The small, dingy apartment Toji Fushiguro called home for the time being was dimly lit, a single bulb swaying gently overhead. The room was spartan—just a mattress on the floor, a wooden table, and a chair that looked like it was ready to collapse. Toji leaned against the wall, his broad shoulders relaxed, his eyes half-lidded as he toyed with a butterfly knife in one hand.
His phone vibrated on the table.
He raised an eyebrow, flipping the knife shut with a deft motion before grabbing the old, cracked phone. The screen displayed an unknown number, but that wasn't unusual in his line of work.
He answered with a gruff, "Talk."
The voice on the other end was smooth, almost oily. "Toji Fushiguro, I presume?"
"Depends who's asking," Toji replied, his tone bored.
"I represent an... interested party," the voice continued. "We have a job for you."
Toji smirked, leaning back against the wall. "Yeah? And what makes you think I'm interested?"
"The pay is 50 million yen upfront, with another 50 upon completion."
That made him pause. It wasn't the largest sum he'd been offered, but it was significant enough to pique his interest. "Go on."
"There's a certain... obstacle we need removed. A mafia boss who's been causing some problems for our organization. He deals in drugs, weapons, and other unsavory trades. He's also begun branching into territories that don't belong to him."
"And you want him dead," Toji summarized, his tone flat.
"Precisely."
"Name?"
"Kobayashi Masaru. He operates out of a heavily fortified compound in Shinjuku. Security is tight, but we believe someone of your... talents can handle it."
Toji rubbed his chin, considering. "And you're sure about the payment?"
"The transfer will be made as soon as you accept the job. We've already vetted you, Mr. Fushiguro. We know what you're capable of."
Toji chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "Flattery won't get you anywhere. I'll take the job, but if the money isn't in my account in an hour, you'll have a new obstacle to worry about. Got it?"
"Of course. You'll find the details in your inbox shortly."
The line went dead.
Toji dropped the phone onto the table, stretching his neck with a satisfying crack. A mafia job, huh? He wasn't a fan of messy assignments, but money was money. And if this Kobayashi guy was as bad as they claimed, Toji figured he'd be doing the world a favor.
He grabbed his gear—a simple duffel bag containing his tools of the trade—and slung it over his shoulder. His cursed spirit, the ever-loyal worm, wriggled into his sleeve, ready to assist when needed.
"Time to get to work," he muttered, stepping out into the cool Tokyo night.
The streets were alive with the hum of traffic and the chatter of passersby, but Toji paid it no mind. He had a job to do, and nothing was going to stand in his way.
O—O—O
Shoto Todoroki sat alone in his living room, the dim light of the television casting flickering shadows across the walls. His hands gripped the remote tightly as he replayed the footage for what felt like the hundredth time—the scene where Izuku Gojo stood defiantly against Sukuna, attempting to fend off the overwhelming Domain Expansion.
"Pause," he muttered, his heterochromatic eyes narrowing as he froze the video at a key moment. Izuku's stance, his gestures, the subtle tilt of his head—it all looked eerily familiar.
Shoto leaned back on the couch, the weight of suspicion pressing heavily on his chest. Something wasn't adding up. He opened his laptop, pulling up articles, ancient records, and anything else he could find about Satoru Gojo and the legendary Gojo clan.
He had read about Satoru before—an unstoppable jujutsu sorcerer from centuries ago, renowned for his Limitless Technique and his unmatched prowess in battle. The similarities between Satoru and Izuku had always been striking, but Shoto had brushed them off as coincidences. After all, Izuku was a descendant of the Gojo clan. It wasn't unusual for families to pass down techniques.
But this wasn't just about techniques.
Shoto replayed the video again, focusing on Izuku's movements during his Domain Expansion attempt. The way he formed his hand signs, the cadence of his voice, the unflinching confidence in his stance—it was as though Satoru himself had stepped out of the pages of history and into the modern world.
"Too similar," Shoto muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
He opened another tab, pulling up an old record about Satoru Gojo. The ancient text described his techniques in detail: ''Infinity, Limitless, Cursed Technique Reversal'', and even the fabled ''Six Eyes''. Shoto remembered seeing Izuku use those same techniques during training, though Izuku always dismissed their significance, brushing off questions with his usual cocky grin.
