Lynn

Yuji is doing well, all things considered. He trains. He eats. He occasionally explodes a training dummy and apologizes for it while still on fire. You’re proud of him. You even framed one of his test scores, mostly because it was the first time he didn’t accidentally draw a smiley face in the answer bubbles. He grinned for an hour when he saw it hanging by your desk, and for a brief, fragile moment, things almost felt normal.

Almost.

Because there’s still the voice.

Sukuna.

Your lovely, ancient, psychopathic three-way soulmate situation.

He has opinions about everything.

When you cook, he narrates like the world’s worst food critic. “Pathetic. Where’s the blood?”

“It’s curry, not a ritual sacrifice,” you hiss once, forgetting yourself until you hear the faint snort from the doorway.

Gojo leans there, half-hidden grin in place, sunglasses pushed low enough that you can see the spark of amusement in his eyes. “Talking to your boyfriend again?” he drawls.

You freeze, ladle halfway to the pot. “He’s not my—”

Gojo’s grin widens. “You mean boyfriends, plural. Yuji’s probably feeling left out.”

You throw a dishtowel at him. He catches it lazily and drapes it around his neck like it’s a victory flag.

You glare at the empty air and will yourself not to respond, but Gojo is already watching you with that insufferable curiosity that means you’ve been caught again.

The days blur together after that: training sessions, missions, mountains of paperwork. You pretend everything is fine, that the voice in your head is just background noise, no different from the faint hum of cursed energy that always hangs in the air at Jujutsu Tech.

But sometimes, when you’re alone, the barrier between your thoughts and his thins.

Sometimes you can feel him watching through Yuji’s eyes. Sometimes you can almost hear his heart beating with yours.

And often, when you chat, Sukuna interrupts.

“Louder. You’re losing them,” he says during staff meetings, his tone dripping with mock boredom.

“Stop talking to me,” you whisper, still smiling at a group of second-years who are one more smart comment away from finding out what a domain expansion looks like up close.

When you try to sleep, he offers bedtime stories that sound suspiciously like threats. “How touching. You snore like a mortal. Shall I show you what eternal sleep feels like?”

You tell him to shut up. He laughs.

Yuji tries his best to drown him out. His chosen weapon is Megan Thee Stallion.

You have heard “WAP” more times than any human being should.

There’s nothing quite like being halfway through balancing expense reports and hearing your nephew yell, “Certified freak, seven days a week!” at the top of his lungs because a four-eyed ancient curse called him “soft.”

You nearly jumped out of a window that day.

Sukuna, of course, thought it was hilarious. “Such filth,” he purred afterward. “But the rhythm is adequate.”

You didn’t even dignify that with a response.

Yuji once tried to explain that Sukuna “learns” modern slang by reading his thoughts, which unfortunately led to the day the King of Curses called you “mid.” You spent the next three hours meditating in the staff garden, chanting every breathing technique you knew, trying not to commit an act of spiritual homicide.

Even the koi avoided you.

And through all of it, Gojo is there. Always there. Somehow, both the world’s most powerful sorcerer and its most annoying roommate.

He once leaned across your desk during lunch, chopsticks in hand, grin far too pleased with itself. “So,” he said, “how’s the love triangle going?”

You blinked. “What triangle?”

“The one between you, faith in this life, and our favorite murder husband,” he replied without missing a beat. “You know, the one where your soulmate is technically a war crime?”

You dropped your rice ball. “He’s not my husband.”

Gojo’s grin only widened. “Right, right. You’re just spiritually entangled with him in an ancient cosmic union forged through blood and reincarnation. Totally casual.”

You told him to leave. He took your tea with him.

Sometimes, you catch him humming when Sukuna’s voice gets too loud in your head—like he can hear it somehow—and it’s his way of pretending not to notice.

He definitely knows something.

Maybe it’s the way his blindfold twitches every time you and Yuji start arguing with thin air. Perhaps it’s the way he grins whenever you accidentally say, “Stop talking, both of you,” in a faculty meeting. Or maybe it’s just Gojo’s sixth sense for impending chaos.

This man annoys you. Profoundly. Spiritually. You have never met anyone who could weaponize a smirk the way Gojo Satoru does. He can make “good morning” sound like a threat and “don’t worry” sound like an omen.

You figure his never-ending ability to appear out of nowhere has been training all on its own. The man could turn a stealth mission into getting snacks. You’ve learned to stop screaming every time he materializes behind you (mostly).

But none of that prepares you for the moment Yuji goes on a “training trip.”

The halls are too quiet without him. No blaring music, no laughter echoing through the dorms, no impromptu jump scares from a teenager who thinks sneaking up on Gojo is a good idea. The silence feels empty, like the school is holding its breath.

So when the call comes in for a mission, you’re already too restless to stay behind.

You force Ichiei to take you. He argues for three full minutes before giving up with the weary resignation of someone escorting a raccoon out of a convenience store.

“Fine,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But you follow orders.”

“I always follow orders.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. “…You try to follow orders.”

You ignore that.

The first-years are being sent out with Ichiei for what’s described as a “manageable cursed incident.” A small-scale job, low threat level, routine. You tag along anyway, just in case.

The briefing says it’s inside an old juvenile detention center. The file says “student-potential.” The file also says “shouldn’t require Gojo,” which is laughable in retrospect, but you’re trying to be optimistic. You’ve been trying for years.

Megumi looks grim, jaw tight as he reviews the layout map like it’s a personal insult. Nobara looks like she’s ready to stab optimism itself if it makes a sound. Ichiei checks his equipment twice and gives you a quiet nod that’s half professional courtesy, half mutual understanding that this will probably go sideways.

Yuji, bless his chaotic heart, is a beam of sunshine. His grin could power Tokyo for a week. He’s chattering about strategy and teamwork and something about friendship exercises, because he still believes those words mean anything in your line of work.

Sukuna is silent. Completely, utterly silent. Which you immediately log as both a miracle and a threat.

You smile for show. Inside, your stomach is twisting itself into origami.

The detention center looms ahead, concrete gray and rotting at the edges. Rust stains streak down the walls like dried blood. The fence surrounding it leans inward, barbed wire curling at the top like the claws of something waiting to grab you if you get too close.

The air smells rancid. Damp metal. Mold. The kind of thick, humid stillness that soaks into your clothes and clings to your skin. It isn’t the cold that makes you shiver—it’s the pressure, that faint, pulsing thrum in the back of your teeth that says something old and angry is listening.

“Lower grade,” Nobara mutters. “Yeah, sure. Who writes these reports?”

“People who never leave the office,” you answer, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

Megumi glances your way. “You feel it too?”

You nod. The air feels too full, too alive. Cursed energy doesn’t just hum here—it seeps. It slides along the walls, slow and deliberate, like it’s tasting your presence.

You pull your jacket tighter. “Stay sharp,” you say, though everyone already is. “If this thing really is low-grade, I’ll eat Gojo’s sunglasses.”

Sukuna’s voice stirs faintly then, low and amused. “You won’t have the chance.”

The words slither through your mind like cold smoke, and the fine hairs on your arms rise.

The silence that follows is heavier than before, almost sentient. Even Yuji falters mid-step, expression flickering for half a second before he forces it back into place.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ve survived worse. You’ve survived Gojo’s cooking.

How bad could it possibly be?

The air around the facility feels oppressive the second you arrive. Too thick, too heavy, charged like the inside of a storm that’s already decided who it’s going to strike.

You can feel cursed energy crawling beneath your skin, the way you used to before you learned to shield yourself. It clings like humidity and dread had a baby and decided to haunt you personally.

“This feels bad,” Nobara mutters, her fingers drumming against the handle of her hammer.

“This feels like Gojo should have been here,” you say, mostly to yourself.

Megumi exhales through his nose—the long-suffering sigh of a teenager who has already accepted that disaster is imminent. “He’s away. Kyoto. Said it was ‘super top-secret business.’”

“Which means dessert,” Ichiei murmurs without missing a step.

“Exactly.”

The four of you pause just inside the gate, staring up at the towering shell of concrete and rust that passes for a detention center. The walls are pitted with age, streaked black with rain and soot, and the broken windows stare down at you like hollow eyes. It smells like mildew, blood, and bad decisions.

Yuji bounces on his heels like this is a field trip to the aquarium. “We got this, right?”

You, Megumi, and Nobara all answer at the same time. “No.”

Yuji deflates just a little, then laughs anyway, because of course he does.

You’re all still traumatized over that Tokyo field trip from hell—the one with the flirting incident Megumi still refuses to speak of. The one Gojo called “a valuable learning experience” while you were still scraping curse residue off your shoes and considering early retirement.

The memory alone makes you tighten your grip on your charms. You can almost hear Gojo’s voice in your head saying, You’ll be fine! Probably!

You wait outside, because frankly, there was no way Ichiei or the first-years were letting you inside. The last time you followed them into a cursed building, you accidentally scared three of your own students and a semi-sentient ghost fish. You had promised to “let the kids handle it” this time, and you were trying, really trying, to honor that.

But something about the way the shadows bend around the entrance makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. The door itself hangs crooked, half-torn from its hinges, the metal warped as if chewed. The deeper you look into the doorway, the more the darkness ripples, as if the building itself is breathing.

You and Ichiei stand near the threshold, the air prickling against your skin. He begins forming the black curtain, his hands steady even as the cursed energy thickens. It rolls out like smoke, pooling around your feet before rising, deliberate, swallowing the edges of the building until the world goes dim and the sound dulls to a low, trembling hum.

The darkness swallows you whole.

You can still make out faint silhouettes inside. Megumi’s precise movements, the sharp angles of his hands as he shapes his shikigami. Nobara’s restless shifting, the impatient tap of her hammer against her thigh. Yuji’s bright outline, his energy crackling and alive, glowing with the reckless confidence of someone who still believes he can save everyone.

Then there is nothing else. Just the curtain, the hum of cursed energy vibrating through your bones, and that feeling, deep and cold, crawling up your spine, that something inside is awake and waiting.

Ichiei glances at you. “You okay?”

You nod. “No.”

It earns a small laugh, but his eyes never leave black dome You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his cursed energy flickers like a shield stretched thin.

You focus on the faint pitter-patter of Yuji’s thoughts as they move deeper inside. Fleeting impressions reach you through the bond: focus, determination, a flash of fear quickly buried. Left hall clear. Megumi found something. Nobara’s complaining again.

It is comforting—that flickering connection. Like the pulse of a heartbeat under ice.

But then the warmth falters.

A ripple moves through your mind, slow and deliberate. The air thickens, the taste of metal blooming at the back of your tongue.

Like a creature rising from the depths, Sukuna’s voice curls through your thoughts, silk over knives.

“You think his paltry strength is enough to keep him safe?”

The words drag through you, cold and sharp, and the pulse in your chest stutters. The bond wavers for half a heartbeat before Yuji’s presence flares bright again, steady, oblivious, alive.

“I told you to stay out,” you whisper, barely moving your lips.

He laughs, low and sharp. “Stay out? When you leave my vessel to scurry into this trap?”

His presence coils tighter, pressing against your ribs until it feels like your lungs are full of smoke and your blood is catching fire. The air around you vibrates with him, thick and suffocating.

“Tell me, little pet,” he purrs, the words drawn out like the scrape of a blade against bone. “When he dies again, and he will, will you come running to me then? When your shoes are soaked red with his blood, what will you do?”

Your hand trembles against your charm. You want to answer, to tell him to crawl back into whatever pit spawned him, but your throat won’t move. The words catch behind your teeth, dissolve before they ever reach the air.

Somewhere inside the building, the faint flicker of Yuji’s thoughts falters.

Then, for the briefest moment, they vanish.

Panic crashes through the bond like a wave, drowning everything else. You hear shouting, fragments of thought, the raw edge of fear. Special grade. This is bad. Run.

The noise hits you all at once. You double over, gasping, one hand clutching your head as if you could hold it all in. The world tilts sideways, spinning in and out of focus. Ichiei’s voice cuts through the ringing in your ears, sharp and worried. He’s saying your name, again and again, but you can’t answer.

The silence that follows is worse.

You reach out through the bond again, desperate, searching for that bright pulse of joy that has always meant Yuji. Nothing. Not even static. Just a hollow ache where he used to be.

The wind moves through the black curtain, carrying the scent of iron and rain. The world feels too quiet, like the moment before lightning strikes.

And somewhere deep inside, Sukuna laughs. Low. Ancient. Victorious.

Your heart stutters.

The sound curls through your thoughts like smoke, thick and suffocating. Your knees almost give out. You press a hand to the wall to steady yourself, but the cursed energy reacts instantly, surging up your arm like static, snapping against your skin in angry sparks.

Sukuna’s amusement seeps into your bones like venom. You can almost see him, the curve of his mouth, the glint of sharp teeth, the cruel delight in his eyes. You can practically smell the air of that ancient battlefield, the memory of smoke and blood he carries like perfume.

In a burst of panic, you shove Ichiei out of the way and start running.

“Stay back!” you shout, though your voice cracks halfway through. You don’t even know if he listens. You can barely hear yourself over the pounding of your pulse.

The curtain looms ahead, humming with power, thick and weighty as tar. It shifts when you draw near, the edges rippling as if aware of what you’re about to do. The cursed energy lashes at your legs, biting into your skin, warning you to turn around. You don’t care.

You sprint straight for it, cursed energy blazing at your heels, the world narrowing to the single thought pulsing in your chest: find him.

Fuck waiting. Fuck protocol. Fuck Gojo’s endless lectures about “remaining calm under pressure.”

Yuji was your kid to keep safe.

All of them were. Megumi, with his quiet sighs and steady hands, pretending he isn’t the most responsible person in the building. Nobara, with her righteous fury and stubborn heart, forever demanding better combat gear and better shampoo. And Yuji—your ridiculous, impossible, sunshine-bright boy who smiled at monsters and meant it. Who made you believe, even for a moment, that goodness could survive this world.

You push through the curtain. The air tears against your skin like claws. The sound that greets you is not screaming. Not at first.

It’s the sound of the earth itself breathing off-beat.

And you run straight into it, refusing to slow down, because it doesn’t matter what kind of hell waits inside.

You’re going to be right there.

You burst through the veil, the black curtain tearing at your skin as you push through. The air inside hits like a wall, thick and humid, heavy with the stink of blood, mold, and burnt energy. The pressure is immediate, crawling under your skin, seeping into your lungs like smoke. The cursed energy here isn’t just dense. It’s alive.

The walls stretch high around you, cracked concrete slick with moisture. Every shadow seems to breathe. Every sound echoes too long, distorted by the curse that has taken root in the building’s bones. Somewhere ahead, metal creaks. Something drips. The rhythm of it is almost steady, almost human.

Your shoes slide on algae-slick concrete as you race to him.

“Yuji!”

Your voice rings through the hallway, swallowed by the dark. For a moment, there’s no response, just the echo of your own breath. Then movement. A silhouette at the far end of the corridor. Broad shoulders, short hair, familiar shape.

Relief hits so fast it steals your strength. “Yuji!”

Then a hand catches your arm. The grip is iron. You’re pulled forward, spun around, and stopped so suddenly that the air is knocked from your lungs.

You’re ready to fight, cursed energy sparking in your palm, but the sight of him freezes you in place.

He’s right there. Panting. Clothes torn. Blood smeared across his cheek. His chest rises and falls too fast. You reach for him, instinctively, ready to pull him close, to tell him it’s fine, that you’re here now.

But he doesn’t move.

His hand doesn’t let go.

It tightens.

Pain shoots up your arm, sharp and bright. You look at him, confused. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here.”

He doesn’t answer.

The warmth in his eyes is gone. The spark that makes him Yuji has gone out, leaving only stillness. His expression is off. Too calm. Too empty. The air shifts, thickening again, and your pulse stutters.

Then you see it.

Red marks bloom across his skin, crawling up from his collarbone, tracing his jaw, etching lines that glow faintly in the dark. The pattern is unmistakable.

“Yuji?” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

He tilts his head, the smirk that follows slow and cruel, like he’s savoring the shape of it.

“Ah,” he says, voice low and smooth, every word curling at the edges with amusement. “So eager to see the brat.”

Your heart plummets.

You look past him, and the world tilts. Megumi lies crumpled on the ground, still as stone, his shikigami dissolving into drifting wisps of shadow. The smell of burned cursed energy hangs thick in the air.

You look back at the boy in front of you—but it isn’t him anymore.

Your breath catches. The shape of that smile is unmistakable, carved from malice and something perilously close to delight. It’s a smile that doesn’t belong on Yuji’s face. It’s a smile you’ve seen before, painted in blood and fire.

He exhaled through his teeth, a sound that curls under your skin. “You came running, just like I knew you would. Such devotion. You never disappoint.” His eyes glint, four of them now, sharp and gleaming with mockery. “Tell me, little pet, are you here to save him, or just to watch him die again?”

You glare up at him, voice trembling but steady enough to cut. “Let Yuji go.”

He hums as if considering it, the sound almost gentle. “Now, why would I do that?”

His hand slides from your arm to your chin, tilting your face up toward him. The touch is deliberate, slow, the kind of touch that feels more like ownership than contact. His fingers are too warm. His smirk deepens when you flinch.

“You’re finally here,” he murmurs, his voice almost affectionate. “After all that noise in my head. I thought I’d see what you looked like when you realized you can’t protect him.”

His thumb traces your jaw, slow as a threat.

“Mm.” His eyes narrow, the curve of his mouth widening just enough to show teeth. “Worth the wait.”

His touch burns. It crawls under your skin like static and ice, the kind of pain that feels alive, that knows where to hurt. You try to pull back, but he holds you in place effortlessly, fingers firm, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as if he’s memorizing the shape of it.

“What—” you breathe, the word cracking apart before it’s fully formed.

“Let’s make a deal,” he says softly.

The words hang in the air like venom, sickly and sweet.

He tilts his head, all four eyes fixed on you, gleaming with unholy amusement. The faintest curve pulls at his lips, something cruel masquerading as tenderness. “Just between you and me,” he continues, voice curling into your mind like smoke slipping through a keyhole. “A little arrangement. You give me what I want, and the brat keeps breathing.”

The air changes. It tightens, warps. The walls seem to inch closer. You can taste the metallic bite of cursed energy coating your tongue. Every instinct screams to move, to run, to do something, but the weight pressing down on you is suffocating, like an invisible hand forcing your head to bow.

“What—what do you want?” The question scrapes out of you, raw and shaking.

His grin widens, patient and knowing.

“You,” he says simply.

It isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. The word lands like a curse, soft and final, and the sound of it leaves a taste in your mouth you can’t wash away.

“Me?”

He snorts then, low and delighted, the sound rippling through the air like something alive. “To be more specific,” he says, voice smooth and precise, like a blade sliding through silk, “I want retribution.”

He leans closer, close enough that you can smell the blood on his breath: hot, metallic, sweet in the way rot can be sweet. The air between you hums with wrongness.

“I only want what was promised.”

The words slide through you like a curse, not figurative, not distant, but real. You feel it as it sinks beneath your skin, cold and crawling, winding through your veins like something with teeth. It digs deep, latching onto the place where the soulmate bond once thrummed, pulling, twisting, trying to make space for itself.

You don’t understand. You haven’t promised Sukuna the gum off the bottom of your shoe.

You gasp, clutching at your chest as the pain flares, but his hand catches your wrist before you can recoil. His grip is firm, absolute, the kind of steadiness that doesn’t come from care. It comes from control.

“I want you,” he says, the smile spreading wider across Yuji’s borrowed face, sharp enough to wound. “To only have me. I want to be the only thing in your head.”

He leans in until his breath brushes your ear, each word a whisper that seems to crawl inside your skull.

“I want to renew the binding vow between us.”

The way he says renew makes your blood go cold. It sounds like memory. It sounds like a door being unlocked from the inside, something old and unfinished dragging itself back into being. It feels both unknown and familiar, like déjà vu bleeding into dread. You don’t know enough about the term to have context—you only know you’ve heard it before, whispered once in passing, in the kind of tone people use when speaking about curses that don’t stay buried.

The words wrap around you like chains. The air bends. The ground tilts. Every color bleeds out until the world is a wash of red. You can taste metal on your tongue and hear the echo of your heartbeat pounding like a drum inside your skull.

But you aren’t shaking anymore. Not from fear. Not from him.

It’s stupid, maybe suicidal, but anger floods you all the same. He doesn’t get to talk like this. He doesn’t get to be vague and untouchable and smug in your student’s skin.

“Fuck off.” You sneer the words between clenched teeth. “I haven’t promised you—”

The rest is stolen.

He moves faster than thought. The eldritch thing wearing Yuji’s body bends forward, too close, too human in shape, and nothing else. You jerk back, but his hand snaps up behind your head, holding you still.

For a heartbeat, it looks like he’s going to kiss you.

Then he bites.

White-hot pain blooms as his teeth sink into your lip, tearing skin. You gasp, the taste of blood flooding your mouth, metallic and bright. But the pain doesn’t fade. It deepens.

Something ancient stirs.

Like a pact, the sensation spreads through every vein, raw and electric, too much to contain. It burns and twists, searing through the bond you thought was broken. The air fills with heat and light, and you can feel his humor vibrating through you—not in your ears, but in your bones.

It pours through the tether between you, igniting every thread, setting your soul alight. Heat builds behind your eyes, a slow, furious bloom in your chest until breath feels communal and your heartbeat is no longer yours. The world beyond the bond narrows to the sound of him, and his voice curls low and pleased, a thing that ought to be velvet and is instead steel.

There is no escape with one hard hand braced against your skull, fingers locking into your hair, the other cupped like a claw against your cheek. The pressure is a command. It means ownership. It means a claim he stakes down with the blunt certainty of a god.

So, without thinking of consequences or mercy, you clamp your teeth down. 

Pain detonates, white and bright, and then there is new pain. Your molars find living flesh and tear. Blood blossoms hot and coppery against your tongue. He does not howl. He does not reflexively crush your face. Instead, his grin fractures into something keener, sharper, an instrument tuned to cruelty. The corners of his mouth spike upward into an expression that does not touch his eyes.

You pull back on reflex, and the world tilts. For one breath, you feel like a child, small and reckless and wildly alive. You stare at him. Blood traces your chin, your knuckles, the edges of a hurt that is yours and not yours at once. Your throat is a dry ruin. You should be apologizing to Yuji for the damage, for letting his face be harmed, for allowing this ravenous thing near him. Instead, the sight of that face, mangled and smiling and unashamed, takes your apology from you and burns it to ash.

Yuji’s tongue—or his, now—slides out, deliberate and slow, tasting the ruin. It flicks over his lips and moves across the torn flesh, and where it passes, the red gleams, then smooths, and the air hums. Tiny, obscene bubbles rise and pop like a promise being kept. Skin draws itself closed as if stitched by invisible hands. The sight should have sickened you. It makes your stomach flip with a new terror, a recognition that whatever he is, ordinary rules do not apply.

“The fuck are you?” The words come out small and raw. Horror tastes like iron.

He lifts a hand and regards the blood on his fingers with the interest of someone examining a toy. He chuckles, a dry sound that scrapes the air. There is amusement there, and hunger, and centuries folded into one lazy breath.

“Many things, all bad,” he says. “Evil, monster, terror, covetous—a king, or your curse. Take your pick.”

His voice pulls at the tether like a thread through a needle. Images flicker behind your eyes: a throne carved from bone, fire that has no need of oxygen, a sea after conquest. Each image is a promise of ruin. He tilts his head as if the idea pleases him.

“I do not care.” Your reply is a growl. Fury props your words up like pillars. Blood runs down your chin, and you taste it. “Give Yuji back.”

For an instant, his expression softens into something almost indulgent. Then the muscle in his jaw ticks, and the mouth widens until it seems to crack his face. “Give him back to who?” he asks. “To you? To a boy who thinks himself a savior? Delicious.”

The tether shudders. The heat in your chest spikes into a knife. You can feel Yuji’s fear through the bond, thin and sharp as glass. That fear scarifies something inside you that will not be left unattended. Your hands curl into fists until your knuckles ache. The world narrows again, to bone and blood and the decision you will not cower from.

The air goes still, every molecule charged with his attention. You can feel it—like the hush before a storm decides where to strike.

“You want the boy?” he murmurs, and it’s almost tender. His ruined mouth curves into something that should be a smile and isn’t. His teeth glint wetly in the dim light, the words shaped around blood. “Say yes, and I’ll keep your precious boy alive. Deny me, and I’ll make you feel him die this time.”

The words slide beneath your skin like hooks. You feel them catch in the tether, pulling tight until your breath stutters. His tone doesn’t rise; it doesn’t need to. It hums with the calm certainty of someone who has ended worlds before and found it amusing.

For a single, harrowing instant, you see it. His thoughts. They burn behind your eyes like scripture. He won’t touch you now—he’s too entertained—but he’ll crush Yuji without hesitation. You see the heart torn from the boy’s chest, offered to you as proof of dominion. You see Sukuna pressing a hand to his vessel’s ribs, promising to keep him alive only as long as you stay obedient. You see the way he means to hold you both in the same cage and make you thank him for it.

The horror is complete. It reaches so deep it robs you of thought, of reason, of anything but survival. You nod before you even realize you’re moving, your body acting before your mind catches up.

His grin blooms like a wound. “Perfect,” he purrs.

He lifts his hand, the claws glinting red. When they drag down your face, the pain blooms in fine, delicate lines, hot and searing. Blood wells up, a mark, a signature. His voice drops to a whisper that still somehow fills every corner of the space.

“Welcome home, priestess.”

The air folds in on itself. Your breath catches as the world warps, pressure building until sound itself seems to distort. You can feel him burrowing deeper, peeling through the link between you and Yuji—layer by layer, thread by thread—until you can no longer tell where one of you ends. He doesn’t sever it cleanly. He teases it apart like silk, then twists the stray fibers toward himself, binding them into new patterns. It feels deliberate, possessive.

Your vision tunnels. Your lungs seize. Every pulse of your heart feels like it belongs to him now. The edges of your body blur, and for an awful moment you can’t tell whose breath you’re taking.

Your lips part, a single broken sound escaping—half gasp, half sob—just before everything turns red.

The world comes apart around you. Sound vanishes, light fractures, and for an instant, everything that made you human burns away. The air itself feels alive, splitting open to let him in.

The binding hits like lightning, sharp enough to carve through thought. It sears down to the bone, through muscle and memory, until pain becomes something cleaner and more complete. It is not suffering anymore. It is erasure. It is something ancient and unrelenting, older than language, older than mercy. The bond does not hum now. It rages, vast and alive, a storm made of two souls colliding.

It howls inside you, claws at your chest like a creature desperate to escape, leaving everything raw and exposed. Your heartbeat no longer belongs to you. Your lungs no longer answer to your will. Every breath carries his rhythm, every pulse echoes his. You cannot tell where you end or where he begins.

And under all of it, beneath the screaming of the tether and the roaring of blood, you hear him. The sound is low, reverent, delighted in its cruelty.

“Mine,” he whispers, soft enough to undo you.

Then warmth cuts through the ruin. Yuji.

For a single, trembling second, he is there. His soul burns bright against the dark, his presence wild and alive and reaching for you. You feel him, confused and terrified, calling your name through the storm. You reach back, clawing through the red haze, through the fire, desperate to hold on to him.

Something moves.

It slides between you like a living shadow, cold and certain. A wall forms, not stone but silence, thick and absolute. It is built from Sukuna’s will and sealed by your surrender. You feel it settle inside you, layer by layer, until the light on the other side grows dim. Yuji’s presence fades to a faint flicker, a heartbeat pressed behind glass.

The bond breaks apart.

On one side, there is warmth and air and the fragile sound of a boy’s pulse. On the other hand, there is only Sukuna.

The King of Curses fills the emptiness like smoke taking shape, lumbering and patient. His presence curls through what remains of your mind, quiet and endless. You can feel his satisfaction, the steady enjoyment in his voice when he finally speaks.

“Perfect,” he whispers, sounding older than the room. “I will build a night around you so deep that no dawn will find you.”

The last thing you hear is that laughter, deep and content, spreading through the hollow space where your soul used to be.

-X- Through the Looking Glass -X-

Your breath catches in your throat. The sterile scent of antiseptic turns metallic, sharp, suffocating. For a heartbeat, you think it’s happening again, that awful silence that means something vital has been taken.

But then the air shifts.

A faint sound cuts through the hum of fluorescent lights. Wet, shallow, fragile. Yuji gasps. His body jerks once, then stills again, the movement small but unmistakable.

Gojo slides off the counter in one smooth motion. “And there it is,” he says, tone light but his eyes sharp, the kind of sharp that means he’s ready for anything. “The world’s most stubborn teenager refuses to stay dead. Again.”

Shoko doesn’t even look surprised. She exhales a thin stream of smoke and mutters, “That’s the third time this month. I should start charging for resurrections.”

