Icarus

That hits. 

You feel it, not in words, but in the way the space around the conversation tightens. 

“I told you before,” he says, quieter now. “That isn’t your concern.”

“Then why are you here? Why now?”

Silence. 

Then more quietly: 

“Not being my concern doesn’t make it not my problem either.”

He doesn’t respond. 

You exhale slowly, pressing your thumb into your palm grounding yourself in something physical. 

“If something’s missing,” you continue, more carefully now, “then it can be replaced.”

“...with what?”

You don’t answer immediately. 

Because now you’re actually saying it. 

Not just thinking it. 

“With me.”

The response is instant. 

“No.” 

Flat. Final. 

You almost expected it. 

“Why not?”

“Becuase that isn’t how this works.”

“You said you don’t know how it works.”

“I know enough.” 

“Then explain it.”

“...no.”

Your jaw tightens slightly. 

“You’re rejecting it without—”

“I’m rejecting it because it’s a bad idea.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“It’s the only one you need.”

“It’s not enough.”

There’s a shift then—subtle, but unmistakable.

Frustration, maybe.

Or something close to restraint.

“You’re treating this like a theory,” he says. “Like something you can test and discard if it fails.”

“And you’re treating it like it’s already decided.”

“Some things are.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

Silence again, but this one cracks at the edges. 

“You don’t understand what you’re offering,” he says, slower now.

“Then help me understand.”

Another pause, longer this time. 

“...if you act as a support,” he says carefully, “it won’t be temporary.”

You don’t look away.

“Ok.”

His voice sharpens. 

That isn’t something you agree to that easily.”

“I’m not agreeing easily.”

“It sounds like you are.”

“I’m just not overcomplicating it.”

“It is complicated.”

“Then explain it.”

He exhales, quiet, controlled, but not unaffected.

“...if something connects to you that directly,” he says, “it doesn’t stay separate.”

A beat.

“It overlaps.”

You feel your pulse pick up, just slightly. 

“That’s fine.”

“It might not be.”

“It is to me.”

“That doesn’t make it safe.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Another pause, this one heavier. 

“Why?” he asks finally.

It’s not challenging. Not sharp. 

It’s quieter than anything he’s said so far. 

“Why would you do that?”

That’s the question you don’t answer immediately. 

Because this is the part you can’t dress up as logic. 

“...because you’re here. Whether you should be or not stopped mattering the moment I confirmed that you are,” you say, simple and honest. Maybe not enough, but it’s what you have. “And you won’t always be.”

The words come out before you can stop them. 

The silence that comes isn’t tense or sharp, but still. 

“...that isn’t a good reason.”

“It’s enough.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“But it is.”

Another pause. 

You can feel it again, that instability, that faint thinning at the edges of his presence. 

It’s worse now. Or maybe you’re just noticing it more.

“If it’s going to happen,” you say, quieter now, more deliberate, “then it should be intentional.”

No response.

“I’m offering a replacement to whatever is anchoring you before it fades,” you say.

"You're offering to be a leash," he whispers, the words echoing with a bleak, clinical detachment. "To tie a ghost to a living thing. Do you have any idea how grotesque that is? To let something that has already rotted, something that has been excised from the world, burrow into the marrow of your existence?"

A beat. 

"I cannot let you do this," he breathes, his voice now a fragile thread, barely audible over the hum of your own heartbeat. "I have spent a year becoming nothing. I will not become a parasite in the life of a girl who still has everything to lose.”

“You keep telling me what it’ll cost me. You haven’t said it won’t work.”

Silence. 

And you know he doesn’t deny it because he can’t.

That’s the admission. 

“Fine,” you say. “Then the risk can be negotiated.”

“...what?”

You shift slightly. 

“Binding vows exist because impossible arrangements require rules.”

“You’re making decisions without understanding them.”

“And you’re avoiding them because you do.”

“...you think putting rules on it makes it safe,” he says, quieter now. Not dismissive, not sharp. Just tired. “It doesn’t.”

“It makes it defined,” you say.

“It makes it binding.”

“That’s the point.”

A pause, long enough that you almost think he’s gone again.

But he isn’t. 

“You don’t know what you’d be binding yourself to.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Won’t.”

Another pause. 

“...both.”

You let that sit. 

Then more carefully:

“If this is the only way it works, then it doesn’t matter if I understand all of it right now. It matters that you do.”

“That isn’t how this should be decided.”

“It’s how it is being decided.”

His presence shifts again, subtle, unstable. Like something slipping, catching, then slipping again. 

You feel it this time more clearly than before. 

Not just distance. 

Loss. 

“If it fails,” he says slowly, like each word is being measured against something you can’t hear, “it won’t just stop.”

You don’t interrupt. 

“You won’t be able to separate it cleanly. Not if it overlaps the way it would have to.”

A beat. 

“You wouldn’t just… go back to normal.”

“I’m not normal now.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” You agree quietly. “It’s not.”

Another silence, though this one doesn’t crack.

“You said it yourself,” you continue, voice steady despite the way your pulse has picked up. “You’re fading.”

No response. 

“If nothing changes, that’s the outcome.”

“...yes.”

Barely there.

“If something does, there’s a chance it doesn’t.”

Silence. 

And then:

“You’re not weighing that correctly.”

“Then correct me.”

“I can’t make that choice for you.”

“I’m not asking you to.” 

That lands. 

You feel it in the way everything stills. 

Not resolved. 

But… aligned, in a way it wasn’t before. 

“You said it overlaps,” you go on. “So we set the terms.”

No response. 

“You don’t take control.”

Silence. 

“You don’t act without me knowing.”

A faint shift. 

“If it harms me, it stops.”

That one lingers. Longer than the others. 

“And if it doesn’t work,” you finish, quieter now, “then we end it.”

The pause that follows is different. Not avoidance. Consideration. 

“...you think it would be that simple.”

“No,” you admit. “I think it would be possible.”

For a moment, there’s nothing. 

For a moment, there’s nothing. No presence, no voice. 

Just your own breathing, a little too loud in the quiet. 

“...you’re asking me to exist at your expense.”

“I’m asking you to exist.”

“That isn’t separate.”

“No,” you say again. “It isn’t.”

Something shifts. 

Not outwardly. 

Not in a way you can see or hear. 

But you feel it. 

That resistance, rigid and immovable until now, bends. 

Just slightly. 

“...if this goes wrong,” he says, and his voice is different now. Not firm or controlled. Quieter, stripped down to what’s left underneath all of it. “You won’t be able to undo it the way you think you can.”

You swallow. 

“I know.”

“...you don’t.”

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t.”

Another pause, long, heavy, final. 

“...then it needs to be precise.”

There it is. 

Not agreement, not quite. 

But not refusal anymore. 

You don’t move, don’t rush it. 

“Then tell me how.”

And then, more quietly than anything he’s said so far—

“…don’t interrupt me.”

You don’t. 

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s deliberate, structured. 

Like he’s arranging something you can’t see. 

“...it won’t feel like anything at first,” he says eventually. “Not the way you’re expecting.”

You don’t respond. 

“You’re not creating something new,” he continues. “You’re… allowing something that shouldn’t fit to settle anyway.”

A pause. 

“It won’t force itself in. It can’t. Not like this.”

“So I have to, what?” you ask quietly. “Let it?”

“...yes.”

The word is careful. Measured. 

“If you resist, even slightly, it won’t take.”

You nod.

“Then don’t leave it vague,” you say. “Tell me exactly what that means.”

Another pause, shorter this time. 

“You acknowledge it,” he says. “Not as something separate. Not as something external.”

Your fingers curl slightly against your palm.

“As a part of you,” he finishes. “Even if it isn’t.”

That lands heavier than anything else he’s said. 

“And you?” you ask. 

Silence.

Then:

“...I do the same.”

A beat. 

“And that’s enough?” you press. 

“...it has to be.”

Not reassuring. 

Not certain. 

Just honest. 

You let out a slow breath. 

“Ok.”

No response or correction. Just that quiet, waiting stillness again.

Like something is already poised at the edge of happening.

You close your eyes. 

Not because you have to. 

Because it’s easier. 

There’s nothing to look at anyway. 

Nothing to see. 

Just space, and the awareness of something in it. 

Faint and unstable. 

Familiar, now, in a way that feels strange to acknowledge. 

You focus on it. 

Not chasing or reaching for it. Just letting it be there. 

“...don’t try to find me,” he says, softer now. “You already have.”

Your breath stutters, just slightly. 

You don’t move.

Don’t think too hard about it. 

Just—

Acknowledge. 

The presence. 

The voice. 

The fact of him. 

Not separate or external. 

Just there. 

A pause. 

Long enough that doubt starts to creep in at the edges. 

This is nothing, yet this is exactly the same as before. 

You’re sitting in the same place, breathing the same air, thinking the same thoughts—

—and then something shifts. 

Not sharply, not suddenly. 

But wrong. 

You breath catches. 

It’s subtle, so subtle that you almost miss it. 

Like a misalignment. 

Like something that was sitting just outside of you has… slipped. 

Not into. 

Not through.

Closer than it should be. 

“...don’t react,” he says, and his voice is right there now. Clearer. Not louder. 

You go still. 

You hadn’t realized you were about to move. 

It settles. 

That’s the only way to describe it. 

Not heavy or invasive, but present in a way it wasn’t before. 

Your pulse spikes. 

Nothing else happens. 

No surge. 

No flash. 

No overwhelming sensation. 

Just that. 

You wait. One second. Two. Three. 

“...did it—” you start. 

“I don’t know,” he answers quietly.. 

There’s no change in his tone. No certainty. No confirmation. 

Just the same measured voice. 

You open your eyes. 

Everything looks the same. Feels the same. 

Your hand lifts slightly, almost on instinct. 

Nothing. 

No difference, no shift, no—

A sharp, jarring sensation cuts through your thoughts. 

