wanna be cool girl

You shouldn’t – god, anyone with a lick of common sense'd realise it's a terrible idea – but you’re already rolling out of bed and fumbling for your keys. 

You find him sitting curbside down in the industrial district, hood up, knuckles busted and bleeding, a gym bag stuffed full beside him. He slides into the passenger seat without a word, all stiff and awkward, shooting you sidelong glances as you flip the indicator and pull out onto the deserted street like he’s expecting the interrogation to start any second. 

His brother would’ve been laying into him by now–

That is, if he answered the call in the first place. If you were around to guilt him into going. 

You’re here. In spite of the damage it’ll do, in spite of how deeply unhealthy it is, for both of you, you showed up – and you’re not his brother or his guardian. He’s nineteen and whatever messes he’s getting into, you’re not sure you want to know. 

“Where do you want me to drop you?” you ask mildly. Not an accusation, and hardly an interrogation. The sort of tone you adopt making small talk with your co-worker in an elevator on Monday morning. “Still crashing with that friend up on the hills?”

He blinks at you. Hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

“Things didn’t, uh… Can’t I stay with you?”

You heave a sigh, “Yuuji–”

“Just for tonight. Please? I don’t mind the couch.” His hoodie’s pushed back now, the glow of passing streetlights casting into relief the mottled red and purple along his cheekbone. The big, sad eyes that punch like a knife through your chest. 

A colder, more cautious part of you wonders if he does it intentionally, tugging at the heartstrings he knows run deepest.

“One night,” he pleads. “I’ll make you breakfast in the morning to make up for it!”

That earns a snort, an almost smile, the shadow of one, teasing at your mouth. “You can cook?” you ask.

He nods so earnestly it makes you ache all over again. “Yeah! Well, I mean, kinda? I’ve watched a million of those cooking chef shows, and it can’t be that hard, right?”

You laugh in spite of yourself and Yuuji beams. 

If there was a moment to stand your ground and make the smart decision, it was probably an hour ago when you answered the phone. You already left your very warm, very cozy bed to drive out and help him, you’re hardly going to dump him at the next corner because letting him stay with you crosses about a thousand lines. That horse already bolted. 

“One night,” you concede. 

Yuuji sinks back into his seat, content. 

You, meanwhile, can already hear your therapist’s voice in your ear, repeating things about transference and the importance of establishing and maintaining boundaries. Things she’s told you a thousand times. You tell yourself it’s the last time.

“Knew you’d come,” he mumbles. You glance over and his eyes are closed and his head tilted back, shifting a bit to find a slightly more comfortable position. 

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel. Though the words burn on the tip of your tongue, you don’t say a thing.

—

“Do you want some ice for that?”

You should mind your own business. Your boss, if he were here, would probably tell you the same thing. If someone slips and falls in the restaurant, breaks a glass and slices through their hand, it’s your responsibility to help them out, but if it doesn’t happen within these four walls, and they don’t ask for help, it’s none of your concern. Or so he’d lecture.

Problem is, you have ice, and this pink haired, tattooed stranger, all six foot plus of him stuffed into one of your booths, has knuckles busted to hell, all reddened and split, not to mention a small cut across his eyebrow. Ice’ll help – the knuckles, if not the face. Can’t make it any worse, at least.

More to the point, you didn’t exactly think before the words came tumbling out, they just did. You saw a stupidly hot guy, your brain switched off, and now, he’s grinning at you. Baring his teeth might be more of an apt description, but there’s definitely an edge of amusement there. He obviously finds it funny, which you suppose is better than telling you to fuck off or something.

“Ice?” he drawls.

You swallow. “Yeah. For your,” you wave a hand in the general direction of his bruised knuckles, heat surging to your cheeks, “y’know. Might help.”

“I’ll take a beer. The udon curry with karaage. Two gyoza.”

No ice then. “A-anything else?” you ask.

The slow, lingering once over he gives you says plenty. “Nah, ‘m good for now. But stay close, just in case.”

“Y-yeah. ‘course.”

—

“Here.” You pass Yuuji the bundled sheets first, then one of the extra pillows from your bed, stuffed in a fresh pillowcase. 

Gone is the slow blinking daze he’d shuffled up the stairs with. The second you’d unlocked the door for him he’d started wandering through your apartment, his attention flicking over every detail; the scuff marks on the floorboards, the beaten up two-seater that’ll serve as his bed for the night and the throw carelessly folded and dumped atop, the walls, in their egg-shell white, painfully bare of any kind of furnishings, the old fridge in the kitchen, humming noisily away. 

Sure, it’s not the Ritz-Carlton, and it’s a whole smaller and, admittedly, rougher around the edges than where he lived with Sukuna, but it could be worse. You’ve heard nightmare stories from your Mina and her friends; at least here the airconditioning works and your super eventually responds to your texts. 

Besides, this is temporary, so it’s fine. Steps, your therapist had stressed. 

“There’s a towel in the closet over there if you–”

“I wanted to come live with you.” 

The words come from nowhere, so unexpected, but he isn’t looking at you. He’s staring at the pile of blankets and sheets in his hands. Glaring at it, really. 

“… After, y’know,” he shrugs. “They were gonna stick me in a foster home ‘til I aged out, but we basically already lived together. You were old enough, ‘cause he was, and nobody else–” he cuts himself off, risking a glance up. 

“Yuuji…” You were barely functional in the weeks, months after. A living, breathing zombie, which is the first of about a thousand reasons why no one in their right mind would’ve handed you someone like Itadori Yuuji to take care of.

By all rights, he shouldn’t be here now. 

“I know. I know, it’s just– you… you were all I had left. He fucked everything up.”

You sigh, ignoring the agonising twist in your chest, the pain that seeps into wounds that haven’t yet healed, and won’t ever. “Go to sleep, Yuuji. It’s late, and we both need it.”

—

“He’ll change his mind,” Tatsuya says, perched anxiously on your bed, watching you carefully stack another pile of folded shirts into your suitcase. “He’s just– I dunno. He doesn’t mean it. You don’t have to go.”

“He meant it.” 