You can’t move. Relief crashes into confusion so hard it makes you dizzy. Yuji’s chest rises and falls in slow, uneven breaths, and the faint color begins to creep back into his skin. But you don’t hear him in your head. Not even a whisper.

The silence where his voice used to be feels too empty.

You reach out, fingers trembling, brushing his arm. It’s warm. Alive. But not connected.

Your pulse stumbles. The link—the one that had always been there, humming faintly under your skin—feels like a snapped wire. You can sense something, but it isn’t Yuji. It’s heavier. Older. Watching.

The room darkens at the edges, the air pressing closer, thicker.

“Gojo,” you say, and your voice comes out thin. “Something’s wrong.”

He glances over, the curve of his mouth fading just enough to make you nervous. “Define wrong.”

You swallow hard. “I can’t hear him. I can’t feel Yuji.”

Gojo’s gaze flicks to Yuji’s still face. The lines around his mouth ease into something that isn’t quite a reassuring expression anymore. “Ah,” he says softly, “so the honeymoon phase has officially begun.”

The lights above you flicker once. The hum of electricity twists into something like lightning, low and distant.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The silence between you and Yuji is a vacuum: absolute, unnatural, lacking. You can almost hear how empty it is. The bond that used to hum like a quiet heartbeat is gone. Not muted. Not blocked. Gone.

Yuji pushes himself up on his elbows, wincing. His face is pale, his towel slipping dangerously low, but he doesn’t care. His eyes lock on yours, wide and desperate. “It’s gone,” he says, his voice breaking a little. “I—I can’t hear you either.”

The words hit harder than any curse. You feel the loss like a blade under your ribs.

Shoko looks up from her chart at that, the lighter still in her hand. Her expression flattens, cigarette dangling forgotten. “That’s not good.”

Gojo rubs the back of his neck, expression thoughtful. “Not good,” he repeats. “But not unexpected, either.”

You turn to him, the panic rising like a tide. “What do you mean, not unexpected?”

He sighs. “You two were linked through Sukuna. Remember? When he died—well, technically when you died with him, that link got rewritten. Shifted the chain of ownership, so to speak.”

“Ownership?” The word tastes like ash in your mouth.

Gojo’s mouth twitches, the lazy humor bleeding out of it. “You ever make a pact with a curse before, sweetheart?”

You shake your head.

He gestures toward Yuji with one hand. “Well, your boy here is a walking prison for one, but the soulmate bond was shared between the three of you. The link between you wasn’t just emotional—it was metaphysical. And now Sukuna’s the one holding the reins.”

Shoko exhales a plume of smoke and mutters, “In plain language, she’s connected to only him now.”

The room goes still. The lights hum overhead.

Yuji stares at you, disbelief giving way to something worse—fear. “No,” he says quietly. “No, that’s not—he can’t—”

The air curdles before he can finish speaking. The change is instant—cold and viscous. It presses against your skin like invisible hands, crawls up the back of your neck, and coils behind your eyes until every instinct in you screams to run.

Gojo’s expression flickers, just barely. A small tightening around the eyes. “Ah,” he says again, quieter this time, almost thoughtful. “So that’s how he did it.”

Your pulse spikes. “How he did what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze shifts from Yuji’s still body back to you, and that familiar half-smile curls across his face—but it isn’t warm. It’s the look of a man who has already seen the outcome and doesn’t like it.

“Let’s just say,” he murmurs, voice deceptively mild, “your favorite curse finally found a loophole.”

The word lands heavily, like the air before a quake. You force yourself to meet his eyes. “A loophole?”

Gojo exhales through his nose, the sound soft, almost weary. He drags a hand through his hair like this entire thing is an inconvenience rather than a disaster. “Looks like you had the misfortune of being Sukuna’s soulmate all along,” he says. His voice is deceptively light, but the words sink in deep, tearing as they go. “And it seems he finally got tired of sharing.”

The quiet that follows is suffocating.

You don’t look at Yuji. You don’t need to. You can feel the panic coming off him, sharp and frantic, like static crawling under your skin. Something massive presses against both of you, stretching the air thin. Shoko doesn’t look up from her work, but her fingers are still on the IV line, the faint tremor in her hand betraying her interest.

The lights overhead buzz, flicker once, and steady again, though the shadows seem darker now.

Gojo’s voice breaks the silence, lower this time, almost gentle. “Brace yourself,” he says. “When a curse like that makes a move, it’s never clean.”

You sigh, long and hard.

He leans back against the counter, gaze fixed on you, too casual for the weight of what he’s saying. “Lucky you,” he adds. “You’ve got the King of Curses in your head now. Permanently, I’d guess. On the bright side, you’ll never be lonely again.”

You glare at him because it’s easier than screaming. “Not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” he replies quietly, and for once, you can tell he means it.

You turn to Yuji. His face is pale, eyes wide and frightened. He tries to speak, but the words die in his throat. You can see it happen, the dawning realization that the space between you is empty. The thread that once pulsed with life has been severed, clean and final, leaving only silence and a chill that doesn’t belong to this room.

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything, the air in your chest twists.

A sound rises from the back of your mind, deep and smooth, sliding through your thoughts like oil.

“He’s right,” a voice whispers, low and terrible, every syllable vibrating in your bones. “For once.”

You freeze. The voice is everywhere, behind your ribs, in your throat, beneath your skin. Your fingers grip the edge of the gurney until they ache. The metal vibrates faintly under your palms, reacting to the cursed energy trembling through you.

Then you see it.

In the reflection of the surgical tray beside you, something moves. At first, it looks like nothing more than the flicker of the fluorescent lights. Then the shape bends. Warps. Smiles. Your reflection twists. Your mouth stretches wider than it should, the grin too sharp, too knowing. For one impossible second, a second pair of eyes opens above your own, calm and cruel.

You stumble back, the tray clattering to the floor. The reflection smooths out instantly. Just you again, pale and shaking. The sound of the metal ringing on tile fills the silence.

“Easy,” Shoko says, her tone quiet but firm. Her cigarette burns low in her fingers as she glances up, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re done for the night. Both of you.” She nods toward Yuji without looking away from you. “Out. I’ll take it from here.”

You want to explain, to tell her what you saw, but your voice catches. The air feels thick and wrong in your chest, rife with the echo of that terror. You let her guide you to your feet.

Gojo appears at your side before you can speak. His hand settles on your shoulder, steady and unyielding. “Come on,” he says easily. “Let the doctor work. You look like you’ve been through enough metaphysical trauma for one day.”

You try to scoff. Nothing comes out.

The hallway outside the infirmary is too bright, too quiet. Gojo walks beside you, talking about containment seals and energy spikes and how lucky you are to still be breathing. The words pass through you, meaningless noise. You nod when it feels polite. 

When you reach your dorm, he stops in the doorway, his tone softening. “Get some rest,” he says. “We’ll sort it out in the morning.”

You nod. The door closes behind you with a small click.

For the first time all day, the silence feels like it belongs to you.

You sink onto the bed without changing, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The room tilts faintly in the dark. You wait for Sukuna’s voice, for that low, amused whisper beneath your heartbeat.

Nothing.

Even he is silent.

You sleep.

When you wake, everything smells of incense. The air is thick and sweet, almost wet, like something that has been burning for centuries. Your lungs drag it in reluctantly, your chest heavy. Red lacquered walls rise around you, polished so bright they catch the light of a hundred candles. The silence moves like breath, alive and slow, beating with a pulse that does not belong to you.

The robes on your body are white, layered, and unfamiliar. The fabric is rough where it touches your skin, embroidered with faint golden thread that seems to catch the light even when you do not move. A tall ceremonial hat rests against your head, balanced perfectly in a way that feels practiced, as though it remembers where it belongs even if you do not.

The air hums faintly. You turn and see the shrine.

It stands a few meters away, its frame painted in deep crimson and lined with paper charms that sway though there is no wind. The candles around it burn steadily, their flames small and deliberate, giving off a light that makes the red walls shimmer like living skin. The smell of blood lingers beneath the incense, faint but unmistakable.

And in front of the shrine, waiting like he has been there forever, stands Sukuna.

You aren’t sure how you know it’s him. He looks like Yuji, but there’s a deep knowing in your chest that demands that he be recognized. 

He is barefoot, tall, unhurried. His body is marked by dark lines that move just enough to remind you they are alive. His red eyes regard you with a kind of focused curiosity that feels worse than anger.

For a long time, he says nothing. The weight of his attention feels like a hand at your throat.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you expect. “I knew it couldn’t have been anyone otherwise,” he says, his tone unreadable. “How many centuries has it been?”

You take a step back, your voice small and unsteady. “One day? Jesus, is this your freaky brain dorm space again?”

He moves closer, each step silent. The air bends around him. “Do you remember nothing?” he asks, and the question comes out too softly, too intimate to be anything but a threat. “There is no other who can hear now.”

You blink at him. “Remember what?”

That earns a faint smile, not of amusement but of something darker. 

He raises his hand, palm open, and the air ripples. Power gathers there, bubbling and red, bright enough to burn the edges of your vision. It feels like the air itself wants to recoil from him.

You don’t think. You lift your hands on instinct, the same way you might reach to block a blow. Light erupts from your palms: gold, searing, alive. It cuts through the red like a blade through silk, striking against his power and scattering it in a shockwave that rattles the shrine’s foundation.

Sukuna steps back, more out of surprise than pain: his gaze flickers, the faintest twitch of irritation passing through it.

The golden light fades. You stand trembling, your chest heaving, your skin buzzing with what feels like electricity.

He studies you in silence. Then, slowly, he laughs, a low, incredulous sound that slides down your spine.

“So,” he says quietly, “the power still remembers, even if you do not.”

“I don’t understand,” you whisper. “What light? What are you talking about?”

He looks at you for a long moment. The mirth drains from his face, replaced by something heavier. “You will,” he says. “You always do. Every variation always repeats itself, no matter the form.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can speak, the domain trembles. The shrine candles flare, and the gold that had vanished begins to pulse faintly beneath your skin.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow. He takes a step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “When you wake again,” he says, “Go learn a little about the Heian era, so you stop wasting both our time.”

The words settle into your bones, wet and cold. The world tilts. The scent of incense grows thicker, sweeter, suffocating.

Then he snaps his fingers, and everything changes.

.

.

.

The storm had eased to a whisper.

Snow fell in slow spirals over the mountain plain, muffling the world until even the shrine walls seemed to breathe beneath the weight of white. The wind carried the faint scent of incense from the morning rites, already fading. Beneath it lingered something older, the stillness that came before blood was spilled.

You walked ahead of the search party, lantern raised, its gold light trembling against the reeds frozen in their bow. The buffalo had broken free of the lower paddock at dawn. By dusk, no one had found it. You had told yourself it was only lost, that it had wandered too far down the valley, but the snow here had no tracks except your own. 

Four sorcerers followed behind, their sutras soft and desperate. Ofuda charms dangled from their belts, the ink dark against the frost. The bells they carried gave faint, nervous chimes. Everyone knew it was not the beast they feared to find. The curses prowled close to the shrine these days, drawn by the same light the faithful worshipped.

You were that light: A Celestial Maiden. Born beneath a star that should have remained beyond mortal reach. Your power kept the shrine alive, but it called every unclean thing to your doorstep.

The wind shifted. The taste of iron filled your mouth.

“Blood,” one sorcerer whispered.

The sound of it seemed to vanish into the air, swallowed by the forest’s throat.

The path narrowed, hemmed in by crooked pines whose trunks bowed beneath the snow. Each step sank deeper, the cold biting through your sandals. The white ahead was no longer pure. It darkened to gray, then to a brownish rust, as though the earth itself had begun to bleed. The scent thickened with every breath, grotesque and metallic.

At the edge of the trees, the color deepened until there was no snow at all, only frozen sludge veined with red. The branches above you were silent. Even the wind had gone still.

You stepped into the clearing. The world felt smaller there, as if the sky had folded down to listen. Your breath rose in white ribbons that hung in the air before falling apart. The ground was a ruin of trampled reeds and slick ice.

The buffalo lay half-buried in the drift. Its flank had been opened like a door, ribs splintered outward, the cavity steaming faintly in the cold. The smell hit at once, copper and rot, so thick it felt like it coated your tongue. Flies still clung to the wound despite the cold.

Crows watched from the branches above. One dropped, wings breaking the silence in a violent rush before the whole murder scattered at once, shrieking as if fleeing something unseen.

That was when you saw him.

A figure crouched beside the carcass. Snow gathered on his shoulders, melting down the lines of his back. The heat from the corpse steamed around him, wrapping him in a low red haze. He did not look up immediately. Four hands pressed against the opened ribcage, tracing along the exposed bone as if memorizing its shape.

The hiss of snow against skin made you flinch. The air around him warped faintly, thick with cursed energy that gnawed at the edges of your perception. It smelled of iron, burned oil, and something fouler still, like meat that had been left too long in the sun.

For an instant, your mind refused to name him human. He looked carved from the same substance as the curses that stalked your shrine, a spirit wearing the mask of a boy. Then he exhaled, and a small cloud of breath misted the air.

Alive. Flesh and pulse.

He was young, though youth did not soften him. His body was a map of punishments and scars. Black tattoos coiled down his neck and across his chest in patterns once reserved for criminals condemned by the capital. Four arms, all sinewed and human, flexed with the easy rhythm of something that had learned to move before it learned to think.

When he finally turned toward you, two pairs of eyes opened fully. 

They glowed red in the lantern light, slit-pupiled, unblinking, reflecting the flame like polished glass. The light caught in them and stayed, as if the eyes themselves devoured it. For a heartbeat, the world tilted, a shiver running through the ground and up your spine. Even the wind seemed to recoil. The forest, alive a moment ago with the whisper of snow and branches, had gone still. Every living thing in the clearing appeared to hold its breath.

The scent hit you hard, sharper than the blood. It carried iron and smoke and the faint sting of ozone, a taste of something ancient and upsetting. Cursed energy poured off him in invisible currents, thick enough to press against your skin. It was old power, the kind that did not belong to mortals. The air itself seemed to hum beneath it, vibrating in the way a blade sings just before it cuts.

He grinned then, slow and deliberate, as though the expression was something he had learned by watching others and was trying to test. The curve of his mouth was too wide, the teeth too sharp, but the intention behind it was unmistakable.

“You smell,” he said. His voice was low, hoarse from disuse, each word stretched like sinew. He raised one blood-stained hand and covered his nose. “Are you the reason all the curses gather here like rabid dogs over scraps?”

The sound of his voice snapped the sorcerers into motion. Talismans flared with pale light, the air filling with the smell of burned ink. One shouted the command before the others even finished their seals. “A cursed one! We must destroy him!”

The boy tilted his head, studying the charms as they brightened, as though the display amused him. Snow gathered on his shoulders, melting into thin rivulets that traced the black tattoos winding across his throat and down his chest. They were not the marks of worship, but the ink of condemnation; the sigils carved into criminals and heretics, men whose existence had been obliterated by society. So young, and already cast out.

He did not seem ashamed of them. If anything, he wore them like a crown, each black line a history of sin carved into skin that refused to die. 

His exhale fogged the air, steady and deliberate, as though he were tasting the world with every breath he took. The crimson glow of his eyes dimmed to a quieter red, but the hunger behind them did not fade. He was waiting for you to speak, patient in a way that felt uncomfortable for someone his age.

“You killed the shrine’s beast,” you said at last. Your words cut through the silence, calm and sure. The charmlight from the sorcerers’ hands flickered in response, confused between the holiness of your voice and the corruption that bled from the boy. The air between you bent under the pressure of both.

“It was loud,” he replied. His tone was flat, almost innocent. Then his gaze slid to the carcass. “I was hungry.”

The nearest sorcerer stepped forward, sword drawn, the tip catching the lantern light. “He reeks of corruption,” he said. “Look at him. He should not exist.”

You stepped between them without hesitation. The wind lifted the edge of your robes, scattering snow across your boots. “He is human—A sorcerer like you. And a powerful one.”

The boy’s eyes flicked to you, all four narrowing slightly. He studied the line of your throat, the rise and fall of your breath, the calm that did not match the power burning beneath your skin. His gaze moved as though measuring something unseen, the expression on his face unreadable.

Behind you, the other sorcerers shifted uncertainly. The tension in the clearing was a living thing, crawling across the snow, coiling around their feet. None of them wanted to be the first to strike, and none dared to move while your hand remained lifted in silent command.

The boy tilted his head again, curious, almost childlike. His lips parted as if to speak, but instead he laughed; a soft, broken sound that seemed to crawl through the air and die in the cold. It was not a sound of mirth. It was the noise of something testing its own voice for the first time, something that had learned to mimic laughter without understanding why people did it.

The sorcerers exchanged uneasy glances. Their seals remained half-formed in the air, trembling between prayer and fear. The bells tied at their waists jingled faintly, the sound too delicate for the weight pressing on the clearing.

You stepped forward, each movement measured. The lantern light spread across the snow until it reached him, gilding the blood at his feet and the rough lines of his body. Up close, the marks carved into his skin were clearer; rows of black sigils burned into flesh, punishments inked in permanent shame. Beneath the grime, his face was young, but not gentle. The planes of his cheeks and the set of his jaw were made for fury, twisted and deformed on his right side.

He looked at you as if your life itself offended him, eyes unblinking, all four shifting slightly to track your every breath. There was no submission in that gaze, but there was no open defiance either. Only a sharp, waiting interest.

“You have taken a life that was not yours,” you said. “You will replace it.”

His brows drew together. The word seemed foreign on his tongue. “Replace?”

“You will come to my shrine. You will serve until the debt is repaid.”

The sorcerers immediately broke into protest. “Priestess, that thing cannot—”

You raised a hand, and the words fell away. The gesture was quiet, but it carried the weight of command that none of them dared test.

The boy did not move for several breaths. Then, slowly, he rose. Snow fell from his shoulders as he straightened, taller than any of the men around you. The movement was smooth, deliberate. His four arms flexed in a ripple of muscle and scar tissue, a grace too precise to be entirely natural.

He looked down at you, the faintest hint of a smile touching his mouth, something both amused and unreadable. The air around him shuddered with cursed energy, faint but cold enough to make the nearest charm crackle and die.

“Is this what humans call mercy?” he asked quietly. “Or arrogance?”

The words were calm, but they sank into the air like a stone breaking still water. None of the sorcerers moved. Their breaths misted in the cold, their eyes fixed on the space between you and the creature that should not have been standing. The forest watched too. Even the wind seemed to retreat behind the trees.

You did not answer him at once. The lantern flame shivered, throwing gold light across his face. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between curiosity and hunger.

“If you wish to call it that,” you said finally.

He regarded you in silence, head tilting slightly, as if he was testing the sound of the word in his mind. Then, without warning, he stepped forward. The snow groaned beneath his weight. The sorcerers lifted their charms again, but you did not step back. He came close enough that you could smell him: blood, ash, and the faint, animal heat of a body that had killed too often to forget it.

Two of his hands stayed loose at his sides. The other pair lifted slowly, palms open, as though in mock surrender. His eyes did not leave yours.

“You give orders,” he said. “But your men fear me more than they fear you.”

“They fear what they do not understand,” you replied. “But they know I’ll win.”

“Oh? And you?” His voice dropped lower. “Do you understand? What do you have to back that vanity of yours?”

You met his gaze without flinching. “I see enough to know you are human.”

He snorted again, quieter this time, a dry scrape in his throat. Then he turned his head slightly, looking toward the bloodied carcass.

“Humans die too easily,” he said. “You will regret calling me one.”

The nearest sorcerer started to protest, but you silenced him with another small gesture. You could feel the weight of his gaze, lingering and assessing.

Then, you raised your hat, the bright gold of your eyes piercing the dark of the night.

“Repay what you owe,” you said. “Do that, and I will decide what you are. A cursed man with two bodies? Or a curse which devoured two souls.”

The world seemed to narrow to the space between you. The wind stilled. The flame in your lantern fluttered, straining for air.

His eyes glimmered faintly, like four red coals burning behind a veil of frost. The corners of his mouth twitched, neither a smile nor a sneer, but something in between, the expression of a creature that found amusement in the thought of violence.

His voice came low and smooth, the sound crawling along the edge of the cold. “You can see cursed energy—And more. How unique. You really must be the Celestial Woman they praise in these parts.”

The words left his tongue slowly, deliberately, as if he were savoring them. Then his tone shifted, quieter, almost curious. “Tell me, if I eat you, will I gain immense power and immortality? Or just a stomach ache?”

The sorcerers behind you gasped, their shock sharp and human. The seals they had formed wavered as the charms flared bright white, casting frantic light over the snow. The air cracked around them, threads of power straining against the thick miasma of cursed energy that leaked from his skin. One of them whispered a sutra so fast the syllables tangled together.

You did not flinch. You let the silence stretch until even the sound of the wind felt distant.

Finally, you said, “Yes. If you can kill me, you will.”

His pupils narrowed, the faintest ripple of surprise flickering across his face.

“Shall we have a bet?” you continued. “You eat me, you win. You fail, I win.”

The four eyes fixed on you, all of them gleaming with something far too aware to be a fool. His laughter came then, not loud, but soft and poisonous, like the crack of ice spreading over a pond. It was laughter without joy, a sound that seemed to delight in the thought of ruin.

“Careful,” he said, each syllable like the brush of a blade. “I have never been good at losing.”

The cursed energy in the air pulsed once, deep enough to make the snow at your feet tremble. The Sorcerers stumbled back, charms dimming as the boy straightened to his full height. For a heartbeat, the clearing felt alive with a thousand invisible things watching, waiting for your answer.

You held his gaze, unblinking. “Then you had better learn.”

The space between you snapped tight. His grin faded, replaced by something sharper. For a heartbeat, he was still, then he lunged.

He moved like a shadow breaking loose from the body that cast it. Snow burst beneath his feet. A sorcerer shouted, light flaring from their charms, but he was already in front of you, too fast to follow. His lower hands reached for your throat while the upper pair curved in toward your ribs.

You met him halfway.

The lantern fell, its flame extinguished in the snow. Light spilled instead from you, a pale gold that spread like ripples on water. The air burned cold and bright, carrying the faint sound of bells. His skin hissed where it met yours, smoke curling up between your fingers as your power collided with his.

He recoiled, eyes wide, breath escaping in a low snarl. The tattoos on his arms writhed as if alive, reacting to the purity that poured from your touch. Cursed energy rolled off him in dark waves, but your light swallowed every surge before it could reach you.

He struck again, faster this time, claws flashing. You caught one wrist, then another, forcing them down. The impact shook the ground. Gold light bled into the snow around your feet, spreading in a slow, deliberate circle.

He tried to pull free, but the divine pressure pinned him like an insect beneath glass. His eyes flickered, confusion breaking through the anger.

“You are not human,” he hissed.

“No,” you smiled, “But you still are.”

The words seemed to drain the fight from him. He froze, breathing hard, the steam rising from his skin carrying the scent of scorched iron. The sorcerers dared not move.

You let go. The light faded. The air settled again, leaving only the soft hiss of falling snow.

He dropped to one knee. Steam curled from his skin where your touch had burned away the shadow clinging to him. His hands trembled, faintly at first, then stilled. Four eyes lifted toward you, the fury in them hollowed out, replaced by something quieter and more dangerous.

“You will learn to obey,” you said, your voice steady, your words carrying through the stillness like a judgment. “And perhaps, one day, to understand.”

He did not answer. The sound of his breathing was harsh against the cold, ragged and uneven, like an animal relearning its lungs. His shoulders rose and fell, and for a moment, you thought he might attack again. Instead, he bowed his head slightly, as if listening for something only he could hear.

“If I come,” he said at last, his voice raw, “Will you feed me?”

“Yes.”

A grin split his face then, small at first, then widening until it showed every sharp edge of his teeth. It was not the smile of a boy. It was the smile of something that had just decided to wait.

“As you wish, priestess.”

The words lingered, heavy and mocking, but obedient all the same.

The sorcerers behind you said nothing. They lowered their hands, the white glow of their charms dimming to ash. The snow began to fall harder, blanketing the blood and broken earth until the clearing looked untouched again.

You turned toward the shrine. The path was long and steep, vanishing into the white haze of the mountain. Behind you, the boy followed, silent and barefoot, leaving deep prints with every step.

The talismans the sorcerers carried began to flicker. The ink bled faintly along the edges before the charms went out completely. One muttered a prayer, voice trembling.

You felt it then, the air was too still. The familiar pressure of curses that had haunted the shrine for months was gone. The woods were empty, not peaceful but hollow, stripped bare of the things that had always stalked your scent.

No curses followed you home that night.

But as you walked, you could feel the weight of his gaze on your back, warm against the cold, as if the mountain itself was holding its breath.

They were scared of your new acquisition.

-X-Strange Happens-X-

The next morning, you wake late. Your head pounds with the dull rhythm of a drum, and your limbs feel heavy, as though someone has poured lead into your veins. The dream clings to you like heat, sticky and relentless, leaving behind only fragments that refuse to fade: red walls, the shimmer of gold light, and the sound of a voice that should not have said your name kindly.

You lie still for a moment, trying to breathe through it, waiting for the faint pulse at the back of your mind to return, that familiar whisper of a presence that has never truly left since that night. But there is nothing. No mocking laughter. No cruel, lazy voice curling through your thoughts.

Sukuna is silent.

The quiet is worse than his taunting. It feels off, too deep, too empty.

You drag yourself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the water will wash it away. Steam fills the small space, the heat biting at your skin, but the scent lingers. It’s incense, faint and sweet, clinging to you no matter how much soap you use. You scrub at your wrists until the skin turns raw and pink, but it does not fade. The smell only grows sharper when the water hits it, like something soaked into the very fibers of you.

You press your palms to the tile and breathe slowly. The dream shouldn’t matter. It was just a dream. Except your heart doesn’t believe that, and every time you blink, you see the flicker of red behind your eyelids.

By the time you pull yourself together enough to leave, the sun is already high. The walk across the campus feels longer than usual, each sound too loud—the cicadas in the trees, the distant hum of cursed energy from training grounds, the faint crack of Gojo’s voice somewhere nearby. The world looks normal, but it feels off, like someone rearranged it slightly while you were asleep.

Yaga’s office is quiet when you step inside. The familiar smell of old wood, coffee, and dust wraps around you like a blanket. Stacks of papers tower on his desk, each pile leaning dangerously but never quite falling. The blinds are half-open, letting sunlight slant across the room in long, golden lines.

Panda sits in the corner, one paw lazily holding a cup of what you are ninety percent sure is ice cream, even though it is far too early for that. His expression is placid, eyelids drooping. He looks like a child caught pretending not to nap.

You hover by the doorway, uncertain, the strap of your bag twisting between your fingers. “Principal Yaga?”

He doesn’t look up right away. The soft, rhythmic sound of his pen scratching against paper fills the silence, steady and patient. The office smells like coffee that has gone cold, and somewhere beneath it, the faint musk of the old wood and varnish that never leaves this room. A clock ticks from the far wall, the second hand jerking forward in sharp, measured beats.

When Yaga finally glances up, his sunglasses catch the light, making it impossible to see his eyes. He peers over the lenses instead, his expression unreadable until one brow lifts just slightly. “You look worse than Gojo after a staff meeting.”

You manage a weak look that fades almost instantly. Your throat feels dry.

Yaga studies you for a beat longer, the humor slipping away from his face as he sets his pen down beside the pile of papers. His hands fold neatly on the desk, and when he speaks again, his tone is quieter, more deliberate. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure where to begin. The words fight to form. “I have a question,” you say at last, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. The soft click of it closing sounds much louder than it should. “About the Heian Era.”

His brows draw together slightly. “That’s a strange topic for a morning visit.”

You wet your lips, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “I had a dream,” you begin. “It felt… different. There were shrines, incense, and robes. Everything looked ancient. I think it was the Heian Era. But it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like I was there.”

Yaga leans back in his chair, the wood creaking softly under his weight. He folds his arms, the faintest frown pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been exposed to a lot of cursed energy recently,” he says, measured and calm. “Hallucinations aren’t unusual. Sukuna will do his best to disturb you.”

“It wasn’t a hallucination,” you say quickly. “It wasn’t him either. He’s been quiet. Completely quiet.” You pause, the admission sounding heavier out loud. “It felt like something else. Like I was somewhere else.”

Yaga’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen behind the lenses. He waits a moment before asking, “What exactly are you asking me?”

“I just need to know if anything like that could have existed,” you say, your voice low but steady. “If there was ever… something opposite to cursed energy.”

That gets his attention. He tilts his head slightly, one brow raising. “Opposite?”

You nod, leaning forward a little. “If all this—cursed energy, spirits, negative emotion—is born from pain and hatred, shouldn’t there be something that comes from the other side? Something born from good?”

