Chapter 52 : In the Dark Between Dream
The Place With No Ceiling
It wasn't a room. Not really. Not even a memory. Just sensation.
Kishibe stood barefoot in water that rippled without cause, knee-deep and ice-cold. The horizon was nowhere to be seen. Above him: no ceiling, no sky, just darkness so vast it felt sentient. A pressure that pushed from all angles, but never quite touched him.
His skin was pale, nearly translucent. His shirt hung in tatters, stained with blood long dried. There was no weight in his limbs, no breath in his chest. Only stillness.
He touched his ribs.
There should have been pain. But instead, there was that strange ache—like a tooth that had been pulled too late. Something deep. Raw.
He blinked.
A cigarette was between his lips.
And the lighter—click.
Orange fire bloomed, though the flame gave no heat.
Then: footsteps.
Soft, echoing, behind him. Footsteps on water.
"Kishibe," a voice said.
He turned.
A boy stood ankle-deep in the water. Teenaged. Hair messy. Eyes wide and haunted. A stranger and yet—not.
The weight in Kishibe's gut twisted.
"You," he muttered.
The boy smiled. "You remember."
---
Ghosts and Echoes
They emerged slowly.
Not from the edges, because this place had none. But from within the dark, stepping forward as if rising from dreams.
A woman in a tattered dress, singing softly to herself.
A sorcerer with a shattered arm and a smile that bled.
A cursed spirit with human eyes.
They watched him. Some with curiosity. Some with contempt.
Kishibe didn't flinch. He took a slow drag from the phantom cigarette.
"You all here to watch me die?"
The boy tilted his head. "We're memories. Echoes. Not judges."
"Yeah? Then why do I feel like I'm on trial?"
No answer. Just ripples.
A flash of his mother's face surfaced in the water. He looked away.
"She never talks to me here," he whispered.
"Because you already know what she'd say."
The water darkened. Grew heavier.
His blade was suddenly in his hand.
Not a memory. A warning.
---
The Storm Beneath
The boy's face morphed. Became older. Then younger. Then something monstrous, mouth wide with teeth like glass.
Kishibe gritted his jaw.
He swung the blade.
It passed through air. Through the illusion. Through himself.
And everything shattered.
Now he was in a hallway.
Flickering lights.
Blood on white tile.
The man who killed his mother turned from the sink, eyes wide, caught mid-handwash.
Kishibe stepped forward.
No trembling. No hesitation.
He raised the kitchen knife.
And drove it forward.
The scream was real. Wet. Gurgling.
Again. Again.
He kept stabbing long after the body stopped moving. Until his arms burned. Until his own blood covered his sleeves.
---
Memory's Edge
Kishibe dropped the knife.
Looked at his own reflection in the cracked mirror.
A boy.
Not a killer.
But the face didn't lie.
Behind him, the shadows returned. Silent witnesses.
Then—a flicker.
Gojo's broken body in the rubble. Geto screaming. Riko falling.
Toji's blade flashing.
The surge of cursed energy. Severance snapping his mind in half.
His own voice:
"Run, Riko. Now."
---
Heartbeat
The water was gone.
Everything was fire.
Pain roared through him like a curse given form.
He screamed.
And opened his eyes.
---
Return
The infirmary lights were blinding.
Machines beeped in chaos.
Shoko gasped and dropped her clipboard, stumbling to his bedside. "He's awake—GOJO!"
Footsteps. Yelling.
Kishibe blinked.
A blurry face leaned into view—Gojo, bruised and wild-eyed.
"You're alive," Gojo whispered, disbelief written into every line of his face.
Kishibe's throat worked. No words came.
Then Geto pushed in, hovering behind Shoko, expression tight with something between awe and heartbreak.
Shoko placed a hand on his chest, feeding cursed energy into his ribs again. "You weren't supposed to wake up yet," she said through tears. "You stubborn bastard."
Kishibe tried to smirk.
It looked more like a wince.
But his eyes met theirs.
Alive.
Barely.
And still fighting.