Every heartbreaking, cruel word. 

Your father had taken one look at Sukuna through the window of his car, lost all colour in his face and before you knew it, you were standing in your living room while he ranted and raved, telling you what a bad influence he was, how he’d never allow his daughter to date street scum–

And then it got nasty.

Was it the tattoos? Sukuna never left his car, idling on the curb ‘til you reached the front door, you can’t fathom what else could’ve possibly triggered that kind of a reaction from your father. He had a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers, sure, but, in spite of what your mom’s been led to believe, your dad hasn’t kicked the habit either. 

You’d like to believe your younger brother’s right. That tomorrow, or the next day, or a few weeks from now, he’ll come to understand the weight of the wedge he’s driven between you, and regret it. You’d like to imagine that when the door swings shut behind you, your mom’ll wake up and defend you like she was supposed to.

The reality is, you’re not sure of either. 

“It’s not like I’m leaving the country,” you tell him instead, softening the blow the only way you can. “I’m only a phone call away, alright? I’m always gonna be here when you need me, and you can come visit whenever.”

He doesn’t entirely look convinced, worrying at his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“It’ll be fine, Tats. Pinky promise.”

“But you’re moving in with him?”

“Yeah,” you say. Another few shirts added to the growing pile in your suitcase. “Mina doesn’t have enough room for me to stay more than a few nights.” What you don’t say is that the thought of calling her never crossed your mind. 

Sukuna was out with Uraume all afternoon. He told you he had business, he’d be out late – that’s why he dropped you home in the first place. 

Even so–

“He’s good to me.”

He picked up. He’s coming. You don’t care that he has tattoos or drives a loud car, that his attitude’s kind of shitty, and he’s all sharp, jagged edges – that’s what matters to you. 

Tatsuya rests his chin on his knee, saying nothing as more and more of your closet gets packed into bags. You’ll have to come back for the rest of it, eventually. 

When you’re all done, suitcase bulging, the zipper fighting for its life, he offers to lift it downstairs for you. The mental image of your scrawny, twelve year old brother battling to lug the suitcase makes the corners of your lips twitch. You ruffle his hair. “I’ve got it. Stay up here for a while.” You spare him what you can. 

The silence downstairs is heavy. Your mom sits rigidly on the couch, staring at the coffee table through vacant eyes, your dad stands by the kitchen, expression pinched as the rumbling of an engine cuts off and a car horn blows. You think you should be crying. Maybe you are, you don’t feel anything but numb. 

And it’s bewildering in a sense. You were right there, part of the conversation, and you can’t wrap your head around how this happened. How you got from there to here – neither parent acknowledging you, a cold tension festering in the home you’re no longer welcome in.

Because he didn’t like that your boyfriend had tattoos?

There’s no point saying anything. You roll your suitcase out the door and let it swing shut behind you. 

You don’t glance back over your shoulder, nothing so dramatic, but you feel the weight of his stare following you down the driveway, remaining as you wrangle the heavy suitcase into the trunk of Sukuna’s car. 

Stubborn to the bitter end.

Sukuna doesn’t bother greeting you, asking if you’re okay. The second you’re settled in the passenger seat, he’s grabbing you by the jaw and leaning over the console to pull you into a kiss. Sukuna doesn’t do gentle. Definitely doesn’t do sweet. His tongue’s in the back of your mouth, teeth too sharp, and he growls into it, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

Likewise, you pretend not to notice the narrow eyed sneer he shoots over your shoulder when he eventually settles back, one hand splayed over your thigh, and switches the ignition back on.

“Fuck ‘em.”

He’d said as much on the phone. You nod, sniffling. “Yuuji won’t care?”

Sukuna scoffs, “Brat likes you more than he likes me. He’ll be fine.” 

—

You never remember the nightmares.

You wake in the dead of night gasping for breath, heart pounding like you’ve been running for miles, cheeks wet with tears and your pj’s sticking to your damp skin, but the dreams themselves vanish into black. Tonight’s no different in that regard.

You don’t remember crying out, but your door cracks open anyway, a darkened figure appearing in the shadows, lit by the flashlight of his phone.

Yuuji.

He calls your name tentatively, though he must know you’re awake and you can see him. 

“It’s fine, it’s– I’m fine,” you pant, collapsing back into your pillows, squeezing your eyes shut like it’ll rid you of this horrible feeling. “Sorry I woke you.”

The door closes, a softened thud in the dead stillness of the night, and you assume he trudged back to the couch, satisfied you weren’t being murdered in your sleep. The dip of the mattress behind you rips you back, and for a split second you panic all over again, the first touch a livewire to your poor, frantic heart. 

“Yuuji–”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, voice thick with sleep. “‘m here. Just a dream. He’s gone, you’re safe with me. Go back to sleep.”

He nuzzles into your shoulder, the full length of his body pressed up behind yours, and it’s nothing – in the early days there was more than one night you spent curled up with Mina like this, the constant reminder of her presence the only thing holding you together while you ripped yourself apart in misery and grief – this is no different. Comfort from someone who understands. Maybe the only person who truly can. 

Tears roll and dampen the pillow beneath your cheek. 

You tell yourself it’s the nightmare that keeps you from slipping back to sleep. 

—

Sukuna has plans.

You’d heard him on the phone earlier, names of people and places you don’t know and don’t care to. The fights – brawls – aren’t your thing, the clubs and bars he has business at far from your idea of a fun night out. 

It’s fine, though. You’ve made your peace with it.

And tonight, it works in your favour.

The dress you picked is cute. Blush pink satin and swirling just above your knees, nothing super fancy or scandalous, but dolled up as you are, you feel pretty. 

“Going somewhere, baby?”

A quick glance in the mirror finds Sukuna’s broad frame leaning across the open doorway behind you. You don’t respond right away. One more pass of mascara to your lower lashes and you lean back, satisfied with your efforts. Your hands aren’t quite steady when you slide the brush back into the bottle, twisting it shut. 

You smile at him. An easy, guilt free, perfectly natural smile. 