Not external. 

Internal. 

Your breath hitches as something turns—not in the room, not around you. 

On you.

It’s immediate. 

Violent in its precision. 

Your technique. 

Not activating. 

Redirecting. 

You feel it like a lens snapping into place, but instead of looking outward— 

It’s looking in.

Information floods all at once, too fast to process cleanly—

—but wrong. 

Wrong. 

Wrong. 

There’s too much. 

Not noise or interference. 

More than there should be. 

Your own presence, familiar, structured, contained—

And something else. 

Not separate or distinct. 

But not… you. 

Your vision blurs for a second as your breath stutters. 

“...what—” you choke, the word catching halfway out. 

“I didn’t—” he starts, and for the first time there’s something unsteady in his voice. “I didn’t do anything—”

“I know,” you manage, even as your hand comes up to brace against the wall. 

Your technique doesn’t recognize him. 

Not directly. 

It doesn’t see him. 

But it doesn’t see you the same way anymore either. 

The system… changed. 

You drag in a breath, trying to steady it, but your thoughts aren’t lining up cleanly. 

It’s trying to categorize, to contain, trying to—

And failing. 

“...it’s reacting to the overlap,” he says, quieter now. Not panicked, not controlled. Something in between. “It’s reading you as—”

He stops. 

You don’t need him to finish. 

You can feel it. 

Not singular, not contained. 

Something shared. 

Your grip tightens slightly against the wall. 

The sensation doesn’t fade, doesn’t settle. 

It just exists. 

And somewhere beneath it, quieter but unmistakable—

He does too. 

The pressure doesn’t leave, but it changes. 

The strange doubled awareness lingering beneath your technique remains, unfamiliar and impossible to categorize. 

But something else…

“...Geto?”

A pause. 

“...I…”

His voice catches. 

Not on a word. 

On consciousness.

“...I think I…”

Silence. Longer this time. 

Then, faintly—

“...sorry.”

You straighten almost immediately. 

“Geto.”

No answer. 

Your technique shifts almost instinctively, not outward, but inward again. 

The impossible structure is still there. 

Two. 

Not one. 

The overlap hasn’t unraveled. 

But whatever had been speaking… 

Nothing.

Your fingers flex. 

“Geto.”

Silence. 

Not absence. 

Different. 

You hesitate. 

Unresponsive. 

The thought arrives with the same detached certainty as any other observation. 

Not gone. Inaccessible. 

Your brow furrows. 

That… wasn’t one of the outcomes you had considered. 

Then—

The front door unlocks. 

Your head lifts automatically. 

A familiar weight of cursed energy settles over the house moments before the door opens. 

“I’m home!”

Gojo’s voice carries easily down the hallway. 

You don’t answer immediately. 

You’re still listening to nothing. 

“...Kid?”

You blink. 

“Hm?”

Gojo rounds the corner, blindfold pushed up into his hair. 

A convenience store bag dangles from one hand. 

He stops for exactly one second. 

His head tilts. 

“...You look weird.’

“Thank you.”

“Not, like, ugly weird.” He waves a hand. “Different weird.”

You stare at him. 

“...you say those are separate categories often enough that I’m starting to think you’ve ranked them.”

“Obviously,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket. “You getting sick or something?”

You consider the question. 

Objectively…

“I don’t think so.”

“Huh.”

His gaze lingers for a fraction longer than usual. 

Six Eyes catching… something. 

But not enough. 

Then, just as quickly, he’s over it.

“Anyway,” he sighs dramatically, dropping the bag onto the counter, “if I have to exorcize one more curse hiding in a sewer because somebody forgot how to read a barrier report, I’m actually going to start billing people emotional damages.”

Then after a moment,

“...Kid? You listening?”

“Yes.”

You aren’t. 

Not entirely. 

The doubled awareness remains. 

Stable. 

The voice does not. 

Interesting. 

“If you’re expecting me to just accept that,” you add, “you’re going to be disappointed.”

Silence stretches for a moment. 

“...that’s fair.”

The response is softer than before. 

Not defensive or offended. Just tired. 

It doesn’t sit right. 

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides. 

“Then start proving it,” you say, quiet and controlled. “If you’re really him. Really Geto. Then you know what you were.”

There’s a pause long enough this time that it almost feels like resistance. 

Not avoidance. 

Something heavier. 

“...yes,” quieter than anything he’s said so far. 

Not uncertain. 

Worse. 

Certain, and carrying the weight of it. 

You don’t let that slow you down. 

“Then you also know what that makes you.”

Your voice doesn’t rise, but simply sharpens. 

“You’re not exactly… harmless. Or trustworthy.” 

The words land cleanly. 

Deliberate. 

There’s a moment, just a fraction, where the silence tightens. 

Not around you, but him. 

“...I know.”

No hesitation. 

No argument. 

No attempt to soften it. 

You breath still slightly. 

That isn’t how curses respond.

The deflect, twist, justify. 

They don’t… accept. 

Your gaze narrows. 

“...so what.” you press, quieter now, something colder threading through it, “I’m supposed to just believe that you’re… what?”

You hesitate for half a second. 

Because there isn’t a word for this. 

“...here?”

The silence that follows is thinner. 

Not empty. 

Strained. 

“I don’t think I'm supposed to be,” he says finally. 

It’s the first time something in his voice fractures. 

Not loudly or dramatically in any way, but just enough to feel, like something worn too thin. 

Your chest tightens, sharp and immediate. Unwelcome. 

You ignore it. 

“You don’t think,” you repeat, flat. “That’s not an answer.”

“I know.”

Again.

No correction, no refinement. 

Your jaw tightens. 

“Then try.”

The words come out harsher than before. 

No louder, but edged. 

For a moment, there is nothing. 

And then:

“...I was.”

The pause that follows is heavy. 

Not because of what he said. 

Because of what he didn’t. 

Your breath slows. 

“...was.”

You repeat carefully, testing it. 

“You’re speaking in the past tense.”

“Yes.”

It’s immediate. Too immediate.

Like it’s the only thing he’s certain of. 

Something in your chest shifts again. 

Worse this time. 

“You’re not answering the question,” you say, quieter but no less sharp. “What are you now.”

Silence. 

Longer. 

Contemplating. 

It feels like hesitation that matters. 

“...I don’t know how much of me is still here.”

The words are careful. 

Not vague. 

Not evasive. 

Chosen. 

Placed exactly where they’ll land. 

And they do, not in your head but somewhere deeper. 

Something in your throat feels tight. 

You hate that. 

“I remember enough,” he continues, softer now. “More than I should, probably.”

A pause. 

“And less than I need to.”

That hurts in a way that doesn’t make sense. 

It shouldn’t. 

It’s just information. 

Just a statement. 

Your fingers press faintly into your palm. 

“...convenient,” you say, colder than before. 

Because it has to be. 

“Enough to sound convincing. Not enough to verify.”

Another beat. 

“You expect me to trust that?”

“No.” 

It’s immediate. 

Quiet and certain. 

Somehow, worse than if he had argued. 

“I don’t.”

The words settle, not heavy or forceful. True. 

Something is wrong. 

Not with him.

With this. 

With the way none of it fits into anything you understand. 

“...then what do you expect.”

The question slips out before you can stop it. 

The silence that follows is the longest yet.

Not empty or observational. 

Something else. 

Something— 

Fraying. 

When he speaks again, the echoing words are barely a whisper 

“I don’t know how long I have.”

Your heart stutters once. 

Annoying. Irrelevant. 

You ignore it. 

“...what does that mean.”

No answer. 

Not right away. 

And when it comes, the structure isn’t the same. 

Not careful. 

Not measured. 

“...it’s getting harder to stay.”

The words aren’t rushed. But they’re not placed as cleanly as before. 

Like something is slipping between them. 

“I forget things,” he continues, softer still. “Not all at once. Just… pieces.”

A pause.

“And when I do, they don’t come back.”

Your fingers go still at your sides. 

You don’t interrupt. 

You don’t move. 

You just listen. 

“I think…” he starts, then stops. 

No because he’s choosing his words. 

Because he has to. 

“I think if it keeps happening, there won’t be anything left that knows it was me.” 

The silence that follows isn’t empty. 

It presses. 

Not on the space, but on you. 

You inhale slowly, steady and controlled. 

“...and you’re telling me this because…”

It comes out colder than you feel. 

It has to. 

“...because I don’t want that.” 

No hesitation. 

No deflection. 

No attempt to make it sound like anything else. 

Honest.

And for the first time this started, it doesn’t feel like an observation or analysis or careful distance. 

It feels like something else entirely. Quieter. 

Desperate. 

Not loud, not begging. 

But just as pleading.

Worn thin and held together anyway. 

Your chest tightens again and you wish it would stop. 

He continues before you can respond. 

“I know what I was,” he says, softer now. “I know what that means to you. To him.”

A pause. 

“I’m not asking you to ignore that.” 

Your jaw tightens. 

“Good,” you mutter. 

It doesn’t come out as sharp as you want it to. 

“I won’t.”

“I know.” 

Of course he does. 

That lands harder than it should. 

Another pause. 

Then quieter— 

“...this is selfish.”

The words almost don’t sound like they belong to him. 

Not because they’re wrong. 

Because of how they’re said.

Careful. 

Like he’s placing something down that he doesn’t want to look at too closely. 

“I’m aware of that.”

Your breath slows. 

Something in your chest pulls tight around it. 

“But I still—”

He stops. 

Not cleanly. 

Not deliberately. 

Like the thought doesn’t quite hold. 

And when he finishes, it’s softer. 

“...I still want to stay.”

The silence that follows is unbearable, not because of the volume— 

Because of the weight. 

Your fingers curl again. 

Tighter this time. 

Your technique— 

Still nothing. 

Still blind. 