For a moment, he says nothing. The only sound is the ticking clock and the faint hum of air through the vents.

Then Yaga exhales, long and slow, and removes his sunglasses. The gesture seems to age him, the tiredness visible in the lines around his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters, “You’ve been talking to Gojo, haven’t you?”

“Not since last night,” you admit, unsure if you should sound apologetic.

He studies you for a long, thoughtful moment. The light from the window glints across his bald head, and the faintest sound of Panda’s snores from the corner fills the pause. Finally, Yaga gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

You do. The seat is cold against your legs, grounding you in a way that almost helps.

“There’s a myth,” he says at last, voice even but quieter now. “An old one. Not something we teach here because it’s closer to religion than history.”

You lean forward, pulse quickening. “Tell me.”

Yaga’s tone changes, taking on the careful cadence of someone reciting a story that has outlived generations. “They called it Blessed Energy. The opposite of cursed energy, yes, though no one has ever been able to prove it existed. It’s said that once every thousand years, the heavens send down a daughter—a priestess born without malice, untouched by curse or corruption. Her purpose was to gather all the world’s negativity and seal it away again.”

You sit very still, your heartbeat quickening. The faint hum of the air conditioner fills the silence between his words.

“She was meant to be a reset,” Yaga continues, his hands folded loosely on the desk. “A counterbalance to everything we are. Her power over curses was absolute. They say no spirit could touch her without being purified. But,” he pauses, his eyes darkening slightly, “if a man or a curse ever killed her—worse still, if he consumed her flesh—he would inherit the strength of the heavens themselves. An unstoppable force. A god made of sin.”

You can feel the air grow heavier, denser, until it seems to settle around your shoulders like a weight. You think of your dream—the red shrine, the robes, the golden light that burned from your hands.

“What happened to her?” you ask, your voice little more than a whisper.

Yaga leans back, the chair creaking under him. “That’s where the myth ends,” he says. “The rumor claims that she was slain during the Heian Era, and that her death shattered the balance. That’s why our world is infested with curses now. But that’s superstition, not fact. People like to attach meaning to the darkness so it feels less senseless.”

He sighs, the sound deep and tired. “It also happens to be around the same time that sorcerer records began appearing in bulk. Convenient coincidence, if you ask me.”

You hesitate. “Has anyone ever asked Master Tengen about it?”

That makes Yaga look up sharply. “Tengen?” He taps his fingers once against the desk, thoughtful. “You’re not the first to wonder. But no, they’ve never spoken of it as truth. If anything, Tengen avoids the topic altogether. The few times it’s been brought up, they dismiss it as metaphor—symbolism for stability and chaos, balance and decay. They claim the story was exaggerated over time.”

“But they didn’t deny it outright,” you say quietly.

Yaga studies you again, his gaze weighing the question. “Tengen doesn’t deal in denial or confirmation,” he says. “They speak in riddles and philosophy. That’s why Gojo can only tolerate their lectures for ten minutes at a time.” His mouth twitches at the corner, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. “If there’s any truth to the story, it’s buried deep enough that even they won’t touch it.”

You nod slowly, though your thoughts are already miles away, back in that crimson hall, under the flicker of endless candles.

“So you don’t believe it,” you say.

“I believe what I can see,” Yaga replies, his tone soft but firm. “What I can measure. You should do the same.”

You thank him and rise to leave, though your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the door. The metal handle is cold beneath your fingers, grounding but not comforting.

The chill seeps into your skin, chasing the last of Yaga’s voice out of your thoughts, but it doesn’t take the unease with it.

Outside, the light has changed. The courtyard is drenched in a gray hush, the kind that comes before rain. The sun hangs half-buried behind a bank of billowing clouds, turning everything pale and dim. The training field stretches out before you, its edges softened by drifting mist. The wind moves slowly and cool across the grass, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and something older. Smoke, maybe, or the faint ash of burned incense. It smells like temples at dawn, like a world that remembers what it used to worship.

You tell yourself it’s only the weather. Just your nerves. The memory of a story too vivid to be fiction. But the thought won’t settle. It sits on your chest, like a truth that refuses to be ignored.

You need answers. And there is only one person reckless enough, or arrogant enough, to give them to you.

You cross the walkway toward the edge of the training grounds, where the forest begins to darken into shadow. A few students are sparring nearby, the thud of their curses and the static of energy drifting through the air, but you barely hear it.

Gojo stands a little apart from them, balanced easily against the low wall that overlooks the trees below. His uniform is the same dark sweep of black as always, collar high, blindfold tied haphazardly like an afterthought. His hair catches the wind, pale strands sticking out in wild, unbothered directions as though gravity doesn’t quite apply to him.

He senses you before you speak. His head turns, and even without seeing his eyes, you can tell he’s smiling.

“Bestie,” he calls, his voice lazy and bright, dragging the word out like it’s an old private joke. “You figure it out?”

You stop a few steps away, crossing your arms. “Figure what out?”

He lifts a hand and waves it dismissively, his grin widening. “The whole ancient priestess who might be the key to the balance of the world thing.”

The words hang in the air like thunder before the strike.

You stare at him, your pulse spiking so hard it drowns out the wind. The world narrows until all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears. “So it’s true,” you whisper, and the words taste like disbelief.

Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade. It sharpens, cutting clean across his face. “What, you thought I wouldn’t notice?” His tone is playful, but it lands like a broken ankle, or like a joke told over a grave. “I have been told my eyes are pretty,” he adds, tapping the edge of his blindfold, “but they’re also very functional—except when it comes to you. You’re a void. An anomaly. My Six Eyes can’t see a damn thing about you.”

You blink at him, uncomprehending. “Can’t… see?”

“Not a flicker of cursed energy,” he says, his smile bright and effortless, but there’s a faint crease at the corner of his mouth that doesn’t belong there. “To me, you look like a hole cut into reality. Which means one of two things—you’re dead, or you’re something the universe doesn’t know how to process.”

He straightens, sliding his hands into his pockets. The casual gesture doesn’t match the tension in the air. Behind him, the clouds finally split, and the first drops of rain fall, soft and cold, whispering against the stone.

You take a step back, your eyes widening. “Gojo, what are you talking about?”

His grin grows a little too wide, too knowing. “Yaga told you, didn’t he? About Blessed Energy? The heavenly daughter who’s supposed to reset the world every thousand years?” He tilts his head, voice dropping into something almost admiring. “Well, congrats. Pretty sure that’s you.”

For a long moment, you can’t move. The rain cools the back of your neck, trickling down beneath your collar, but your body feels frozen. You wait for him to laugh, to wave it off as one of his terrible jokes, but he doesn’t.

“That’s not funny,” you manage, though your voice sounds thin and small against the rain.

“I’m not joking,” he says, and somehow that makes everything worse. The lightness in his tone doesn’t match the focus in his expression. “You reek of it. Every sorcerer within a mile can feel it. You’ve got power, but it’s sealed tight. Someone wrapped it up and hid it.”

You shake your head, the motion sharp, desperate. “Why are you smiling about this? You just said I might be cursed with something ancient and dangerous.”

“Because,” he says, pushing off the wall, “you might be the only person alive who can end all of it. All the curses. All the rot. Imagine that—no more exorcisms, no more hauntings, no more paperwork. Peace, for a thousand years.”

The grin on his face softens then, just slightly, and for a fleeting moment, he looks almost proud. “You could actually change the world.”

You stare at him, uncertain whether to be flattered or terrified. The rain slides down his hair and drips from his jaw, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“You’re saying I could be stronger than you?”

Gojo’s expression brightens again, amusement flashing through his voice. “In theory? Way stronger.” He steps closer, lowering his voice just enough that you feel the words more than you hear them. “You’d make me look like a battery pack next to the sun.”

You swallow hard. The rain continues to fall in a slow, steady rhythm around you, soaking through the hem of your uniform. It drums softly against the stone, against the trees, against the weight of the silence pressing into your head. Sukuna hasn’t said a word. Not a whisper. Not a laugh. The emptiness where his voice used to be hums like static, louder for the fact that it’s so completely void. Somehow, that frightens you more than anything he’s ever said.

You let out a short, shaky laugh that doesn’t quite sound like you. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Of course I am,” Gojo replies without hesitation. “It’s not every day I meet someone who might outshine me. Plus, you’ve got that whole reincarnated-mystical-priestess thing going. Very cinematic. I’d watch that movie.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Gojo—”

His grin fades then. The change is small but immediate, like a switch being flipped. The rain gathers on his collar, dripping down his sleeves, but his voice turns calm, almost quiet. “Listen carefully. Don’t let Sukuna trick you.”

The seriousness in his tone freezes you more effectively than any order could.

“He’s been quiet, hasn’t he?”

You nod slowly, suddenly aware of the way your hands tremble at your sides. “Yes.”

“Thought so,” Gojo says. “That’s how he works. When he’s loud, he’s posturing. When he’s silent, he’s thinking. Waiting. Watching. If Yaga’s story has even a shred of truth, then Sukuna probably wasn’t just some bystander in it.” His expression tightens, voice lowering as if he’s talking to himself as much as to you. “He’d have known what happens when someone like him devours someone like you.”

Your stomach turns, and for a heartbeat, you think you might be sick. “You think he killed me to steal my power and…ate me?”

“I think he killed you to bind himself to you,” Gojo answers. “Soulmates, right? Poetic in the worst way. He kills you, eats you, and ties his power to yours so that when the heavens decide to try again, he’ll be there to claim you first. He gets your strength and keeps the leash tight enough to drag you back when the world starts to tilt toward balance again.”

The words settle over you like cold rain, sinking deep until it’s hard to breathe. You look up at him, your voice breaking on the question. “You’re saying he plans to kill me again.”

Gojo’s smirk returns, but this time it’s small, almost kind, like he’s speaking to a frightened child. “I’m saying he’ll try,” he says. “But he won’t be the only one who knows what you are this time. You’ve got help now. Me, Yaga, Shoko, the whole school, if we have to.” His mouth tilts, faintly crooked, like he knows how little that really promises. “And I’ve always been fond of impossible odds. Besides, Yuji’s got that guy locked up, like a perfect little prison. Chances are, we find and get rid of his fingers before he gets out.”

The wind shifts, sweeping rain across the courtyard in silver lines. The clouds part just enough for a thin band of light to fall across his face. He lifts his blindfold with one hand, blue eyes bright as the storm behind him.

“You know…” He added quietly, “I do sort of wonder about the coincidence of you, Yuji, and Sukuna all happening right around the same time.”

You try to answer, but the air catches in your throat. All that escapes is a breath.

The rain finally breaks into a steady downpour, cold and clean, running down your arms and dripping from Gojo’s hair. The world smells of wet earth and ozone, and for one moment, with Sukuna still silent, it almost feels like calm.

-X-Countdown-X-

Rain fell hard enough to blur the edges of everything. Water hammered the cracked pavement of the abandoned playground and pooled in ragged hollows until the sand beneath the rusted swings turned to thick gray mud that clung to shoes and dripped from ankles. The sky was the color of old metal, flat and leaden, and the air tasted of ozone and wet earth. Far off, a carousel creaked in slow circles, its painted horses glinting with beads of water though no hand pushed it. Wind threaded through the empty frames, making the whole place sound like it was breathing.

Mahito sat perched on a swing, legs folded up so his knees pressed under his chin. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead and ran in slick streams down his arms. Every time he shifted, the chains sighed in complaint, thin and metallic. Droplets trembled on his fingertips and then fell, each one a little drumbeat on the puddled ground below. His grin was easy and unsettling, the kind that did not need words to promise trouble.

Across from him, Jogo crouched beneath the half-collapsed slide, body hunched to keep as much surface exposed away from the rain as he could. Steam rose where his skin met the downpour, little eddies of heat that fizzed and hissed. One ember of an eye glowed through the drizzle and watched with patient cruelty. When he spoke, his voice rolled low and slow like distant thunder, a rumble felt more than heard.

Hanami lingered near the roundabout, vines wound loosely around the rusting bars, leaves heavy with water. Petals drooped, darkened by the storm, but Hanami’s posture was calm, almost contemplative. They reached out through the rain with a tendril of leaf and brushed it against Mahito’s boot, a small, idle motion that might have been affection or simply boredom.

Leaning against the empty jungle gym, Kenjaku's face tilted up toward the sky, letting the rain track down his borrowed cheekbones. The rain beaded on his clothes and ran in thin lines off his fingers. He folded his arms, expression deceptively tranquil, as if the storm were background music to whatever clever thought was turning behind his eyes.

Mahito let the silence stretch, then broke it, voice light as a bell. “Yuji’s coming along nicely,” he said, pushing at the swing’s chains with the heels of his boots so he rocked forward a fraction. The movement made the swing creak with a small, bitter note. “He’s learning how to fight back properly now. Makes things much more fun when they struggle.”

Jogo’s reply came with a depth that made the air under the slide hum. “You waste your energy on children. Kill him and be done with it.”

Mahito cocked his head, amusement bright in his face. He rocked the swing again, slower this time, letting the chains creak and whine. Rain tracked down the curve of his cheek in a thin, cold ribbon that glinted where it caught the gray light. His grin was smaller now, curious instead of gleeful, like someone tasting the first note of a song and wondering how it will end.

He angled his head toward Hanami, eyes glittering. “But then the fun would be over, Jogo. Where’s your sense of art?” The question hung there, light as a dare, as the rain hammered the playground in steady percussion.

Hanami’s voice came soft and sibilant through the downpour, as if their words were leaves being rubbed together. “He is nothing. It is the other one that matters.” The pronoun was a soft blade that cut clean through Mahito’s amusement.

Mahito’s grin faltered, curiosity sharpening into interest. “You mean her?”

“Of course,” Hanami said. They shifted closer to the roundabout so their vines could taste the rain. “The air shifts when she walks. Even the trees notice it.” Their tone was almost reverent, as if naming her set something in motion.

Kenjaku’s chuckle was small, amused, and tired at once. He straightened from his lean against the jungle gym, rain matting Geto’s hair to his forehead but leaving his expression composed. “You are not wrong,” he said, voice calm. He tapped a finger against the rusted bar as if testing the patience of the storm. “But do not go poking at what you do not understand. You have felt it—have you not? The heaviness that follows her. The way the air tightens when she passes.”

He steepled his fingers, the movement deliberate. “Her flesh is not like ours. Think of something refined, treasured by gods. A delicacy, yes, but one that burns. One taste and it consumes you from the inside. It is poison and feast at once.”

Mahito’s grin returned, narrower now, layered with curiosity. He leaned forward on the swing, eyes bright in the rain. “Poison? She looks human enough.”

Kenjaku’s gaze glinted in the gray light as if the clouds themselves reflected in his pupils. “For the moment. Once she awakens, her presence will be lethal. Beautiful and catastrophic. Imagine a blue-ringed octopus in human form—small, unassuming, but carrying a venom that kills in an instant. Curses will hunt her because they covet what she is, and in hunting her, they will die.”

Mahito lifted his face to the rain and laughed softly, a sound that trembled between delight and calculation. The droplets beaded on his lashes and slid free. “So fragile,” he murmured. “So lethal. Delicious.” He swung his legs and kicked mud into a spreading splash, the water ringing out like a bell. “Why wait? Why let her become aware? Kill her now, before she learns to fight back.”

Around them, the playground seemed to breathe with the storm. Rain hissed through the half-buried grass, pooling in the hollows of broken pavement. The carousel turned lazily, its painted horses slick and gleaming, their hollow eyes catching flashes of lightning. Each creak of the rusted chains sounded almost alive, a slow pulse in the gray air.

Jogo’s single eye burned brighter against the dark, the ember at its core narrowing to a point. Hanami’s vines stirred and coiled around the roundabout, the metal groaning faintly under their weight. The storm pressed down heavier now, like the sky itself was listening.

Kenjaku didn’t move. He watched them with the stillness of something ancient, the rain running down his borrowed face, tracing the faint smile that never reached his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, the kind that belonged to someone accustomed to giving commands that shaped centuries.

Hanami broke the silence first. “Because Sukuna would burn the world for it.”

Kenjaku’s mouth widened, but only slightly. “Yes. And because I made a promise.” He tilted his head, almost in thought, the water dripping from his hair. “A binding vow that no one but Sukuna may kill her. My word… long ago, before he was what he is now.”

Mahito blinked, curiosity flickering like candlelight behind his expression. Rain slid down his face, tracing the curve of his grin. “You made a promise to Sukuna? When?”

Kenjaku’s eyes glimmered faintly, strange and unreadable. “When he was still human.” The words came soft, almost reverent. “When he served her.”

The others stilled. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

“She was his master,” Kenjaku continued, his tone almost conversational, though the weight beneath it was enormous. “A Celestial Maiden, if the old texts are to be believed. She tried to seal him once—to keep balance in a world already tipping toward ruin.” His look sharpened. “But he chose another balance. He devoured her instead. Her body gave him what heaven would not.”

A faint pulse of cursed energy rippled through the playground, subtle but odd, bending the light for an instant.

“And that,” Kenjaku finished, eyes narrowing with quiet satisfaction, “is how he became the King of Curses.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The rain’s rhythm filled the space between them, each drop striking the metal with the steady heartbeat of something enormous and unseen.

Even Mahito’s grin faded, replaced by something rare—trepidation. He rocked slightly on the swing, head bowed, eyes distant, as if trying to picture it. Hanami bowed their head too, vines tightening until the rusted roundabout shuddered and groaned under the strain. Jogo’s ember eye dimmed to a low, trembling glow, the heat of it smothered by the rain.

The carousel turned once more, slow and uneven, its skeletal music long since rusted to silence. The painted horses looked ghostly now, their cracked faces streaked with water, frozen in mid-gallop.

“He killed her?” Mahito asked at last, voice thin beneath the storm.

Kenjaku’s response came like a whisper that carried too far. “And ate her heart while it still beat.” His tone was calm, almost reverent, the kind of reverence reserved for disasters. “It was the only time I ever saw him bow. Thanking her for her contribution.”

Jogo hissed, the flame in his head flickering despite the downpour. “And he told you none of this?”

Kenjaku’s fingers tightened around the wet, rusted bar of the jungle gym until the metal groaned. His gaze dropped to the puddles below, where his reflection rippled and broke. “No,” he said finally. “He never shared the secret. I have spent centuries trying to recreate what she was. I’ve made wombs, twisted souls, shaped flesh from curses themselves, and still nothing. Every experiment collapses. Every vessel rots.”

Mahito’s laugh came softly then, high and light and cruel. “So that’s it. That’s why you’ve been making toys.” His grin returned, sharp as glass. “You’re jealous.”

Kenjaku looked up slowly, rain cutting cold trails down Geto’s borrowed face. “Jealous?” he repeated, the faintest smile curling his lips. “No. Curious.” He leaned back against the bars, tilting his head toward the gray sky. “If she truly has returned, the world will tremble when he finds her again.” His eyes narrowed, dark with some private amusement. “And when he does, I want to see which of them devours the other first.”

Hanami’s vines shifted through the mud, curling like roots seeking something deep. “And if she kills him?”

Kenjaku’s gaze followed the sky where thunder rolled like a slow exhale. His expression faded to something small, almost wistful. “Then maybe,” he said, “the age of curses ends after all.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. Only the sound of rain filled the space between them, steady and relentless.

Then Mahito chuckled again, soft and thin, kicking his feet through the puddle beneath the swing. The splash caught the dim light, scattering silver droplets through the air. “Then I’d better enjoy what time I have left,” he said.

His laughter tangled with the storm, shrill and weightless, rising into the sound of falling water until the distinction between them disappeared. The carousel turned once more, slow and creaking, its motion barely visible through the curtain of rain, until the storm swallowed the sound completely.

They’d both been gone for years now, and somehow, that made signing your name feel less like a choice and more like a promise you hadn’t realized you’d made.

So when the hospital called, there wasn’t really a choice.

Yuji moved in with one duffel bag and an awkward smile, still too polite for his own good. You told yourself it would just be for a few years, until he finished high school and got his footing.

For a while, it was almost normal.

Until the night you couldn’t reach him.

He didn’t answer your calls. You checked the school. The track field. The clubroom. Nothing. You tried his friends, his teacher, and even the nurse’s office. Each time, the same response. He’s not here.

You stood in your kitchen with your phone pressed to your ear, the clock ticking loud enough to make you dizzy. Yuji wasn’t the type to disappear. He wasn’t the type to worry you. So when an hour passed, then two, something cold started crawling up your spine.

You were halfway through filing a missing person’s report when the notification hit your screen.

Breaking News: Incident at Sugisawa High School. Several injured. Suspected criminal activity.

You stared at it for a full second before the words even registered. Then you swore. Loudly. You grabbed your keys, phone, and the first jacket you could find. The chair clattered behind you as you shoved it out of the way.

You didn’t even remember driving there. One minute you were running a red light, the next you were skidding into the nearest parking lot, tires screeching, heart hammering hard enough to hurt.

A terrible feeling crawled through you, settling low in your gut. Something had gone wrong. Not teenage-boy-forgot-his-homework wrong. Not even broke-a-window-with-a-soccer-ball wrong. It was the kind of wrong that made the air feel too thick, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Damn it, Yuji, you thought as you climbed out of the car. You’re a great kid, but I am not qualified for this. I can barely do my own taxes, let alone emergency guardianship and whatever the hell “teenage angst” means.

Police tape stretched across the school gates, slick with rain. Blue lights flashed across puddles, turning them into tiny, strobing mirrors. The air reeked of ozone and metal, the smell of lightning and blood.’

Sugisawa’s cracked front step flashed in the camera lights.Yuji had jumped that damn step this morning when you dropped him off, blasting the most embarrassing music possible, with him saying not a word besides, ‘THANKS!’

“Excuse me,” you said, already ducking under the tape before anyone could answer. “My… kid nephew is here. Yuji Itadori.”

“Ma’am, you can’t—”

Too late. You were already moving. Every voice behind you dissolved into static as you sprinted forward, shoes slipping on wet pavement. Your breath came out in harsh gasps, your coat soaked through, and somewhere between the sobbing and swearing, you started praying to any god still taking calls.

Then someone stepped in front of you.

Tall. Smiling. Beautiful in a way that felt suspiciously unsafe.

The man was dressed head-to-toe in black, the sort of outfit that screamed “government agent” or “cult leader.” He had a blindfold wrapped around his eyes—a blindfold—and yet somehow managed to stroll out from behind the tape like it was a runway.

“Hi,” he said, voice annoyingly cheerful. “I’m Gojo. Satoru Gojo, but you can call me Satoru. I have a feeling we’re about to get to know each other really, really well.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Then your hand moved before your brain did.

Smack.

The sound cracked through the rain. He tilted his head, smile never faltering, one perfect white-toothed grin shining back at you like this was all terribly amusing.

“…Okay,” he said finally, rubbing his cheek. “Fair. But usually people buy me dinner first.”

You gawked at him, dripping, furious, and entirely done with the day. “Where the hell is Yuji?”

Gojo just beamed wider, which somehow made you want to slap him again. “Alive. Mostly. Long story short, your kid’s eaten something he really shouldn’t have.”

You blinked at him. “What, like glue?”

He grinned. “Worse.”

And that was the exact moment you realized you were about to regret every responsible decision you’d ever made.

You sat in the backseat of a car you definitely did not consent to being in, clutching a very unconscious Yuji Itadori. At the same time, a man you had, justifiably, tried to maul hummed cheerfully in the front seat.

Rain streaked down the windows in lazy trails, city lights blurring past. Somewhere between the sirens, the chaos, and the moment you threw a shoe at him, Gojo Satoru had apparently decided you were now friends. The locked door handle was apparently to ensure this.

“You hit surprisingly hard for a civilian,” he said conversationally, one hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with the radio. “I’m impressed. That almost never happens.”

You stared at him, still soaked, still clutching Yuji’s limp head in your lap. “Where. Are. We. Going.”

He smiled like someone who’d never once been punched in the mouth for a tone like that. “Jujutsu High. Don’t worry, you’ll love it. Beautiful grounds, great food, occasional death curses—really top-tier education.”

You blinked at him. “You’re kidnapping us.”

“What? No! I’m rescuing you.”

“From what?”

He considered this. “From mediocrity.”

You looked down at Yuji’s unconscious face. “He’s a teenager, not a soup ingredient.”

Gojo laughed, the sound bright and delighted, as if this were all a field trip. “He’s special. Ate something he shouldn’t have, but is still alive.”

You tightened your grip on Yuji’s jacket. “If you say ‘glue,’ I swear to God I’ll strangle you with your own blindfold.”

“Close,” he said cheerfully. “A cursed object. It’s sort of like… demonic sushi. Bad for the soul, but oh, the aftertaste.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Cursed…So this is… what? Some underground government experiment? Secret sports league? Is this how they’re recruiting now? Because I swear the scouts have been way too persistent since Yuji broke that track record—”

“Ah,” Gojo said, glancing at you in the rearview mirror. “You think I’m a talent scout?”

“Yes!” you snapped. “And if you’re planning to harvest his organs or make him play pro ball for your shady corporation, you’re going to regret letting me keep my other shoe.”

He snorted. “You’re adorable.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, I can tell. It’s very cute.”

You leaned back in the seat, muttering, “I cannot going to jail for murder, I need proof first” while Gojo hummed along to the radio, blissfully unaffected.

When the car finally turned off the main road and started winding up a narrow forest path, your nerves spiked again. The headlights caught on old wooden gates, a stone wall, and mist curling over temple rooftops.

Gojo parked, turned around in his seat, and smiled at you like this was all perfectly normal. “Welcome to Jujutsu High,” he said. “Home of Japan’s finest sorcerers, cursed techniques, and—hopefully soon—your second date with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

He winked. “You hit me, I fell for you. That’s how it works.”

You stared at him for a long moment, drenched, exhausted, holding a possibly cursed teenager.

Then you said, “I want my shoe back.”

“After the tour,” he said. “Priorities.”

You were trying very hard to convince yourself that this was still, somehow, a normal situation.

Sure, Yuji was unconscious. Sure, you’d been abducted by a blindfolded man who smiled like a shark with tenure. But hospitals existed. So did therapy. Maybe this was one of those moments people just repressed for self-preservation.

You followed him inside because, frankly, you were too tired to fight anymore. Every muscle in your body had given up around the time Gojo started humming what sounded suspiciously like an anime theme song during the drive.

The place didn’t look like a school. It looked like a haunted monastery that someone had refurbished for tax reasons. The halls were long and empty, the floors polished wood that creaked just enough to keep your nerves on edge. The air was thick with incense, sweet and strange, and beneath it was something else entirely, something faintly humming like the low static of a bad dream. You swore your teeth ached the longer you breathed it in.

When they wheeled Yuji off toward a side corridor, you tried to follow. You got as far as saying, “Excuse me, that’s my kid, I have rights,” before the door slammed shut in your face. You shoved it once, twice, but it didn’t budge.

You turned on Gojo, murderous. “Open the door.”

He smiled. “You can’t go in there. Sealing protocols. Cursed residue.”

“Sealing protocols? What is this, Area 51? He’s sixteen.” You hissed, readying your other shoe.

“Exactly why we’re being careful.” He said, already taking action.

Before you could argue again, he had you by the waist and was already walking away.

“Put me down!”

“Sorry, liability hazard,” he said cheerfully, completely ignoring the fact that you were pounding your fists against his shoulder. “You’re vibrating with negative energy. It’s adorable, but seems… awkwardly effective at attracting curses.”

“Negative energy? I’m about to press charges for molestation!” You screech, hitting his back.

He laughed. “You’re so funny when you threaten me.”

You kicked, you missed, and he twirled you like you were a shopping bag. “I hope you get haunted by tax demons,” you shouted.

“I already am,” he said with a grin. “His name’s Yaga.”

By the time he deposited you in front of a sliding wooden door, you were panting, furious, and mentally drafting your testimony for his trial.

Gojo slid the door open with a little flourish. “Our fearless leader will see you now.”

The room inside looked less like an office and more like a shrine for people who enjoyed judging others professionally. Tatami mats, paper lanterns, a faint trickle of water somewhere, and, behind a low desk, a middle-aged man whose entire presence radiated quiet authority and mild irritation, on par with how cunty his sunglasses were.

He looked up slowly. His expression was carved from granite and long-suffering patience. The teacup in his hand trembled just slightly, whether from age or annoyance, you couldn’t tell.

Gojo began speaking immediately, his tone bouncing between casual and chaotic, talking about “potential allies,” “guardian responsibilities,” and something about you “already being emotionally invested.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

The man waited for Gojo to stop talking, then spoke in a voice that was calm, deep, and very final. “You are Itadori Yuji’s guardian?”

You nodded slowly. “Legally, yes. Emotionally, I’d like a refund.”

A small pause followed. The man’s brow twitched. Gojo tried to stifle a laugh and failed.