“Hanging with Mina and a few friends.” It’s been weeks– no, months now since the last time you saw her. Considering that night ended with her boyfriend nursing a broken nose, courtesy of yours, you’d say it’s no small miracle she’s willing to see you at all. “Girls’ night. Happy hour and a karaoke booth.”

When he doesn’t say anything, dark eyes trailing over your outfit, you add, “I’ll probably be home before you are.”

“You wanna go out?” His voice is mild, nothing in his expression hinting at dissatisfaction, but you aren’t stupid. There’s a fluttering in your belly that’s more than nerves. 

“Well… yeah, but it’s only with the girls,” you laugh and it sounds off, too thin and pitched.  “We’re not doing anything crazy, or–”

“Feelin’ a little cooped up, babe?” 

“What? No, it’s just–”

“No one said you had to spend every night keepin’ the brat company.” He pushes off the doorframe and stalks into the room, “You want me to take you out and show you a good time, all ya had to do was say so.”

You back up a step, knocking into the vanity behind you. “You’re busy. Working, I didn’t think–”

“Didn’t think I’d care what my girl’s doing behind my back?” His canines catch the light, glinting as he bares them in a grins, “Didn’t think I’d be able to keep you entertained while I’m doing the shit I’ve gotta do?”

A cold pit settles in your stomach.

“C’mon. You’re all dressed up, baby. Be a damn shame to waste it on that whining cunt and her friends.”

—

By the time morning swings around, you feel like you haven’t slept a wink.

Dimly, you’re aware of Yuuji rousing behind you. He’s slow to rise, slow to extricate himself from you, Sunday morning laziness. You keep your eyes closed and your breathing as steady as you can while he yawns and stretches and gently shakes you by the shoulder to see if you’ll rouse. When you don’t, he chuckles to himself and yawns loudly again, finally, blessedly, padding out to the kitchen, leaving you alone. He did promise you breakfast. 

Only then do you allow the weight of it to sink in. 

Last night was a mistake. Clearly, unequivocally a mistake. Yuuji’s a sweet kid, he doesn’t deserve any of what’s happened, but you can’t pretend this is normal anymore. You’ll always be weak where he’s concerned, but this isn’t healthy for either one of you.

You need to be the adult here. You need to be the one to cut it off at the knees.

The smell of coffee slowly filters in, and your stomach churns in response. 

His back’s to you when you finally muster the courage to venture out. Hunched over the stovetop shirtless, humming as he cracks eggs into a hot, sizzling pan. At the creak of the floorboards beneath your feet, announcing your arrival, he spins, his whole face lighting up. 

“You’re up! Thought you’d sleep forever,” he laughs. “D’you want coffee? Breakfast’ll be another few minutes, but the coffee’s pretty much good to go.”

It occurs to you that you could give him this. Breakfast. Something normal and nice between you two before you break it clean. You could put it off, call him tomorrow–

You stop the thought in its tracks, biting back a sigh. You can’t even help yourself. This is the problem. 

“Yuuji–”

He cuts you off, “I know what you’re gonna say.”

“You… do?”

He smiles again, that bright, sunny expression made garish by the ugly, deepening bruises on his cheek. “Yeah. Sit down, d’you take your coffee the same way?”

You must make some kind of an acknowledging sound because he nods, takes you by the shoulders and leads you over to your couch, where he should’ve slept last night, and pushes you down into it. Moments later, there’s a warm mug of coffee pressed into your hands. 

There’s no dining table like there was back at the house. No space for it, no need when it’s just you. Yuuji, having either turned the burners off or decided the eggs and whatever else’ll be fine for a minute or two takes the seat next to you, turned on the cushion with his feet up so he’s facing you.

Are you supposed to talk now?

“I got a job,” he announces.

You blink at him, the late, sleepless night keeping the words, or more accurately, the intention behind them, from sinking in. 

“Well, it’s not so much a job, but it’s money. Good money.”

“Oh,” you say, because that doesn’t clear it up at all. “Uh, that’s great, Yuuji. I’m happy for you.”

Were you freaking out over nothing? It might be wishful thinking to believe he’s trying to tell you he’s getting his shit together and you don’t have to worry about him, but you’re not sure where else he’d be going with this.

“Yeah, exactly,” he continues, nodding along. “And I mean, no offense but this place is barely a shoebox and kind of a dump, so it makes sense, right?”

You’re lost. Wholly and completely lost. Brushing aside the blatant (not necessarily untrue) criticism of your apartment, there’s a big chunk you’re not seeing and he’s not saying. Either that or you need to down this entire cup of coffee and wait ‘til the caffeine kicks in and reboots you. “… What makes sense?”

Yuuji’s smile becomes a bit sheepish. “Us, I mean. Moving in together, somewhere new, better than here. You won’t have to support us both because I’ll be able to. Not right off the bat, but soon. And I can take care of you, like last night. It’ll be good for us.”

The rug, pulled out from beneath your feet. 

He’s staring at you, waiting for some kind of a reaction, a response. Your mouth opens and closes and nothing comes out. You try again. 

“I… I can’t live with you, Yuuji.” The words tumble out faster than you can keep up, a river breaking its banks, flood waters swarming. “I can’t– this isn’t healthy. It needs to stop. Last night was a mistake. I shouldn’t have gone to pick you up, that’s on me, but you shouldn’t have called me in the first place! Being around you– it’s too much. I can’t do it, I can’t. Every time I see you it’s like I’m being dragged right back and I can’t keep killing myself to help you!” You stumble to your feet, coffee sloshing from the cup and spilling to the floor. Your hand shakes as you jab a finger at the door, your breathing too short, but your voice doesn’t waver. “You need to leave. Right now.”

—

‘Tell him… tell him you weren’t home. You didn’t see me, I was gone when you came back.’

“Do you need ice? I think there’s an icepack in the freezer,” Tatsuya offers. 

You very nearly burst into tears all over again. The bruise looks worse than it is, and you aren’t about to tell your little brother it was the least of the damage dealt last night.

“No, it’s okay. I’m alright. C’mere,” you hold out your arms, and after a second of deliberation, Tatsuya crawls up onto the bed and into your arms.