Still useless in the face of something that shouldn’t exist. 

And it’s now that you realize you’ve stopped reaching. Stopped looking. Stopped trying to prove him wrong. 

You just stand there. 

Breathing. 

Listening. 

And thinking, this shouldn’t matter.

It shouldn’t. 

But it does. 

The thought lingers longer than it should. 

Long enough to feel like something has shifted quietly out of place. 

You exhale slowly. 

“...when,” you start, then stop. 

Your brow furrows faintly. 

You try again. 

“When you forget.”

The words come out more measured this time. Controlled. Safer, somehow, when they’re structured. 

“Is there—” you hesitate, jaw tightening slightly. “Is there anything that makes it worse.”

Silence. 

Not empty. 

Thinking. 

“...I haven’t noticed,” he says after a moment. “It’s not consistent.”

You nod once, more to yourself than anything. 

“Better, then.”

Another pause. 

Longer. 

“...no.”

Your fingers curl faintly.

Of course. 

You shift your weight, the movement small, grounding. Something to anchor yourself in your own body, in something that is yours.

“Then it’s just… random,” you say. 

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate. 

Certain in a way nothing else has been. 

That shouldn’t make it worse but…

Your gaze drifts, unfocused, settling somewhere ahead of you without really seeing it. 

“...and what happens,” you continue, quieter now, “you just—” 

You don’t finish the sentence. 

You don’t need to. 

He doesn’t answer right away. 

Not because he won’t. 

Because he can’t.

A longer pause. 

Then,

“...I don’t know.”

You pause, thinking through all of the possibilities. 

Binding vows. 

Cursed objects. 

Residuals. 

Possession.

No.

No cursed energy. 

No vessel. 

No anchor. 

Your fingers flex once. 

“...there has to be one.”

“What?”

“A rule.”

The words leave before you’ve decided to say them.

“Nothing in jujutsu exists without one.”

Silence.

“You aren’t a curse.”

“No.”

“You aren’t alive.”

“No.”

“You aren’t attached to a place.”

“...I don’t think so.”

Your brow draws together.

“Then what’s supporting you?”

Another pause. 

“I don’t know.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. 

“I hate that answer.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t exist.”

“...I know.”

“And yet you do.”

Silence.

Your thoughts continue anyway.

No cursed energy. 

No manifestation. 

No observable anchor. But he persists. 

Not indefinitely. 

He’s fading. 

Which means whatever is sustaining him… 

is insufficient. 

The conclusion arrives quietly. 

Not inspired.

Inevitable. 

“...everything that remains in this world is connected to something.”

No answer. 

“You said it yourself.”

You look down at your own hand. 

“It’s getting harder to stay.”

Another pause. 

“If something can weaken…” your voice lowers, “...it can probably be strengthened.”

“...No.”

The word is immediate. 

Firm. 

The first truly decisive thing he’s said. 

You blink. 

“I didn’t—”

“I know.”

His voice is steadier now than it has been since the conversation began.

“No.”

“...you don’t even know what I was about to suggest.”

“I do.”

Silence. 

“...No.”

Your expression hardens. 

“A binding vow.”

“I said no.”

“It’s theoretically possible.”

“It isn’t your responsibility.”

The words are quiet. Not harsh or angry. Certain. 

“You’ve known I exist for less than an hour. You don’t know whether it’d even work.”

“I know.”

“And you’re already trying to solve a problem that belongs to me.”

He exhales. 

Or something close to it.

“...don’t.”

Your jaw tightens. 

“You’re making an assumption.” 

“What assumption?”

“That I’m doing this for you.”

Silence. 

“I’m not.”

Another beat. 

“You are an impossibility.”

Your voice returns to the calm, analytical cadence you’ve held onto since this began. 

“My technique cannot perceive you. There is no precedent for your condition. I have no method of observing your deterioration.” Your gaze steadies. “And you just told me that whatever is happening… is irreversible.” A pause. “You don’t know how long you have left.” Another. “And I’m not willing to find out. Not because I pity you. Not because I trust you. Because uncertainty is intolerable.”

You tilt your head slightly. 

“If there is a way to stabilize this phenomenon… I’ll find it.”

The goat monster blinks behind his glasses, then smiles, relieved, almost excited. 

“O-oh! That’s normal,” he says. “Well, normal for here.”

He gestures vaguely at the cavern, the stone, the faint glow above. 

“This is the Dark World. It… it reflects who you are. Or who you need to be.”

I glance back down at myself, at the red fabric and silver edges that feel too deliberate to be random. 

“That’s… comforting,” I say, though I’m not sure I mean it. “Hey wait, you know Kris and Susie?”

“Yes! They’re dear friends of mine,” he says with a gentle smile. 

“Friends…” I murmur. “Who are you?”

“My name is Ralsei,” he says with a bow. “I am the prince of the Dark World, the prince of the prophecy.”

“Prophecy?”

He nods gently. “I’ll get to explaining that in a little while,” he says. “For now, come on, let me show you the castle!”

I stare ahead as he begins walking, questioning myself on whether to follow or try to figure a way out of here. 

“This is weird,” I mutter, following after Ralsei.

“It will likely continue getting weirder,” Ralsei's voice echoes on the cavern walls. 

“So… Kris and Susie come here often?” I follow beside him. 

Ralsei nods. “You’re the one who followed them yesterday, right?”

I tense slightly. “Uh… yeah.”

“Kris mentioned you,” he says with a smile. “Said you smelled nice. I agree, your perfume smells very tasty!”

He pauses, a pink blush forming on his cheeks. 

“S-sorry. Things taste different here.”

My stomach flips. “They… mentioned me?”

Ralsei tilts his head. “Was I not supposed to say that?”

“N-no, it's ok,” I say. And then I process what he’s said about my perfume and have to stifle a laugh. “I’m glad you like my perfume though.”

I fall into step beside Ralsei, my boots tapping softly against the stone. The cavern narrows as we go, the walls smoothing from jagged rock into something almost deliberate, like they were carved instead of formed. 

“So,” I say after a moment, because the silence is starting to feel heavy. “You said this place reflects who you are. Or who you need to be?”

Ralsei nods, adjusting the scarf around his neck. “Y-yes. The Dark World responds to Lightners. It gives them what they need to survive here.”

“That’s reassuring,” I say. “In a deeply ominous way.”

He lets out a small, nervous laugh. 

We passed beneath an arch of stone, and the air changed. It feels thicker somehow, charged. I rub my hands together, only to pause again, still not used to the red gloved, the way the silver seams catch the light when I move. 

“I keep expecting to wake up,” I admit. “Like this is a really elaborate stress dream.” 

Ralsei slows, glancing back at me. “That’s… understandable. Kris felt that way too, at first.”

Something twists in my chest at the sound of their name. 

“Did they freak out like this?”

“Um-” Ralsei thinks for a moment. “Kris was… very quiet. But they were brave.”

I nod, mot sure what to say to that. 

We don’t get much further before I hear it. A soft skittering sound, claws scrapping against stone. 

“Ralsei,” I say quietly. “Do you hear that?”

He freezes. 

“Oh,” he says. “Ah. PLease stay close.”

From the shadows, something small and hunched darts forward, its eyes glowing faintly. My heart jumps straight into my throat. I take an instinctive step back, already scanning for somewhere to run. 

Ralsei steps in front of me, hand clasped tightly. 

“Hello there!” he says, forcing cheer into his voice. “We’re just passing through.”

The monster chitters under its breath and then, as if scared of us, scurries off into the darkness. 

The cavern is silent again. 

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “You deal with that kind of thing… a lot?”

Ralsei nods sheepishly. “More than I’d like.”

“...I didn’t help,” I say softly. 

He turns, surprised. “Oh! But you did. You stayed calm.”

I didn’t correct him. 

The tunnel opens up after that, the stone giving way to open air. I stop walking without meaning to. Ahead of us, rising from the darkness, is a castle. 

Its towers stretch high into the glowing sky, pale stone edged in soft blue light. Banner ripple gently despite the still air. It looks… beautiful. Too beautiful. Like something out of a storybook that knows it isn’t real. 

Ralsei smiles, proud and a little nervous. “This is it. My home.” 

I stare, my reflections faintly visible in the polished stone beneath my feet. Red armor, silverlines, someone I don’t quite recognize. Even my hair is vibrant red now. 

“This is weird,” I murmur again. But quieter this time. 

“Yes,” Ralsei says softly. “It usually is.”

I don’t know why I’m here. 

But the Dark World seems to. 

~

Ralsei shows me around the castle town square. There’s a dojo, a bakery, a general shop and a cafe. He introduces me to a few people around the town before leading me towards the castle itself. 

“Now, there’s something you should probably know about all of this. There’s a prophecy that goes along with it all, it's not all just here by chance,” Ralsei begins as we enter the castle.

Ralsei slows as we cross the castle threshold, the doors closing softly behind us. The sound echoes, deeper than it should. 

“It’s… about balance,” he says carefully. “About Light and Dark. and what happens when one begins to overtake the other.”

I glance around the castle hall, high ceilings, banners lining the walls, symbols I don’t recognize etched into the stone. 

“And… where do I fit into that?” I ask.

Ralsei hesitates. 

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “The prophecy speaks of three heroes.”

I stop walking. 

“Three,” I repeat.

He nods, “A human, a monster, and a prince of the Dark.”

I look down at myself again. The red armor. The silver seams. 

I shake my head. “Not… not me, surely?”

Ralsei shakes his head. “No, not you.”

Ralsei’s words hang in the air longer than I expect them to. 

“Oh,” I say.”

It comes out flatter than I mean it to. 

Before I can figure out what to do with that feeling- relief? Embarrassment? Something sharp and hollow all at once- the castle doors slam open behind us. 