The man set his tea down with deliberate care. “My name is Masamichi Yaga, and I am the principal of Jujutsu High School.” 

You glared at him.

“...I apologize for bringing you here, but this is an exceptionally dangerous situation. Your ward has consumed a cursed object of immense evil,” he said quietly. “He now serves as the vessel for Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses.”

You gazed at him, blinking hard, because sleep deprivation and absurdity apparently felt identical now. “The what of what now?”

Gojo clapped his hands together like someone announcing the winner of a raffle. “Told you it’d be exciting.”

You looked between them. The blindfolded menace and the stoic man who looked like he regretted every decision that led him here, and decided that caffeine would not be enough. You were going to need an entire espresso IV drip before processing any of this.

You blinked again, just to make sure you were, in fact, still conscious. “Okay. I see. And… that’s bad?”

“Very,” Yaga said succinctly.

Gojo grinned, his teeth flashing like this was the best day of his life. “World-ending bad.”

“Cool,” you said faintly. “Super chill. Love that for us.”

Yaga took another sip of tea, unbothered. “The higher-ups have voted for his immediate execution.”

That got through the fog. “WHAT?” you shouted, jolting upright. “He’s sixteen! He gets a C in math and still sleeps with a night-light! What is wrong with you people?”

Gojo waved a lazy hand. “We’re working on a compromise.”

“Oh, great,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between hysteria and sarcasm. “Because that always goes well. You just threatened my child with murder.”

“Not yet.” Gojo leaned back against the wall, the picture of infuriating calm. “Long story short, he lives for now. We’ll train him to help collect the rest of Sukuna’s fingers before we, you know, deal with him.”

You blinked at him. “Sukuna? Fingers?”

“Yep,” he said easily, as if describing grocery items. “His remains! And he’ll gobble them up. Just like the first one.”

You just stared. The words didn’t register at first; they kind of bounced around your skull like loose change before finally landing. “The fuck?!”

Gojo smiled, absolutely delighted. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure he’s comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” you repeated, voice rising. “You’re talking about feeding my kid human remains like it’s a diet plan!”

Yaga, who had gone back to his tea, didn’t even look up. “Technically, they’re cursed remains,” he said.

“Oh, that makes it so much better,” you said, running both hands down your face. “This is insane. You’re all insane. I’m calling child services.”

Gojo tilted his head. “They’ll just call me. We’re on a first-name basis.”

You stared at him, horrified. “Why would they—”

The door slid open before you could finish. Another man stepped in, and for a second, your brain short-circuited. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an immaculate suit that looked entirely too expensive for whatever cult meeting this was. Blond hair slicked neatly back, calm brown eyes, a perfectly polite aura that somehow radiated I’m too tired for this nonsense.

And he was pretty. Why did all the cults have pretty men???

“This is Nanami Kento,” Gojo said cheerfully. “Former salaryman, current sorcerer, resident buzzkill.”

Nanami adjusted his tie and gave you a small bow, every movement crisp and controlled. “Pleasure,” he said, voice smooth but edged with weariness. “I apologize for your situation. Gojo tends to create chaos wherever he goes. I’m sure he’s done nothing but irritate and confuse you, but the principal asked I come help explain as I have experience with the outside world.”

“I noticed,” you said weakly, trying not to look like you were melting under the weight of exhaustion, fear, and whatever absurd charisma this new man radiated.

Gojo leaned closer to you with a grin you could hear. “Handsome, right? Don’t get your hopes up. He’s married to his job.”

Nanami gave him a look that could have turned water to ice. “I am not married to my job. I simply respect professionalism. Something you might try once in your life.”

Gojo clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. In front of our guest?”

You rubbed your temples. “Do you two always talk like this, or is this just for my benefit?”

“Always,” Nanami said.

“Especially when there’s an audience,” Gojo added at the same time.

You sighed, glancing between them; the blindfolded menace who thought kidnapping was flirting and the impeccably dressed man who looked two minutes away from quitting the entire universe.

“Okay,” you said finally, “so let me get this straight. You’re all government employees, somehow. You fight curses, which are real, apparently. My kid ate a cursed finger and is now possessed by some ancient demon king, and now I’m supposed to just… go along with this?”

Gojo grinned. “See? You’re catching on fast.”

Yaga sighed, the kind of deep, weary sound that suggested this wasn’t the first time someone had screamed in his office. Then he nodded toward Nanami.

Nanami stepped forward, calm and precise as ever, and handed you something that looked like a pair of heavy, old-fashioned glasses. “Put these on,” he said. “They will allow you to perceive cursed energy.”

You turned them over in your hands suspiciously. “You’re not about to hypnotize me or something, right? Because I once clicked a pop-up ad that said the same thing.”

Nanami blinked, clearly unamused. “Just put them on.”

You sighed and did as told, because frankly, you were wreck to hot men in suits with no shits given.

The change was instant.

The air in the room shifted. The walls darkened, the light warped, and suddenly everything around you was moving, slow, writhing, alive. Shadows stretched into crooked limbs, crawling over the tatami and up the walls. Black, oily threads pulsed in every corner like veins under sickly skin. And then you saw it: a face, enormous and twisted, flickering into view right next to your shoulder.

You screamed. Loudly. And then threw the glasses across the room like they’d personally offended you.

Nanami caught them one-handed before they hit the ground. Gojo applauded.

You stood frozen for a second, clutching your chest, then pointed accusingly at the air. “There was something on me! It looked at me!”

Gojo grinned, that infuriating, too-bright grin that meant he was having the time of his life. “So, did you see it now? Been freewilling on you since you go to the high school.”

“I see trauma!” you snapped. “I see nightmares! I see whatever the hell demon from hell, trying to make eye contact with me!”

Yaga sipped his tea. “Then the glasses work.”

You gaped at him. “Work? That thing blinked! At me! You people need therapy, not eyewear!”

Gojo chuckled, clapping Nanami on the shoulder. “She’s adapting faster than I expected.”

Nanami cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief and handed them back to you with all the calm dignity of a man used to Gojo Satoru’s existence. “You’ll need them again,” he said simply.

You took one cautious step back. “I’ll need exorcism, not eyewear.”

Gojo’s face lit up like you’d just told him he was getting a birthday party. “And now we come to the point,” he said, spreading his arms theatrically. “See, we are the exorcists. Sorcerers, if you want to be technical.”

You blinked at him, your brain fighting for every ounce of logic it had left. “Sorcerers,” you repeated slowly, like maybe saying it out loud would make it make sense.

He nodded helpfully. “Yes! We handle curses. These curses are born of negative human emotions, invisible to normal people, and responsible for most of the bad luck, illness, and late-night ghost sightings you’ve ever heard of. Very fulfilling work. Terrible benefits.”

You stared. Nanami looked quietly pained. Yaga took another sip of tea as if none of this concerned him.

“So let me get this straight,” you said at last, pointing at them with the energy of a person teetering on the edge. “I haven’t gone insane—rather, my ward ate a cursed finger, became the human Airbnb for some ancient murder demon, and now there are old men somewhere who want him executed?”

“Pretty much,” Gojo said, far too cheerful. “Luckly, I want to train Yuji, and I can also do what I want, because I’m the strongest. So… you no longer have to take care of him now. Congratulations.”

You blinked at him. “I’m calling the police.”

Nanami cleared his throat politely. “You may wish to reconsider that. They don’t come here anymore.”

You groaned into your palms. “That’s what people say when they’re in cults.”

Gojo clapped his hands together, his grin as blinding as ever, like this was all just a fun team-building exercise instead of a complete mental breakdown. “Alright then, honorary guardian of an amazing future sorcerer. Let’s get you settled. There’s tea, paperwork, and trauma ahead.”

You exhaled slowly, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a dying animal. “Are you joking? What sort of guardian would I be, just to let you have him! That my kid! MY burden on the tax system!”

Nanami adjusted his tie with the resigned grace of a man who’d accepted the futility of hope. “A good guardian, but the fact is, there is no other choice you have.”

The room fell quiet except for the faint hiss of the teapot and Gojo’s soft humming, entirely out of place in the suffocating weirdness of the situation.

You closed your eyes, pressing your palms against your face one more time as if sheer willpower could reset the universe. When you opened them again, Gojo was still smiling, Nanami still looked like he needed a vacation, and Yaga was still drinking tea like this happened every day.

You hesitated for a long moment, staring down at the glasses still in Nanami’s hand. Every part of you screamed not to touch them again. They felt like bad luck given form, and you were almost certain that putting them on would make the world notice you in ways it shouldn’t.

But curiosity, or maybe denial, finally won. You sighed, muttered a quiet prayer to any higher power still listening, and slipped them back on.

The air changed again, humming faintly like a wire pulled too tight. You braced yourself for another nightmare show of shadows and writhing shapes.

Nanami lifted his arm, calm and deliberate, and drew a slow arc through the air. You didn’t understand what he was doing until it happened.

The darkness around the corners rippled. The warped shapes began to dissolve, thinning into wisps that faded like smoke in the wind. The pressure in the room lightened until it was just air again, ordinary and still.

You blinked, glancing around. The walls were only walls. The floor was clean. The thing that had been breathing on your shoulder was gone.

Nanami lowered his arm and looked at you. “Better?”

You let out a shaky breath. “I’m not screaming, if that counts.”

Gojo leaned against the wall, smiling like a man very pleased with himself. “See? What did I tell you? She’s a natural.”

You rubbed your arms, still trying to chase away the crawling feeling that lingered beneath your skin. “It’s gone, right? Like, actually gone?”

“For now,” Nanami said simply.

Gojo added with a cheerful smile, “But don’t worry, they always come back.”

You stared at him, deadpan. “You are the worst motivational speaker I’ve ever met.”

He opened his mouth, probably to deliver another quip about how inspiring he was, when the door burst open and a thin man stumbled in, panting. His glasses were crooked, his uniform splattered with something that looked uncomfortably like blood.

“He’s waking—” the man managed before Gojo vanished.

Not walked out, not ran—vanished. One second he was there, and the next there was nothing but air and a faint shimmer, like the world itself had hiccuped.

You froze. “Did he just—?”

Principal Yaga didn’t even flinch. “Yes.”

“Evaporate?!”

He adjusted his tie. “Essentially.”

You blinked at him, trying to find words. “You’re saying he can just pop in and out of existence like a—like a—”

“Like Gojo,” Nanami said dryly. “He is the strongest. He tends to do whatever he wants.”

You stared at the empty space where Gojo had been, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “That’s not reassuring.”

Nanami sighed and straightened his cuffs. “It’s not meant to be.”

You were about to ask what he meant when the air shifted.

It began as a faint hum at the base of your skull, soft enough to mistake for nerves. Then it grew louder. The sound turned into pressure, then into movement. Something crawled behind your eyes, cold and alive, and the edges of the room began to blur. The walls seemed to tilt inward, the air thick enough to chew.

Yaga stood, his chair scraping against the floor. His usually calm face had changed, the smallest flicker of concern appearing in his expression. Nanami’s eyes narrowed, his whole body going still.

“Are you alright?” Nanami asked, his voice sounding distant and heavy, as if you were hearing him through water.

You pressed a hand to your temple. “I think I’m—”

You never finished.

Something invisible was moving through you, cold and curious. It felt like fingers dragging through the drawers of your thoughts, pulling at every memory, every fear, leaving behind the echo of low laughter. You could not tell if you were still in the room.

Then you saw it.

Yuji, half-awake in something that looked like restraints, his breathing fast and uneven. Behind him, or maybe inside him, a shape stretched itself out of the dark. It was vast and sharp, too large to fit in the space you could see. Its grin was wide and cruel, and you could feel it noticing you, turning its attention toward you as though it had been waiting.

You gasped and stumbled back, grabbing the edge of Yaga’s desk. The light flickered, the air bending around you.

Nanami moved quickly, his hand steady on your shoulder. “Breathe,” he said, his voice more grounded now. “Yaga, do you—”

Yaga nodded once, pulling his sunglasses down. His eyes gleamed faintly beneath the lenses, sharp and assessing. “So this is why Gojo brought you. That fool could have said something.”

Nanami blinked, then moved quickly to guide you into the nearest chair as your balance wavered. “Pardon?”

Yaga’s tone grew more serious. “The curse has noticed it too. It’s too early to know which one it’s tied to, but the connection is unmistakable.”

You stared at him, your thoughts swimming. “What is going on?”

Your head felt heavy, your skull buzzing like a live wire. The air seemed to twist again, tugging at you from the inside out. You gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to hurt.

Then it happened.

Two voices rose inside your mind at once, overlapping, weaving together until you could barely tell where one ended and the other began. One was Yuji’s, familiar and frightened. The other was something else entirely; lower, smooth, ancient, and dripping with malice.

“Who’s the wench?” the second voice asked. The words didn’t echo in the room but inside your head, slick and cold, like oil poured over your thoughts.

You froze, eyes wide. The world tilted sideways, the light too bright and too far away.

Your knees buckled.

Nanami caught you before you hit the floor, his arm steady around your shoulders. “Stay with me,” he said, calm but urgent.

You tried to speak, but your tongue felt heavy, your mind slipping in and out of itself. 

“Stay focused,” Nanami said quietly, his tone controlled but laced with tension. “You’re reacting to cursed energy.”

The sound of him only made the pressure worse. Your skull throbbed as if lightning had cracked open behind your eyes.

You gasped, clutching your head. “What the hell is happening?”

Nanami hesitated just long enough to make it terrifying. “Something rare,” he said finally.

You blinked through the haze, your pulse roaring in your ears. “You’re saying—”

Then it all went black.

Your eyes opened to nothing.

Not darkness, not light. Just wrongness. The air was too thick, pressing close against your skin, humming faintly like something alive. It felt heavy with breath, as if the entire world were leaning over you, whispering through your pores.

You sat up slowly, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Above you stretched a ceiling of black stone, carved with veins of red light that pulsed like blood beneath translucent skin. The glow shifted with each beat, slow and steady, as though the room itself had a heartbeat. The air smelled of metal and rain, rich and electric, and it clung to your throat when you tried to swallow.

The ground beneath your palms looked like water, yet it didn’t move. Cold and slick, perfectly smooth, it reflected your face with cruel precision. You saw yourself: bare feet, wide eyes, trembling hands, and behind that reflection, nothing at all. No walls. No horizon. Just an endless mirror stretching beneath a sky that bled faint red veins through black glass.

There was no sound. No wind. Not even your own breathing seemed to belong here.

You rose carefully. The surface didn’t ripple beneath your weight, only caught the faint shimmer of your movements like trapped light. The world felt sealed, airless, too still to be real.

“…What the hell.”

Your voice echoed far too long. It hung in the air like a bruise, warping and twisting until it came back to you distorted, almost unrecognizable.

You turned in a slow circle. The edge of the world didn’t fade—it stopped. Like someone had painted reality and then abandoned the canvas halfway through.

“Hello?” you called. The word cracked through the silence and vanished as if swallowed whole.

No answer.

A chill slid down your spine. The silence felt wrong now, too deliberate.

“Where am I?”

The ground answered first. A faint vibration. Then, deeper, slower, a heartbeat.

Not yours.

The sound grew louder, ancient and steady, pulsing up through the mirror floor until you could feel it in your teeth. Each thud rattled your bones, like the pulse of something enormous buried beneath the surface.

You stepped back, the echo chasing you, matching your quickened rhythm until your own heartbeat no longer felt like your own.

Then the reflection beneath your feet twitched.

You froze.

The mirrored version of you smiled.

Your chest seized. “No…”

The reflection laughed.

The sound rolled through the space like thunder trapped in a cave; low, rough, almost amused. The air shifted with it, thickening, hot against your neck.

“Oh, this is interesting,” a voice murmured from the dark.

You turned, and the air itself seemed to split open.

A man sat upon a throne of skulls and molten stone, bones fused together in grotesque artistry. The seat itself seemed to breathe, faint red light pulsing through its cracks like blood under glass. He lounged there as if the space were built for him, the shadows curling at his feet as though they knew his name.

Tattoos wound across his bare chest and shoulders, black as ink freshly spilled, each one pulsing faintly with the same red glow that threaded through the ceiling above. His skin caught the light strangely, smooth, too still, and yet the shape of him struck something familiar in you.

For a heartbeat, you thought it was Yuji.

The slope of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, even the color of his hair, all of it was close enough to make your chest tighten. The relief hit you first, raw and dizzying. You almost called his name.

Then you looked closer.

The face didn’t move right. The smile was a beat too late, the skin a shade too smooth, like wax melting under heat. His eyes glittered in the red light, not brown but something molten, something that looked back at you instead of through you.

“Yuji?” you whispered.

The smile widened. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t human.

Your stomach twisted as the illusion slipped, and the resemblance fell apart. The skin didn’t fit him. It shimmered faintly at the edges, like paint washing away from something monstrous beneath. For one awful moment, you saw both faces layered together, the boy you knew and the thing wearing him.

You stumbled back, breath catching. “No. No, absolutely not. You’re not real.”

He tilted his head, the motion too calm, too deliberate. “Oh?”

“This is… this is a coma,” you stammered, gesturing wildly to the empty expanse around you. “A head injury. A nightmare with really impressive special effects.”

He laughed softly, the sound rich and slow, curling through the air like smoke. “If that helps you sleep, little one, keep pretending.”

He rose from the throne in one smooth motion, and the air seemed to bend with him. The mirror floor rippled outward, and the red veins on the ceiling flared brighter, like the whole world responded to his movement.

“You don’t belong here,” he said, his tone thoughtful. He stepped closer, bare feet soundless on the glass. “And yet…” His lower eyes narrowed, studying you. “You are.”

“Okay, see, that’s not reassuring at all,” you said, holding up a trembling hand. “If this is some weird fever dream, I’d like to leave before—”

He smiled, and every word died on your tongue.

It was not a human smile. It was too wide, too knowing, too old.

“Go on then,” he murmured. “Wake up.”

You blinked. “What?”

He gestured lazily at the void. “If this is your dream, wake up. I’ll wait.”

You closed your eyes, inhaled sharply, whispered wake up, wake up, wake up.

When you opened them again, he was crouched in front of you.

“Perplexed?” he asked softly, his voice a purr against your ear.

You stumbled back, but the air moved with you, thick, syrupy, resisting. His grin widened. The ground pulsed faintly red beneath your feet.

You couldn’t breathe. The air was burning now, thick with iron and ozone. The pulse beneath your feet was deafening, shaking the world apart.

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. The space bent around him.

“How curious,” he whispered, watching you with terrible fascination. “To force your way here just as I was about to claw your mind open.”

He raised his hand, long fingers tipped in black claws. The motion alone made the air hiss. He pointed directly at your throat.

“Let’s see what you are.”

You didn’t even have time to cry out. His hand cut through the air toward you—

And stopped.

A crack split the silence, sharp and bright as lightning. Golden light burst between you, blinding. His arm jerked to a halt inches from your skin. His muscles tensed, veins rising as he strained against something unseen.

For a heartbeat, everything held still.

Then you saw it, real confusion flickering across his face, now too close to your own.

He pressed harder, muscles flexing, a vein rising along his throat. The invisible barrier held fast. The air between you shimmered gold, vibrating like a living chord. Sparks of red and gold tangled together, snapping and hissing in the heavy air until the whole world smelled of metal and storm.

His breath came rough through his teeth. “What is this?”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even move. The golden light pulsed between you, warm against your skin, and your lungs refused to work.

For a moment, he looked almost human, confused, surprised that something could resist him.

Then the look darkened.

He drew his hand back, slow and deliberate, shaking the tension from his fingers before folding his arms neatly inside the loose sleeves of his white robe. The sudden composure made the air feel colder.

He began to circle you, steps light and silent on the mirror floor. The sound of fabric brushing against stone was the only thing that existed. His gaze traced you from every angle, like he was studying a puzzle that shouldn’t exist.

“It’s almost…” he murmured, the words distant, half to himself, like a scholar pacing through the ruins of something ancient. “Surely not.”

He came to a stop in front of you again, the faint light from the ceiling glinting off his skin. His head tilted slightly, curiosity flickering through his expression before something like disbelief overtook it.

Then he laughed.

The sound started quietly, a low rumble that vibrated through the air, then grew into something sharp and rich, almost joyful in its mockery. It echoed in the vast empty space, bouncing off nothing and returning louder.

He wiped a hand across his mouth, still laughing softly under his breath. “Impossible,” he said at last, not to you but to the world itself. “Of all things.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. 

He only smiled, slow and strange, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The confusion was gone now, replaced by something colder. Understanding, perhaps, or a secret he didn’t plan to share.

“Nothing,” he said finally, his tone smooth again. “It doesn’t matter.”

He turned his back to you, white fabric whispering against the dark floor as he walked away. “I’ll see you soon, soulmate.”

The air around you began to shift, gold fading into red, the hum of power fading from a roar to a whisper.

Just before the world broke apart beneath your feet, you heard him speak again.

The voice was so soft it barely existed, threading through the air like smoke, curling into the back of your skull. You could hardly tell if the sound was real or just the echo of your own mind coming undone. Then it deepened, the words unraveling in a low hum that seemed to breathe through you.

And then, it laughed.

The sound was wrong. Ancient. Too alive. It scraped along the inside of your head like claws on glass, a vibration that crawled through your bones until your body forgot how to move. You tried to breathe, to think, to wake up, but the voice only grew louder, stretching through every corner of you like it had found a home there.

And just when you thought you would break under the weight of it, another voice cut through.

“Now, now,” said someone lightly, almost teasing. “Be nice. It’s not very kind to treat women that way.”

It was a voice you recognized, even through the haze. Smooth. Lazy. Infuriatingly casual. Gojo Satoru.

The red light cracked above you like a pane of glass. The black floor gave way, the entire world folding in on itself until it shattered.

Your eyes flew open.

For a second, you couldn’t breathe. White light poured over you, too bright, too clean. The air smelled of antiseptic and paper. You blinked hard and realized you were cradled against someone—steady, warm, solid.

Nanami.

(Thank you, God.)

Your head lolled weakly against his shoulder, every muscle screaming as though you had been torn apart and reassembled by someone who hadn’t read the instructions.

“Oh god,” you rasped. “It was just a dream.”

A pause. Then, from the corner of the room, a voice you were quickly learning to dread.

“About that…”

Gojo leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his blindfold slightly crooked and his grin far too invested for the situation.

You barely had time to groan before the sound came again, not from outside, but from inside.

It wasn’t just one voice.

It was two.

“Hey, back off! Don’t talk about my auntie like that!” Yuji’s voice—bright, defensive, impossibly alive—echoed from somewhere in your mind.

Then came the other.

Low. Velvety. Wrong.

“Hello, little pet. Don’t get too comfortable. Let’s enjoy the moment.”

Every drop of blood in your body turned to ice.

You stiffened, staring at Gojo. “What… what was that?”

He tilted his head, utterly unbothered, like he was discussing the weather. “I’m thinking,” he began, voice light and cheerful, “that you’re about to be transferred here full-time.”

Your brain fumbled for words. “Transferred?”

Gojo smiled, slow and radiant, the kind of smile that made people nervous even on good days. “Welcome to Jujutsu High,” he said. “You’re not going home.”

For one absurd, fleeting moment, you thought about arguing. Then the edges of the room began to blur, the voices in your head melting into one another until the world turned soft and dark. This time, it was just good old passing out.

The last thing you heard before you slipped under was Gojo’s voice, bright and infuriatingly chipper.

“Don’t worry, we have dorms.”

A week later, three things had become painfully, horrifyingly clear.

First: Curses were real. Actual monsters made of bad vibes and murder apparently crawled out of human misery like mold in a damp basement. Second: sorcerers were real too, and they fought said monsters using techniques that broke every known law of science, gravity, and common sense. And third, and this one was really the kicker, something inside you had gone spectacularly wrong.

You had been a normal person. A civilian. Someone with rent, a to-do list, and a caffeine dependency you were genuinely proud of. You owned discount sunglasses that never stayed put on your nose, had half a college application draft rotting on your laptop, and were raising a teenager who believed “laundry” was more of a social experiment than a chore. You used to worry about car payments, reheating leftovers, and whether the Wi-Fi could handle both your Zoom meeting and his gaming stream.

Now you're worried about spiritual parasites and whether your brain qualifies as a government-funded duplex.

Apparently, you had what the professionals called “a soulbond.” Which, on paper, sounded nice. Romantic, even. The universe’s way of saying, hey, you two are cosmically compatible, probably make great eye contact, maybe even share power. Supposedly, it was this rare, sacred connection in which two souls merged their cursed energy into something stronger and more beautiful.

Yours was neither sacred nor beautiful.

Since waking up from that little “surprise visit” to what could only be described as Hell’s Airbnb, your eyes hadn’t been the same. The fancy enchanted glasses Nanami had given you (half out of pity, half to shut Gojo up) were now collecting dust on your bedside table. Everything looked sharper, brighter, wrong. You could see things in the corners of rooms that didn’t belong there. Shapes that moved when they shouldn’t. Shadows that blinked back.

Curses, someone had called them.

And whatever had happened in that mirror-black world, whatever had looked at you and decided you were interesting, had left something behind.

Sorcerers called it a soulbond.

They spoke about it as if it were fate. A spiritual connection. The kind of thing ancient texts described with glowing reverence, using words like “shared essence” and “mutual ascension.” Some even hinted that it was love, destiny, or one of those cosmic partnerships poets would write about for centuries.

Yours, however, was the spiritual equivalent of duct-taping yourself to a live grenade and then tripping over the pin.

Because you weren’t bonded to a kind sorcerer, or some wise mentor, or anyone remotely manageable, you were tethered to the walking apocalypse currently living rent-free inside Yuji Itadori, or the child bride himself. Gojo ‘I’m the strongest’ Satoru had said, even his magical eyes couldn’t quite unwind the strings of fate and make out what the hell was happening, which meant you were shit out of luck.

Sometimes, when you were quiet, you could hear them. Not clearly, not like a conversation, more like catching someone arguing through the walls of a paper-thin apartment. Yuji’s voice came through first, earnest, anxious, perpetually trying to do the right thing. Then came the other one. Deep, rich, cruelly amused. The one that made your stomach twist every time it spoke.

“Hello, pet.”

It was like eavesdropping on an argument between your neighbor’s sweet kid and the ancient demon possessing their plumbing system.

“Stop talking to my auntie,” Yuji would hiss. 

“Then she should stop leaving the link open,” the other voice replied with a purr. “Gives a curse the wrong impression.”

You’d tried ignoring it, but that was impossible. You could be washing dishes, or sitting in Yaga’s office pretending to be helpful, and suddenly the world would go quiet except for them, bickering in your head like the world’s worst podcast.

You had become, officially, a cursed-conversation third wheel.

You figured as long as you ignored the fact that your soul was spiritually handcuffed to a millennia-old mass murderer, things were… fine.

Fine-ish.

Mostly fine.

“SHUT UP!”

“You again,” the low voice would purr in the back of your mind, smug and lazy, like he was leaning against the inside of your skull with all the time in the world. “How persistently you listen in. I told you to shut the bond, or did you want to die?”

Then Yuji’s voice would cut through the static, sharp with panic. “STOP!”

Okay. Not fine at all.

You had started carrying earplugs for absolutely no reason. They didn’t help. Turns out, when your psychic hotline is directly connected to the spiritual embodiment of chaos, foam cylinders from the convenience store aren’t going to fix it.

Every morning, you woke up hoping that whatever had happened in that cursed, golden-lit void had been a stress-induced hallucination. And every morning you opened your eyes, saw a cursed energy gather above your head, and thought, Cool. Still possessed. Awesome.

Eventually, you did what any reasonable person in your situation would do: you found the nearest authority figure and made this their problem.

Principal Yaga had listened to your entire panicked dream hell in silence, his expression somewhere between mild concern and someone trying to remember if he’d locked his office door. When you finally ran out of breath, he took a long, deliberate sip of tea, sighed, and muttered something about Gojo’s “habit of picking up strays and calling it talent development.”

After that, he decided you couldn’t go home (because, apparently, “psychic feedback loops with cursed kings” were a liability) and that you might as well make yourself useful. And because you were now both a liability and an unclassified anomaly, you had been placed under “temporary supervision” by Principal Yaga.

Which, in plain English, meant you were now his assistant.

Your official job description, according to Yaga, was ‘flexible’. Which turned out to mean ‘whatever nobody else wants to do but might explode if left unattended’. Most of your day consisted of handing him tea, sorting paperwork written in curse-law gibberish, and pretending not to question why one of your coworkers was a fully sentient panda.

Sometimes you restocked cursed tools. Sometimes you fetched supplies. Once, you spent an afternoon helping said panda reorganize the filing cabinet because he “liked things alphabetized by emotional impact.” You didn’t ask questions. You had learned very quickly that questions got you answers, and answers only led to more confusion.