But there was one glaring inconsistency that gnawed at Shoto's mind. The Six Eyes were supposed to be exceedingly rare, only manifesting in one individual per generation. Yet Izuku wielded them as effortlessly as breathing.
"Why does it feel like..." Shoto hesitated, struggling to put his thoughts into words. He pulled up another video—this one of an old, grainy recording of Satoru Gojo in action, centuries old but meticulously preserved by historians. He watched as Satoru dispatched a curse with a flick of his wrist, a smirk playing on his lips, his movements exuding an effortless confidence.
The resemblance to Izuku was uncanny.
Shoto rubbed his temples, frustration bubbling to the surface. "This isn't normal. Descendant or not, no one should be this identical. It's like..."
His breath caught as a chilling thought crept into his mind.
"It's like Satoru never left."
Shoto shook his head, dismissing the idea as absurd. Reincarnation? That wasn't possible, was it? He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the frozen image of Izuku on the screen. His mind raced with questions, each one more unsettling than the last.
Why did Sukuna specifically call Izuku "past his prime"? Why did Sukuna act as though he knew him, not just as an opponent but as an equal?
Sukuna had fought Satoru Gojo, not Izuku Gojo in the past.
Shoto closed his laptop, his thoughts swirling in an endless loop. He couldn't ignore the facts any longer. Izuku Gojo wasn't just a talented boy with a powerful quirk or a prodigy of the Gojo clan. He was something far more enigmatic, something that defied explanation.
Standing, Shoto grabbed his phone and began dialing. He didn't know who to trust, but he needed answers. And there was one person who might know the truth.
"Gojo," he muttered under his breath as he hit the call button. "You better not brush this off."
O—O—O
Bakugou Katsuki sat in his room, glaring at his freshly healed hand. His fingers flexed without issue, the scars and burns he'd accumulated over the years completely gone, as if they'd never existed. It was infuriating. He hated owing anyone anything—especially him.
"Fancy Eyes," he muttered bitterly, slamming his fist against the desk. "Tch, Izuku Gojo, my ass."
That name was a lie.
The realization had hit him like a freight train during the chaos of the Sports Festival. It wasn't just the techniques, the flashy confidence, or even the ridiculous strength Izuku had displayed. No, it was something far more personal.
It was the name.
'Kaachan.'
Katsuki clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding audibly. No one called him that anymore. No one had dared since 'him.' Since Satoru Midoriya.
The memories came flooding back, unbidden and raw. A boy with brilliant green hair, boundless energy, and those cursed, dazzling jade eyes. His childhood friend. His rival. His partner in crime when they were kids, even though Satoru's carefree nature often clashed with Katsuki's explosive temper.
They'd been inseparable once.
Until the accident. Until Satoru disappeared.
Katsuki rubbed his temples, the frustration mounting. His mother had told him over and over again that Satoru wasn't coming back. That he was gone. And yet, here he was—alive, walking around, and calling himself Izuku Gojo like nothing had happened.
"Why the hell are you lying, huh?!" Katsuki snarled to the empty room, his voice echoing.
He stood abruptly, pacing back and forth, his mind racing with questions. If Izuku was really Satoru—and Katsuki was sure he was—then why the fake name? Why the fake life?
And why had he left in the first place?
Katsuki's fists trembled, his nails digging into his palms. Satoru's mother, Inko Midoriya, had never recovered after his disappearance. She'd slipped into a coma not long after, unable to bear the grief. She was still in that state, clinging to life in a hospital Katsuki visited once in a while, even though it hurt like hell to see her like that.
Did Satoru—no, 'Izuku'—even know?
"Of course he knows," Katsuki muttered to himself, shaking his head. "He just doesn't care, does he?"
But that didn't make sense. Satoru had cared about his mom more than anything. He'd been the type to dote on her endlessly, always running back home with flowers, sweets, or whatever random thing he thought would make her smile. That wasn't the kind of person who'd abandon her.
So why?
Katsuki slumped back into his chair, the anger giving way to something heavier. Something he hated admitting to himself.
Hurt.
Because if Izuku—'Satoru'—was alive, then why hadn't he come back? Why hadn't he told Katsuki? Was their friendship meaningless to him?