“HEY!” I turn just in time to see Susie stomping inside, axe already slung over her shoulder like she’s been ready to swing it at something. Or someone. Kris follows a step behind her, sword at their side, eyes immediately scanning the room. 

Susie is brighter here in the dark world, various shades of pink and gold. Kris is… blue. 

Their gaze lands on me. 

“There you are,” Susie snaps. “Do you have any idea-”

She stops mid-sentance, eyes narrowing. 

“...Why are you red?”

“Hi,” I say weakly. 

Kris steps closer, slower, like they're making sure I'm actually real. Their eyes flick over my armor, the silver seams, the unfamiliar silhouette. 

“You fell in,” they say quietly. 

It’s not a question. 

“I guess I did,” I replied. “Sorry.”

Ralsei brightens instantly. “Kris! Susie! You made it!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Susie says. “We noticed someone went missing after class and figured it out.”

Kris’s eyes don’t leave me. 

“You ok?” they ask. 

I nod. Then pause. Then nod again, slower. “I think so.”

Their shoulders loosen just a fraction. 

Ralsei clasps his hands together. “I was just explaining the prophecy!”

Susie groans. “Ugh. That thing again?”

“The important thing,” Ralsei says gently, “is that the heroes have gathered. 

Kris looks between Ralsei and Susie. 

Then at me. 

I feel it click into place all at once. 

Three heroes. 

Human. Monster. Prince of the Dark. 

Kris. 

Susie. 

Ralsei. 

And I’m just… here. 

Something warm and uncomfortable settles in my chest. 

Susie crosses her arms. “So what, they tagging along now?”

Kris tilts their head, considering. Not judging. Not curious. Just measuring. 

“...They followed us,” they say finally. 

“Yeah,” I admit. “That’s on me. I can leave,” I offer, a little too quickly. “If this is like. A chosen-heroes-only thing.”

Ralsei fidgets, clearly trying to bridge the tension. “W-well, they’re already here, and they have armor so…”

“So what?” Susie cuts in. “They just hang around while we save the world?”

My stomach twists. I don’t look at her. I already know what she’s seeing: an extra piece on the board. A liability. 

Kris glances at Ralsei. Then back to me. 

“You’re already here,” they say. “And you didn’t freak out.”

I blink. “I absolutely freaked out.”

“...Not out loud.” 

Susie clicks her tongue, annoyed. “Great. Brave. That doesn’t mean they can fight.”

Almost on cue, the air around us shifts.

A familiar presence settles over my shoulders, heavy and electric, like the moment right before thunder breaks. The room darkens at the edge of my vision. 

“Oh,” Ralsei says softly. “Um.”

I look down just in time to see light gather in my hands, red and sharp, pulling itself together out of nothing. A bow takes shape, sleek and angular, the string humming like it’s alive. An arrow of the same crimson light slots itself into place without me touching it. 

I freeze. “WHAT IS THAT.”

Susie grins. “Oh hell yeah.”

Kris watches closely, eyes narrowing just a bit. “...Ranged,” they murmured.

The pressure fades. The bow dissolves into sparks that sink back into my gloves, leaving my hands empty again. My heart is pounding. 

“...I did not do that on purpose,” I say. “And I don’t know how to use that…”

Ralsei smiles gently. “You’ll learn.”

Susie rolls her shoulders axe resting comfortably in her grip. “Fine, but if they get in the way, that's on you, fluffy.”

“That’s fair,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to be in the way either. 

Kris meets my eyes again. 

They hold my gaze for a second longer than necessary, like they’re lining something up in their head. 

“...You’re not in the way,” they say. 

Susie scoffs. “You don’t know that.”

Kris doesn’t look at her. “They didn’t run.”

I swallow. “I almost did.”

“But you didn’t,” Kris says simply. 

Ralsei’s ears perk up. “Yes! Exactly! And the Dark World wouldn’t give someone a weapon if they weren’t meant to use it.”

“...It also gives people forks,” Susie mutters. 

Ralsei pauses. “Well. Sometimes symbolic forks.”

I huff out a small, nervous laugh despite myself. 

Kris steps back. “You can stay,” they say to me. “For now.”

It's not permission or comfort, just a statement of fact. 

Something in my chest settles anyway. 

“...Ok,” I say. “I’ll try not to die.”

“That’s the spirit,” Susie says dryly. “You die, you’re dead.”

“Wow. Inspirational."

~

Eventually the adrenaline fades. 

It’s not all at once, more like the world slowly stops humming at such a high pitch. Susie stretches her arms over her head with a loud yawn, axe resting against her shoulder again like it weighs nothing. 

“Man,” she says. “Im starving. And it’s getting late.”

Ralsei nods immediately. “O-oh! Yes, of course. You should return home before it gets too dark.”

Kris glances at me, then towards the cavern entrance, where the faint glow still spills down like a doorway pretending it isn’t one. 

“Ready?” they ask. 

I hesitate for half a second, then nod. “Yeah. I think… yeah.”

Ralsei walks us back himself. The path feels shorter this time, or maybe I'm just less focused on every shadow jumping out at me. When we reach the opening, the light is almost blinding, washing the blue stone pale. 

Ralsei clasps his hands together, smiling nervously. “I’m really glad you’re ok,” he says to me. “And… um. I hope you’ll come back.”

I don’t know why that makes my throat tighten a little. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.” 

Kris pauses, gives Ralsei a small nod, and then steps forward into the light. 

I follow. 

The world snaps back into place like it was waiting for us the whole time.

The smell of dust and cleaning supplies. The narrow space. The closet door creaking softly as it opens. My armor is gone, my gloves replaced by bare hands, my hair its normal color again. I blink, disoriented, my heart still beating too fast for a place this ordinary. 

Susie pushes past us first. “Alright, I’m out. Later,” she says, already heading down the hall. 

“Later,” Kris echoes. 

I turn too, slinging my bag over my shoulder, suddenly very awake of how normal everything feels again. Like none of it ever happened. Like I didn’t just learn how small and strange the universe could get.

I take two steps. 

“Hey.”

I stop. 

Kris is standing a little closer than before, hands tucked into their pockets, gaze fixed somewhere just past my shoulder like they’re debating whether or not to say something at all. 

“My mom,” they say after a beat. “She… um. She wanted to know if you wanted to come over for dinner.”

I blink. Once. Twice. 

“Oh,” I say. Brilliant. “Uh.”

I consider a dozen responses in about half a second, land on the safest one, the politest one, the one that doesn’t make things weird. 

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure. I can do that.” 

Kris nods, like that’s settled something important. “Ok.”

They turn toward the exit, and I fall into step beside them, my head still buzzing, not with magic this time, but with the quiet realization that somehow, without meaning to,  I didn’t just fall into another world. 

I stepped into someone else’s life. 

“So… what happened yesterday?” she asks as we round the corner onto the school’s street. 

“Hm?”

“With Kris and Susie? They never came back to class. That’s like the fourth time this has happened,” she says with a small laugh. 

“Honestly, I don’t even really know,” I say. I explained what had happened in the hallway, leaving out the details about Susie threatening to bite my face off and replacing it with something more mundane. I also don’t mention Kris coming over to my house to deliver the pie.

“That’s so weird,” she says softly. “And they were just… gone? Just like that?”

I nod. 

We enter the school and head down our hallway.

After putting our things in our lockers, Noelle and I head into class, parting ways to sit at our desks which are on opposite sides of the room. 

Kris walks in as the bell rings, though Susie is nowhere to be seen. This isn’t particularly noteworthy though as Susie is often late to class. 

“O-ok, everyone, t-today we’ll be starting a-a c-class project,” Alphys starts. 

I sigh. 

“I-I’ve randomly S-selected groups of three,” she explains. “T-t-there will be n-no switching p-partners once you’ve been t-told who you’re w-working w-with.”

She starts naming off the groups. Noelle, Temmie, Jockington. Berdly, Catti, Monster Kid. 

I bite my cheek to fight back the groan when I realize who I’m paired with. 

As Alphys opens her mouth to tell Kris and I that we’d be working together with Susie, the door to the classroom opens, revealing the purple girl herself. 

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Ohh, she’s not gonna be happy about this,” M. K. snickers from their seat. 

Susie narrows her eyes at them. “About what?”

“Group project,” Kris says simply. “We’re working with the new kid.”

“How long do I have to be here before people stop calling me that and start using my name?” I say. 

“Hell no, I’m not working with you,” Susie says, sneering in my direction.

“N-no switching p-partners,” Alphys calls quietly, shrinking behind her desk. 

Susie glowers at me, taking her seat at her desk. 

“Kris, we’re not actually working with them, right?” she asks them. 

Kris simply shrugs in response. 

Alphys spends the rest of class explaining what we’d be doing our projects on, and the many different ways we could do our project as well as suggesting options for research and study materials we could use either in the school or at the library. 

Alphys finally dismisses us to work quietly, retreating back to her desk with a stack of papers clutched to her chest like a shield. She’s told us that for the sake of the project we’re allowed to rearrange our desk formations to work with our groups. 

So Kris, Susie and I dragged our desks to one of the far corners of the class room in order to work closer together. Susie drags her chair closer to ours with a loud scrape, slouching so far back she looks like she might fall over. 

“So what is it?” she asks, not bothering to look at me. “The project.”

“Local history,” I say, glancing down at the worksheet. “Presentation or report. Due next week.” 

“Ugh,” she groans. “Kill me.”

Kris leans forward, resting their chin in their hands as they skim the paper. They don’t say anything. 

“We could split it up,” I say after a moment. “One of us does research, one writes, one-”

“I’m not presenting,” Susie cuts in. 

“That’s fine,” I replied quickly. “I can do that part.”

She squints at me suspiciously. “Why are you being so agreeable?”

I shrug. “I want a decent grade.”

“Huh,” she mutters. “Weird.”

Kris finally speaks. “Libarly after school.”

Both Susie and I look at them. 