Occasionally, Yaga sent you to deliver files to Gojo, which always felt like being sent on a diplomatic mission with a guaranteed casualty rate of one: you. Gojo would grin, call you “assistant-chan,” and vanish halfway through signing the forms. You had started pre-stamping them yourself just to save time.

Still, the pay was better than your last job, the cafeteria food wasn’t terrible, and you got an actual bed instead of the government-issued cot they’d stuck you on your first week. Progress, technically.

Every so often, Yaga would assign you ‘field tasks’. The first time you heard that, you imagined something glamorous. Maybe exorcising minor curses or coordinating missions. The reality was “keep Yuji from losing control and letting him talk.” 

Which meant babysitting. Psychic babysitting. But the issue was…You didn’t have a lick of cursed energy, besides the link between your brain and the ether demon fiend connecting you all.

Your only technique involved shouting into the void of your mind like a fed-up single parent trying to separate two toddlers who shared a brain.

“Hey!” you hissed one afternoon, slamming a pen down on your desk. “Tell the evil one to stop humming. I’m trying to fill out a reimbursement form.”

There was a long pause. Then, in that deep, smug voice that made your spine tighten, came, “You’re welcome to come in, little one.”

It was the three-way from hell.

An innocent, generally cool, mind-your-own-business kind of person (you), a teenage boy who somehow managed to be both endearingly heroic and hopelessly, awkwardly hormonal, and, last but absolutely least, the closest thing this world had to Satan.

Except Satan was stuck inside said teenage boy and, rather than bringing about the apocalypse, had been reduced to heckling you like an unwanted group chat you couldn’t mute. A chat hell-bent on tormenting you.

You’d wake up in the middle of the night to “She’s dreaming again.”

Then Yuji, horrified, “Stop watching my auntie’s dreams!”

And then Sukuna, delightfully smug, “No.”

It was like living inside the world’s worst radio frequency: half shounen-protagonist pep talks, half demonic stand-up comedy.

You’d once tried meditation to block them out, but that only made things worse. Five minutes into mindful breathing, and Sukuna had asked if you were “trying to summon him properly this time.” Yuji had nearly passed out from sheer embarrassment, and you had vowed never to touch incense again.

Honestly, if you weren’t so busy working as Principal Yaga’s overqualified assistant-slash-psychic lightning rod, you’d probably be in therapy. But since every therapist within a hundred miles would likely explode if you mentioned “cursed energy,” you just powered through with caffeine, sarcasm, and pure spite.

You weren’t sure what cosmic paperwork error had landed you as the unwilling middle manager of this supernatural disaster trio, but at this point, it was either laugh or cry.

Sukuna had done an excellent job of scared the everlasting shit out of you when you first met him. The whole “ancient curse with too many teeth and an ego the size of Mount Fuji” thing tended to do that. The way he looked at you in that black void, like he was trying to decide whether to kill you and keep your head as a conversation piece or just as the next snack. The kind of thing that usually requires lifelong therapy and several candles to recover from.

But after a week of unrelenting psychic nonsense, the fear had worn off.

You’d been yelled at, mocked, and occasionally serenaded (poorly) inside your own head. Sukuna had the charming habit of popping into your thoughts whenever you tried to relax; while brushing your teeth, while making coffee, while doing anything even remotely peaceful, just to deliver helpful commentary like, “Pathetic,” or, “Your handwriting is terrible.”

Yuji, bless his soul, apologized every single time.

 “He doesn’t… well, he does mean it, because he’s a jerk and he’s—he’s bored!”

“Yeah, well, tell him to go haunt Netflix or something,” you’d grumble, shoving earbuds in even though you knew they didn’t help.

At this point, you and Yuji had both evolved past fear into something stronger.

Spite.

Supreme, unshakeable, mutually supportive annoyance.

You ignored Sukuna’s taunts like a stubborn cat ignoring a laser pointer. Yuji ignored your occasional muttered threats to “sage the inside of his body.” And Sukuna, clearly offended by your combined lack of reverence, had begun escalating to petty psychological warfare.

Last night, he’d hummed the same three notes for two hours.

Loudly. In your head.

You’d threatened to sing Taylor Swift in retaliation. Yuji begged you not to.

So, yeah. Sukuna, King of Curses, Terror of Humanity, Destroyer of Eras, had officially been demoted to “mean, uninvited roommate with terrible taste and no volume control.”

He also had an incredible talent for being the most inconvenient creature alive.

For reasons known only to him and whatever eldritch chaos fueled his existence, he’d started popping up across Yuji’s body at random. Black markings shimmering, one of his eyes appearing, sometimes a grin that did not belong to Yuji, just to make you uncomfortable. And always, when you were around.

And especially when you were talking to other men.

You could be having a perfectly normal, civil conversation with Nanami about mission reports or cafeteria coffee, and Yuji would be passing by, coincidentally. Suddenly Sukuna’s smirk would appear on Yuji’s cheek like a demonic pop-up ad.

“This one bores you,” he’d drawl through Yuji’s appendages, voice dripping with malice and arrogance. “You could do better—more meat to eat on the last one.

Nanami would pause mid-sentence, calmly blink, and continue speaking as if nothing happened, because apparently being unfazed by ancient horrors was part of his salary. You, however, would lose all coherent thought.

Any attempt at flirting, gone. Any chance at impressing Nanami with your newfound professionalism, obliterated.

You’d stand there stammering something like, “He’s—it’s not—I mean, I’m not with—” while Yuji looked one apology away from fainting and Sukuna laughed in the back of your skull like he’d just won a bet with God.

Afterward, you’d stomp down the hall muttering to yourself, “That ass does it on purpose. He actually waits. He plans it.”

Yuji would trail after you, wringing his hands. “I swear I don’t know when he’s going to show up!”

Meanwhile, Sukuna’s low chuckle would echo in your mind, smug and lazy.

Any potential to rizz Nanami Kento?

Gone. Obliterated. Reduced to cursed dust and scattered across the wind.

You could not have been less of a romantic threat if you tried. Every time you got within ten feet of Nanami, Sukuna made it his personal mission to obliterate whatever dignity you had left.

You’d be standing there, pretending to be a serious adult discussing mission reports, and then boom, Yuji’s cheek would twitch into that too-wide grin, and out came the voice of Hell itself.

“Ah, the salaryman again. Does he know how you stare at him?”

You’d nearly swallow your own tongue. Nanami, consummate professional that he was, would just sigh deeply, the spiritual embodiment of a man who’d stopped expecting peace decades ago. Meanwhile, Yuji would try to bite his own hand to shut himself up.

“If you’re that desperate, little one, I could dress him up for you. In his own organs.” He drawled, and both you an Yuji wilted.

It was over. You could never look Nanami in the eyes again without remembering that line.

And then it somehow got worse.

Because one day, you made the mistake of being kind.

Megumi Fushiguro had helped you carry a pile of mission files. The kid was quiet, efficient, painfully polite, and dealt with Gojo, which meant he was a saint. You, in a completely normal adult show of gratitude, had said, “You’ve got such a cute face, you know that?”

That was it. The crime of the century.

You’d said one harmless, perfectly normal thing. And the universe decided to punish you for it.

Yuji froze mid-step. His body went still in that now-familiar, oh no, it’s happening again kind of way. His presence followed, mean, wrong, slicing up his face like it didn’t belong there. Then the mouth appeared, curling at the corner in slow, obscene amusement.

“Oh? Complimenting children now?” Sukuna’s tone was soft, mocking, low enough to make the back of your neck prickle. “Should I switch to him instead? You seem to like them young.”

Your soul left your body.

Megumi’s expression could only be described as “spiritually done.” He stared at you, then at Yuji, then back again like he was witnessing the world’s worst soap opera, and muttered flatly, “I’m leaving.”

You, mortified beyond belief, gripped your folder like it was holy scripture and hissed into the psychic void, “Don’t. You. Start.”

“Careful, little pet,” Sukuna purred, his voice sliding around the words like a blade dipped in honey. “Flattery will get you in trouble. Unless that’s what you’re after.”

Yuji’s panicked voice followed, muffled but desperate. “STOP TALKING! JUST STOP TALKING!”

You stood frozen, heat crawling up your face, wanting nothing more than to dissolve into thin air or get hit by a passing, cursed spirit, honestly, whichever was quicker.

“Megumi, please tell no one about this,” you muttered weakly. Gojo must never know.

“I already planned not to,” he said without looking back, tone exhausted.

That night, you sat in the dark with a mug of tea clutched between your hands like it could save your soul. The air was quiet. Blessedly quiet. For almost ten minutes.

Then his voice slipped through the silence, far too pleased with itself.

“Cute face, huh? Should I rip it off to wear?”

You screamed into your pillow so loudly that Panda, two rooms over, dropped his manga and yelled, “WHAT NOW?”

Sukuna laughed for ten full minutes.

Satoru scoffs, dropping onto the couch like he owns the room.

“I’m never late. Everyone else is just early.” Suguru turns slightly, just enough to glance at him.

“You kept me waiting.”

Satoru grins.

“Yeah?” he says lazily. “Did you miss me?” Suguru doesn’t smile.

But his gaze lingers.

“You’re irritating,” he replies.

“Mm,” Satoru hums, stretching his arms behind his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Silence settles, but it’s not empty. It never is with them. Suguru finally moves, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. He stops in front of Satoru,Too close for anyone else.

Exactly right for them. “Your control is slipping,” Suguru says quietly.

Satoru’s grin sharpens.

“Is it?”

Suguru’s eyes flick briefly toward the faint distortion in the air, the subtle warping of space where Infinity hums just a little louder than necessary. “You’re restless.”

Satoru tilts his head.

“Maybe I’m bored.” Suguru’s gaze drops to Satoru’s wrist, the ink there is dark.

Permanent.

Unmistakable.

Geto Suguru. His own wrist burns faintly in response.

Not pain.

Recognition.

“You don’t get bored,” Suguru says.

Satoru’s expression flickers, just slightly.

Enough for Suguru to notice. “Everything else does,” Satoru corrects.

Suguru reaches out.

His fingers wrap around Satoru’s wrist without hesitation.

Without permission.

He never needs it. The moment skin meets skin that same sharp, electric pulse.

Familiar.

Grounding.

Satoru exhales slowly.

“…There it is.” Suguru’s grip tightens just a fraction.

“You’re drifting again.” Satoru looks up at him through lowered lashes, something unreadable settling behind his usual arrogance.

“And you’re pulling me back?” he asks. Suguru doesn’t let go.

“Someone has to,” he says. Satoru laughs softly, but there’s no real humor in it.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Sounds like you need me.”

Suguru finally meets his gaze fully.

Steady.

Unwavering.

“I do.” The words land heavier than anything else in the room.

Satoru stills.

Just for a second. Then his grin returns, but slower this time. Sharper.

“Good,” he says. Suguru releases his wrist and  the absence lingers.

Like a missing weight. “They’ll start noticing,” Suguru says after a moment. Satoru leans forward slightly.

“Let them.”

“You’re not subtle.” 

“I’m not trying to be. Youn know troubles my middle name”

A pause. Suguru studies him.

Then—

“What did you do this time?”

Satoru’s smile widens.

Too pleased. “Nothing,” he says.

Suguru raises a brow.

“…Yet.”

Suguru exhales quietly, turning away again.

“You’re going to make a mess.” Satoru stands this time.

Steps closer. “I always do.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Satoru adds. “You’ll clean it up anyway.” Suguru glances back over his shoulder.

A small, knowing smile.

“Of course I will.”

Because that’s how it works.

Not balance.

Not equality.

A closed circuit.

One pulls.

One steadies.

Satoru and Suguru were a closed circuit. They had been since the day their skin first brushed in a crowded hallway during their first year the sharp, electric sting on their wrists followed by the black ink of each other's names blooming like a brand. Gojo Satoru on Suguru’s right wrist; Geto Suguru on Satoru’s left. It was a divine decree. They were the strongest, and they belonged to each other.

Until the Tuesday that tasted like copper and betrayal.

Suguru was mid-sentence, reaching for a porcelain teapot, when a sensation like a hot needle dragged across the underside of his left wrist. He hissed, the teapot shattering against the low table.

"Suguru?" Satoru was on his feet instantly, his blindfold pushed up, his Six Eyes scanning the room for a threat that wasn't there. "What happened? An attack?"

Suguru didn't answer. He was staring at his left wrist. Directly opposite the soulmate mark he shared with Satoru, a new line of script was rising through the skin. It wasn't the clean, bold ink of Satoru’s name. This was jagged, weeping a faint, translucent gold the sign of a Second Link. A rarity. A glitch in the universe.

Your name was etching itself into his marrow.

"I didn't touch anyone," Suguru whispered, his face going ghostly pale. "Satoru, I haven't left the room in four hours. I haven't... I don't even know who this is."

The cruelty of a Second Link was the "Passive Contact." Most soulmates required a touch to activate the mark, but for someone as powerful as the Twin Stars of Jujutsu, the universe sometimes skipped the formalities. Somewhere on campus, you had walked past a door he was behind or on a mission. You had breathed the same air. And the tether had snapped shut.

Satoru leaned over, his fingers gripping Suguru’s arm with a strength that would have crushed a normal man. He stared at your name. His jaw tightened, the air in the room beginning to vibrate with the sheer pressure of his Cursed Energy.

"A third," Satoru breathed, his voice devoid of its usual playfulness. It was hollow, dark, and predatory. "Someone thinks they can wedge themselves between us, Suguru."

"I don't even remember seeing them," Suguru said, his thumb brushing over your name. As he touched it, a wave of your emotions flooded him—loneliness, a quiet hunger for coffee, the slight chill of the hallway. It was nauseatingly intimate. "But I can feel them now. They’re... soft."

The atmosphere in the High-Rise suite didn’t just change; it curdled.

Satoru had been watching the gold script etch itself into Suguru’s left wrist with a detached, clinical fascination, a predator watching a new rival enter the territory. But then, the air in the room didn't just vibrate; it shattered. 

Satoru let out a strangled, jagged sound, his right hand flying to his own left wrist, clutching it so hard the skin turned deathly white.

"Satoru?" Suguru’s voice was sharp, his own pain forgotten as he reached out.

Satoru didn’t answer. He ripped his hand away, baring his skin. There, directly parallel to the heavy black ink of Geto Suguru, a new name was burning its way into his flesh. It wasn't gold. For Satoru, the "Limitless" sorcerer, the mark was a violent, electric violet. It thrummed with a frequency that bypassed his Infinity, sinking straight into his nervous system.

Your name. Identical to the one on Suguru but on his right wrist.

The silence that followed was louder than an explosion. They stood in the center of the room, two gods suddenly tethered to a ghost. The "Closed Circuit" had been breached. The perfect binary of their existence had been forced into a trinity, and the sheer need that flooded them was instantaneous and total.

"It’s the same," Satoru whispered, his voice cracking, his Six Eyes dilated until the blue was almost swallowed by black. "Suguru, it’s the same name. They’re ours."

He wasn't just talking about a soulmate. He was talking about a missing piece of a weapon. As the marks finalized, a psychic bridge snapped open. They felt your heartbeat. Something they never even knew was missing.

For Gojo and Geto, the strongest who lived in a world of their own making, the "hole" was the isolation of their own ascension. They had spent years viewing the world from a height where no one else could breathe, mistaking the cold of the summit for a natural state of being. They were two halves of a whole who believed their circle was closed, their stillness absolute.

Then, your name appeared—a third ink-stain on the skin of their wrists, a rhythmic, phantom pulse under their own.

For Gojo, it is the sudden, violent shattering of the "Infinity" he keeps between himself and the world. He has spent his life seeing everything with his Six Eyes but feeling very little. To suddenly feel a third heart beating against his own ribs, someone who isn't Geto, someone he hasn't even fully met, who he doesn’t remember is like the first time he ever felt the bite of a blade. It is a resonance that bypasses his technique entirely. He realizes that for all his godhood, he has been a ghost haunting his own life, waiting for a frequency he didn’t know he was tuned to.

For Geto, it is an even more terrifying revelation. He is a man who swallowed the rot of the world to protect it, thinking his burden was shared only by Satoru. To feel the steady, unknowing pulse of a soulmate is to realize that the room he thought was full of only duty and blood actually had a door he never tried to open. It is the "ancient desire" finally being named: the need not just to be understood by a peer, but to be anchored by a third point, turning their fragile line into a stable foundation.

They look at their wrists, then at each other, and the realization is starving: they have been the strongest duo in history, yet they were both dying of a thirst they only just recognized.

The pain wasn't a pinch. For you, it was an absolute, white-hot evisceration of your senses.

You were tucked away in the back of the library, the quietest corner of Jujutsu High, when your right wrist suddenly felt like it had been dipped in molten lead. A scream died in your throat, stifled by the sudden, overwhelming pressure of two distinct, warring energies slamming into your soul. You clutched your arm, gasping for air as the skin bubbled and wept, the ink forcing its way up from the bone.

When the smoke cleared from your vision, you stared down at your skin in pure, unadulterated horror.

Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru.

The names were etched in a shimmering, violent violet and a deep, pulsing gold. They sat side-by-side, occupying your skin with a terrifying arrogance. You weren't just a soulmate; you were a bridge. A third point in a triangle that was never meant to have one.

The Instinct to Hide was immediate. 

You didn't feel chosen. You felt scared.

Everyone knew what they were. The Twin Stars. The pinnacle of the sorcery world. They were gods walking among mortals, and you? You were a Grade 4 anomaly, a "Shield" whose only talent was making yourself small and invisible. Your technique, Iron seclusion, allowed you to wrap a force field around your physical form so dense that even Cursed Energy struggled to permeate it. Coupled with your abnormal regenerative healing, you were the perfect survivor, but you were never meant to be a prize.

"No," you whispered, the word trembling in the stagnant library air. "Not them. Anyone but them."

You knew their reputations. Satoru was a void that consumed everything he touched; Suguru was a shadow that swallowed the world whole. To be tied to them wasn't a romance, it was an invitation to be erased.

The memory of your mother’s voice usually feels like a silk ribbon smooth, cooling, and easy to hold. But now, with the names Satoru and Suguru searing into your pulse, her words feel like a cruel irony, a fairy tale told to a child who was never meant to see the monster under the bed.

"A soulmate isn't just a partner, sweetheart," she had said, her fingers tracing the blank, expectant skin of your wrist while you were small. "They are the anchor to your storm. The world is loud and frightening for people like us, but when that name appears, the noise stops. It’s like finally finding the North Star after being lost at sea."

You remember the way she looked at your father a quiet, Grade 3 sorcerer with a softness that made the harshness of their profession disappear.

"It’s unconditional," she whispered, her eyes bright with a certainty you now find terrifying. "They won't just see your strength; they will cherish your shadows. They are the only ones who will truly let you thrive because they are the only ones who will truly know you. It is the greatest blessing the heavens can grant a sorcerer: to never truly be alone again."

In the suffocating silence of the library, you look at the violet and gold script. Her "North Star" was a gentle light; yours are two supernovas that threaten to incinerate everything you are. To your mother, a soulmate was a sanctuary. To you, looking at the names of the two most powerful, volatile men in existence, it feels like a sentence.

The First Pulse

Suddenly, a jolt of pure, manic need surged through your wrist. It wasn't your own. It was a projection a jagged, starving hunger that felt like a cold hand reaching through your chest.

They knew.

The psychic bridge had snapped open the moment the ink dried. They were feeling your heartbeat, your fear, the very scent of the old paper surrounding you. You could feel them, too two massive, celestial bodies suddenly pivoting in your direction, their intent so heavy it felt like the gravity in the library had doubled.

You scrambled to your feet, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You had to go. You had to bury yourself so deep in your own technique that even the Six Eyes couldn't find the shimmer of your soul.

You wrap your fingers around your wrist, activating Iron Seclusion. The barrier snaps into place, a cold, dense weight that mimics the "stillness" you've lived in for years. You try to drown out the sudden, rhythmic double-thrum of their hearts against your own, desperate to believe that if you hide well enough, even the "blessing" of heaven won't be able to find you.

You pushed your Cursed Energy to its limit, pulling the invisible veil of your shield tight against your skin. Usually, your shield was a defensive bubble, but now you collapsed it inward, using it to mask your heat, your scent, and your energy signature. You became a black hole in the sensory world, a static-filled void.

You sprinted for the back exit, avoiding the main halls where the high-ranking students loitered. You didn't have classes with them, you were beneath their notice, a support-track student who spent her days healing minor bruises and reinforcing training barriers. You belonged in the background. You needed to stay in the background.

The library didn't just go quiet, it went dead.

For Satoru and Suguru, the sensation was like being plunged into an abyss. One second, the psychic bridge was a roaring torrent of your fear, your heat, and the frantic rhythm of your heart. It was the most intoxicating thing they had ever felt, a divine frequency that harmonized their own clashing powers.

And then, it was gone.

No heartbeat. No scent. No emotional residue. Even the violet and gold marks on their wrists, which had been glowing with a feverish light, suddenly turned a dull, matte grey. They didn't disappear, the ink was still there, but the life was gone.

"Satoru?" Suguru’s voice was a ragged whisper. He was clutching his left wrist, his breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches. "I can't... I can't feel them."

Satoru was standing in the middle of the hallway, his Six Eyes darting frantically, scanning every atom of the air. 

His Infinity was flickering, reacting to the sudden, violent spike in his blood pressure. "They didn't die," he spat, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and genuine terror. "People don't just die and leave no soul residue. They vanished. They’re still here, Suguru. Somewhere in this building... but they’re gone."

In the basement levels, you were curled into a ball behind a stack of rusted training equipment, your hands clamped over your mouth.

Your ability wasn't just a shield anymore; it was a sarcophagus. You had collapsed the force field so tightly against your skin that it was effectively acting as a second dermis, a layer of "non-existence" that blocked every signal your body produced. No heat signatures for Gojo’s Six Eyes. No cursed energy leaks for Geto’s spirits to track.

But the cost was agonizing.

To keep the Shell up 24/7 meant your Cursed Energy was constantly recycling, a closed loop that left you feeling cold, lightheaded, and perpetually exhausted. Your abnormal healing was the only thing keeping your organs from failing under the pressure of the constant reinforcement.

You just had to make it to graduation.

The campus of Tokyo Jujutsu High had become a graveyard of nerves. Without the stabilizing influence of their soulmate bond, Gojo and Geto hadn't just become restless—they had become volatile. 

The training grounds felt like a pressure cooker on the verge of exploding. The air was thick with Satoru’s unrefined Cursed Energy, snapping like static electricity against the stone. You pressed your back against the cold wood of the pagoda, your iron seclusion vibrating so hard it made your collarbone ache. You were a ghost, a glitch, a nothingness—but seeing them like this, seeing the "protectors" of the school unravel into something so fundamentally cruel, made the papers in your hand feel like a death warrant.

Satoru didn’t look like the untouchable god of Jujutsu High anymore. He looked like a man starving in a room full of plastic fruit. He grabbed the younger student by the collar, hoisting him up until the boy’s toes barely grazed the dirt.

"Think harder," Satoru hissed, his voice low and jagged. "The library. That Tuesday. Who ran? Who left in a hurry? I don't care if they were a Grade 1 or a window washer—who moved like they were terrified of being seen?"

"N-nobody, Gojo-senpai!" the boy stammered, tears tracking through the dust on his cheeks. "It was just the usual crowd... I didn't see anyone run. It was quiet. It was just quiet!"

Satoru’s grip tightened, his knuckles white. "Impossible. Someone walked past us. Someone took the air out of the room and then just... vanished." He dropped the boy, spinning around to face Geto, his movements twitchy and erratic. "Suguru, he’s useless. They're all useless. How can someone be so close I can feel their pulse under my skin one second, and then be absolutely invisible the next?"

Geto didn't offer a comforting word. He didn't even look at Satoru. He was staring at the palm of his left hand, tracing the grey, lifeless name of yours that sat like a scar on his wrist. The refined elegance he usually carried replaced by a cold, predatory stillness.

"Maybe they didn't run," Geto murmured, his voice sounding like a blade sliding over silk. He stepped toward the trembling student, his shadow stretching out like a many-limbed monster. "Maybe they're still here. Watching us. Hiding in plain sight while we rot."

He knelt beside the boy, his hand reaching out to brush a stray tear from the kid's face with a tenderness that was far more terrifying than Satoru’s rage. "Tell me, Kohai... have you noticed anyone lately who seems a bit too quiet? Someone who doesn't talk, doesn't eat, just... exists in the corners?"

"I... I don't know everyone's names, Geto-san," the boy whispered, trembling. "Please, I just want to go to my dorm."

Geto’s expression didn't change, but the air around him darkened. "Go then. But if you remember a face even a blur in the hallway you come to us first. Because if Satoru loses his patience before I find them... there won't be a dorm left for you to return to."

You didn't wait to see the boy scramble away. You turned and moved, a silent shadow within the shadows. Every step felt like walking through deep water; iron seclusion was draining you, pulling from your very life force to keep your presence at zero.

"They're looking for a ghost," you breathed, your lips barely moving behind the veil of your technique. You looked down at your wrist, where the names burned like brands under the heavy bandages. "They can't find what isn't there."

The encounter happens in the open air, where there is nowhere to hide and the sky feels too wide. You are crossing the training grounds, sticking to the shadows of the eaves, when the 

resonance hits so hard it physically staggers you. It’s like a tether snapping taut, pulling your chest toward the center of the courtyard.

They are standing there, the "Twin Stars," looking uncharacteristically frayed. Gojo has his blindfold shoved up, his Six Eyes scanning the air with a frantic, electrified energy. Geto has his hand clamped over his right wrist, his knuckles white, his usual composure replaced by a raw, searching hunger.

You keep your head down, clutching your books to your chest, and try to scuttle past like a ghost. You wrap Iron Seclusion around yourself so tightly it feels like wearing a lead suit, desperate to dampen the "scream" of your soul.

"Hey. You."

Gojo’s voice isn't breezy this time. It’s a command. He’s in front of you in a blink, the space between you warping as he forces the world to bring you closer.

You jump, dropping a notebook. "G-Gojo-senpai! Geto-senpai! I’m so sorry, was I in the way?" You scramble to pick up your things, keeping your marked wrist pressed firmly against your stomach.

"Did you see anyone else come through here?" Geto asks, his voice tight. He’s looking right at you, but he’s looking through you, searching for a "strong" sorcerer, someone who could possibly match the violent power he feels thrumming in his own veins. "Someone... significant?"

"Significant?" You blink, widening your eyes in a mask of dull, Grade 4 confusion. "I—I didn't see anyone. Just the usual cursed spirits near the gate. Is everything okay? You both look... a bit pale."

Gojo leans down, his face inches from yours. He’s trying to read your flow of Cursed Energy, but Iron Seclusion makes you look like a flat, grey stone in a river of light. "My head is ringing," he mutters, more to Geto than to you. "The frequency is right here, Suguru. It’s deafening."

"Maybe it's the heat?" you suggest, your voice small and trembling with perfectly faked intimidation. "The sun is really bright today. I get migraines sometimes too. Should I go get Shoko-san for you?"

Geto sighs, a sound of pure frustration, and rubs his temples. To him, you are just a flickering candle, and he is looking for a second sun. "No. Just go back to class."

"Yes, senpai! Sorry to bother you!"

You bow low and practically bolt, your heart hammering a frantic SOS that you know they can feel, even if they haven't realized yet that the "insignificant" girl is the one holding the other end of the chain.

The Department Head’s office is stifling, smelling of old paper and incense, but to you, it feels like an interrogation room. You keep your right hand buried in the pocket of your blazer, your thumb obsessively rubbing the spot where Satoru and Suguru are etched into your skin.

The Department Head a gray-haired, bureaucratic sorcerer who cared more for quotas than souls—had looked at your transfer papers with a bored flick of his wrist. 

"A transfer?" The official doesn't even look up from the papers. He sounds bored, which is exactly what you want. "To the Kyoto branch? "

“yes," you say, your voice a practiced, dull monotone. "My technique, Iron Seclusion... it’s not suited for the front lines. I’m just a Grade 4. I think I’d be more useful with the logistics team there."

The man sighs, finally marking a thick red line through a document. "The higher-ups don't like moving pieces mid-semester. If you want out of the active rotation, you have to fulfill the minimum requirement for the quarter. Three more missions. Complete them, and I’ll sign the papers."

A surge of pure, unadulterated relief washes over you. You almost want to thank him. 

Three missions. That was it. That was the price of your life.

As you walk out into the hallway, your heart is light for the first time since the names appeared. You’ve done the math. The school is a machine of logic and hierarchy. They would never pair a Grade 4 anomaly with the Special Grade duo. It would be a waste of their time and a death sentence for yours. To the school, you are a pebble; to them, they are the mountain. There is no reason for your orbits to ever cross again.

You check your phone. The notification for your first mission has already arrived.