"Kaachan."
The way he'd said it during the fight echoed in Katsuki's mind, sending chills down his spine. It wasn't just the word itself—it was the tone, the familiarity, the way it cut through all the noise and went straight to his core.
There was no mistaking it.
"That bastard," Katsuki growled, standing again and storming toward the window. He shoved it open, letting the cool night air hit his face as he stared out at the city lights.
If Satoru—Izuku—whatever he wanted to call himself now—thought he could waltz back into Katsuki's life without answering for everything, he was dead wrong. Katsuki didn't care how strong or fancy his eyes were. He wanted answers.
And he'd get them, even if he had to drag them out of him by force.
O—O—O
The sound of Sir Nighteye's furious voice echoed through the dimly lit room, his sharp words cutting like daggers. All Might, in his skeletal form, stood silently, his head bowed as Nighteye's tirade continued unabated.
"I told you, Toshinori! I told you bringing 'him' into UA was a mistake!" Nighteye slammed a palm onto the table, his teal eyes blazing with anger. "And now, look at what's happened! Forty thousand people dead. Dead, Toshinori! Do you understand the gravity of this?"
All Might flinched, his usual composure cracking under the weight of his former sidekick's words.
"I understand, Nighteye," he said softly, his voice heavy with guilt. "But—"
"No 'buts'! This—this disaster could have been avoided if you'd just listened to me!" Nighteye interrupted, pacing back and forth, his frustration palpable. "You knew, 'knew', there was something off about that boy, but you brought him in anyway. And now the entire country is paying the price for your recklessness."
All Might straightened slightly, a flicker of defiance in his tired eyes. "Izuku—no, Satoru—he's not responsible for what happened. Sukuna's return was beyond anyone's control."
Nighteye turned on him, his expression incredulous. "Not responsible? 'Not responsible?' Toshinori, that 'thing' spoke directly to him! Called him by name!"
All Might winced again, his mind flashing back to the chaos of the Sports Festival. Sukuna's mocking voice still haunted him, his taunts aimed squarely at Izuku—or Satoru, as they now knew him to be.
Nighteye jabbed a finger at him, his voice lowering into something far more menacing. "You've been keeping secrets, haven't you? About him. About what he's capable of. What aren't you telling me, Toshinori?"
All Might hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides. He couldn't tell Nighteye the truth—not all of it, at least. Not yet. The knowledge of Satoru Midoriya's true nature, his connection to the ancient Gojo clan, and his lineage as the last wielder of the Six Eyes wasn't something that could be shared lightly.
But Nighteye wasn't having it.
"Don't you dare stay silent, Toshinori," he warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Do you even understand the damage this has done? Public trust in UA is gone. Heroes across the board are being questioned. And the Pro Hero system itself is hanging by a thread. If you don't start giving me answers, I'll—"
"You'll what, Nighteye?" All Might's voice, though quiet, carried a sharp edge now. He lifted his gaze to meet his former sidekick's furious glare. "You think I don't feel the weight of this already? That I don't carry every single one of those deaths on my shoulders? Don't you dare act like I'm not suffering from this, too."
Nighteye faltered for a moment, the anger in his eyes softening slightly.
"I know you're suffering, Toshinori," he said, his tone losing some of its bite. "But that doesn't change the fact that this… this 'boy' is at the center of it all. He's not just a student. He's something else. And if you don't start being honest about what that is, you're going to lose everything."
All Might sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of Nighteye's words. He turned away, staring out the window at the city beyond.
"Satoru… he's a good kid," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's been through things you can't even imagine. He's lost so much. And yet, he's still fighting to protect people. To save them."
Nighteye crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "And what about the destruction he brings with him? The chaos? Can you honestly say that having him here won't make things worse?"
All Might didn't answer immediately. He didn't know if he could.
Instead, he simply said, "He's our best hope."
Nighteye stared at him for a long moment, his jaw tightening. "Then you'd better hope you're right, Toshinori. Because if you're not…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "The world won't forgive you for this."
With that, he turned and stormed out of the room, leaving All Might alone with his thoughts—and his guilt.