“What?” Susie says. “Since when do you care?”

They shrug again. “Faster.”

The bell rings not long after, the rest of the day passing in a strange blur. Every now and then I catch Kris looking at me, not directly and never long enough to be obvious. But enough to make my skin prickle. 

When the final bell rings, Susie is out the door before Alphys even finishes dismissing us. 

“Guess it’s just us,” I say awkwardly to Kris, slinging my bag over my shoulder. 

They nod. “I have to stop by my mom’s room.”

“Oh- actually,” I say, “I was going to do that too. To thank her. For the pie.”

Kris pauses, just for a second. 

“...Okay.”

We walk down the hall in silence. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. 

I glance down the hall at the storage closet. The door is closed. 

I catch Kris looking in the same direction, whether at me or at the door as well, I can’t tell. 

Still, I feel something tug at my chest when I look at it. Like a memory I don’t have yet. 

Toriel’s classroom smells of chalk and cinnamon. She beams when she sees us, gives Kris a hug and a small kiss on the cheek which leaves them looking slightly ruffled but unfazed. 

“Thank you very much for the pie, Ms. Toriel,” I say sincerely. “It was extremely good.”

“Of course, dear,” she says, holding my hand in her paw. “And you’re always welcome to more pie or to visit our home.”

I talk to her for a few more moments while Kris stands by, silent and listening. 

The three of us leave her classroom. Kris mentions our project to Toriel and our plans to meet at the library, to which Toriel nods in agreement. 

“Yes, it would be best for the three of you to get started on that as soon as possible,” she says. “I’ll be at the house, why don’t you tell Susie to come by for dinner if she’d like.” She turns to me then, “And of course, you’re welcome to join us as well.”

I stammer a maybe, and Toriel smiles, tells me there’s no pressure, and bids us farewell. 

Kris turns to me as she leaves. 

“Gonna go find Susie,” they say simply. 

I nod. “What time for the library?”

They think for a moment. 

“4:30.”

I nod. Gives them time to find Susie and wrangle her into the library, and gives me time to go check out that storage closet. 

Kris leaves without another word. 

I glance around the school and look into both classrooms, confirming that I’m the only one left here before walking down the hall. 

I reach out and grab the knob before taking a deep breath. Up close it looks… normal. Scuffed paint, crooked handle. No darkness spilling out. 

“Ugh, come on, it’s just a stupid closet,” I say to myself 

I yank the door open, and I’m instantly enveloped in darkness.

There’s no light inside, no walls. Just a drop that doesn’t feel like falling so much as being taken. 

I gasp, reaching for the doorframe, but my hand closes on nothing. 

The world tilts. 

And then-

“Oh! You’re not supposed to be here…”

I land hard on cold stone, blinking up at a figure in soft green robes and round glasses. 

He smiles anyway. 

I stood there, trying to recollect my thoughts when a hand was placed on my shoulder. 

“Hey, are you ok?” said a kind voice behind me. 

I turned to see Noelle. She had introduced herself to me when I first arrived. I wouldn’t say we’re friends, just acquaintances. 

I nod softly, “Y-yeah. Who… who was that?” I ask, tilting my head. 

“Oh, Susie? Yeah, she’s a little intimidating,” she says. “But she’s actually pretty cool once you get to know her.”

“No, the other one.”

“Kris? They’re Ms. Toriel’s child,” Noelle says, pointing down the hallway to the other classroom. “They used to hang out with me and my sister with their older brother.”

“Hm…” 

“Oh,” she says softly, realization dawning on her. “You’re both human.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. 

I shake my head, clearing the thoughts from my mind. 

“Let’s go to class,” I say to her with a smile. 

I take my seat quietly, in the far right corner beside the purple girl. 

As Ms. Alphys begins speaking, I zone out slightly, doodling in the margins of my notebook. 

I didn't realize that she had spoken to me until all eyes were on me. 

“Oh,” I say, face burning. “Sorry, what was that?” 

“C-could y-you introduce y-yourself?” Ms. Alphys says, looking nervous. 

I sit there for a moment, silent. 

Of course. 

Of course.

I stand, give a small, embarrassed wave. I say my name, tell them where I’m from, a couple small details about myself and then I take my seat again. 

Silence falls over the room. 

And then class continues as normal.

Today was no different. Class started the way it always does, and Alphys took her place in front of the board. 

“O-ok,” Alphys says. “L-let’s get started,” she turns to grab the chalk to write on the board, but pauses, looking around the area. “W-where is the chalk?”

Beside me, the purple girl, Susie, grins slightly, showing off her many sharp teeth. She raises her hand. 

“Uh, Ms. Alphys,” she says suddenly, voice raspy. “Kris and I could go grab some from the storage closet.”

Alphys suddenly looks a little more nervous and appears to be sweating. 

“Uh… I-I’d really rather you-”

“C’mon Kris,” Susie says, yanking them up by the shirt. 

Kris says nothing and follows Susie. 

“W-wait!” Alphys says. “T-take the n-new kid with you at least!”

But they both ignore her, walking out of the class. 

I stare. “What?”

“P-please,” she looks at me pleadingly. “J-just m-make sure they c-come back…” 

I sigh softly and pull myself from my desk, following the two of them into the hallway, though I keep a considerable distance. 

Kris glances back at me, their hair still covering their eyes yet I can tell they’re looking straight at me. They murmur something under their breath to Susie who turns, looking at me with an exasperated groan. 

“Look, you don’t need to follow us,” she says, waving behind her and continuing down the hall. 

I pause for a moment, weighing my options. 

I continue following them. I’d rather not return to the class without them and make a fool of myself just yet. 

As we approach the door to the storage closet, Susie turns back to see me still standing in the hallway. Kris just stands, facing the closet door. 

“I told you to go back to the class,” Susie says, quietly. 

I feel strangely intimidated. 

“Alphys asked me to-” I start. 

“I don’t give a damn what Alphys told you to do,” she says, reaching out and grabbing the front of my shirt, pulling me towards her. “If you’re smart, you’ll go back to the classroom.”

I tense, eyes wide. I glance at Kris but they just stand and watch, face expressionless. 

“K-kris..? A little help maybe?”

They shift their weight to their other foot and turn back towards the closet door, seemingly ignoring me. 

“This will be your final warning,” Susie says, her voice a low growl. Her yellow eyes glint behind her hair and I grab her arm. 

“Ok, I get it,” I say, struggling slightly. “You can let me go now,” 

“I don’t think you do,” she says grinning maliciously. “And it would be a shame for you to not know what's coming if you don’t listen the first time in the future.”

“W-what?” I mutter, still trying to pry her hand away. My movements are becoming frantic. 

“You get your face bit off.” 

As the last word leaves her lips, her jaw seems to unhinge slightly and she leans forward. My vision is all pink and yellow, fleshy maw and sharp teeth. 

“Ok, ok!” I say frantically. “I get it Susie, let me go!”

Behind her, the closet door slams open. Susie pauses and glances behind her. 

Kris stands there in front of the closet that seems to emanate pure darkness, their hair parted just slightly so that I can see their eye on me, dark red. 

“The chalk,” they say, voice barely above a whisper. 

Susie lets go of me, letting me fall back and nearly stumbling to the ground. From her pocket, she pulls a pack of chalk and tosses it to me. I barely caught it. 

“There’s Alphys’s chalk,” Susie says. “Now don’t make me have to show you what happens again,” she growls. 

A quiet, scared noise leaves my throat and I turn, walking back down the hallway and around the corner. I stand there for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. After a minute, I peek around the corner again. 

“What..?” I mutter in confusion. 

They’re gone. Susie and Kris, both of them. 

I shake my head, and turn back around walking towards the class.

Closing the door behind me, I walk up to Alphys silently and hand her the chalk. 

“W-where are S-susie a-and Kris?” she stammers. 

I shrug, still feeling slightly shaken and take a seat at my desk. 

I didn’t see Kris or Susie for the rest of the day. 

After school let out, I head to my home. I set my bag down and toss myself on the couch, stretching out and eventually falling asleep, the exhaustion of the day washing over me. 

Eventually I’m awoken by a knock at the door. I rise slowly, rubbing my eyes. There are sleep lines on my arms and my hair is completely messed up. I do my best to smooth it out quickly as the person on the other side of the door knocks again. 

“Coming,” I call, rolling my eyes. 

I take a deep breath and pull myself off of the couch, preparing myself for whomever could possibly be at my door at… Shit it’s almost 8 o’clock? I slept that long? 

I open the door. 

Surprisingly, Kris stands there alone, holding a pie tin. The lid of the tin is fogged and the air around Kris smells of warm butterscotch and cinnamon. 

For a second, I just stare. 

“My mom made this for you,” they say. 

Their voice is quiet. Normal. Like we didn’t almost bleed into something darker this morning. 

“She said it was a welcoming gift,” Kris adds after a moment. 

I blink. “Oh.”

They hold it out to me, their arms stiff like they’re not sure if I’ll take it from them. 

I do. 

“Uh… you can come inside,” I say, surprising myself. “If you want.”

Kris hesitates. 

Almost unnoticeably, but it’s there. 

Then they step forward, closing the door behind them as I walk into the house to go set the pie on the counter. 

They don’t go to sit down, simply standing in the middle of the living room, looking around. 

“Did you walk here?” I ask after a minute of silence. 

They nod. 

“Oh.” 

“Small town.” 

“Right.”

The silence stretches so far that I can hear the clock ticking on the shelf across the room. 

“You can sit, if you’d like,” I offer. “You don’t have to just… stand.”

They glance at the couch. 

“I’m fine,” Kris replies. 

I bite the inside of my cheek. 

“Does your mom make pie often?”

They shrug. “Not so much for others.”

“So what’s the occasion?”

“Said something about worrying.”

“About me?” I ask, confused. 