Location: An abandoned textile factory in the outskirts of Saitama.

Grade: 4 (Low-level fly-heads and lingering shadows).

Assigned Sorcerer: [Name].

You are alone.

A small, giddy laugh bubbles up in your chest. No Gojo. No Geto. Just you, your "useless" shield, and a few weak curses. You can do this. You’ll be invisible, just like you’ve always been. You’ll finish these three jobs, get your transfer, and disappear into a cubicle in Kyoto where the violet and gold on your wrist can stay buried under long sleeves forever.

As you walked back to your dorm to pack your tactical gear for the first solo mission, you looked at the grey, silent marks on your wrist. For the first time, they didn't look like shackles; they looked like a bad dream you were finally waking up from.

"Just three," you whispered, your thumb tracing the edge of the bandage. "They won't even notice I'm gone until the bus crosses the prefectural line."

The mission was a joke. Three minor curses, a few sweeps of your Iron Seclusion to crush them against the concrete, and you were done in thirty minutes flat. You practically floated back to the dorms. One down. Two more, and you’d be a ghost in Kyoto, safe from the two suns that threatened to burn your world down.

The "best feeling ever" was a dangerous drug. You were so buzzed on your own relief that you didn't notice the resonance in your chest smoothing out into a low, contented huma purr that wasn't yours, but theirs.

You stepped into the common room, intent on grabbing a soda and vanishing, when you saw him.

Suguru Geto was draped over a sofa, a book open in his lap, but he wasn't reading. He was people-watching, his dark eyes tracking every student that walked by with a clinical, almost desperate intensity. He looked like a man trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

You stiffened, your "Shield" snapping into place instinctively. You kept your head down, your gait deliberate and heavy, trying to look as "Grade 4" as possible. You steered a wide, awkward arc around the couch, heading for the vending machine.

Don’t look. Don’t breathe. Just stay invisible.

"You're back early."

The voice was like silk sliding over a blade. You froze, your hand halfway to the coin slot. You didn't turn around. Maybe he was talking to someone else.

"The girl with the barrier technique," Geto continued, his voice tilting upward with a hint of genuine curiosity. "I don't think I caught your name the other day."

You slowly turned, your face a mask of wide-eyed, stuttering surprise. "O-Oh! Me? I’m... nobody, really. Just finishing a low-level sweep. I didn't think a Special Grade like you would notice someone like me, Geto-senpai."

Geto closed his book, leaning forward. His right hand—the one with your name—was resting on his knee, his fingers twitching in time with your frantic pulse. He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a second, the "ancient desire" flared in his eyes.

"You're very... contained," he mused, his gaze drifting to your covered wrist. "Most sorcerers leak cursed energy like a sieve. But you? You're like a vault. It’s quiet around you. Almost too quiet."

He stood up, the height difference immediately making the room feel smaller. He took a step toward you, his expression softening into something dangerously observant. "Tell me—did you feel anything strange out there? A change in rhythm? A... pulling sensation?"

You forced a self-deprecating, nervous laugh, the kind that made you look small and slightly pathetic. "Oh, Geto-senpai, I’m actually really embarrassed about it. My Iron Seclusion is... well, it’s a bit of a defect. It’s so thick it basically smothers my own senses. I couldn't feel a 'pull' if it hit me with a truck. I’m basically sensory-deprived whenever I use it."

Geto’s expression flickered—a flash of pity, perhaps, or just the disappointment of another dead end. He sighed, the tension in his shoulders dropping. "I see. A defensive trade-off. That must be frustrating."

"It’s why I’m better suited for paperwork," you chirped, bowing quickly and scurrying away before he could ask anything else. You didn't stop running until you were behind your locked dorm door, clutching your wrist as if the names might leap off your skin.

The next week was blissfully quiet. You stayed under the radar, wore oversized hoodies, and successfully avoided the 'Twin Stars' by memorizing their training schedules. You were a ghost. A phantom. You were winning.

Then, the ping of a new mission notification hit your phone.

Location: Subterranean transit tunnels, Shinjuku.

Grade: 2 (Multiple sightings of high-output territorial curses).

Assigned Sorcerers: [You] & Kento Nanami.

Your heart did a strange little flip. Nanami. He was a Grade 1, stoic, professional, and most importantly not a soulmate. He wasn't one of the 'strongest' who moved like a whirlwind; he was a man who clocked in, did his job with surgical precision, and went home.

"Two out of three," you whispered to the empty room, a giddy smile breaking across your face.

Being paired with Nanami was the ultimate safety net. He was too disciplined to care about your personal life or your 'flow' of energy. He would expect you to put up your shield, stay out of the way, and let him handle the heavy lifting. To him, you would just be a tool, a 'Shield' to protect the perimeter while he worked the (7:3) ratio.

As you packed your gear, you felt a surge of triumphant joy. You were so close to the exit. You were almost to Kyoto. You were almost free.

You didn't realize that your sudden burst of happiness sent a sharp, intoxicating thrum through the bond. Somewhere in the school, Satoru Gojo tilted his head, a blindfolded grin spreading across his face as he felt a wave of "victory" that wasn't his own.

(Let me just say this while your ability blocks most things, a soulmate's bond is strong so without meaning some strong emotions can still filter through to your partners.)

The subterranean transit tunnels were a labyrinth of damp concrete and oppressive shadows. Nanami moved with his usual mechanical efficiency, his blunt blade finding the 7:3 ratio with every strike. You stayed back, your Iron Seclusion acting as a silent, invisible perimeter that kept the smaller, crawling curses from flanking him.

But the report was wrong. This wasn't a Grade 2 nest; it was a breeding ground for a Special Grade fetus that had begun to distort the very space of the tunnels.

A massive, multi-limbed curse surged from the ceiling, its sheer weight slamming into your barrier with the force of a falling skyscraper. The impact vibrated through your bones, the pressure so intense that for one flickering, agonizing second, your concentration snapped.

Iron Seclusion dropped.

It was only for a minute—maybe even less—as you scrambled back, gasping, and forced the barrier to knit itself back together. You felt exposed, naked, like a nerve ending stripped of its skin. You quickly reinforced the shield, the dense, cold energy snapping back into place, burying your presence once more.

It’s fine, you told yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs. I was only "visible" for a second. We’re deep underground. They’re miles away at the school.

You didn't realize that to a Six Eyes user, a second of your unfiltered soul is like a flare gun going off in a pitch-black room.

Up on the surface, in the middle of a bustling Shinjuku street, Satoru stopped mid-sentence. His blindfold didn't hide the way his head snapped toward the subway entrance, his breath hitching as if he’d just been punched. The "ghost" frequency he’d been chasing had finally, violently, become a signal.

Across town, in the quiet of a temple, Suguru dropped his tea. The phantom pulse on his wrist hadn't just thrummed; it had screamed. For that one minute, the hollow space in his chest had been filled with a terrifying, beautiful warmth—and then, just as quickly, it vanished back into the "stillness."

They both moved instantly, driven by a starving instinct they still didn't understand.

Down in the tunnels, Nanami finished off the curse and adjusted his tie, his expression unreadable behind his goggles. "That was a significant lapse," he said, his voice a calm, dry reprimand. "Are you injured?"

"No," you lied, your voice trembling as you clutched your wrist. "Just... lost my footing. I'm fine, Nanami-san. Let's just finish this. Please."

The subway air was thick with the smell of blood and damp concrete as you emerged, ducking your head and letting Nanami lead the way. You kept your jacket sleeves pulled low, your fingers white-knuckled around your wrists. You felt like a radio tower that had briefly broadcasted a signal to the entire world, and now you were desperately trying to cut the power.

Across the city, in a secluded corner of the Tokyo Jujutsu High courtyard, the two strongest sorcerers met. The air around them was electrified, distorted by the sheer output of their frustration.

Satoru was pacing, his blindfold discarded, his Six Eyes glowing with a manic, crystalline light. He looked like a live wire, sparking at the slightest touch. "It was right there, Suguru. For sixty seconds, it wasn't just a hum. It was a scream. It was loud."

Geto was leaning against a stone pillar, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his knuckles bruised from where he’d punched a training dummy into splinters. He wasn't smiling. The "gentle" philosopher was gone, replaced by a man who looked starved.

"I felt it too," Geto said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "It wasn't a curse, and it wasn't a mistake. It was a soul. Our soul." He looked down at the gold-etched name on his wrist, his thumb tracing the letters with a possessive, aching intensity. "And then it just… went dark. Like someone slammed a door in our faces."

Satoru stopped pacing, turning to face his best friend. The realization hit them both at the same time, a cold, sharp clarity.

"They’re hiding," Satoru breathed, a dark, incredulous laugh bubbling in his throat. "Someone out there belongs to us—the two strongest people on the planet and their first instinct is to bury their presence so deep even I can't track it."

"They don't want to be found," Geto added, his eyes narrowing. The thought didn't just hurt; it offended him. He had spent his life protecting the weak, swallowing rot for a world that didn't love him back, and now the one person meant to be his "anchor" was treating him like a threat. "They’re using a barrier. A dense one. That flicker in the tunnels… they slipped. They lost control for a minute, and now they’ve bolted the door again."

Satoru’s grin turned into something predatory, something ancient. "Let them hide. They can't keep a seal like that up forever. Every time their heart jumps, I feel it. Every time they're scared, I know. We’re going to find our 'Shield,' Suguru. And when we do, I’m going to make sure they never feel the need to close that door again."

“Come on, Birdy. You know I’m right.”

Birdy.

You had Soap to thank for the name. ‘Snipers and birds both shit on people from above’. It wasn’t creative and honestly you could have thought of one hundred better names to offer, but once Ghost started addressing you by Birdy, it was set in stone.

When you said nothing, he continued.

“You can’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag,” he scoffed, swallowing a snort when your eyes widened. “Sniper’s need to defend themselves too, Birdy. You learnt that the hard way, remember?”

How could you not?

The knife wound had healed but the memory of it had not. Images of the hooded man wedging a blade into your shoulder flickered across your vision. Fists bearing down onto your jaw. Fingers wrapped around your throat.

A chill skittered across your skin.

“So, what’s your suggestion?” You crossed your arms over your chest.

When the corner of Price’s mouth quirked upward, you’d already begun to regret asking.

“Simple, really.” He shrugged, “someone’s gonna train ya.”

Your stomach dropped and a cold shiver traced the length of your spine.

“Who, Sir?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Ghost’s not here. Everyone’s on leave.”

Price smirked.

“Not everyone.”

___

You felt nauseas.

Anxiety had your stomach in a death grip, and it was all you could do to not throw up. Pacing up and down the gym mats, you tried to cool your nerves.

There was only one person that had remained a complete anomaly to you and now he’d been given literal permission to beat the shit out of you.

Training.

You remembered what they loved to call ‘training’ at your old unit. You’d never been the fastest or the strongest, that was not your job. You were the one who could take make an impossible shot a kilometre away, but that’s not what ‘training’ entailed.

Your body ached at the memory.

There was a small noise by the doorway and your body stiffened. He was letting you know that he was there, his equivalent of a knock.

You both knew that he could have had you on your back whenever he pleased.

“König.” You acknowledged him as confidently as you could, turning to face the beast head on.

The giant stood in the doorway looking like the fucking bogey man himself.

“Birdy,” König inclined his head. Those dark, watchful eyes observed you from beneath his hood, taking in your visage. Heat licked the back of your neck and you began to sweat under his gaze.

He was clad in his usual getup from the waist down, the tactical cargo pants and the hefty boots being his barracks favourite. It was the hoodie that had caught you by surprise, you’d seen it a few times in passing, but up close it rendered you breathless.

“I didn’t realize you were staying with the 141,” you said, swallowing nervously as he stepped into the room, ducking his head to avoid hitting the frame above.

This was a sick, sick joke.

“My transfer was approved,” was the only explanation that he offered you.

You knew, logically, that what had happened between the both of you had been a misunderstanding. It was a communication failure on behalf of the brass that had almost gotten you killed but the idea of working with him, training with him, made your stomach drop.

König’s hands got to work removing his gloves and the memory of those fingers wrapped around your throat made you flinch.

You’d set up a sniper’s nest atop the rooftop, watching the entrance of the building the 141 was infiltrating. They were going to flush out the target and send him running right into your line of fire.

No-one had been informed of KorTac’s involvement.

You’d heard König before you’d seen him, the dismantling of your trip mine giving you enough indication to roll onto your back to investigate. By then, he was already upon you.

You’d kicked the rifle from his hands but that was where your advantage finished. He’d dragged you by your ankles from your weapon, straddling your flailing body as he got to work. The knife he’d brandished stabbed into your flesh violently, and at first, you’d thought he only punched you.

Until the searing hot pain bloomed across your body and blood sprayed across his hood.

Those emerald eyes were wild and hard as he gripped your face over your balaclava. You couldn’t think to react, dizzied by the agony of knife he twisted into your skin. His palm covered the entirety of your features, fingers tight against your temples as he pulled your head forward then smashed it back into the concrete.

You thought your skull had exploded.

Fists ploughed into your jaw but it was as though you were numb now. Finally, his fingers were drawn to your throat, squeezing tightly as he leaned in. The cloth of his hood brushed against your battered body, filling the space between you as his lips pressed against your ear.

“Your fight is finished,” he hissed heatedly. Then König pressed down into your skin.

You don’t remember what happened afterward. You knew that he’d been called off by his chain-of-command just in time to stop himself from ending your life, but that was according to Soap.

You were in a coma for two weeks.

It took you months to recover.

And only once you came back to work, fit to fight and ready to go, had you discovered that König had applied to transfer into the 141 shortly after the incident. KorTac had offered him up to fill in your position while you recovered.

Not only had the bastard nearly killed you but he’d taken your place.

Now that you were back, he would lose his place as a sniper and be back to running with the team on the ground.

König watched you carefully from where he stood.

“You’re my instructor,” you said plainly, stating the obvious. “Price made you my hand-to-hand combat trainer.

“Ironic, isn’t it,” his voice came quietly from beneath the hood, a small snort following in suit.

You would have laughed had you not been so fucking terrified. You were about to take your place back on the team, a position this giant clearly wanted and now he was given the chance to put you back into the hospital with no questions asked.

You wouldn’t be able to do anything against him. König was a mountain of a man, a force to be reckoned with, and while he tried to make himself as disarming as possible it was implausible to hide that frame.

“Did you want to get started?” König asked, leaning his hip against the table beside him. He was so casual for someone who had nearly killed you.

“No,” you said simply.

“Are you not up for this?” König ventured carefully, pushing off the bench and taking a slow step towards you. Your heart thrashed against your ribs at his approaching figure and you forced yourself to stay still. “You still have bruising-“

“That’s what happens when someone shatters your fucking face, cunt,” you snapped, casting your gaze from his. You were hoping that he wouldn’t bring it up, everyone had danced around your condition for so long. No one spoke about how fucking ugly you looked as you tried to recover.

“It was an accident,” his voice was hard, almost bewildered at your sudden aggression. “We both paid the price for someone else’s mistakes.”  

“Don’t talk to me about paying the price, you fucker,” you snapped, shoving against his chest. König yielded a step and it infuriated you even further to know that he’d allowed it. “You got the fucking job you wanted, you got the transfer you wanted, you got the training you wanted. Didn’t you?”

“Yes, but-“

“You wanna know what I got?” You snapped, shoving him harder this time. König’s eyes narrowed and he snatched your wrists, holding them against his ribs to stop your assault. You continued anyway, walking his body backward until his heels hit the wall. “I got put into a fucking coma.”  

König’s gaze softened, his chest heaving beneath your hands. You could feel his heart pounding beneath your fists, you could hear his breaths grow ragged.

“I know,” he murmured, his fingers tightening on your wrists. “I was assigned to watch over your bed for those two weeks."

You stared at him for a long moment, sniffling and gasping for air after your rant. König lowered his head and his grip loosened.

“What I did to you…” he trailed off, unable to meet your gaze. How ugly must you have become that he couldn’t withstand looking at his own handiwork?

You turned around, hiding the hot tears forming along your lashes. You were so fucking ashamed by the terror gripping your throat, embarrassed by how much your image affected you. You hated feeling disgusting. You felt like everyone’s eyes were on you at all times it was suffocating you, they gawked and stared and whispered about how your 'pretty face was ruined.'

You began to understand why people wear masks.

“You ruined me,” you rasped. “And I couldn’t do anything to stop you.”

König was silent from behind you, mulling over your words. You couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed by your outburst. He had stabbed you, shattered your skull, broken your nose and jaw and nearly snapped your neck- he deserved to listen to you yell at him at the very least.

Fingers slid over your shoulders, slowly turning you around to face him. You tugged against his hold half-heartedly, vision swimming beneath never-ending tears.

“Look at me, Birdy.” His voice was soft and pleading, his hand slowly moving to cup your bruised jaw. You froze as he manoeuvred you, forcing you to face him square on. König slowly lowered himself to rest a knee on the ground, leaving him still taller than you but closer to eye level.

With the hand that was free, he reached for his hood. You swallowed nervously as he carefully pulled it from his head, resting the cloth on his upright knee.

Dirty blonde hair lay splayed across his forehead, the length curling by his ears. Dark brows framed the emerald gaze that watched you intently, taking in your visage as you observed him. All of him.

The scars caught your attention.

Winding from his upper lip, across his eye and leaving a line through his brow, the winding length of damaged skin presented itself. There was another scar along the bridge of his nose that travelled across the width of his cheekbone and into his hair.

“Do I…” König trailed off, full lips parting as he mused over his next words. You stared in awe at the innocence of the freckles smattered across his features. “Are you afraid of me?”

You said nothing for a long moment, mesmerized by the features of a man that had haunted your thoughts for months. He’d been the centre of your existence for so long, the reason you ached and the reason you’d bled. König had plagued your every waking moment ever since the incident, and now he knelt before you. He was on his knees baring his vulnerabilities to you, knowing you could destroy him with it.

“Of course,” you whispered; your voice shaky as you met his gaze.

König’s expression became pleading, “then let me teach you how to beat me.”

His thumb lightly caressed your purple cheek, brows furrowed as he took in his handiwork. “Let me pay for what I’ve done by teaching you how to never let it happen again. And when you finally beat me, revenge will be yours and you may do as you wish.”

“Anything I want?” The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them.

A wry, sad smile pulled at the corner of König’s mouth.

“Anything, mein vöglein.”

My little bird.

____

there's a sharp intake of breath as you steadily meet his gaze, and you find yourself rendered speechless at the sight of his eyes. gojo can hear shoko cough lightly, and he steels himself before giving you a forced smile.

"so you're leaving," he whispers, his eyes widening slightly when he realizes what he's just said. you seem to be caught off guard as well, eyebrows raising in surprise before giving him a nod. he takes a moment to breathe, aware of shoko's lingering gaze as the two of you face each other. "oh. i didn't know."

"yeah," you breathe, rubbing your arm as you look away from him. "i hadn't gotten the chance to tell you. it seems like you're always off on a mission these days."

"you could've texted," gojo attempts to say jokingly, wincing when his words fall flat. you laugh lightly at his words, recognizing the teasing undertone even if the delivery had been less than perfect. you always seem to understand gojo, regardless of whether or not he wants you to.

"we both know you never look at your phone," you tease back, giving him a pretty smile that he hasn't seen in a while. he chuckles breathlessly at your jab, and he nods his agreement before glancing at shoko.

"neither do you," he shoots back, the corners of his lips turning up into a small smile when you follow his line of sight. "you gotta get better at that. can't risk pissing shoko off."

the space between the two of you is filled with uncertain laughter at gojo's remark, and you take a moment to study gojo before taking a step forward and wrapping your arms around his neck. he stumbles back a step or two at your sudden action, tensing up when you tuck your face into the crook of his neck.

"i'll miss you," you whisper, your breath warm against his neck. he tries to ignore the goosebumps that rise up along the smooth expanse of his neck, too focused on wrapping his arms around you and pulling you closer to him when he feels you start to step away.

gojo knows that everyone else is watching the two of you, he can feel shoko's soft gaze and yaga's sad look as he does his best to ignore them and bury his face into your hair. there's an intense urge to ask you to stay building up inside of him, and he clamps his lips shut tightly in order to keep himself from blurting out his plea. the two of you remain in each other's arms before you finally take a deep breath and step away, giving gojo a watery smile.

"i'll miss you, satoru," you whisper, looking away and blinking back your tears. "i'll see you later, yeah?"

gojo nods dumbly as you finally walk away, giving everyone one last wave before slipping into the car that's been waiting for you this entire time. it isn't until he sees it disappear from view that gojo realizes that he didn't tell you that he would miss you too.

he wastes no time in slipping his sunglasses back over his eyes, clearing his throat quietly before turning and making his way back inside the building.

a week later, gojo hears that nanami has left jujutsu tech as well, and he can't help but wonder if he'll ever see either of you again.

gojo likes to think that he's matured, even though shoko might say otherwise because she's certain she's right. and also to piss him off.

but the truth is, he's no longer the same spunky, reckless teenager he was before everything went wrong in his life. he knows how to sort of work through his emotions now— in a way he thinks is healthy, he might add, but he can't help but find himself frozen in this very moment. there's a weird ache in his heart, one that he silently notes seems to be brought on by the flurry of emotions he's feeling in that very instant.

he wonders if they're visible on his face. they are.

gojo satoru is the most powerful jujutsu sorcerer in japan, maybe even in the world, and yet he feels like he's been reduced to almost nothing when a familiar face slides into the seat across from him.

five years is clearly not long enough to forget you, gojo realizes, physically wincing at the way his heart seems to race at the sight of you. his eyes meet yours, and he holds steady eye contact with you for a few seconds before ducking his head and quietly excusing himself from the table.

he takes a deep breath to attempt and soothe his rattled nerves as he takes a seat at the bar, squishing himself into the corner so that he's not visible from your table. he orders a soda from the bartender, ignoring the disbelieving look he gets in return before he ambles off to prepare the drink.

gojo has barely taken a sip of the soda before shoko is crashing into his side, settling onto the barstool next to him and digging her elbow into his side as she calls her order out to the bartender. neither of them speak until shoko gets her drink, and she immediately lifts it to her lips and takes a big sip that makes gojo shudder with disgust.

"surprise," shoko says dryly, glancing at gojo as he spares a look in your direction. he notices three extra people at the table, and he lets his shoulders drop in relief when he sees familiar heads of blond, white, and brunette.

"yeah, quite the surprise," gojo huffs, taking another sip of his soda. he stares at shoko until she turns to face him, a mildly displeased look on her face as she takes in his furrowed eyebrows. "i didn't know you still kept in contact with them."

"i didn't know you didn't still keep in contact with them," shoko shoots back, raising an eyebrow as she studies gojo's conflicted expression. she continues before he can gather his thoughts, earning a loud sigh as she speaks. "you kept in contact with nanami just fine. in fact, all he does is complain about how you never leave him alone."

gojo swallows harshly at shoko's words, and he thinks long and hard before deciding to remain silent for the time being. he can't find it in himself to admit that the thought of reaching out to you hurts him more than he cares to admit. you had left the jujutsu world, the one part of your life that included him, behind. even if he wanted to, gojo doesn't think he can find the words to express how he's feeling.

"switch seats with me when we get back to the table," gojo says suddenly, pausing to slurp up the rest of his drink. shoko glares at him when he sucks on nothing but air, the obnoxious sound causing her to reach over and flick him in the cheek. gojo grins widely when she hits nothing but air, his infinity protecting him from shoko's incredibly violent wrath.

"no," she says, getting off her barstool and picking up her drink. gojo realizes too late that she's heading back to the table, and he scrambles after her in an attempt to get there before her. his attempts are fruitless, and he finds himself awkwardly standing behind shoko's seat as she takes her place two chairs down from you.

gojo acts normal when everyone turns to glance at him, and he stiffly makes his way back to his own seat, avoiding your questioning gaze as he sits down. it takes a second for the table to break out into chatter again, and gojo doesn't hesitate before turning to the seat next to him and striking up a conversation with utahime. he notices mei mei grab your attention out of the corner of his eye, and he can't help but sigh in relief as he focuses on utahime once again, disregarding her annoyed look.

gojo is certain that ignoring you is much easier than dealing with whatever the hell is causing him to feel like he's dying inside.

the days that follow the dinner at the restaurant are unnervingly quiet, and gojo finds himself sitting on his couch and wondering if he should reach out to you.

there are no missions to take at the moment, and gojo is left with nothing to do but stare at his phone and wait for a message that never comes. megumi takes note of his sullen behavior, and although a part of him is curious about gojo's sudden attitude change, he doesn't think he actually cares enough to ask the white-haired sorcerer about what seems to be bothering him.

a few more days pass before gojo ultimately decides that reaching out to you would do more harm than good, especially with the way he completely ignored you at dinner. he's given no time to even think about changing his mind, and the very next day, he's being sent out on yet another mission.

he eventually falls into the same monotonous routine his life had prior to his run-in with you, and he wonders what would've changed if he had decided to take the chance and reach out the day after seeing you. there's a dull ache in his chest that seems to linger even after he makes his decision, and it only seems to get worse whenever shoko deigns to share updates about you with him.

the two of them know that gojo is more than grateful for her updates, even if he refuses to ask about you outright. he's certain that if he were to fully give into his curiosity that his heart would feel like it's giving out on him, and not even shoko's displeased looks are enough for him to get over himself and just ask you directly. he's even stopped pestering nanami, too afraid that he would give in and ask him questions about you.

it isn't until a long time passes (a year and a half; he's kept count) that gojo thinks he's finally getting over it— getting over you. his heart finally starts feeling lighter and breathing becomes a little bit easier and he can't help but think about how silly he was being, staying hung up for so long on somebody who probably never even thought twice about him.

they're small improvements but they're still improvements, and gojo reminds himself of that even as he walks down the busy streets of tokyo. he breathes out a sigh of relief as he slips into the local pharmacy, the cool air conditioning a welcome reprieve from the sticky heat outside.

he mumbles to himself as he moves through the aisles, scanning the shelves as he looks for children's allergy medication. the sudden weather changes had affected megumi and tsumiki in a way none of them had expected, and gojo was left alone to deal with their pitiful sniffles and soft complaints.

"allergy meds," he whispers, reaching out to grab a box only to put it back when it's not the one he's looking for. "there's so much cough syrup, where's the aller—"

"gojo?"

so maybe he hasn't improved, gojo thinks to himself as he freezes up at the sound of your voice. he holds his breath as you approach him, and he squeezes his eyes shut when he feels your sleeve brush against his.

six and a half years isn't enough to forget about you either, it seems.

"it's been a while, huh?" you ask, giving him a soft glance before looking at the shelves in front of you. there's a light hum that escapes your lips as you bend down to grab something before straightening up and holding out a box in your hand. "allergy meds, right?"

gojo nods silently as he takes the box from you, quickly scanning the text on it to make sure it was the right brand. there's an awkward silence as he thinks about what to say, and he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind when you turn your face away from him.

"it's not for me!"

a noise that gojo thinks might be a giggle leaves your lips at his proclamation, and he mentally kicks himself for starting up a conversation with you.

"it's for megumi, right?" you ask softly, unaware of the way gojo's eyes widen at your question. "that zenin kid you took in?"

when you notice gojo's shocked look, you hastily ass onto your statement. "shoko told me about him when i asked about you."

'shoko told me about him when i asked about you.'

gojo thinks he feels his head spin when he hears those words come out of your mind. he does his best to remain calm, reaching out a hand to lean against the shelf comfortably and wincing when he instead knocks down a row of the cough syrups he had been studying earlier.

"uh, fushiguro, actually," he mutters, doing his best to focus on straightening out the products he knocked down. "his dad took his wife's last name or something like that. but yeah, the medicine is for him and his sister."

he finds himself shuffling awkwardly as you look down at your watch, eyes widening slightly when you take note of the time. he watches as you turn to face the shelf behind you, quickly plucking some eye drops off the shelf before turning back to him.

"i have to go, i'm running late for a meeting," you say sheepishly, giving gojo a soft smile. he gives you a half-smile in return, accompanied by a lazy wave as he waits for you to leave. you stand in front of him for a second, hesitating slightly before leaning in and wrapping your arms around him in a quick hug. gojo tenses up in your embrace, his breath catching in his throat and hands freezing mid-air before he hesitantly places them on your back. you pull back slightly after a few seconds, looking up at gojo with a stare that makes his heart feel like it's about to beat out of his chest before you address him once more. "it was nice to see you. we should catch up sometime."

you're gone with a smile and a wave, quickly paying for your eye drops before darting out the door. gojo remains in his spot for five minutes after your departure, only moving when he sees the amused look the cashier seems to be giving him. he doesn't speak as he pays for the allergy medication, and he hastily makes his exit back into the stifling heat. he starts walking down the street as he tucks his change into his pocket, eyebrows furrowing in confusion when his fingers brush against a piece of paper that hadn't bee there before.

there's an annoyed grumble from a passerby when gojo suddenly stops in the middle of the street, his fingers clutching onto the paper that contains very familiar handwriting.