O—O—O
Ochako Uraraka trudged down the dimly lit street, her grocery bags heavy in her hands and her thoughts even heavier. The rally for justice was still ongoing, its chants echoing faintly in the distance. Signs declaring "We Want Answers!" and "Down with UA!" had become a common sight these days. Her heart sank every time she saw them.
She had managed to slip past the protesters unnoticed, but their words lingered in her mind like a curse. It wasn't just Sukuna's devastation or the thousands of lives lost—it was the reality that she hadn't been able to do anything. Not for her classmates, not for the crowd, not even for herself.
The supermarket hadn't been much of a distraction either. The cashier had given her a pitying glance, probably recognizing her as one of UA's students. She hated that look.
Now, as she walked back to her apartment, she hugged her groceries tighter, hoping the solitude of home would drown out her thoughts.
But fate had other plans.
"Hey, old man! Give it here!"
Ochako's head snapped up. Just a few meters ahead, a burly thug had cornered an elderly man, his hunched form trembling as he clutched his wallet. The thug sneered, his face illuminated by the dim streetlights.
"I—I don't have much," the old man stammered. "Please, just take what you need and leave me be."
The thug scoffed, grabbing the wallet with one hand while shoving the man against the wall with the other. "I'll decide what I need, gramps."
Ochako froze. Her heart raced, and her palms grew clammy as she stared at the scene.
What do I do? What do I do?!
The answer was obvious. She was a hero-in-training. She had to step in.
Taking a deep breath, Ochako dropped her groceries and approached. "Hey! Leave him alone!"
The thug turned to face her, his grin widening. "Oh? And who's this? A little girl playing hero?"
Ochako clenched her fists, forcing the fear out of her voice. "I'm not playing. Let him go, or I'll make you."
The thug laughed, a deep, guttural sound that made her stomach churn. "You? Make me? That's cute, sweetheart. Why don't you run along before you get hurt?"
"I'm warning you!" Ochako said, her voice shaking slightly. She activated her quirk, touching the groceries she'd dropped earlier. The bags floated up, and she launched them toward the thug, hoping to distract him.
The bags hit their mark, the force knocking the thug back a step. The old man took the opportunity to scramble away, clutching his wallet to his chest.
"Get out of here!" Ochako shouted at the man, who hesitated for a moment before nodding and hobbling off.
The thug, now furious, wiped some spilled milk off his shirt. "Oh, you're gonna pay for that."
He lunged at her. Ochako dodged, barely, and tried to counter with a well-aimed kick. Her foot connected with his side, but it was like kicking a brick wall. He barely flinched.
"Is that all you've got?" he mocked, grabbing her arm and twisting it behind her back. Ochako yelped in pain, struggling against his grip.
Her mind raced. Quirk. Use your quirk!
She managed to touch his arm with her free hand, activating her quirk. The thug's arm floated upward, loosening his grip just enough for her to break free. She turned and aimed a punch at his jaw, but he caught her fist mid-swing.
"Cute trick," he sneered, twisting her wrist until she cried out. "But it's not enough."
With a brutal shove, he sent her sprawling onto the pavement. Her head smacked against the concrete, and stars danced in her vision.
She tried to get up, but the world tilted, and her limbs felt like lead. The thug loomed over her, laughing.
"Hero, huh? You're just a kid. Go back to school before you get yourself killed."
He kicked her groceries across the street for good measure before walking off, leaving Ochako lying there, battered and humiliated.
She stayed on the ground for a moment, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. The old man was safe, but she hadn't saved him. Not really. She hadn't defeated the thug. She hadn't proven anything.
With trembling hands, she sat up and leaned against the wall. Her mind replayed the encounter, each failure cutting deeper. She was utterly weak. Even with her quirk, even with her training, she couldn't measure up.
Her fingers brushed against her pocket, and she froze. Slowly, she pulled out the small card Toji had given her days ago.
"If you ever think your quirk isn't enough, find me."
She stared at the card, the edges worn from where she'd fidgeted with it during moments like this. Moments of doubt, of despair.
Her thumb brushed over the name. She didn't know much about him, but she knew that he was strong.
Ochako shuffled the card between her fingers, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.
Should she call him?
What if he was dangerous? What if he wasn't someone a hero should associate with?