“I missed you,” you tell him, blinking back the welling tears. 

You shouldn’t have come home. You haven’t spoken to your dad in over a year, only a handful of texts with your mom, the last on your birthday a few months ago. You aren’t deluded enough to imagine you’re welcome here, the only reason you bothered to show up at all because you knew they’d both be busy at work, and being a school break, your brother would be home.

Mina… who knows. You aren’t sure she would’ve opened the door. 

“Sorry I haven’t been around.”

Tatsuya hugs you tighter. “Don’t leave and I’ll forgive you.”

A knock at the door interrupts your reply, Tatsuya already scrambling to his feet before you can wipe away your tears, fix yourself up and do the same. 

He waves you off, “I got it.” 

It feels weird being back in your old room. You half expected it to be storage by now. A converted study slash office space. A tasteful but soulless guest bedroom. It’s not. Your things haven’t been touched. There’s no dust, and whatever open drawers or clothes you left behind have been put to rights, but the photos on the wall, your bedspread, your old desk and the shoe rack you left behind – it’s still your room, exactly as you left it. 

You lean back on your arms, breathing deep and slow. Truthfully, you hadn’t thought it through. Hadn’t thought to grab anything other than the bare essentials before you fled – before your courage fled and you stayed. You don’t know what happens now, what comes next. What you’ll say to your parents when they come home and see living proof of their own misgivings.

If they throw you out again–

A bellowing shriek rips through the house and your blood runs cold. You’re on your feet and running before you register that you’ve moved, nearly toppling over the railing of the stairs in your haste to get downstairs. 

“Hey, baby. Wanna tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing?”

The scene that greets you is one straight from your nightmares.

Sukuna, wifebeater flecked with blood, a steel bat loose in his grip, grinning up at you, and your brother, half his skull–

No. No–

A heart-wrenching noise rips from your lungs. It barely sounds human. Critical thought evades you, you move without thinking, without caring – right for your little brother. Right into the arms of your ex, who casts aside the bloodied steel to lunge forward and take you both to the floor.

And still, you don’t stop. Arms flailing, kicking back blindly to reach him. Tatsuya, wide eyed, glassy eyed, half his face caved in. Hand outstretched like he’s reaching to you, and you’re still screaming. Still crying, wailing like a banshee while the monster atop you wrestles you onto your back, straddling your waist.

“Thought we got this shit outta your system last night.”

Sukuna leans down, dragging his tongue up your jaw to your lash line, tasting the tears that spill hot, salty and unfettered, groaning like they’re a fucking delicacy. Lips at your ear, he warns you again, “You aren’t fucking leaving me. You’re mine.”

You beg. Plead. Scream and sob, cursing him and wailing your brother’s name. He laughs. When you try to claw at his face he yanks your wrist to his teeth and sinks them into the tender flesh. You shriek, but his grip’s too tight. He won’t give an inch. His teeth are bloody when he finally relents, and he doesn’t hide the way he licks it away, savours it as he swallows it down. 

Your clothes get shoved out of the way. Torn. Split, sometimes so roughly there’s marks left in their wake. Sukuna likes the fight, but he enjoys grinding your resistance into the dirt even more. His mouth crashes to yours on the first thrust. You should be thankful he had the generosity to spit on your cunt before he split it open on his cock, but the pain is blinding. Agonizing. You can’t think at all.

And your brother is dead beside you.

He fucks you next to the corpse. On the living room floor, where the puddle of blood and brains beneath his mangled head slowly creeps towards you both.

At a certain point, you disconnect.

You aren’t there for the voices, the footsteps that swarm, barking orders and the snarled response. There’s only you, Sukuna inside of you, and your brother’s empty eyes staring back.

You feel it, though. The warm spray of blood, splattering over your face and chest, and the heavy weight of his body, slumping over you.

—

One hand over your mouth, the other tucked under you both, curled around your middle. 

You’re laid face down on the couch. Or at least, that’s where you ended up. Yuuji presses soft, nuzzling kisses to the back of your neck, your hair, the tip of your ears, wherever he can reach, and his cock slides in and out of you at a languid, lazy pace. There’s no rush. You aren’t going anywhere and he’s got all morning. All day.

His skin’s feverish to the touch, sweat slicked, but the shivers that rack his body have nothing to do with the temperature. Yuuji’s heavier than he looks, draped over your back. All muscle as he presses you down and cages you in. Everywhere, in every breath. He moans like he can’t hear you crying, lost in the feeling of your pussy squelching around his cock.

“This’ll– f-uck– this’ll be good for us. You’ll see,” he vows. “‘m gonna take care of you. Do everything he couldn’t. I’ll do it better.”

He twitches deep inside of you, another full body shudder. 

“I love you. Loved you from the start, but you never– shit, never saw.”

His arm draws your hips up, a slight change in angle that has you whining and whimpering into his hand. 

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."

Somehow, it had slipped right under your radar. For several weeks, actually. You hadn’t thought much of your white-haired colleague or his remarks, regarding him just so, as a colleague and not much more. But then, during a break on a rather hot day, you’d stepped outside to eat your lunch in the fresh air instead of in your classroom, only to witness him doing PDA with none other than a student’s mom in the parking lot. 

That’s public display of affection, as in tongues down throats and hands down each other’s back pockets. 

Inappropriate and unprofessional to a whole other degree, you’d hidden yourself from discovery as you’d been the one transgressing, heart in your throat and head spiraling.

Unable to eat even a bite of your lunch, you’d been damn-near speechless for the rest of the day, and the few days following.

His comments hit a little differently after that.

“You’re going a little hard on the blush again—”

This time, you gave his jab a stricter reply, “Mr. Gojo. Kindly stop commenting on my appearance. It makes me feel uncomfortable.” 

The smile you give him is small and nearly nonexistent, as courteous as your tone, but offering no form of friendliness. Then you walk away without waiting for any further comeback, feeling slightly embarrassed even for having spoken to him, knowing what you know.

It stunts him, being left standing there, number #1 teacher mug in his hand, watching the way your long skirt swishes as you quickly disappear out of the break room—all but running away from him as if afraid to catch the plague.