Their mouth twitches, not quite a smile. 

“She worries about everyone.”

“Mm… well, thank you for bringing it.”

They give a single nod. “You don’t have to eat it tonight… but you should.”

Their gaze flicks back to the pie tin. 

“Susie didn’t want you there,” they say. 

“Yeah… I noticed,” I mutter. 

“She gets quiet when she thinks she has to scare someone,” they explain softly. 

“Did she have to scare me?” 

Kris doesn’t answer right away. 

“No,” they say finally. 

The word sits heavy between us.

They step back towards the door. 

“I should go,” they murmur. 

“Kris,” I say before I can stop myself. 

They pause, hand on the knob. 

“Thanks,” I say. “For earlier. With the chalk.”

Kris glances back at me, expression unreadable. 

“Be more careful at school.”

And then they’re gone. 

That night when I turned off the lights to head to bed, I noticed my closet door hanging slightly ajar and my mind flicked back to the closet in the school, the way it seemed to pour darkness like viscous liquid. 

I stare at it for a moment before closing it gently. 

Hometown is a quiet place. 

But I’m starting to understand that quiet doesn't mean safe. 

And when you look, for the first time in your life, nothing is there. 

Not in the way it should be.

Nothing.

Not a distortion. 

Not a gap. 

Not even the faintest residue of something trying to conceal itself. 

Your technique does not hesitate. 

It does not second guess. 

It does not fail.

And yet—

…

The eyes remain open.

Fixed. 

Certain. 

There is no presence in the room. Not a physical one. 

“...that’s not possible.”

The words leave you quieter than expected. 

Behind you, the air shifts. 

Not enough to move. 

Not enough to warn. 

Just enough to— 

“I am here.”

Closer this time. Not louder. Not clearer. 

Just… nearer. 

Your gaze snaps to the sound. 

Nothing. 

The corners remain unchanged. The space is untouched. The air is still. 

And your technique, unmoved. 

No reaction. 

No correction. 

No flood of information outside of any you can see. 

No acknowledgement of anything at all. 

A pause. 

Then slower this time:

“...you’re not there.”

It isn’t a question, but a conclusion. 

The voice lingers for half a second longer than it should. 

“...I see.”

Your weight shifts before you consciously decide to move. 

Not a full stance, not yet. 

But close enough. 

Your technique remains unchanged. Still no warnings, no signals. 

Nothing to justify the voice that stands just outside of everything you know how to perceive. 

“...identify yourself.”

The demand is automatic. 

Sharp. 

Controlled. 

Not empty. 

Measured.

“...I’m not certain that I can.”

Your fingers twitch. 

That’s wrong.

Curses lie. 

The deflect. 

The provoke. 

They do not hesitate like this. 

Your gaze narrows slightly, attention sharpening despite the lack of anything to lock onto. 

“No cursed energy,” you murmur, more to yourself than to it. “No presence. No form.”

A beat. 

Then— 

“...is that what you’re searching for?”

Your breath stills. 

Not the words. 

The implication. 

Your stand shifts again, not forward but uncertain. 

“...you’re aware of it,” it’s not a question. 

The voice answers anyway. 

“I am aware of you. 

That— 

That lands wrong. 

Not threatening. 

Not hostile. 

Just… accurate. 

Your technique does not react. Not even now. 

Slowly, deliberately, you lower your hand. 

Not relaxed. 

But no longer striking. 

“...you’re not a curse.”

Another pause. 

Softer this time. 

“...no,” the voice agrees. “I don’t believe I am.”

The words settle between you. 

Not heavy. 

Not sharp. 

Just there. 

You don’t move. 

Neither does it. 

For a moment, the room feels suspended. Like something is waiting for you to decide what this is. 

Your fingers flex once at your sides. 

“...then what are you?”

This time, it is a question. 

A quiet one. 

The voice doesn’t answer immediately. Not avoiding. Not deflecting. 

Taking a second too long. 

“I don’t know.”

Your expression tightens. 

Before you can respond— 

“You favor your right side when you’re unsure.”

The air stills. 

Not gradually. All at once. 

Your breath catches, not sharp or loud, but enough. 

Your weight—  

You hadn’t noticed. 

But now that it’s said— 

Your right foot is braced half a step back. Your shoulder angled just slightly forward. A habit. Small. Automatic. 

You correct it instantly. 

Too quickly. 

Your gaze sharpens, something colder settling beneath it now. 

“...how do you know that?”

No answer. 

Not right away. 

And for the first time— 

your technique flickers. 

Not a failure or a lapse. A brief, infinitesimal delay 

Like something tried to process a piece of information that doesn’t fit. 

“I’ve been here longer than you think.”

The response is quiet. 

Careful. 

And somehow that’s the worse part. 

Because you would have noticed. Should have noticed. 

There is nothing in this space—nothing— that exists without your awareness. 

And yet…

Your eyes remain open. Certain and unyielding. 

And still, they show you nothing. 

The silence stretches. 

Not empty. 

Occupied. Watching. 

You don’t like that word 

Watching implies direction. 

Focus. 

Intentl. 

And there is nothing for it to look from.

Your jaw tightens slightly. 

“...you’re lying.”

It’s quiet. 

Measured. 

Safer than admitting the alternative. 

Another pause. 

Then— 

“You don’t sleep well here.”

You breath stops. 

Not sharp. Not loud. Gone. 

The words don’t land all at once. 

They settle slowly. 

Piece by piece. 

“You wake before the sun most mornings,” the voice continues, just as even as before. “But you never turn the lights on right away.” 

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides. 

“That’s when the house is quietest,” it adds. 

A beat. 

“And he isn’t there to fill it.”

Something in your chest tightens, small and subtle, undeniable. 

Your gaze hardens instantly. 

“Stop.”

The word comes out colder than anything you’ve said so far 

Not fear or confusion. 

A boundary 

For the first time, the voice hesitates. 

Not long, but long enough. 

“...I meant no harm.”

That doesn’t help. 

If anything it makes it worse. 

Because harm would make sense

  Harm, you understand. 

This…

You take a slow step back. 

Not retreating. 

Repositioning. 

Reevaluating. 

“...you’ve been observing this house.”

Another conclusion. 

Another thing you don’t want to be true. 

The answer comes quieter this time. 

“...yes.”

Your technique remains open. Unwavering. Certain. And still just as blind. 

That alone is enough. 

You hand moves before you fully decide. 

Not towards a stance this time. 

Toward your pocket. Your phone. 

If this is something you can’t perceive, something that exists outside of what your technique can account for, then there is only one person— 

“...you’re going to call him.”

You freeze. 

Not because of the words. 

But because of the timing. 

Your fingers haven’t even closed around your phone yet. 

Slowly, very slowly, you still. 

The air feels thinner. 

“...don’t”

The voice is quieter now. 

Not urgent. 

Not sharp. 

Close. 

Your grip tightens anyway. 

“Give me one good reason.”

It comes out steady. 

More controlled than you feel. 

A beat passes. 

“He won’t be able to see me either.”

That’s not enough, not on its own. 

“He will try,” the voice continues, just as calm. “And when he can’t—”

A pause. 

Not for effect. 

For precision. 

“—you will look at him differently.”

Your hand stills completely 

That lands. 

Not in your head, but somewhere deeper. 

Unwelcome. 

Immediate. 

Your grip loosens by a fraction. 

“You don’t know that.”

It's weaker than before. 

You hear it. So does it. 

“I do.”

No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. Quiet sureness. 

“He doesn’t fail,” the voice says. “Not where you can see it.”

Something in your chest tightens again. 

Different this time. 

Not intrusion. Not anger. 

Recognition. 

“You rely on that.”

A beat. 

“And he lets you.”

Silence. 

Your phone remains exactly where it is. 

Half-reached. Unclaimed. 

But the worst part isn’t that it told you not to call. 

It's that for a second, you understand why. 

You hate that. 

Not the voice. 

Not even what it said. 

The understanding. 

The way it reached something you hadn’t put into words. 

Your fingers curl once more at your sides. 

Then still. 

“...how long?”

It slips out before you can stop it. 

Not sharp or demanding, but quieter and more dangerous. 

You’re not asking what anymore. 

You’re asking how much. 

The silence that follows is different. 

Not empty. 

Measured. 

“I’m not sure when it started,” the voice admits. 

No hesitation. 

No attempt to refine the answer into something more acceptable. 

Truth. Or something close enough to it. 

Your expression hardens anyway. 

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know.”

And still, it doesn’t correct itself. 

Your jaw tightens. 

“...then try.”

Another pause. 

Longer this time. 

Not because it doesn’t want to answer. Because it’s choosing how. 

“I remember the house before you did.”

Your eyes widen slightly but it continues before you can interrupt.

“Not like this,” it adds. “Not… clearly.”

Your technique flickers again. 

Just for a fraction. Processing. 

Failing to place it. 

“I remember when it was empty,” the voice says. “Before your things.”

A beat. 

“Before it sounded like you.”

That hits wrong. 

Not threatening or invasive. 

But familiar in a way that makes sense. 

Your stance shifts again, subtle but real this time. 

“...that’s not possible.”

You’ve said that before. 

It sounds thinner now. 

“I think,” the voice says slowly, “that I noticed you before I understood you.”

Silence. 

You don’t like that sentence. 

You don’t like anything about it. 

Your eyes remain open. 

Showing you nothing. 

“...noticed me how.”

The question is quieter than you intend. 

The answer comes just as soft. 

“You’re loud.”

Your brows draw together instantly. 

“That’s not—”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” it corrects, gently. 

No defensive or condescending, but precise. 

“You change the space when you enter it,” the voice says. “Everyhting else adjusts.”

A pause.

“You don’t notice it. You’re not meant to.”

Your throat feels dry. 

Your technique— 

Still nothing. No confirmation, no rejection. Just silence where there has never been silence before. 