But what if he could help?
Her gaze drifted to the darkened street where the thug had disappeared, and her resolve hardened.
For the first time that night, Ochako stood up without hesitation.
O—O—O
The ancient gates of Tokyo Jujutsu High creaked open with an almost ceremonial groan, revealing a vast courtyard shrouded in an eerie stillness. Time had not been kind to the school. Cracks and moss adorned the stone pathways, yet there was an undeniable air of reverence to the place. It was as though the very land remembered the sorcerers who had once roamed its halls.
Eri clung to Izuku's hand, her wide eyes darting around nervously as they stepped inside. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faint scent of incense and earth. It felt like stepping into another era entirely.
"Relax, Eri," Izuku said, his voice soft but steady. "You're safe here."
She nodded but didn't let go of his hand.
Just as they crossed the threshold into the courtyard, a figure came into view. A woman sat leisurely on the steps of the main hall, her long white hair cascading like silk over her shoulders. Her pale skin seemed almost luminescent in the dim light, and she had a magazine propped open in her lap.
Without looking up, she said, "You're late."
Izuku grinned, letting go of Eri's hand and striding forward with his hands in his pockets. "Yo, Tengen-sama! Still lounging around, I see."
The woman quirked an eyebrow and finally looked up, her sharp gaze settling on him. "Still as cheeky as ever, 'Satoru'."
Eri blinked in confusion, her gaze bouncing between the two. "Satoru? I thought only Uncle Might and Nezu knew your name was Izuku!"
Tengen smirked, setting her magazine aside. "Oh, he's got plenty of names, little one. But Satoru is his true name. Isn't that right, Gojo?"
Izuku rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, yeah. Don't confuse her too much, though."
The woman's eyes softened as they landed on Eri. She rose gracefully to her feet, the folds of her pristine white robes trailing behind her as she approached.
"And who's this?" Tengen asked, kneeling slightly to meet Eri at eye level.
"This is Eri," Izuku said, his tone uncharacteristically warm. "She's... special."
Tengen tilted her head, studying Eri with an almost maternal curiosity. "Well, hello, Eri. It's not every day someone special walks through these gates. Welcome to Tokyo Jujutsu High."
Eri clung to Izuku's sleeve but managed a shy nod. "Th-thank you."
Tengen's lips curled into a small smile before she straightened and gestured toward the main hall. "Come. I imagine you're not here for a social visit."
The inside of the school was astonishing. Despite its centuries-old architecture, the corridors were spotless, the wooden floors gleaming as if freshly polished. Sunlight streamed through paper-thin windows, casting intricate patterns onto the walls.
Eri's jaw dropped as she took in the sight. "It's so... clean! But it looks so old."
Tengen chuckled softly as she walked ahead, her robes swishing with each step. "Appearances can be deceiving, child. It's old, yes, but it's mine. I keep it as it deserves to be kept."
"How?" Izuku asked, glancing around. "This place was already ancient when I was here last. Looks like it hasn't aged a day."
Tengen shrugged. "I have my ways."
Izuku snorted. "Of course, you do."
They walked through the hallways, their footsteps echoing faintly. Eri stayed close to Izuku, her wide eyes darting to every corner of the grand yet eerie school. She tugged at his sleeve.
"Why did she call you Gojo?"
Izuku hesitated for a moment before responding, "Because that's who I used to be, Eri. A long, long time ago."
Eri frowned but didn't press further.
As they approached a grand door at the end of the hallway, Tengen stopped and turned to face them. "I take it you're here about Sukuna."
Izuku's expression darkened, and he nodded. "Yeah. I need answers, Tengen-sama."
Tengen's gaze flickered to Eri briefly before settling back on Izuku. "And you're ready to hear them this time?"
"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at her lips as she pushed open the door. "Then let's not waste any time."
They stepped inside, the air growing heavier as the door closed behind them.
Izuku leaned back against the ancient wooden wall of the chamber, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. His trademark grin was nowhere to be found. Eri sat quietly by his side, her small hands gripping his sleeve. She looked up at him nervously, sensing his tension.