It’s odd. No one speaks to him that way, especially not a woman. And yet, displeased as it makes him, it’s also fascinating.

And so, he keeps jabbing—getting a bit more progressive each day.

“You know if you frown like that, you’ll get wrinkles.” 

He’s posted up at the threshold of your classroom. You hadn’t noticed before he spoke, busy grading papers, lips pursed and brows deep-set in concentration, eyes raking through the answer sheet of a student who’d clearly not taken the time to study properly. You were just making a note of needing to have a word with him, before you were pulled away from it. 

You look up at the interruption, making eye contact with the white-haired colleague and his pearly white grin. 

“Besides, I think smiling suits you better.”

If you didn’t know better, it could have played off as a genuine compliment—maybe even a flirtatious one. A week ago, you’d probably have smiled brightly, giggled like a young schoolgirl talking to her crush, but the way things are now, you have no wish to speak to him any more than you have to.

“Was there anything you needed?” you ask strictly, making it plain in your voice that you’re only asking out of courtesy.

He drums his fingers on the doorframe, leaning halfway across the threshold, invading your sanctuary. Still bearing a smile despite your obvious choice in not returning it, drawling out a gratingly lazy “Nah, just thought I’d drop by.”

You smack your lips, “Well, then. I’m rather busy, Mr. Gojo. So, if you wouldn’t mind.” You don’t care to acknowledge him any more than that, looking back at your papers.

He stands there for a little moment longer, perhaps trying to goad you into looking up a second time. But after a minute, he must have accepted your clear refusal, then gone his way.

The following days aren’t better…

You’d thought, if you made your dislike of him more than obvious, he’d lose interest and leave you alone for good. But it seems that was a foolish thing to think. No, his pestering soon borders on incessant, now with a more than obvious undertone of ill will that wasn’t prominent before.

“Your ends are split, and oh—is that a grey hair I see?” he says one morning, twirling a lock of your hair around his slender fingers.

It’s too early to have your guard up, so of course, you feel the instant pang of mortification stab you in the heart, all but screeching, “No, it isn’t, you—”

He grins all smug with a glint and a gleam in his blue eyes. Snickering, “Careful, or we’ll end up matching. Now wouldn’t that be something for the students to gossip about…”

Eye twitching and teeth gritting, you seethe back at him and his suggestive tone, “Leave me alone.”

Of course, he doesn’t. Every day, there’s a new jibe and a new boundary crossed.

“Skirts as short as this aren’t exactly school-friendly, are they?” he comes up behind you, bending over to lift your perfectly modest skirt so far up that his knuckles brush along the frill of your underwear while he shamelessly sneaks a peek at it.

He jeers at the way it flusters you.

“Stop that—” Flushed from head to toe as you swat his hand away, brows cinched in embarrassment and anger. Voice a little too unnerved to put the bite in your bark, “Go away.”

He hears you, but how can he? How can he stop when you make it so fun? This place was such a snooze before you arrived—snotty-nosed kids and boring old colleagues. He’d run out of hot moms to fool around with, and before then, he’d already grown tired of it.

He was all but ready to quit before you started, so you can’t expect him to walk away now after having made him stay.

“You’re wearing too much makeup again,” he teases, vying for a reaction.

You almost snapped, almost bought into it, yet again, like every day before. He watches you fray at the edges, shoulders hiked, and hands shaking as you pour your morning coffee. Tears prickle in your eyes—you don’t know how much more of this you can take. It’s as if you’re back in high school yourself—suffering the jocks and the mean girls all over again—always the odd one out.

The anxiety blossoms in your chest, and you spiral. Why is he doing this to you? What does he want? Just to tear you down? What does he get out of it? Your lip curls. On you like a fiend every day, pointing out your flaws, making you feel like shit—does he think you don’t know? Of course, you know! You’ve been told as much all your life! You know you’re no supermodel. You know you’re getting older. You know your mid-twenties are only a stone’s throw away from your thirties, which means you’re basically forty already. You know you’ve got cellulite and stretchmarks and that the crows’ feet are on their way. You know your blemishes are becoming more and more prominent and permanent. You know your skin is losing luster and that it won’t be all too long before you’ll have to start coloring your roots.

That asshole, he doesn’t need to tell you—you already know. You’ve never been a beauty queen, even in your youth. You’ve never had a dazzling smile with dimples and glowy cheeks. You’ve never had eyes that shine like gemstones with the effervescent glow of a comet across the night sky, and your skin has never been pearlescent, like starlight. You know, on any scale of one to ten, Gojo is off the chart, and you’re somewhere around average. You know. You know you’re not pretty like him. And yes, it bothers you. 

Or… no. That’s not right. That’s not what bothers you. You have many pretty friends whom you love without envy, always celebrating their drop-dead gorgeous looks by telling them so each and every time you meet them.

Gojo is a beautiful man, and that’s all well. You don’t mind it.

No, what bothers you is that Gojo is perhaps the ugliest man in the world when it comes to what he carries on the inside. And he makes your dream job feel like enemy territory as he picks apart your appearance like a schoolyard bully.

Yes, that’s right—a bully. Nothing but a bully. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent—that’s what you teach the children, and that’s what you should have been telling yourself all this time, too. You might have let mean boys and girls tear you down like this back in school, but you’re not some vulnerable pre-pubescant underdeveloped victim anymore. 

You don’t have to let him win.

It’s easy. Don’t let him see you break, and you take away his power. It’s that simple. Just block him out. Treat him as if he isn’t even there. It’s just you and the smell of morning coffee on another day of your dream job. Your students are waiting for you, all smiles with apples placed on your desk, ready for you to do your best, nothing more and nothing less.

Yes. You take a deep breath and set the coffee pot down slowly. Steeling yourself, you exhale as if dispelling every ill thought and feeling within. This is your happy place. No one’s getting in without a permit.

You smile, poised and relaxed, feeling bulletproof as you commit yourself fully to ignoring him.

You don’t meet his eyes while walking away. You don’t look back either. Nor do you scurry like usual. No, this time you walk calmly and collectedly out, continuing like so until you’re home free in your classroom, bidding your students good morning.

