CHAPTER FOUR

The day had no business being as beautiful as it was.

The sky above Brockton Bay was painfully blue. The kind of blue that made people forget. The kind that didn’t belong over a city still recovering from a bombing spree. A breeze drifted in from the bay, carrying the mingled scent of saltwater, lingering smoke, and urban decay. Somewhere in the distance, a building demarcated with police tapes groaned as its structure finally gave way. Sirens warbled. And yet—for the first time in days—there was sunlight. And quiet.

Gojo hated it.

He stood near a half-demolished food truck, arms folded, a new blindfold once again wrapped over his eyes. He chewed slowly on a lukewarm churro he hadn’t paid for, a mouthful of cinnamon and disappointment.

“You’d think a city that gets blown up every other Tuesday would have better pastries,” he muttered, crumbs falling, as he watched two PRT vans roll past down the cracked road with idle disinterest. 

Around him, people moved the way trauma thought you to move: carefully, slowly, and never too close to the thing you fear might snap. The man in black who walked out of explosions unharmed and smiled like the rules didn’t apply had earned a very wide, very respectful circle.

Then he felt it.

Not a sound. Not a movement. Something deeper.

The very world hesitated.

Gojo’s head tilted, more curious than concerned.

And then—

A shimmer in the air. A soundless pulse.

A few feet to his left, space folded in on itself, and a floating, basketball-sized sphere of refracted light blinked into existence. The edges refracted like oil on water, warping the world around it without touching a thing.

Gojo chewed once more. Swallowed.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “That’s new.”

The sphere didn’t explode.

It decided.

. . . . .

Across the city, three rooftops down and one too high, Bakuda held her breath.

She leaned into a fusion of scavenged sniper optics and a cracked EEG headset pulsing with biofeedback, all fused into a jury-rigged command rig strapped to her spine. Her hands twitched with anticipation.

“Do it,” she whispered. “Come on, come on…”

The Conceptual Bypass Bomb activated.

Not with a flash. Not with heat. Not with shockwaves or fire or screams.

But with understanding.

. . . . .

Gojo’s Infinity held. Of course it held. It always held. Space bent, time paused, and nothing—except once, and he wouldn't think about that—ever reached him. That was the rule.

But the bomb didn’t care about the rule.

It didn’t reach for him. Didn't try to go through Infinity.

Instead, it reached for the idea of him.

His heartbeat. His position in spacetime. His pattern.

It made the explosion think he was already inside it.

. . . . .

Gojo didn’t flinch.

The blast wasn’t visible. Not really. But reality jerked, briefly. Like a skipped frame in a film reel. And a nausea bloomed in his soul, not the stomach. 

Civilians screamed and collapsed where they were—though unharmed. He could tell they didn’t know why they were afraid. Just that a flash of wrongness had slipped past their senses.

And in the epicenter of it all, Gojo stood perfectly still. Though his churro had dropped to the ground.

One heartbeat passed. Then another.

For one second—just one—his Infinity wavered. 

Not broken. 

Not bypassed. 

Just… uncertain.

He felt it.

A phantom pressure, like a whisper in his ribs. A suggestion.

The explosion had touched something.

His fingers flexed slowly.

Then he exhaled. The Infinity surged outward, reasserting itself back into order with a thunderclap of displaced air.

Silence followed. Deafening.

. . . . .

Bakuda stared through the scope.

He was still standing.

No, not just standing.

Looking directly at her.

His blindfold was gone. His eyes—those eyes—were visible. Still glowing, but not narrowed. Not threatening.

Just aware.

Her hands shook.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Gojo smiled.

Then vanished.

One second, the ground. The next, he was standing in front of her on the rooftop, hands in his pockets. Posture relaxed. 

“No need for another round,” he said, almost too casually. “You already lost.”

Bakuda scrambled backward, grabbing for a secondary trigger. Her fingers found it—pressed—

Nothing happened.

She looked down.

The trigger was gone.

So was her helmet.

Gojo held both in his hands, inspecting them with an oddly fascinated expression on his face.

“Really impressive work,” he said, flipping the helmet over. “You figured out just enough to be dangerous. You almost got me.”

Then he looked up.

The smile was gone.

“You don’t get to try that twice.”

Bakuda opened her mouth to scream—

—and never got the chance.

. . . . .

Down below, Gojo reappeared by the ruined food truck.

He picked up a new churro from the cart, dropped a folded bill he had stolen next to the definitely dead vendor, and sighed.

“I’m starting to hate Tinkers.”

He took a bite.

“…Still not any good.”