“And him?” you ask before you can stop yourself. 

It happens too quickly. 

Too instinctively. 

You hear it the moment it leaves you. 

The voice does too. 

A beat. 

Then— 

“He’s different.”

Of course he is. 

Your fingers tighten. 

“How.”

It doesn’t answer immediately. 

And for the first time since it began speaking—

It sounds uncertain. 

“...i dont know how to describe him without using you.”

And that is somehow worse than anything it’s said so far. 

The answer sits wrong. Not incomplete or confusing. Carefully and deliberately structured. 

Like it chose the wording knowing it would be the closest thing to something you could understand. 

You don’t like that. 

Your gaze hardens, something sharper beneath it now. 

Enough. 

Your hand drops fully from your pocket. 

Not relaxed. 

Freed. 

“No.”

The word cuts cleanly through the space. 

Not loud or emotional. Final. 

The voice stills. 

Not gone. 

Listening. 

“You don’t get to do that.”

A beat. 

No interruption. 

Good. 

"You don't get to stand in my space,” you continue, measured and precise, “know what you shouldn’t know, and then tell me you don’t understand what you are.”

Silence. 

Tighter now. 

“You’re aware,” you press. “You observe. You remember. You respond.”

Each word lands cleaner than the last. 

“Those are conditions.”

A pause. 

Then quieter:

“So you will answer me properly.”

The air doesn’t shift this time. 

But something focuses. 

“I don’t know if I can,” the voice says. 

And there it is again. 

Limitation. 

Your eyes narrow. 

“Then we make it simple.”

Your stance settles, not defensive. 

Grounded. 

Controlled. 

“You exist here,” you say. 

Not a question. 

A placement. 

A boundary. 

A claim. 

“...yes.”

“Then you follow the rules.”

Silence. 

Not empty. 

Resistant. 

You feel it this time. Not through your technique, but through something more instinctive. 

Like pressure against something that has never had edges before. 

“...I don’t think I do.”

Your expression doesn’t change. 

“That’s not how this works.”

Your voice lowers slightly, steadier and colder. 

“If you can observe me, you can interact. If you can interact, you can be bound.”

That lands. 

You can feel it. 

Not in the air or in your technique. 

In the pause that follows. 

Longer than any before it. 

“...bound,” the voice repeats. 

Not dismissing, but testing the word. 

“You’re in my space,” you continue. “You’ve been here without permission.”

You fingers flex. 

“I could treat that as a threat.”

A step forward.

“I’m choosing not to.”

Now the silence is tight. Held. Waiting. 

“You want me to understand you?” you ask, quiet and sharp. 

“Then you meet me where I can.”

A beat. 

Then cleary:

“Terms.”

The word settled, heavy and real. 

“For information,” you continue. “For presence. For… whatever this is.”

No hesitation now.

No uncertainty. 

“You don’t get access without giving something back.”

Silence. 

This time it stretches. 

“I don’t have anything to give you.”

Softer than anything it’s said so far. 

And that?

That’s the first line that feels like one. 

Your gaze sharpens instantly. 

“Yes, you do.”

A pause. 

Then slowly— 

“You’ve been taking it.”

Not sharp or accusing. 

Not even directed. 

Placed. 

“...taking what.” It comes out colder than you intend. 

Because you already know the direction this is going. 

You just don’t want to hear it said out loud. 

The silence stretches. 

“He gives it to you.”

Your chest tightens. 

“That’s not—”

You stop. Too fast. Too defensive. 

The voice doesn't push or correct. 

Just continues. 

“You don’t notice when it happens,” it says. “Most of it isn’t deliberate.”

A pause. 

“And he doesn’t make you.”

That sticks. Because it removes the blame from both of you. 

Your jaw tightens, gaze hardening again. 

“Stop talking about him.” Colder now. 

Not a request. A line. 

And this time it listens. 

Silence falls, immediate and clean. 

For the first time since it appeared it gives you exactly what you asked for. 

Nothing. 

… 

Good. 

Your breath steadies. 

Not fully. 

Not comfortably. 

But enough.

Your technique remains open and unwavering, still showing you nothing. So you stop looking for it and start thinking instead. 

Not cursed energy. 

Not presence. 

Not form. 

Awareness. Memory. Observation. 

Not just of the space. Of you. Of him. 

Your jaw tightens. 

“...you remember the house.”

Not a question, just testing the shape of it out loud. 

No answer.

You don’t need one. 

“You said you noticed me before you understood me.”

Still nothing. 

But the silence isn’t empty. 

It’s listening. 

“You knew him,” you continue, quieter now. “Not just… that he’s here. Not just what he does.”

A pause. 

“You know who he is.”

The words settle heavier than anything else you’ve said. 

Because that’s the part that doesn’t fit. 

Not for a curse. 

Not for something formless. 

Not for anything that shouldn’t exist. 

Your throat feels dry. 

“...you’re not attached to the space.”

Slow. 

Careful. 

“If you were, my technique would have registered it.”

Always. 

Without fail. 

“So you’re attached to something else.”

A beat. 

You don’t move. 

You don’t look. 

Because there is still nothing to find.

“...someone.”

Silence.

And this time it changes. Not louder or closer. But felt.

Like something has shifted into place. 

Your breathing slows. 

Not from calm, but to certainty. 

A kind you don’t want. 

“...no.”

The word comes quieter now. 

Not denial. 

Correction. 

Your gaze hardens slightly. 

Because if you follow that line…

If you let it go where it’s pointing…

There is only one possibility left. 

And it is— 

impossible. 

“...you said you don’t know what you are.”

A pause. 

Your fingers uncurl slowly. 

“But you remember before.”

Your voice lowers. 

Not sharper. 

More precise. 

“You observe without being perceived.”

Another step, deliberate. 

“You exist without cursed energy.”

Your chest tightens. 

“And you know him.”

That’s it. 

That’s the line. 

That’s the piece that doesn’t belong anywhere else. 

Your breath stills. 

Because now there is only one place that it fits. And you hate it. 

“...that’s not possible,” you repeat. 

But this time—

It isn’t an argument. 

It’s a conclusion you don’t want to reach. 

Silence. 

Waiting. 

Not pushing. 

Not confirming. 

Just there. 

You swallow once. 

Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than anything before it. 

Not uncertain. 

Worse. 

Certain in a way that feels wrong. 

“...Geto.”

The name settles into the room. 

Soft. 

Heavy. 

Final. 

For the first time, the silence that follows isn’t empty. 

It isn’t neutral. 

It isn’t observing. 

It responds. 

Not in words.

Not immediately. 

But in the way the space holds around you. 

Like something has just been recognized. 

Not discovered. 

Then— 

“...Suguru.”

Somewhere in between, Maki has sent a photo, blurry, slightly tilted, of what looks like Panda mid-motion, followed by a voice note.

You press it.

There’s a burst of static at the start, then Panda’s voice, loud and distorted through whatever device Maki is using.

“—I’m telling you, that’s not what happened—”

The audio cuts off there. 

“Hmm,” you hum, taking a sip of your coffee. 

A few minutes later:

Gojo-sensei 🧿👄🧿: GOOD MORNING!! 

Gojo-sensei 🧿👄🧿: this mission is so boring, can you come pick me up

You blink and roll your eyes, sending a brief ‘no, do your job’ before setting the phone down. 

You don’t wait for his reply.

You rarely do.

The screen goes dark as you set your phone aside, fingers curling loosely around the warmth of your mug again. The coffee’s gone lukewarm now, the surface still, untouched for longer than you meant to leave it.

For a while, you just sit there.

The house is quiet.

Not unusual.

Not really.

Gojo’s gone, the students aren’t here, and the walls of the place have always had a way of holding silence like it belongs there.

Still—

You finish the last sip, grimacing faintly at the temperature, and push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cool beneath your feet as you make your way back upstairs, steps slow, unhurried, the kind of morning where nothing is expected of you.

Halfway down the hall, something shifts.

Not a sound.

Not movement.

Just—

Something.

You pause.

It’s subtle. So subtle you almost keep walking.

A prickle at the back of your neck. The faintest tightening in your chest, like your body noticed something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

You wait.

Listen.

Nothing.

The house is still.

Your gaze drifts down the hallway, past the open door to your room, toward the far end where the shadows sit a little heavier than they should this time of morning.

“…weird,” you murmur under your breath.

You take another step.

Then another.

It follows.

Not footsteps.

Not noise.

Just that same feeling—closer now. Not pressing, not heavy, but there. A presence that doesn’t scrape or snarl the way a curse would. No sharp edges. No malice curling in the air.

If anything, it’s—

Quiet.

Watching.

Your hand stills against the doorframe of your room.

For a second, you hesitate.

Then, softer than you expect your voice to come out—

“…Hello?”

The silence stretches.

Then—

“...Hello.”

The voice is faint.

Not quiet exactly.

More like it has traveled too far to reach you.

Like it’s passing through something you can’t see.

You freeze.

Your eyes scan the room.

Nothing.

“I apologize.”

A pause.

The voice comes again, slightly clearer.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Fortunately, his estate was absurdly large. There was more than enough space for privacy when you wanted it.

Unfortunately, Satoru Gojo had never considered personal space to be a particularly meaningful concept.

So when the school day finally ended and everyone started heading for their families cars or the bus stop down the mountain path, you lingered behind, straightening up your dorm room quietly, that way everything would be nice and reset for the new week. Gojo-sensei would be a little late anyway. He was always one of the last to leave, usually waving a dismissive hand when you’d ask what he was up to and start complaining about paperwork. 

About half an hour after the last students leave, your phone buzzes with a text. 

Gojo-sensei 🧿👄🧿: paperworks finished!! wanna stop at the conbini and get some snacks before we head home? my treat :3

You text back a short agreement, grabbing your bag and heading out into the hall, shutting off the lights in the common room as you slip out onto the gravel path of the campus towards Gojo-sensei’s car, parked in his ‘special spot’ that no one else is allowed to use. 