Meanwhile, he’s left feeling utterly rumpled in your wake, watching you leave with a pout on his face. 

It becomes jaded after a minute. “Boo. No fun.” 

And then, he starts to prickle, feeling it sink in, seeping in through his unbothered skin, until taking over. His face contorts, and he tosses his half-drunk mug in the sink with a loud clatter, letting coffee spill, some droplets jumping out of the basin onto his pristine blue shirt before he storms off.

You’re like that from then on. You act cordially with him in front of the students, still updating him on schedules, mostly through emails, but other than that, you don’t humor him. He keeps it up, testing you and your newfound confidence, cornering you every chance he gets, but it’s been busy with the whole school planning prom and all. Especially you, being one of the coordinators, running around, dismissing him, giving him errands he can’t say no to.

He’s positively ticked the night in question. Leaning with his back against the wall, a red cup of punch in his hand, glaring at you from across the pool of students crowded in the middle of the gymnasium floor.

You’re dressed in a simple black dress, hemmed only a little above your knees, sitting right and tight just below your collar bones, showing no cleavage, not even so much as a simple necklace to complement it. The only jewelry you’re wearing, if it can even be called that, is the slim little watch on your wrist. Worst of all, on your feet, you have no heels, but the same pair of black sneakers you wear every day.

It’s clear you’re there to monitor, not to partake. And yet, despite that, there’s a guy standing next to you. 

He’s not a teacher. Gojo doesn’t recognize him, wearing a cheap old suit that’s too small for him, all ruddy-cheeked smiles, fidgety sausage fingers, and hearty laughs—a real loser if he ever saw one. And still, you’re laughing along with him, a hand on his arm, lingering there way too long for his comfort.

Scowling at the two of you from where he stands on the other side of the room, he waits until your date goes to get both of you a glass of punch before making his move, striding up to you more hurried than smooth.

“Why, if it isn’t my favorite wallflower.” He masks his aggression with sarcasm, but he’s not sure if he’s successful or not.

In either case, it doesn’t seem like it matters much. You don’t care to pay him attention anyway, only acknowledging him with a curt but courteous, “Mr. Gojo.”

He takes his position next to you, fingers tapping his thigh and glossy polished dress shoe tapping the linoleum ballroom floor of the basketball court, paper confetti getting ironed underfoot.

“You brought a date,” he points out, unable to let it slide. “That’s funny. Are we making up for lost time?” He looks at you sideways, jeering at you, “Le’mme guess, you spent last prom at home, didn’t you?”

You smile for once, answering with pride present in your voice, “Actually, I led the prom committee.”

He scoffs, tired of failing to get under your skin, and angry you’re the one starting to get under his. He tries not to let it show, sneering,  “That was my second guess.”

If it bothers you, you don’t let it show. Your gaze set on the dance floor, watching the male students awkwardly ask female students for their hand once the poppy song changed into a romantic one.

“Your date’s quite a character,” he begins anew, casting a glare over at the burly man bumping into others in the punch-queue. Sneering, “Is he blind, or did he wear that as a joke?”

You sigh, some part exasperated, but mostly just as a way of telling him to give it up, replying with grace, “Say what you will about me, but leave him out of it, will you?”

His eye almost twitches, but he keeps it under wraps, maintaining his sardonicism.  “How can I when it’s obviously a cry for help? Want me to save you?”

For the second time, you sigh—again, not in exasperation or ire, more so in plain apathy, almost pity, saying, “Why don’t you go bother someone else, Gojo?”

“Aw, com’on, don’t be like that. You’re not foolin’ anyone,” he states, looking at you slyly. Whispering to you as if he’s spilling some big, embarrassing secret, “We both know it would be your high school wet dream come true to dance with me.”

You have to look at him for a moment, taking him in. Dressed sharply in a nice suit, way too much effort for a prom night not meant for him, but who are you to judge a man for wanting to relive his high-school glory? Rakishly good looks, more than good enough to model, and yet, still so gaudy, you nearly choke on the haughty laughter wanting to crawl up your pipes. 

You manage to stifle it, wanting to be the bigger person. Still, you just have to ask, “Are you joking?”

His offered hand is left hanging, so is the smolder on his face. There’s something weirdly genuine about it that gives you the ick—and you can’t fathom how this is what all those moms had fallen head over heels for. This… this slimeball. 

“No, actually, you can’t be serious.” You shudder, but refrain from letting your face warp in disgust, wanting to keep things civil. And yet, despite your efforts, you can’t help the bit of sass that creeps into your voice, “Have you been drinking?” nor can you withhold the scoff and laugh that comes next. “Or is this yet another way you’ve thought of to harass me?” 

You’re not sure if you’re genuinely amused or if you’ve just about reached your limit with the man. 

“Honestly, Gojo, I’m having an actual nice time for a change. Would you mind not ruining it just this once? Why don’t you go flirt with another parent as per usual?”

You pat him on the shoulder, then you go to leave in the direction of your date, still standing in line for punch. 

It might have been below you, but before you’re fully off, you turn around again, only for one last jab, “Oh, but do be mindful of the students. Wouldn’t want a case on our hands.”

You go the rest of the night without seeing him, and you think you might have finally done it, defeated him, forced him to give up. It makes the night even sweeter. Feeling safe. Looking around, you think your comments were enough to make him go home. Actually, feeling a little excited for Monday when you’d get to face him, wanting to look him in the eyes and smile, knowing he’s got nothing on you. 

You even accept a dance from your students when they come and drag you away from the wall. It’s like you’ve rewritten your past and with it carved your future. No longer the pushover you used to be, but your very own hero.

Your date is gone when you make it back. You eye the line for punch, thinking he’s gone to fetch another glass, but overlooking the heads, his isn’t one of them. You stand and wait for a moment. Maybe he’s in the bathroom? 

Three songs pass before you decide to leave your post and look for him. It’s not a big school, but not so small that it’s impossible to get lost either. Poor man’s probably managed to lock himself inside a classroom or something.