"You told me," Izuku began, his voice low and steady, "that only one finger of Sukuna remained. That the rest had been destroyed or consumed during the final battle. And yet, here we are." He gestured vaguely at the air. "Sukuna's back, stronger than I've ever felt him. That wasn't the power of one finger, Tengen-sama. That was at least eighteen fingers' worth of strength."
Tengen let out a long, deliberate sigh, her pale fingers brushing a strand of white hair from her face. She walked over to a low table in the center of the room and sat gracefully, her expression unreadable.
"Do you remember what I told you about the events of Shinjuku?" she asked.
Izuku nodded, his azure eyes narrowing. "Yeah. Sukuna cleaved me—" He paused, correcting himself. "Satoru Gojo—in half using Mahoraga. It was the only way he could overcome Infinity. But then my students—my 'students'—managed to defeat him. Reduced him to nothing but a chunk of meat before finishing the job."
"And do you remember what happened after that?" Tengen pressed, her tone calm yet pointed.
"They sealed the last finger," Izuku said, his fists clenching. "They sealed it away, somewhere no one could reach. It was supposed to be the end."
Tengen nodded solemnly. "That's right. For centuries, that finger remained hidden, locked in a place where even I could barely sense it. But about sixteen years ago..."
Izuku leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "What happened sixteen years ago?"
Tengen hesitated for a moment before answering. "The finger disappeared."
Eri gasped softly, her eyes widening. "Disappeared? How?"
"We don't know exactly," Tengen admitted. "All we know is that it was stolen. I had initially assumed it was destroyed—a millennium had passed since it was sealed, after all. But no... it was stolen. And now, we know the consequences of that theft."
Izuku's mind raced as he pieced things together. "Stolen... and then what? Someone fed it to a vessel? Someone capable of handling Sukuna's cursed energy?"
"That's the only explanation," Tengen said. She leaned over and retrieved a sleek, modern laptop from a drawer beneath the table. The contrast between the ancient room and the technology was jarring. "And as for who stole it... I think you'll want to see this."
She opened the laptop and pulled up a grainy black-and-white video. It was footage from a special surveillance camera, one that Izuku immediately recognized as being capable of detecting cursed energy.
The video showed an empty street at night. For a few moments, nothing happened. Then, a figure appeared—walking calmly, as though entirely unbothered by the dead of night. The figure stopped in the middle of the street, and something in his hand glinted faintly. A powerful spark of cursed energy surged from his pocket, bright enough to distort the camera feed.
Izuku's blood ran cold as he recognized the man.
"All For One," he breathed, his voice laced with disbelief and fury.
Eri clutched his arm tighter. "Who's that?" she whispered.
Izuku didn't answer her right away. His eyes were glued to the screen, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
"All For One," Tengen repeated, her tone grim. "He's the one who stole Sukuna's finger."
"But why?" Izuku demanded, slamming a fist against the wall. "Why would 'he' want Sukuna's finger? What does he gain from this?"
"I can only speculate," Tengen said, folding her hands in her lap. "Perhaps he intended to use Sukuna's power for his own purposes. Or perhaps he simply wanted to sow chaos. Either way, the result is the same. Sukuna is back, and he's more powerful than ever."
Izuku exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "And Shigaraki... Sukuna used him as a vessel."
"It appears so," Tengen said. "A vessel strong enough to withstand Sukuna's overwhelming cursed energy. That boy was likely chosen deliberately."
Izuku shook his head, his thoughts spiraling. All For One had orchestrated this—set the pieces in motion for Sukuna's resurrection. And now, the world was paying the price.
Eri looked up at him, her eyes full of worry. "What do we do now?"
Izuku's gaze softened as he crouched down to her level, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We'll figure it out, Eri. I promise."
Tengen's voice cut through the moment. "Satoru," she said, her tone more serious than ever. "This is bigger than any of us. You know what must be done."
Izuku straightened, his expression hardening. "Yeah," he said. "I know."
For the first time in centuries, the war against Sukuna was starting all over again. And this time, it wouldn't end until the King of Curses was destroyed for good.
O—O—O
Author Note: I wonder what Toji Fushigoro will do with poor Uraraka.
Thanks for reading this chapter. Drop your thoughts in the review section. Your words motivate me to write better, larger and with more depth.
Till next time!