He’s already there, leaning against the passenger door, waiting impatiently but wearing a smile. 

“Took you long enough!” he chirps, opening the car door and ushering you in. “I say we also order ramen from that one place you like. I’m craving chashu and far too much chili oil for anyone who isn’t the strongest.”

He rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat, not bothering with his seatbelt but encouraging you to buckle yours. 

“Safety first,” he says, reaching over to buckle the belt for you, ruffling your hair as he pulls away. 

You swat his hand away, a small, exasperated smile on your lips. 

“Any plans for tomorrow?” you ask. “Or are we being lazy again?”

Gojo groans. “Ughhh, don’t remind me, I have a mission tomorrow. A late one, so don’t bother trying to stay up, you’ll just crash on the couch and complain about your neck again.”

“I don’t complain,” you sigh. 

“Yes you do,” he waves a dramatic hand. “‘Gojo-sensei, do you have any pain-killers? Your stupid couch tried to commit a homicide and I was the victim’. That’s exactly what you said to me last week.”

───₊ ✦

The convenience store was, unfortunately, busy.

Not unbearably so—just enough people to make the aisles feel cramped and the air a little too warm. The automatic doors slid shut behind you with a soft hiss as you stepped inside, fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead.

Gojo-sensei, as expected, had absolutely no intention of lowering his volume to match the setting.

“Oh, they restocked!” he announces immediately, already veering off toward one of the aisles without waiting to see if you’re following. “Last time they only had the gross flavor left. You remember that, right? The one that tasted like sadness?”

“You’re the only person I know who describes food like that,” you mutter, trailing after him anyway.

“And I’m always right.”

He grabs a handful of brightly packaged sweets off the shelf, inspecting them with unnecessary seriousness before tossing them into the basket. Then another. And another.

You glance down.

“…you do know it’s just the two of us, right?”

He doesn’t even look up. “I’m aware.”

“That doesn’t look like awareness.”

“It’s called planning ahead.”

“For what? A small army?”

Gojo finally glances at you over the edge of his sunglasses, smiling like he’s already won an argument you didn’t realize you were having. “You underestimate my capabilities.”

“You overestimate your stomach.”

“Impossible.”

You sigh, but reach past him to grab a drink you like anyway, dropping it into the basket. He notices. Of course he does, but doesn’t say anything, just hums to himself and moves on.

It’s… easy.

Falling into step beside him, weaving around other customers, listening to his running commentary about everything and nothing. A normal kind of noise. The kind that fills space without asking anything from you.

You pause briefly at the end of one aisle, gaze unfocused for a second.

“…did you forget what you were getting?” Gojo asks from a few steps ahead, already halfway turned back toward you.

“Hm?” You blink, then shake your head lightly. “No. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime.”

“Please, you do it all the time.”

“Incorrect. I pretend to think. It’s a very important distinction.”

You snort softly, stepping forward again, and just like that the moment passes. Whatever it was, if it was anything at all, slips away as quickly as it came.

Probably nothing.

By the time you reach the register, the basket is… excessive.

The cashier doesn’t comment, though there’s a brief flicker of something in their expression as Gojo cheerfully piles everything onto the counter.

“Big night?” they ask politely.

“The biggest,” Gojo replies without missing a beat. “We’re celebrating surviving another week of paperwork.”

“You didn’t even do your paperwork until today,” you point out.

“Exactly. Growth.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips as you take the bag from the counter.

The walk back to the car is quieter, the evening air cooler against your skin as the sun dips lower behind the trees lining the road.

Gojo tosses the keys once before catching them, unlocking the car with a soft chirp. “Alright,” he says, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Important question.”

You pause halfway through buckling your seatbelt. “…that sounds ominous.”

“It is. Very serious.” He starts the engine, glancing over at you. “Sweet or savory first when we get back?”

You stare at him for a second.

“…that’s your important question?”

“It sets the tone for the entire evening.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, here I am, generously providing snacks.”

“You bought them for yourself.”

“And I’m choosing to share. Out of the kindness of my heart.”

You huff softly, settling back into your seat as the car pulls away from the parking lot. “Savory first.”

“Excellent choice,” he says, far too pleased. “You’re learning.”

The rest of the drive passes in the same easy rhythm—half conversation, half comfortable silence, music playing low in the background as the road winds back toward the estate.

By the time the gates come into view, the sky has shifted into something deeper, the last traces of daylight fading at the edges.

The house is quiet when you step inside.

Not unsettling.

Just… still.

The kind of quiet that settles into the walls of a place that’s too big for the number of people living in it.

You slip off your shoes by the door, setting the bag of snacks down on the nearest surface as Gojo moves past you, already halfway into another sentence.

“—and I’m telling you, if they send me on another late-night mission, I’m filing a formal complaint—”

“You don’t file complaints,” you say, following him in.

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

“…I won’t,” he admits easily, grabbing one of the bags and immediately opening it before you can even make it further into the room.

“Dinner first,” you remind him.

“This is dinner.”

“That is sugar.”

“It’s sustenance.”

You shake your head, heading toward your room while he continues to argue with absolutely no one about his dietary choices.

The door clicks shut softly behind you.

For a moment, everything is quiet again.

You exhale, rolling your shoulders slightly as the tension of the week settles out of your muscles. It’s familiar now, the routine, the space, the stillness that comes with it.

Home.

Or something close enough to it.

You move further into the room, setting your bag down and glancing briefly at your reflection as you pass the mirror—

—and pause.

Just for a second.

A strange, fleeting feeling settles in your chest.

Like you’ve walked into a room a fraction of a second too late.

Like something was there—

—and isn’t anymore.

You frown faintly.

“…weird.”

The feeling fades almost immediately.

You shake it off, turning away.

Probably just tired.

The rest of the evening passes in relative mundanity.

You shower. Gojo orders the ramen. By the time you step back out, hair still slightly damp, the smell of broth and spice has already filled the air.

You find him in the kitchen, exactly where you expect, perched sideways on one of the chairs at the small breakfast table, one leg hooked over the other, chopsticks already in hand despite the containers still being closed.

“You’re early,” you say, pulling out the chair across from him.

“I’m prepared,” he corrects, nudging one of the takeout containers toward you. “Big difference.”

You hum, settling into your seat as you open it. Steam curls up immediately, warm and fragrant, and for a moment neither of you say anything as you both start eating.

It doesn’t last.

“You know,” Gojo starts, like he’s been holding onto the thought all day, “they tried to assign me three first-years for field training next week.”

You glance up. “Tried?”

“I said no.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he confirms, nodding once. “Absolutely not. I value my peace. And my sanity.”

“You don’t have either of those.”

“Rude. I have both. I simply choose not to exercise them.”

You snort quietly, taking another bite. “What happened to ‘raising the next generation’?”

“I am raising the next generation,” he says, pointing his chopsticks at you. “I just don’t need more of you running around.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“Exactly.”

He leans back slightly in his chair, balancing it on two legs in a way that would probably make anyone else nervous.

“You should’ve seen their faces, though,” he continues, grin creeping in. “I think one of them was about five seconds away from crying.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m selectively encouraging.”

You give him a look.

He smiles wider.

“…you’re mean,” you repeat.

“Only to people who deserve it.”

“And first-years deserve it?”

“They will.”

You shake your head, but there’s no real weight behind it. The conversation drifts easily after that—half complaints about missions, half completely irrelevant tangents that somehow loop back around to the original topic before spiraling off again.

At some point, he reaches across the table to steal something from your bowl.

“Hey—”

“Sharing is caring,” he says, entirely unapologetic.

“You said that about the snacks too.”

“And I was right then, too.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you keep coming back every weekend.”

You pause for half a second.

“…I don’t have much of a choice.”

He hums, but doesn’t push it further. Just leans back again, chair thumping softly back onto all four legs as he stretches.

“Lucky me, then.”

The words are light. Casual.

Still, something about them lingers for just a moment longer than it should.

You finish eating not long after that, gathering up the empty containers and tossing them in the trash while Gojo makes a half-hearted attempt to help before getting distracted halfway through and wandering off mid-task.

Typical.

By the time everything’s cleaned up, the house has settled again. Quieter now. The kind of quiet that comes with night, heavier than before.

“I’m heading to bed,” you call out, not entirely sure where he’s wandered off to.

There’s a beat, then his voice echoes faintly from somewhere down the hall. “Don’t stay up too late.”

You blink.

“…I just said I was going to bed.”

“Exactly,” he calls back. “Don’t get distracted on the way.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you turn toward your room.

“Goodnight, Gojo-sensei.”

“Night.”

Your door clicks shut behind you.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp near your bed. You move through it on autopilot—setting things down, changing, pulling back the covers.

Routine.

Familiar.

You slide into bed, adjusting the blanket around you as the quiet settles in again, wrapping around the edges of the room.

For a while, you just lie there, staring up at the ceiling.

Listening.

There’s nothing.

No footsteps. No voices. No movement beyond the faint hum of electricity in the walls.

Just stillness.

Your eyes drift shut.

Sleep comes easily.

And somewhere in the space between waking and dreaming—

there’s the faintest flicker of something else.

Not quite a sound.

Not quite a thought.

Just—

Something.

Gone before you can grasp it.

Morning comes anyway.

The alpha pattern is 25x37

But because I’m doing bobble stitches, the pattern is doubled, making it 50x74!

To start this I did a foundation chain of 50, turned my work, and got started on my first row of single crochets.

After that, I did a single crochet into the first stitch, then started on the bobbles which represent each pixel.

I’m currently on row 31, and I’m at 1,550 stiches! Once I finish it, I’ll have crocheted 3,700 stitches on this tapestry alone!