The hallways are dark so as not to invite students to walk them, wanting to herd everyone in the gymnasium where you teachers could keep track. You feel like you’re breaking your own rules walking down them, but there weren’t any other hallways your date could have taken unless he left through the back doors leading to the forest. Maybe he’d gone to the parking lot and driven off to an emergency? 

You pilfer through your little black purse—a half-finished packet of gum, the first wallet you ever bought still in use, the keys to your apartment, a spare pair of panties for tomorrow, and ah—your phone just in time for the screen to glow up.

He’s sent you a message. Maybe you were right and he truly had an emergency, you wonder while your phone scans your face and opens up to your text chain.

“Come find me,” you read out loud.

Your cheeks tingle with warmth, reading it again. You’ve only been on a handful of dates with the guy, and throughout that time he’s only ever been really sweet—a little awkward even—so this, whatever it is, is an entirely new side to him you’ve never seen. But, standing there, feeling the pang of excitement in your chest, biting the lip of your smile, you fight the goody-two-shoes urge to tell him how inappropriate it is in favor of having some much-wanted fun.

Before you even make the decision, three jumping dots tell you that another message is being typed up. Standing there, in the dark hallway, phone brightening your face, you eagerly await it.

“Here’s a hint, your name's on the door.”

He must have found your classroom.

Making your way, you arrive to find your punch-cup placed on a desk in the middle of the room. You have to admit it’s more creepy than romantic, but at the same time, also exciting. And you don’t know, something about the whole thriller-esque vibe is sort of doing it for you—high-school prom, dim hallways, empty classrooms, strange red liquid in your cup. You lift it to your nose rather than your lips, taking a whiff. Definitely no longer punch.

You snap a picture and send it, attaching a message, asking What’s this?

I swapped it out for something fun, he replies with a winky face emoji. Unlike him, but you suppose all of this was. You know you shouldn’t, you know you’d most likely be out of a job if anyone were to smell it on your breath somehow, but that seemed unlikely to happen. And you didn't want to spoil the mood. It was only a small glass of wine after all. And with all the canapes you pinched off the snack table, you doubt you’ll even feel its effects. 

It’s like he said—just a bit of fun.

You smile as you put your lips to the brim, feeling naughty, giggling to yourself before swallowing the liquid. You’re not an expert on wine, least of all red. You have to admit to yourself you’re not a big fan of the bitter flavor. Though the last thing you want to do is admit that to him when he went through all the effort. It’s the thought that counts in any case—and the thought itself is really sweet.

You figure your best plan of action is to swallow it all quickly, and after five more gulps, you’re more than halfway finished and beginning to wonder where he’s hiding. 

“Drinking on school property? That’ll get you fired, you know?” 

You gasp, whipping around. flimsy plastic cup crinkling in your clutch.

He tuts his tongue at you three times in a row, shaking his head, swaggering across the classroom. “Didn’t peg you for a delinquent. Guess I was wrong…”

“Gojo,” you blurt, eyes wide, face hot, heart beating in your throat, making you choke on the taste, made even bitter by his presence. “It’s–it’s not-”

“It’s not alcohol?” he asks, finishing your sentence. “Oh, well, I suppose you’re a little right.” There’s a snicker, then a smile—something disturbing in his eyes. “It’s not only alcohol.” 

You go quiet. Brows furrowed as you look into your half-empty cup. You swallow, rolling your tongue, feeling the sediments of something chalky. 

“I figured red wine was the best way to hide the taste.”

You look up at him again, trying to blink away the sudden blur dulling your vision, feeling a strange sense of dizziness befall you. “What’re you-”

“Don’t you feel it?” he cuts you off, maeavering around the desks, getting closer. “It should be kicking in soon, given how greedy you were to drink it.”

“Wha—” You stagger, hand clutching the desk behind you.

“Careful now,” he warns, already in front of you, his hands gripping you by your forearms, helping you not fall as he guides you to sit. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

Your head droops, sluggish, resting with your cheek against his chest, unable to lift yourself off, words slurred as you speak, “Where’s—where is–”

“What?” he coos softly, holding you, with a hand gently draping your head, petting you. “Oh, you must mean Miser Fugly…” he chuckles. “Silly little miss teach, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to spoil the mood by talking about other guys?”

Everything turns foggy after that. 

Black and patchy, you only catch bits and pieces—words being ushered against your skin, joined by heat and breathy laughs, just shy of unhinged.

“Isn’t this great? Another high school cliché. Prissy little prom queen roofied by the guy she rejected. I’ll see if I can’t check another off the list and knock you up—we might have ourselves a shotgun wedding. It would be fun if you were a virgin as well, though that seems unlikely. Oh, but you sure are tight like one. Been a while, huh? Guess Mr. Fugly never got it done. What a shame… if you were my girl, I’d bend you over in the broom closet every lunch break. If only you’d stopped acting so hard to get, we might have had the chance. It really is like high school all over again, isn’t it? You try to change, but in the end, you always stay the same. And real nice girls like you just don’t go for guys like me, do you? No, you go for safer options like Mister Fugly, like you’re trying to make some big show about rejecting me without saying it directly. God, you’re so fucking stuck up, it drives me fucking nuts.”

"Business marriages," your mother corrected, sipping her tea "The Kang family did it last year. Their daughter is very happy in Singapore now."

"The Kang daughter cries on Instagram Live every other Tuesday." You stared at her

"She has a Birkin collection. Tears dry, sweetheart. Leather lasts." She stareed back

“Mother, I can’t…”

Your father finally lowered his newspaper “Then we’ll need to reconsider your position at the company. And your living arrangements.”

Ah. There it was. The threat wrapped up in a neat little bow .

Agree to this circus, or lose your cushy job (where you mostly online shopped). And your apartment (paid for by your parents)

You wanted to tell them to shove their arranged meetings up their….

But you also really, really likedhaving money. And not having to eat instant ramen for every meal. And your bathtub. You’ve gotten very attached to that bathtub.

So you smiled “Of course. When do I start?”

Your mother’s face lit up “Wonderful! We’ll have the files sent over.”