'can't wait to see you again! :)'

the line is followed by what he assumes to be your phone number, and gojo can't help but wonder when you had the chance to write the note. he begins moving down the street again, his steps sluggish as he hesitates near a trash can. before he can think any harder, he lets the paper flutter into wastebasket, only pausing for a brief second before moving away.

not seeing you over the past year and a half made his heart feel lighter, yet all it took was a five minute interaction with you to make his heart feel worse than it ever had before.

the world loves to play cruel jokes on him, gojo thinks.

the past two years have been a whirlwind of chaos and uncertainty, and he's had no time to stop and think about you while dealing with geto, sukuna, and the emergence of the cursed spirit that calls itself mahito.

if he really thinks about it, he's had no time to sit and rest. from geto's attack to yuuta's training to megumi's missions to yuuji's interesting choice that led to him eating sukuna's finger, he's had no time to sit and truly enjoy the little things life has to offer.

(not that he's ever had the time. the life of a special grade sorcerer is a busy one, but gojo can't deny that things weren't always as complicated as they have been the last couple of years.)

so when yaga tells him that nanami is returning to jujutsu tech, gojo thinks that it's the perfect time to let yuuji learn from someone other than him while he takes care of some unfinished business. what he doesn't expect however, is to see you standing next to nanami, a pretty smile on your face as you greet yaga with a hug.

ten years. ten years and somehow, you still manage to make gojo feel the same way he did way back then.

there's something wrong with him, he thinks, especially because it's starting to seem like he's cursed to always somehow coexist with those he cares about without ever fully being a part of their lives. there's no way he can turn around and pretend he never saw you, not with the way yaga is already yelling at him to go over and greet the returners.

gojo wonders why this happens every time he sees you. he doesn't know how to label what he feels whenever you pop up in his life, and it isn't until you give him a hesitant greeting— your tone shy and awkward after receiving nothing but radio silence from him— that gojo thinks he might finally know what it is he feels for you.

and when the thought of him being in love with you crosses his mind and makes him feel like he wants to die, all he can do is tamp down his swirling emotions with a goofy grin aimed at nanami.

"nanami! what a pleasure to see you here," gojo sings, immediately pulling the blond man into a reluctant hug. he gives you a polite nod in greeting, and he can't help the way his heart sinks when you nod in response and look away.

"likewise," nanami replies, his tone strained as he pulls away from gojo. he fixes his shirt as he steps over to you, and the two of you stand silently as you wait for yaga to speak.

"introduce them to yuuji," yaga says, turning around and heading back towards his office. "and don't cause trouble. i mean it, satoru."

gojo giggles at yaga's words before clapping his hands and motioning for the two of you to follow after him, leading you down a series of hallways before you come to a stop in front of an empty room.

"yuuji! there's someone i'd like you to meet!"

you're taken slightly aback when your eyes meet bright, brown ones, and you can't help but stare as a teenage boy with pink hair comes to a stop in front of you and nanami.

"this is nanami kento!" gojo all but yells, once again slinging his arm around nanami's shoulders and swaying him back and forth. the boy, yuuji, looks at nanami curiously, his eyes focused on the glasses perched on his nose. he has no time to speak before gojo is introducing you as well, his voice softer than it had been when introducing nanami. yuuji's eyes sparkle as they shift to you, and all of a sudden he's breaking out into a boyish smile that only serves to remind you just how young he really is.

"woah! i didn't think you were actually real!" he proclaims, earning a strained laugh from gojo. "when gojo mentioned you he said you were really p—"

the rest of his words are muffled, gojo's hands clamped tightly against his mouth as he pulls yuuji away from you. out of the corner of your eye, you can see nanami staring at you, and you only give him a shrug in return as gojo pats yuuji's head and lets him go.

"you'll be following them around on missions," gojo finally explains, pushing yuuji towards you and nanami. "they're both grade 1 sorcerers so don't worry, you'll be safe! now if you'll excuse me, i have to go."

gojo's out of the room before either of you can breathe out a goodbye, and you tense for a second before excusing yourself and following after him. he hasn't gotten terribly far, but his long legs give him the advantage of staying ahead of you even as you start jogging lightly in an attempt to catch up to him.

"gojo!" you call out, huffing lightly when he ignores you and turns a corner. "hey! gojo, wait! satoru!"

the sounds of his given name has his steps faltering, and he reluctantly turns around when he hears your footsteps getting closer and closer. there's a rigidity to his stance that you've never seen, his shoulders hunched in an almost defensive way as you finally come to a stop in front of him.

"yeah?" he asks, an uncomfortable grin settling on his lips as he looks anywhere but you. he's grateful for his blindfold in this very moment, the dark fabric preventing him from seeing you in your entirety and preventing you from seeing the way he can't seem to look at you for more than half a second.

"i—," you say, starting to speak and cutting yourself off before looking down at the ground. you sigh softly, shaking your head lightly as your shoulders slump. "never mind. forget about it."

you turn to walk back to the room, and gojo feels like he might actually keel over and die right then and there if he lets you walk away yet again.

"how have you been?"

gojo's question hangs in the air, and he can't help but flinch when you finally look at him again, your eyes swirling with hurt and sadness and other emotions that pass so quickly that gojo isn't sure he could figure out what they were even if he tried.

"you'd know if you hadn't thrown my phone number away," you retort quietly, crossing your arms as he approaches you. gojo breathes in sharply at your words but remains quiet, his throat going dry as he realizes that you had seen what he did that day. "why, gojo?"

gojo weighs his options, vacillating between telling you the truth or spewing a lie. the words seem to spill out of his mouth before he can even think about whether or not to say them, a trend he notices is extremely common whenever he's in your presence. "because you've ruined my life."

okay, so the truth it is.

your eyes widen in hurt when you take in his words, and it takes everything you have to not burst into tears on the spot. "oh, i see."

"wait," gojo says, scrambling to fix the situation that just keeps getting worse and worse with everything he says or does. "that's not what i meant."

"then what did you mean?" you ask sharply, your eyes narrowing slightly as you stare him down.

"what i mean is that i think i love you," he says in a rush, ignoring the way your eyes widen in surprise at his admission. he doesn't give you the chance to respond, too focused on saying everything that's been building up for the past decade before he gets cold feet. "you've ruined my life, you know? it's been ten years but it's damn near impossible to get over you. my heart still feels as heavy as it did the day you let, maybe even heavier, and i threw away your number because i didn't see any benefit in reaching out to you. why would i torture myself by keeping in contact with you when i belong to the world you wanted to leave behind?"

"i wanted to leave the jujutsu world behind," you interject softly, taking a hesitant step towards gojo before coming to a stop. "that doesn't mean i wanted to leave gojo satoru behind."

"oh," gojo breathes. he wonders if you can hear how loud his heart is beating in his chest, and he decides that maybe he doesn't care. "does that mean that—"

"i liked you?" you interrupt, nodding your head softly. "or like, i guess. i agree, ten years isn't enough to get over you."

"i was talking about you," gojo mumbles dumbly, earning a shrug in response from you. a loud crash sounds from the direction of the room you had left nanami in, and you give gojo a hesitant look before motioning in the direction of the noise.

"i should probably go and check that out," you say quietly, a smile twitching at the corners of your lips. "y'know, make sure that nanami is okay."

"um, yeah. yeah that sounds reasonable," gojo says, his mind still focused on your impromptu confession.

"i don't think this conversation is over yet," you continue, breathing out a laugh when gojo nods in agreement. he jumps slightly when you take his hand in yours, slipping a piece of paper into in before tugging him down to press a kiss to his cheek. "let me know when you're free, yeah? maybe we can get dinner or something and talk."

"are you asking me out on a date?" he asks cheekily, doing his best to compose himself.

"maybe i am," you say slyly, squeezing his hand once before letting go. you turn to walk down the hall, only pausing to look at him over your shoulder once before you turn the corner. "don't lose my number this time, okay?"

gojo chuckles at your words, nodding in agreement as he gives you a lazy salute. "i wouldn't dream of it."

it isn't until you're out of sight that gojo realizes his heart feels the lightest that it's ever felt in years, and he finds himself once again wondering when you had gotten the chance to write the note.

It isn't until you shoot a panicked look at Nanami that he intervenes, grabbing you by the collar of your uniform and dragging you away from Gojo as he scowls.

"I hate to cut this enlightening conversation short," he begins, disdain clear on his face as he gives you a look. "But we have a mission to get to. You two can keep talking later."

There's barely a goodbye said before you're on your way again, leaving Gojo standing in the middle of the path as you resume your conversation with Nanami and Haibara.

It isn't until the three of you have left the school grounds that Nanami side-eyes you, huffing out the faintest of laughs when you refuse to meet his gaze.

"Gojo? Really?" he asks, rolling his eyes as you shake your head at his words.

"I don't know what you mean," you proclaim, still avoiding his eyes as you keep walking.

"Sure you don't," Nanami says, feeling slightly nauseous due to how much he's thinking about Gojo. "And you two definitely weren't giving each other heart eyes back there."

"We were not!" you yell, slapping his shoulder a few times to cover up your embarrassment.

"Ow! Okay, you weren't!" Nanami concedes, grabbing your hand and pushing you away softly in order to get you to stop. "The two of you were having a really normal, really casual conversation. That's all."

He almost smiles when he sees the scathing look on your face, instead choosing to keep looking straight ahead as you reach the train station.

The silence only lasts a few seconds before Haibara speaks up.

"I don't know, I think the two of you would look good together!"

A defeated sigh escapes Nanami's lips as Gojo slides into the seat across from him, a huge grin on his face as he swipes Nanami's croissant off of his plate.

"Gojo," Nanami greets dryly, lips pursed as he watches his upperclassman. There's a moment of silence as Gojo bites into the pastry, eyes lighting up in delight as he sets it back down before lacing his fingers together.

"A dark chocolate croissant?" he asks, studying the younger boy from behind his sunglasses. "I didn't take you for the type to like sweets."

"I don't," Nanami sighs, a smug look on his face as Gojo takes another bite. "That's not for me."

Gojo freezes when he sees you walk in, watching as your eyes crinkling when you smile at Nanami. He observes you quietly, mouth slightly agape, as you ruffle Nanami's hair. The blond shoots you an annoyed look, scooting deeper into the booth when you slide in next to him.

"Gojo, hi!" you greet, your smile falling when you see the half-eaten pastry in his hand. "Was that my croissant?"

"No!"

"Yes."

Gojo sends Nanami a glare, lips twisting into a frown when he sees the smug look on Nanami's face intensify. His frown drops however, as he takes the opportunity to send you a charming grin, leaning in close in an attempt to grab you attention.

"Let me buy you a new one," he states, grin widening when you give him a shocked look. He waits a few seconds for your response, shoulders stiffening when you shake you head.

"No, that's okay!" you reply with a grin of your own. Gojo chooses to ignore the way Nanami's lips twitch in amusement. "Nanami bought me that one because he lost a bet but I don't really mind. I'm more in the mood for a slice of chocolate cake today anyways. I'll be right back!"

Gojo watches you stride up to the counter, smiling at the cashier before purchasing your cake. There's familiarity in the way you banter with the employee, and you don't look around or hesitate before locating the napkins and utensils.

"How often do the two of you come here?" Gojo asks, his eyes never leaving your form as you wait for your order.

"Every week," Nanami says, pausing for a second before continuing. "Or after every mission."

Gojo hums in response, silence falling over the two of them once more.

"You know," Nanami begins, a rare hint of teasing in his tone. "You can look away. She won't disappear if you take your eyes off of her."

Gojo sticks his tongue out at his underclassman, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat as he finally looks at him. Nanami meets his gaze evenly, looking almost bored as Gojo gets lost in thought.

"Let me know," Gojo eventually says, gaze now trained back on you.

"Let you know what?" Nanami asks uncertainly, nervousness settling in his stomach as he waits for a response.

"Whenever you plan on coming here. I'll join the two of you," Gojo says confidently, missing the way Nanami's face falls in disdain.

"Absolutely not," he replies, shaking his head firmly as Gojo shoots him an offended look.

"C'mon Nanami! Please?" Gojo asks, his lips in a pout in an attempt to wear him down. His pout only gets bigger when Nanami refuses, and he even lets out a slight whimper that only serves to make Nanami's eye twitch.

"I already said no," he states, almost unkindly. "I see enough of you at school, I will not have you are not crashing our class's hangouts just because you can't grow some balls and ask her out on a date."

"I don't want to ask her out on a date!" Gojo denies. The pink tint on his cheeks lets Nanami know he's lying. "I just like the croissants from here, that's all."

"Then you can come with Geto or Shoko. It's still a no."

"Fine," Gojo huffs, looking away as you rejoin the table. You pause briefly, glancing at the two boys in front of you before sliding into your seat once more.

"Where's Haibara?" you ask, digging into your cake as you look at Nanami.

"I don't know," Nanami admits, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he glances towards the door. "Maybe I should go look for him in case he got lost again."

Gojo stands up before either of you can move, giving you a lazy grin as he shoves his hands into his pockets. "Let me. I have to get going anyways so I'll be sure to send him your way."

"Thanks, Gojo!" you say, giving him a smile. His cheeks grow slightly darker before he hurries out of sight, and Nanami can't help but watch as Gojo sends you one last look before exiting.

Nanami is surprised to see that Gojo keeps his word, and although he sees him eating sweets from the bakery occasionally, he never shows up while the three of you are there.

What does show up every time they go to the bakery is a few bills in Nanami's pocket, a little note always secured to it.

"for the dark chocolate croissants but shhh don't tell her."

The exchange event is one that almost everyone looks forward to, except the students from Kyoto who know what Gojo is capable of.

So when they hear that he'll be absent from the event this year, off on some mission of high importance, they can't help but breath out sighs of relief.

You're in your second year now, a bit more mature and grown up than you had been the previous year. The past year has changed you, hardened your view of the jujutsu world, and pushed you to become a better sorcerer. You now hold the rank of semi-grade 1 and if you're being completely honest, you don't feel all that intimidated by the competition.

You manage to catch a glimpse of Utahime, who seems to be in high spirits after learning that Gojo would be absent this year. There's a couple of other students you vaguely recognize, but you end up sticking to Nanami's side as you wait for the event to start.

It's an abnormally small competition this year, and the only ones present from Tokyo Jujutsu High are you, Nanami, and Shoko. The Kyoto school had only sent four students, and you and Nanami exchange glances as you study them from afar. You think they seem kind of weak.

Your assumptions turn out to be right, and the three of you have no trouble beating them in the team battle the first day. The second day is full of excitement and concern, with the one-on-one battles being put on hold as they try to figure out how they're going to pair the students up.

The issue is resolved when Gojo Satoru walks in, a huge smile on his face as he greets the Kyoto principal with a witty one liner. He ignores the way the older man complains, turning to Yaga and giving him a brief report on his mission.

You watch his from afar as he speaks, studying him quietly from your seat next to Nanami. You don't see Gojo that often anymore, the previous year having taken a toll on all of you after the incidents with Haibara, Geto, and Amanai Riko. Between your intensive training and Gojo's constant missions, you hadn't really had the chance to sit and speak with your upperclassman like you had a couple of times before.

"You're not subtle with your staring at all," Nanami mumbles, grabbing your attention with an elbow to your side.

"I wasn't staring," you argue petulantly. "I just haven't seen him in a while, that's all."

"Sure," is all Nanami says, watching the way your eyes drift back to Gojo. "Just admit you like him."

"Who likes who?" Shoko asks, leaning forward from her place on Nanami's other side.

"She likes Gojo," Nanami says quickly, earning a slap to the head from you. Shoko's nose scrunches in distaste before she composes herself, giving you a friendly smile.

"You could do better but you could also do much worse," she whispers to you, earning a snort from Nanami. "This is good. He'll be happy to know."

"No! He's not going to know," you hiss in response, shaking your head furiously. Shoko opens her mouth to speak, only to stop herself when Gojo himself plops down into the seat next to you.

"Ooo are we sharing secrets over here?" he asks, leaning forwards conspiratorially. Your wide eyed stare goes ignored as Yaga calls for everyone's attention, announcing that thanks to Gojo's last minute arrival, the exchange event could proceed smoothly.

The conversation comes to a stop as the pairing are announced, and the poor student who gets paired with Gojo goes pale at the news. Shoko's match is first, and she ends up losing to a third year from Kyoto who took advantage of her hand-to-hand combat skills to pin her down. Gojo's match is over before it even starts, with his opponent surrendering out of fear before the battle even starts. Nanami's match against Utahime is also over relatively quickly, with him emerging as the winner and giving you an encouraging pat on the back as you walk up to take your place.

Your opponent is one of the third years, tall with an intimidating stare. You can feel your friends' eyes on you, and you make sure to remain relaxed as you study your opponent. He lunges as soon as the battle starts, and you weave back and forth, dodging his hits as you try to think of the best way to find an opening.

Gojo watches as you dance around your opponent, drawing out the fight by exchanging blows with him as you taunt him. He thinks that saying that you're exchanging blows is too generous considering the fact that your opponent hasn't been able to land a single hit on you at all. The fight ends quickly when you decide to use your cursed technique, and he watches you smile smugly as Yaga announces the winner.

He looks to his side to see Shoko already staring at him, eyebrows raised as she tilts her head towards you.

"You're hopeless," she scoffs, brushing her hair out of her face before leaning back in her seat.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he responds smoothly, turning back to look at you. He stiffens when he sees you looking in his direction, and he sends a grin and a thumbs up your way.

"Sure you don't," Shoko says in an amused tone, watching the way Gojo's ears turn red when you send him a thumbs up back. "Just tell her you think she's cute."

Gojo gives her a scandalized look, opening his mouth to tell her exactly why that would be a bad idea before his gaze drifts back to you. He stands as he sees you walking over towards the refreshments, brushing Shoko off with a half-wave before following after you.

"Hey!" he breathes out, coming to a stop next to you and reaching out blindly for a drink.

"Gojo, hey! It's been a while," you greet in response. "Sorry I didn't say hi earlier, we were in the middle of a weird conversation."

"The secret, right?" he asks, opening the random bottle in his hand and taking a sip as he tries to ignore the way you giggle at his words.

"Anyways, you did good out there," you tease, your eyes dancing with mirth as you glance at his former opponent. "You're so strong you didn't even have to do anything."

Gojo can't help but chuckle at your words, shaking his head lightly before leaning against the table next to him. "You did great too. You've improved a lot. I heard you're semi-grade 1 now?"

"I am," you confirm, a proud smile present on your face as you nod. Gojo watches the way your hair bounces with the movement, and he resists the urge to reach out and tuck it behind your ear. "I'm hoping to make grade 1 by the beginning of my third year."

"If anyone can do it, it's you," Gojo responds, unable to stop his next words from slipping out. "You're just incredible."

He watches the way your eyes snap to him in shock, a quiet laugh leaving your lips before you look away shyly. He still thinks you're kind but now he thinks that there is room in the jujutsu world for kindness if it comes from you.

"Thanks," you mumble, looking down at your feet.

"I mean it," Gojo says, uncharacteristically gentle with his tone.

A call of your name snaps you out of your shy state, and you turn to see Utahime waving you over frantically. You turn to give Gojo an apologetic look, biting your lip briefly before speaking.

"It was nice catching up with you," you say softly. "We should do it again sometime."

Gojo mutters a goodbye as you walk away, watching as you launch yourself at Utahime when you're close enough for her to catch you. He watches as you toss your head back at something Utahime says, your laughter ringing out across the field before you link arms with her and walk away.

"As I said," Shoko says, sidling up to Gojo as she places a cigarette between her lips. She glances at you before taking in Gojo's almost-lovesick expression, digging her elbow into his side in an attempt to break his stare. "Hopeless."

He makes sure to congratulate you on your promotion at the beginning of your third year.

He doesn't see you after you graduate from Tokyo Jujutsu High.

There's a rumor going around, that you've gone abroad to help in other countries and he finds himself wondering if it's true. He can't bring himself to reach out to Nanami and ask.

He finds himself frequenting the cafe you used to visit with Nanami and Haibara, ordering a dark chocolate croissant and a hot chocolate for himself as he takes a seat in a booth by a window.

It's in this same cafe where you find him, having been told by Yaga that it was where he spent a lot of his time.

His eyes widen in shock as you slide into the seat across from him, immediately recognizing you even if it's been a couple of years since he last saw you. He thinks that the years have been all too kind to you, and the soft grin pulling on your lips makes his heart race the same way it used to back in high school.

He's realizing that he never quite got over you.

"Gojo," you greet, the smile on your face growing when he says your name in return. "I'm glad I found you. I was told that you already knew all the details of the mission and that you'd be filling me in?"

"What?" Gojo asks dumbly, only catching half of the words you said. He straightens up when he processes the word "mission" and he finally understands why you're here in the first place. "You're my partner for the hospital mission?"

You nod eagerly, reaching forward and swiping the croissant off of Gojo's plate.

"Hey! That was mine," he protests weakly, still trying to figure out how you ended up being his partner.

"Consider this revenge for that one time you ate mine," you tease, giving him a sly wink before biting into the pastry. Gojo swears his heart stutters at the action, and he breathes in deeply before focusing on the task at hand.

"So why'd you come back now?" he asks casually, earning a soft hum from you.

"I missed Tokyo," you admit, putting the rest of the croissant down and wiping your hands on a napkin. "Kyoto is nice and I love Utahime, but I missed home. And Shoko, and Nanami, and you, I guess."

Gojo huffs out a laugh at your words, leaning forward and giving you a curious glance. "Kyoto?"

"I was hired after graduation," you explained. "They needed some extra help and I happened to be available. I would've stayed in Tokyo but they really needed someone. Now, what's this I hear about a special grade curse?"

Gojo manages to explain the mission to you without any more distractions, only pausing to see if you have any questions and continuing when you don't. The two of you take off as soon as he finishes, making your way to the old, dilapidated building on the outskirts of the city.

"Creepy," you remark, hands in your coat pocket as you look up at the building. Gojo hums in agreement taking a step forward before looking back at you.

"Remember, you're here to run interference in case something happens," Gojo say seriously. "So here's the plan: you stay behind me and stay alert."

He receives a serious nod from you in return before leading you inside, only for his plan to fall apart almost instantly. He thinks the curse is mildly intelligent; there's no other way to explain the way it separates the two of you so easily as though it had been waiting for your arrival.

Gojo can feel the curse following him, stalking him through the halls until it deems him distracted enough to attack. He's thankful that its chosen him as its target. He doesn't give it the chance to surprise him, immediately appearing behind it and kicking it into through the wall and into the waiting room next door.

He wastes no time in following after it, avoiding its attacks with ease and fighting back when he sees an opening. The two of them move back and forth in a distorted dance, and Gojo can't help the way he giggles at the thought before jumping away from an attack.

His laughter turns into an embarrassing yelp when he steps on a weak piece of wood over a gaping hole, the little, makeshift bridge snapping under his weight and sending his foot through the ceiling. He falls to the ground, arms supporting his weight as he senses the curse approaching eagerly, thinking it's caught him at some sort of disadvantage as it sprints toward him.

Gojo rolls his eyes as he raises his hand, getting ready to exorcise the curse and pausing when something— you, he realized belatedly— bursts through the door. There's a determined look on your face as you kick at the curse, and it's only when the curse disintegrates instantly that Gojo realizes what just happened.

"You just used a black flash," he says casually, his foot still stuck in the floor and hands pushing at the ground in an attempt to get up. You give him a confused look before glancing at the spot where the curse was standing a few seconds ago, kicking at the dust that had settled in the aftermath.

"Oh. Is that what that was?" you ask curiously, a thoughtful hum leaving your lips as you approach him. "Interesting."

"You didn't have to do that, y'know?" Gojo says, his tone filled with amusement as he watches your eyes drift towards his predicament. Your hands loop under his arms, gently pulling him up in an attempt to help.

"You sure?"

"Infinity," Gojo says, the singular word causing your mouth to drop open in realization. "The curse couldn't have touched me anyways. But I'm honored to see that you were so concerned about me."

"I wasn't concerned," you protest weakly, eyes shifting around the room in an attempt to avoid his gaze.

"You were," Gojo teases, laughing when you shoot him a glare. "So concerned in fact, that you manifested a black flash attack."

"Are we done here?" you snap letting go of him and taking a step back. He falls back with a grunt, and you don't wait for your response before turning around and heading to the door. "Okay, good. I'll see you around."

"Hey! Aren't you gonna help me?" Gojo yells, calling after you as your footsteps fade. He tries yelling out your name a few more times before giving up, gently guiding his leg out from the hole before flopping onto his back.

There's a grin on his face as he stares up at the ceiling, thinking about the way you looked as you fought the curse. As you saved him.

When the two of you give Yaga your report the next day, Gojo's eyes stay trained on you.

A couple of months later, Gojo finds himself wandering around an estate unfamiliar to him.

The garden is huge, boasting flowers that Gojo didn't even know existed. He crouches down to examine a small bunch of blooms that he thinks might be forget-me-nots, springing back up to his feet when an attendant softly calls his name.

He gives the young girl a smile before following her down multiple winding hallways, receiving a bow from her when they finally approach a set of large, mahogany doors.

"She will see you now," the attendant says softly, motioning towards the door. "Whenever you're ready, sir."

She leaves him alone in the hallway, and Gojo merely smiles to himself before opening the doors and entering the large room. He approaches the figure in the room confidently before kneeling down and bowing his head, earning a laugh from the person in front of him.

"Please, nothing of that, Gojo Satoru," the woman says, waving towards the seat across from her. "Take a seat. To what do I owe the honor?"

Gojo slides into the wooden seat before looking up, making eye contact with the woman he knows to be your grandmother. The matriarch of your clan.

"I have come with a proposal," Gojo says, ignoring the suspicious look he receives. "I know about the predicament your clan is facing. You're at the risk of being dissolved and I'm sure this will solve your problems."

"You're lying," your grandmother states casually, causing Gojo's eyes to widen slightly. "Tell me why you are truly here."

"How did you know?" Gojo asks quietly, looking down at his hands to avoid her intense gaze.

"Call it women's intuition," your grandmother replies, her eyes crinkling as she smiles. "Now, why are you here?"

Gojo takes a deep breath before straightening up in his seat. He removes his sunglasses, folding the arms and placing them on the table before meeting your grandmother's gaze head-on. "I am here to ask for your permission"

"Permission for what?" your grandmother asks immediately, her tone defensive as she questions him.

"I seem to have fallen in love with your granddaughter," Gojo admits, his heart pounding as he sees the corner of your grandmother's lips twitch. He steels himself before continuing, hoping to anything and everything in the world that your grandmother would hear him out.

"I am here to ask you for your permission to court her and eventually, should she be in agreement, marry her."

That was not a lie. It was actually 50% of his main reasons anyway. The other 50% was to repent what he missed with Suguru when he chose his dark path—his contempt with the current system of this jujutsu world.

"I would," Yaga responded gruffly. To him, Satoru was irritating, but he also knew that he was also extremely capable, and thus everything he did wasn't just out of nowhere. "But you still have to submit your applications. We can't make an exception even if you come from a prestigious clan."

"That's fine with me," he grinned. "Thanks, sensei."

On summer days, he'd get reminded of Suguru and silly things they had done together. Eating shaved ice, cycling together, driving either you, Shoko or Nanami mad. Satoru missed those days, it hadn't been the same ever since. Not knowing if his best friend was alright—if he was still alive at all—was exhausting.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one who was affected by his departure, the only one who stayed right where Suguru left him. Shoko didn't seem ruffled, if anything she just went to more bars and pachinko parlors as of late. Nanami was always a recluse, he never disclosed his feelings. You mourned him, but it was clear that most part of you would always be more focused on Haibara's death.

Satoru understood that he couldn't force anyone to feel what he felt, and he had no right to. But sometimes, he just wanted someone to connect with at his level. Someone to get him just like Suguru did.

And so when he got back to his condo that night—just right next to the one he rented for Megumi and Tsumiki, since he had moved out of his dorm—to find his girlfriend there with a big smile and a tray of cupcakes, unaware of everything and anything, he merely scoffed to himself.

"Satoru, you're back," you acknowledged, beaming like the sunshine you were. "I just baked these for the kids. Do you want some?"

Usually he'd smother you, throw some pickup lines here and there and say yes, but today, he just felt drained. "No." And with that, he stalked away to the bathroom, not glancing back at you.

It was wrong. But tonight he just wanted some peace and quiet, and so keeping his silence seemed to be the best choice as he didn't want to start a pointless argument with you. But you weren’t anything but observant, and definitely noticed that something was amiss with him.

