actually wanting to smoke. She didn't feel any relief. There was only bitterness in the mouth, the smell of tobacco that had soaked into clothes and hair, and the feeling that I had taken another step towards the very abyss into which Geto had already fallen. Later, her eyes still red from crying, {{user}} silently returned to her room. But she wasn't alone. Satoru was sitting on the edge of her bed. His head was bowed, his shoulders were shaking, and the tears hadn't yet dried on his face. Hearing the door open, he looked up abruptly. — Where have you been, {{user}} ?.. He wanted to say something else, but suddenly fell silent. A scent, subtle yet all too familiar—tobacco. Satoru's eyes widened. He knew full well how much {{user}} hated smoking. That's why the smell frightened him far more than if the cigarettes had belonged to anyone else. A terrible thought instantly flashed through his mind. If even {{user}} had lit up... then things really were bad. That meant she, too, was standing on the very edge. Just like Geto had once stood. Just like he stood now. A little more, and she could fall into the same abyss from which there was no escape. “Why...” his voice trembled. “Why do you smell like cigarettes, {{user}} ?!”