"Are you... alright?" You approached him warily after he came out of the bathroom with wet hair. "Where were you today?"

"Just somewhere," he replied curtly. Afterwards he turned on the hairdryer, drowning the whole place with the noise even as you stood behind him with a visible question mark.

But you were still there after he dried his hair. "Is something bothering you?" you asked with a tilt of your head, concerned. By all means, you mean well. You just wanted to know if he could use your help at all.

When you pulled that expression, he couldn't help feeling annoyed, like he wanted you to take a hint, but you just didn't. "If you know, then just shut it."

It was probably the first time since the two of you got together that Satoru actually said something harsh. But you still tried to be reasonable though, bless you.

"Satoru, I don't know what got into your nerves like this, but I think sleeping through it might help. Have a rest."

"Why are you talking as if you know it?" he snapped, finally turning to you with his cold gaze. "You might not know anything, so don't be a know-it-all. Just mind your own business."

Now you were frustrated with his reply. "Once again, I don't know what happened to you. But if you're taking it out on me because I'm the closest you have—"

"Who said that?" Satoru didn't know where he got all this venom from. It was just at the forefront of his mind and he just got the urge to spew it. "You're considering yourself closest to me? Where did you get that big head from?"

You were aghast, and you blinked a few times to get your bearings. "Let me guess, it's about Geto-san, isn't it? Or the higher ups. Either of that must be what causing you to blindly place your anger on me."

"So what if it was? It isn't like you'll understand anyway."

"Satoru," you started, trying to even your breathing. "What happened to Geto-san isn't your fault. I've been telling you this. It can't be helped—"

"Can't be helped?" he jeered. "Do you know why it has come to this?" his tone took a dangerous edge as he stepped closer. He reached for you, grasping your wrist.

"Maybe because I was too blind back then. If it weren't for you—if only I didn't spend that much time on you, maybe he would still be here."

Did he just say that? Did he just imply that he had regretted the two of you getting together?

You felt your lower lip start to tremble and something seemed to obscure and blur your vision, making it hard to see him clearly. "You... don't mean that."

"Really?" the corner of his lips curled into a disparaging smile. "You never know. Before you know it, this can be over already. After all, I could have anyone out there that I want. Maybe someone less nosey than—”

That did it. You wrenched your arm out of his grip violently, as your first tear fell. His smirk vanished too, replaced with a total stillness to cover his sudden panic that was followed by a sudden sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"You selfish, self-obsessed jerk," you hissed through watery eyes. He was taken aback, even amidst your anger and possible fear of him, your still managed to throw daggers at him. "Fine. You have it. I'll see myself out."

Satoru never wanted you to leave. Honestly, he would've made you stay. But he wasn't in the right state of mind and it was too late to take back what he said. He didn't want to mess this up even further.

You left the cupcakes, even throwing it away just to spite him. Driven by pain and humiliation, you choked back your sob and didn't spare a glance at him as you shut the door.

Peace and quiet. There he had it, he thought as he clenched his fists, at the cost of everything else.

Leaving that condo, every step you took felt like needles piercing your shattered heart. You wiped your tears roughly. No, you refused to cry over such asshole. He made it clear, didn't he? Whatever it was that you two shared, it was at the cost of his best friend leaving him. So now the blame was on you.

If you were thinking clearly, you would've understood that his words were likely a result of his own pent-up pain and frustration that he had kept to himself for some while. But you had no patience for that or even pinpoint what you felt right now—anger, disappointment or dread, or perhaps all three. You just felt wrongly accused.

Your feet brought you back to your dorm in the school. Now it wasn't as bustling as it once were. After Satoru and Shoko's graduation, you didn't really get close to anyone. There was Ichiji, but he treated you more like a mentor rather than a classmate.

As you sank into the comforts of your bed, You replayed the events, trying to find where it went wrong—and found nothing. After all, you had already said all that could be said. It wasn't just him who lost Geto, but you, Shoko and Nanami did too, but it was more convenient for Satoru to blame everyone else rather than trying to understand that they too shared this pain.

Nevertheless, you were disappointed. You didn't expect half of what he spouted, and it got you doubting everything you had.

"You've royally fucked up."

Satoru exhaled, glaring at Shoko through the corner of his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

The reverse cursed technique user threw him a blank stare, taking in everything from his disheveled hair to his wrinkled trousers. "Gojo, as much as I can’t care less about your sorry ass, I'm saying this not out of concern for you, but rather for Y/N. You are an asshole."

The puff of smoke she blew expanded to create a cloud-like shape. "Yaga-sensei was our teacher. His student is now a mass murderer and wanted dead. Can you even imagine how he feels? And I can't believe I'm saying this—but weren't there three of us?"

A week had gone by and instead of doing the right thing like trying to get into your good graces, Satoru was in Shoko's infirmary in the headquarters instead. He didn't exactly know what he was looking for by going here. Maybe some lingering taste of his happier student days, and Shoko was the only one remaining.

Three of us, huh... she was right. That was precisely why he came here after all.

"You're just sulking because it seems no one cares about your best friend being the best there is. But have you thought about how our juniors also lost Haibara? Right in front of their eyes? Haibara was our friend too."

He was wrong, of course he was. Satoru realized that now. But it felt wrong to ask for your forgiveness now, not to mention the disrupting thought he had—should he let you go for good altogether?

The phone suddenly rang with such fervor that made Shoko utter a swear word. She was on call duty for the rescue team today, and it was supposedly a peaceful day until Satoru decided to barge in to become her company. "Hello? Ichiji? What—speak clearly, I can't hear you."

She switched it to loudspeaker. "...iri-san! Ieiri-san—h-help—please—"

It was noisy, and blaring at the same time, and Ichiji was... Sobbing? Choking? His voice was terribly muffled and—

"L/N-san!" he cried, and Satoru remembered at that moment that you should be in a mission with Ichiji, he remembered you telling him before.

"Hic—s-she fell... hic—she fell! B-blood! She i-is bleeding so much! I-Ieiri-san—hic—s-send help! Please!"

"Hey, stay awake. Breathe. Just breathe."

Everything hurt. Most notably, your head. You could hardly think straight when all you felt was blinding pain and how your breaths came in short wheezes. 

Your vision was blurry. The numbness had started to set in and chills ran up and down your spine. You couldn't make out who in front of you was. Was it Ichiji, who went with you in this mission? The only thing that glared was blue.

"You can't sleep, you hear me?" the voice was commanding, willing you to do his bidding. It was familiar, but usually his tone of voice was much lighter, happier.

Satoru.

But why was he here? He wasn't in this mission. It was supposed to be a mission for you and Ichiji.

You remembered getting the cursed spirit after manifesting your domain expansion, until in its last ditch attempt, it went after Ichiji. You had no choice—even when your cursed energy had burned out, you still shoved him away at the cost of being flung from the top of a building.

Not again. Not after Haibara. You’d gladly pay the price if it meant you didn't have to see anyone die in front of you again.

"I..." You managed to croak out—breathing hurt, and you felt your hands being grasped tightly.

"Hey, just breathe. Y/N. Look at me.” Through your blurry haze, you focused on that cold blue, and you saw him. Satoru's sharp eyes, pursed lips and frown. He's really here.

Satoru always said that if there was a cursed spirit apocalypse, then Ichiji would be the first to die. You used to scold him for that, but now as you a laid here possibly dying in your own pool of blood, you found it to be true.

Yet at the same time you knew that with him here, Ichiji must be safe already, and it gave you reassurance so great even when you were on the verge of dying. "I... can't..."

"Yes, you can. Just look at me," he firmly rebuked, his voice came out in a hiss. For all the time you had been with him, you had never heard him so forceful. "If you close your eyes now, I won't forgive you. So please, just hang in there."

It was a struggle to take in any air and darkness encroached on your vision as your consciousness began slipping away.

And everything faded to nothingness.

Satoru honestly thought he had no fears. His worst fear had fully realized after all—Suguru going away into the darkness. What more could he possibly fear?

But when he heard Ichiji's distress call for rescue team, about how you fell from a rooftop of a building and unconscious, he realized that it was a fear he didn't know existed. His mind got disoriented and he teleported to the scene on impulse. He just had to see it for himself. With their petty argument still lacking closure, he felt even worse.

And the sight before him gave him so much fright he never thought was possible.

It was a mistake, he should have brought Shoko along.

You had laid there like a broken doll, your eyes dimmed, and not been able to breathe. He desperately tried to keep you awake, his presence beside you, yet it didn't seem to matter. He watched helplessly as you passed out in his arms.

Satoru felt nothing. The panic that had set in was suddenly gone as your limp body slumped against him, replaced by incessant ringing in his ears and tremor wracking his nervous system. It wasn't long until the rescue team came to retrieve you and even then he still felt numb. He rejected the idea that you might possibly die on him.

That went on until Shoko, who assisted in the emergency treatment, came out of the surgery, sweat on her forehead.

"It's even worse than the aftermath of the guardian deity mission last year," Shoko explained with a grim expression. "Her brain has sustained damage and it affects everything. It may take her quite a while before she can go back to the field."

When she said that, Satoru felt terror washed over him again. You almost died—was all he perceived.

The two of you had no contact for a week just because of his ego. He could still recall that day with vivid clarity, feeling a burning ache in his chest. If someone were to ask him what heartbreak was like, now he certainly would he able the to tell them the two instances in which he experienced them. What he felt now mirrored the same stinging sensation he had felt when Suguru left him.

He visited you when he was allowed to, and you were still unconscious, with many machines connected to your body. It was a sight he still couldn’t bring himself to get used to. He had seen you injured before, but never seen you in your own pool of blood, so this made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Stupid," he whispered, gently rubbing your forehead. His eyes remained fixated on you as you rested, his insides still churning with emotions. "You're not weak, and you're not hopeless." Once upon a time, Satoru might have thought of you as weak, but now he knew better.

"So why you always pick the worst decision?" The more he thought this could've been avoided, the more irked he was. The thought that he could have done something to prevent it intensified the sting of guilt, and he continued to punish himself with it.

And the more he dwelled on the idea that he had hurt you prior to this, the tighter his breath became.

But that was who you were. Self-sacrificing to a fault. And he loved you for that. There was no way of him letting you go now.

It astonished even himself—that he was capable of this love thing. At first it was an attraction, but now that you had been going on for more than a year, it felt like it was no longer a silly infatuation after all.

"Hurry and wake up, will you?" Satoru gently brushed your hair aside, his eyes fixed on you. He didn't know it even as his gut twisted, his frown deepened and his touch quivered, that he was worried sick. "I have a lot to make up for."

And he left you with a tender brush of his lips against your forehead.

Nanami Kento was the first person you saw when you awoke from coma.

You struggled to regain your senses, still feeling absolutely broken. The dull throb on the back of your head was still there, and as if you had found yourself trapped in a fog, you were only able to move sluggishly.

"You're awake?" his gruff voice greeted, laced with concern. In his hand were a bucket of fresh flowers and fruits basket, which he soon placed at the table next to your bed.

It was unexpected, because ever since the tragedy that costed Haibara's life, the two of you had been drifting apart.

You nodded, and let out a hum in response—all you could manage at the moment.

"Thank God." Nanami sounded relieved as he pinched the bridge between his eyes, and you were moved that he had shown this degree of concern.

Your remaining classmate, who suffered the burden of Haibara's life just like you. He was always quiet or brooding somewhere, hiding his own feelings.

You felt tears pricking the corner of your eyes. The fact that he visited you meant that he hadn't decided to cut you out of his life yet.

"Gojo-san is out today, but he'll be back by afternoon," he said, mistranslating your tears as some sort of a want to have your annoying—ex?—boyfriend at your side.

The two of you were still not on talking terms, weren’t you?

You so badly wanted to say thank you to him—and tell him that no, you weren't looking for Satoru—but it came out hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"Huh?" Nanami then realized what you were trying to say, and a faint smile graced his lips. "Just... get well soon, L/N. Have a good rest."

Just before you drifted back to sleep, you could hear him sigh and mutter, "Hello, Gojo-san? L/N has awakened. Just letting you know is all.”

You weren't sure how much time had passed when you woke up the second time, but the curtains were already drawn and only darkness came from the window. Your body felt lighter, but you still felt like a mess and and couldn't help but groan in discomfort.

Satoru was there, he perked up at the noise you made. And you realized that it was the first time in about a week that he faced you after that disasterous almost-breakup.

He walked up to you, his expression was more hopeful than you had ever seen him before, like a kid whose wish had been granted. He slowly shifted to sit beside you.

"Hey, welcome back." His voice was soft. It was a change of pace for him, as you were used to seeing him all loud and silly.

Now your voice no longer sounds like a lead. "Hey."

"How are you feeling?" he asked and you took a moment to look at him. He was smiling, but exhaustion reached his bright eyes, dimming them. "You know, with the whole you passing out and almost dying thing?"

His words were almost humorous as he spoke, like he didn't know what else to say except try to lighten the mood, but there was also a strain on his tone, like he was holding back.

"I'm quite fine now, I suppose..." You still felt the lingering pain and dizziness as you slowly sat up. Satoru reached out to steady you—and you realized how his fingers trembled when they made contact with your body—as his brows furrowed with worry when you winced.

"You don't look like it though." His voice dropped and the humor was gone, replaced by this haunted look. You blinked. It was probably the first time you had seem him this ruffled.

He immediately pulled you into a hug, cradling your head to his neck gently, as if to protect and shield you from the world altogether. Exhaling heavily, he leaned on you. "You scared me, you know that?"

You wondered out loud if you really had that hold over him. "Did I?"

"You can't do that to me, you hear?" Satoru stroked your hair, nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck. His voice quivered. “Don't ever do that again.”

He pulled you tighter against him, but still careful not to crush you.

You let out a snicker, letting go of everything you felt during this horrible week. "Heh, afraid to lose me, huh?"

"Shut up,” he grumbled. “What were you thinking anyway? How did you calculate that freefalling is better than letting that cursed spirit attack Ichiji?”

"He was defenseless. He could die, you know that."

"And you also can," he quipped, upset, pulling away enough to look you squarely in the eyes, his eyes devoid of any expression, yet filled with a raging wave that you could only interpret as undiluted concern.

The emphasis in his tone made you recoil and feel guilty. If you were in his shoes, you probably would've said the same thing and so you had nothing to say to that.

But the more pressing agenda in the list was the unspoken silent treatment the two of you saw fit to use against each other for the last few days. Satoru was the one who decided to address it first.

"About that night..." he faltered, looking away. "I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry."

Satoru always had trouble processing emotions. This time too. He must've a hard time dealing with the anxiety caused by the possibility of him losing you for good, no matter how much he tried to be unaware of it.

"..." You wanted to respond, to make him understand your point, but somehow right now you were just too weary. And he sensed your reluctance. So you blurted the first thing that gnawed at your mind.

“You said you could have any other women out there—”

"No, really—" he started to panic, and it was blatantly too, which surprised you. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Us. I don't regret anything. I’m not breaking up with you. Being with you is the happiest I've been ever since Suguru left."

“That's...” you blinked, before letting out a small sigh. “Okay. Fine then. Let's just put it behind us for now.”

“I—” he almost wheezed, his bright blue eyes were overtaken with sheer urgency to explain how wrong everything had been that night. “You must know that I didn’t mean any of it. And that I hate hurting you the way I did. I won’t—”

"Satoru, I understand," you let out another sigh, fidgeting with your fingers. "Sometimes when I’m reminded of Haibara, I also get sad. I don't want to presume but I think I know how you feel. Just next time, maybe," you shifted your gaze on him, seeing how you had his attention fully. Gojo Satoru, the strongest now, was looking at you as if you had his fate in your hands. "Just tell me if you need space and I would have understood."

"Yeah, okay, sure," he responded immediately, relieved, before a lopsided grin appeared on his face, turning him back into your dork slash boyfriend. "So, am I forgiven now?"

"A thank you would be nice."

In the end, he chuckled, seemingly resigned. "You should sleep more."

He positioned himself into bed next to you, and you let him pull you into his chest again. You could feel how his taut back started to relax upon the contact. He pressed his lips on your forehead in a fleeting kiss.

"Promise me you won't pull that stunt again.”

You smirked. "I can't. What if Ichiji—"

"Then just let him die."

You swatted his arm playfully, pressing your head to his chest as he continued to run his fingers on your hair. He cushioned you carefully, and you felt the tension in him slowly melt away with each breath you took. In your mind, you figured he needed this closeness more than you did, if anything, for the sake of his sanity.

“I love you,” he whispered by your ear, kissing it lightly.

“Mmhm.”

As you felt Satoru's calming presence, it helped ease you into slumber. You soon found yourself in a deep sleep, comfortably held in his embrace.

Epilogue

Ichiji gulped as Satoru stared him down, sizing him up as if he was the most despicable creature on this planet.

Okay, he might be. He was a coward, all he could do was trembling in the face of evil. But he had come in peace, even bringing fruits as an offering! He felt bad too that he was the partial cause for you to be this injured.

He was used to Satoru terrorizing him—calling him names, slapping him, and whatnot—and he could take it. Just this time, he really looked like he could murder him on the spot if he wanted to. A small part of Ichiji mourned that you were his girlfriend, because that pretty much sealed his fate that Gojo Satoru could indeed murder him on the spot because he had a valid enough reason to.

"You are—"

"No! I'm sorry, Gojo-san! I'm sorry for my incompetence!"

"Hah?"

If he was mildly irked before, now Satoru was visibly irritated.

"You're not cut out to be a jujutsu sorcerer," he started. "You're useless. You just get in the way most of the time."

Ichiji kept his head down. No, no. He can't cry!

"Get your driving license or I'll slap the shit out of you."

"Oh?" and before he knew it, Satoru had stalked away, leaving him in the dust. How rude! But...

Get a driver license? Quit the jujutsu work?

He watches the brief exchange that occurs in a matter of seconds.

You playfully shove a handsome man next to you, who shares your laugh, his face full of unbridled adoration, like a puppies. And when you turn to leave with a shake of your head, the man pipes up, watching you go. "See ya around then, babe."

The nickname sends a cold zing up the Colonel's spine, his whole body tensing in a manner that leaves him stunned; as if he'd been slapped in the face by that simple word. Unable to digest the new, ugly emotion swirling in the pit of his stomach, he just-stands there, wondering why the fuck that just got on his nerves. His fists balled so tightly that his gloves strain and the fabric squeaks in protest.

▹ Simon "Ghost" Riley

The mission was over, for now.

The Lieutenant had seen you take a hit out there, nothing too serious, but in the buzz and frantic 'running arounds' of medics and soldiers after the extraction helo had landed... he was going to check up on you.

It hardly took a moment before Ghost had caught up to where you were.

Rounding the corner, the tall masked man paused at the sight.

"Should be nothing to worry about," the medic assured you, the two of you sat facing each other, in your own little bubble as the man gently cleaned up a small gash at your hairline, his hand holding yours for comfort.

"Wouldn't want to leave a scar on a face like yours," the medic beamed with natural charm and a set of pearly teeth.

Ghosts hand clamped onto the mans shoulder before he could really think, gloved fingers digging in a little too tightly.

"It's just a fucking cut," his deep voice gritted out, effectively dismissing the medic who nodded and quickly stood up to leave.

Ghost watched him like a hawk, brown eyes searing into the flesh of the man until he was effectively out of view. Subtly, with him gone, the Lieutenant relaxed now left with an awkward unnamed air between the two of you.

He folded his arms over his chest and sighed, glancing down at you with a keenly softer look, "...Want me to help you with that?" He finally, begrudgingly asked. He had sent the medic away for fucks sake. Brilliant.

▹ John "Soap" MacTavish

Dirt from the hangar's tarmac crunched under his boots with a soft crunch.

For the next couple of missions, Soap was set to be working quiet closely with you and a few others. Something MacTavish was aware of, and quite honestly, looking forward to.

There was a sort of enthusiastic smile lingering on his face as he walked towards the truck. The engines were already rumbling to life, soldiers and the drivers clambering up and settling in the back.

It was then that he spotted you, and his grin only grew wider, mouth opening to greet you and get your attention... until he saw it clear as day.

As you turned your head towards the truck, ready to step up into the back and unaware of his gaze... he saw a little red mark just above your pulse point.

The Sergeant nearly stopped, legs tensing as he walked, his natural smile faltering for the briefest of moments until you turned your head towards him and like a light, it returned as if it was never gone.

"Lookin' forward to the mission?" He asked, lips curling into a grin that hid the small vein of annoyance on his temple.

When you looked away again, his blue eyes flickered down to the hickey on your skin, the grip on his gun tightening ever so softly as he hopped into the truck after you. Sure to sit close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. And god he couldn't look away from that stain on your skin for the life of him, a firm, uncharacteristic line forming between his brows whenever you weren't looking.

▹ Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

The Captain had told everyone to check their ammo and weapons before they headed out.

Gaz, holding no argument, went to do just that, happy to see you standing under the tent with your gun in hand. He watched subtly as he approached, the way your fingers seemed to float over the metal as you inspected your gun, eyes narrowed calmly in concentration. It was a sight that never got old.

"Got what you need?" He chirped up, standing next to you and pausing in front of the table of weapons.

There was an unfamiliar flicker of color dangling from the side of your gun.

A little silver charm of a bullet with something inscribed on it.

He recognized the thing almost immediately. A weapon charm; sure tons of soldiers decided to keep a little 'lucky' one with them, but this one in particular...

Well, the last time he saw this one, it had been on the gun of another soldier he had seen you talking to not a week ago.

So why the hell did you have it?

Gaz cleared his throat and pulled his gaze away, picking up a gun and slamming the clip into the gun with a loud click, suddenly riled up a bit.

"Think that little trinkets gonna bring ya luck?" He teased with a handsome grin, annoyance hidden beneath his light tone.

"Don't worry, you got me with you," he grinned and forced himself to walk away as if the damned thing hanging off your gun and the man who must've given it to you didn't secretly irk him.

▹ John Price

The Captain, for one reason or another was looking for you. Needed a quick talk before the next mission Laswell would be sending you all on.

He knew where to find you, of course, and made his way over with purpose. He paused a bit when he saw you standing next to a young man, about the same age as you, who he'd never seen before.

Odd, since the two of you seemed as thick as thieves. Laughing, gently pushing each other and excitedly chatting about things he couldn't quite understand the context of. A shared joke or old memory, Price assumed as he got closer to the pair of you.

Closer now, the man's face seemed... vaguely familiar, but nothing important immediately came to mind. Until the young bucks eyes fell down to yours with a soft adoration.

Like a light, he had connected the dots then.

He had seen that same expression in a photo you showed to him once, a picture of you and some other rookies back when you first enlisted... back when Price hadn't known you.

"Ah, sorry to cut in but-" The Captain began, clearing his throat with a kind smile that belied the gnawing at his chest from the sight of you getting along so easily with...

He sighed internally, clearly not sorry from cutting in on your little 'reunion' that was too friendly by his standards.

"I'm afraid we'll have to save introductions for some other time," he mused dryly, gloved hands resting on the straps of his vest before he nodded his head to the side, signalling for you to come along with him. Far away, hopefully.

"You're taking up my teams time," the Captains gruff voice cut through with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, 'half-joking' with your... old friend.

Before either of you could say anything, Price had already started walking, his hand hovering over your shoulder, urging you to turn around and walk with him. Gritting his teeth through a strained smile.

▹ Kim "Horangi" Hong-jin

He could hardly take it anymore.

There was always this... slimy feeling in his chest whenever he caught a glimpse of you.

Well-not you exactly-but you and that damned- He stopped himself and sucked in a deep, forced breath through his teeth.

Although no one could see his face, everyone around him sensed the tension rolling off him in droves. Muscles tight, grumpy, and currently: swearing in Korean curses under his breath.

His eyes, though covered by dark lenses, stared straight ahead at a sight that shouldn't have disturbed him as much as it did.

There, sitting across the room you sat with a new operator. A man who had barely worked with you for all of a month, yet here you two were: sitting shoulder to shoulder, finding out you had more and more in common because you both came from the same country.

His eyes narrowed slightly gaze flickering to the same flag patch that sat on your uniform and his. Matching.

Horangi had no right to be jealous, he knew it, but he also knew that for whatever reason... he was.

His eyes flickered to the floor, sitting with his elbows propped on his knees, grumbling some more to himself with a heated sigh.

The man releases your wrist, placing your hand gently beside you. He clears his throat and leans forward. Though your vision remains blurry, you spot what looks like a human skull with a hood over it.

“How are you feeling, love?” he asks, his tone softer.

“How am I feeling, love?” you repeat. “Did Hell improve their customer service?”

“I’m not-” The man begins but pauses. He sighs, shakes his head and rests his elbows on his thighs. “Never mind.”

“Where am I?” You ask.

“Hospital.” He replies. “You took a bullet.”

Directing your attention to your body, you feel a dull throb in your chest. You wince as your fingers brush against the bandages.

“You are joking.” You reply and slap your hand on the bed. “Why? How?”

“Well,” He says and tilts his head to the side. “You exchanged a few shots with the enemy, your gun ran out of bullets, his didn’t, and here we are.”

“My gun?” You ask, shocked. “I have a gun?”

“Several.” He nods.

“SEVERAL?” You shout. “Why would I possibly need several guns?”

“It’s your job, love.” He replies.

“My job is to have several guns?” you ask. “And shooting at people?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he explains, “but it’s mainly for defence.”

“Well,” you shrug and wince at the pain. “Doesn’t look like I’m that good at defence—especially for having several guns.”

“I was really worr—”

“Water,” you interrupt and gesture at your mouth. “I need water.”

“Doctor said it’s not the time for water yet,” he replies.

“Why?” you ask, pretending to check a non-existent wristwatch. “What time is it?”

“No, love,” he replies and muffles a chuckle. “Doctor said you need to wait until you have some water.”

“You throw the ‘love’ thing a little too freely,” you mumble, licking your lips and lifting your index finger. “I’d be really careful if I were you.”

“Really?” he asks, leaning back into the chair and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Why?”

“I,” you say and point at yourself, “got a boyfriend, thank you very much.”

“Oh,” he exclaims and tilts his head. “Is that so.”

“Yup,” you nod. “And he can kill you.”

“Can he?”

“Can?” You say, and a smug smile forms on your dry lips. “He will absolutely, one hundred and a thousand per cent kill you.”

“Is he that good?” He asks.

“I mean,” you shrug, motioning at the bandages on your chest. “He’s much better than I am.”

“Oh wow,” he exclaims and leans forward. “Is he as good of a boyfriend as he is a shooter?”

“Far from it,” you reply, letting your hand fall to your side.

The man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t seem that comfortable all of a sudden. He shuffles in his chair, trying to find a better position, and when he does, he clasps his hands together.

“Go on,” he finally says. “Spill it.”

“Ok, so,” you begin, “first things first, he doesn’t listen to me when I want to vent, and whenever he does, all he says is nonsense.”

“The lad gives you solutions,” he snaps, “and you call them nonsense?”

“I don’t want solutions, man,” you reply, shaking your head. “I want him to just listen to me.”

“Even if the solutions he provides are literally the answers to your suffering?”

“Even then.” You confirm.

“Gotcha,” he nods. “What else?”

“Oof,” you sigh, “how much time do you have?”

“I’m immortal,” he reminds you, “plus the next reaping is in five hours.”

“Oh boy,” you reply. “Business not going that well lately, huh?”

“Not many deaths to take care of,” he spits. “I guess some people could use some serious training when it comes to their aim.”

“Speaking of training,” you say, “he’s always at work and never spends much time with me.”

“The guy’s trying to spend as much time with you as he can, for fucks sake!” he shouts, throwing his hands up. “He even lied to get you on his team!”

“How do you know he put me on his team?” You ask.

“I keep a close eye on him.” He replies.

“What did he lie about?”

“Your precision in aiming,” he jokes and motions for you to continue. “Next one.”

“I can’t think of anything else,” you reply. “Other than he doesn’t say how much he loves me.”

“You’re having a laugh now, aren’t you?” He says, and his tone feels almost threatening. “He’s showing it to you daily; offering advice, keeping you close to him, even risking the possibility of being accused of nepotism for crying out loud! He doesn’t need to say it as well for you to know it!”

“It’s just nice to hear it sometimes,” you sigh and twist a thread from the bed sheet. You turn your head slightly toward him, and he lowers his head to the ground.

“How about you?” You ask. “You have a girlfriend?”

“I do,” he confirms.

“Shut up!” You shout, widening your eyes and immediately closing them back again. “Where did you guys meet?”

“Hell,” he replies. “Right in the pits of it.”

“How is she?” You ask.

“Perfect.” He states.

“Bullshit,” you murmur. “No one’s perfect.”

“She is to me.” He says, shrugging.

“Do you love her?” You ask.

“Absolutely,” he replies, nodding slowly. “One hundred and a thousand per cent I do.”