Files.

They had FILES on these men.

Nothing says true love quite like a background check and a financial statement.

—

Four names: Satoru Gojo, Toji Fushiguro, Ryomen Sukuna, Nanami Kento

Four strangers

Fuck that.

If they wanted you to do this, fine. But nobody said you had to make it easy. They’d be begging their mothers to call the whole thing off by week’s end.

And that’s where your brilliant, genius, absolutely foolproof plan came in.

(It's going to blow up in your face spectacularly, but you don't know that yet.)

The files arrived the next morning. You spread the folders across your kitchen counter like you were planning a heist instead of four dates.

Dates. Meetings. Whatever.

—

Folder 1

FUSHIGURO TOJI, 28

His photo looked like a mugshot.

Okay, it wasn’t actually a mugshot, byt he had that vibe.Scar on his lip. Expression that said “I’d rather be literally anywhere else and also fuck you.”

Technically the heir to a massive Zenin equity firm.

Technically. Because apparently Toji was the family disappointment. Estranged from his relatives, only showed up when he needed money. Multiple failed business ventures. A reputation for being a fuck up who lived off his family name while giving them middle fingers in return.

Ah. A broke rich boy.

His social media accounts existed but were barely used. Most photos were him tagged by other people at bars, looking annoyed. One photo of him at what looked like an underground fight club.

Wait.

You zoomed in.

Was that blood on his shirt?

Jesus Christ.

Day 1 - Toji Fushiguro Tuesday, Hotel Bar, Shinjuku

Operation: Bimbo infiltration

Strategy: “Think born yesterday”

Toji shows up at the restaurant looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Hes only here because his family threatened to cut off his credit cards.

He doesnt give a shit about marriage or alliances or any of this corporate dynasty bullshit. He likes money. That’s it.

He's not even trying to hide it… slouched in his chair, jacket thrown carelessly over the back, phone out on the table. He barely looks up when you approach.

Perfect. This should be easy.

“Ohmygod, hi!” You chirp “You must be Toji”

And then you trip over absolutely nothing on your way to the table, catching yourself on the edge with a little yelp.

"Oops!!! I’m such a dum dum,” you giggle, batting your eyelashes.

He raises an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"Fine, fine” You wave your hand and somehow knock over the water glass in the process. Ice and water spill across the table, dripping onto his lap.

"Fuck… "

"Oh my god, I'm SO sorry” You grab a napkin and start dabbing at his pants, which puts you in very close proximity to his crotch. "I'm such a mess, I can't believe I did that….”

He grabs your wrist, stopping you. "It's fine. Just… sit down."

You sit, face arranged into earnest distress.

"I'm really sorry. I'm just so nervous. These meetings make me all jittery and I get butterfingers and then I do stupid stuff and…” You take a breath. "Sorry. I'm rambling. I do that when I'm nervous. Ramble, I mean. Just talk and talk and….”

"Got it.” He cuts you off “You're nervous." He takes a long sigh then and looong sip of his drink.

"Super nervous. You're really intimidating, you know?” You laugh, too loud. "But I'm sure you're really nice underneath, right? Like a, um, a cinnamon roll. Tough on the outside, soft on the inside?"

He stares at you.

“Or not.. That's okay too. Not everyone's a cinnamon roll. Some people are just, um, bread. Regular bread. Which is also good!!! Bread is great."

"Are you done?” He finally snaps

"No. I mean yes. Im sorry." You bury your face in your hands. "I'm so bad at this. I don't know why my parents thought I could do this, I can barely order coffee without messing it up… "

The waiter appears. You manage to mispronounce three items on the menu before Toji takes over and orders for both of you.

"Thanks," you smile brightly "I'm not good at fancy words. All those French names, you know?"

"It's Italian."

"Ohh, silly me” You laugh again.

Toji pinches the bridge of his nose.

The hour continues like this. You ramble…. while Toji's expression shifts gradually from bored to annoyed to something approaching existential despair.

By the time you finally stand to leave (knocking your purse off the bar in the process), he looks like he's genuinely considering faking his own death to avoid a second meeting.

"This was so fun" you smile brightly, gathering your scattered belongings. "We should totally do it again.

He grunts and it might be the sound of his soul leaving his body.

One down

Folder 2

Nanami Kento, 26

Oh.

He looked… normal? Everything about him screamed “responsible adult.”

Investment banker. Impeccable reputation… and they really emphasized IMPECCABLE in the file.

No scandals. No messy breakups. No public relationships at all.

Every article described him as “the perfect gentleman” with 3 P’s … Punctual. Professional. Polite.

He was too perfect. Suspiciously perfect.

Day 2 - Nanami Kento Wednesday, French Restaurant, Roppongi

Operation : Make the Gentleman Squirm

You're five minutes late on purpose.

Nanami is already seated, of course… in his perfectly tailored suit, checking his watch with a small furrow between his brows.

"Mr Nanami, I apologize for the delay," you say sweetly, sliding into your seat.

"It's fine." His tone suggests it is very much not fine. "Traffic, I assume."

"Something like that." You lean forward on your elbows, knowing exactly what that does to your cleavage. “You're even more handsome in person."

Those hazel eyes meet yours, then quickly… very quickly… drop to the menu. “Thank you."

"I mean it." You let your eyes drag down his body, slow and obvious. "That suit fits you really well. Custom, right? Must do wonders for your shoulders."

A faint flush creeps up his neck.

Gotcha.

"I... yes. It's custom."

"I bet you work out." You tilt your head. "You look like you work out. What's your routine? No, wait… let me guess. You're a morning gym guy. Up at five type ."

"Five thirty, actually."

"Close enough." You grin "I'm more of a 'stay in bed until the last possible second' type myself. We're practically opposites.”

He clears his throat. "Perhaps we could order?"

You order something light… you're not really hungry… and spend the entire time making unnecessary eye contact with Nanami.

"I read that you've never had a serious relationship. Is that true?" You ask

He stiffens. "I've been... focused on my career."

"Mmm." You lean closer. "So you're not really experienced then. With women." You trace the rim of your wine glass with one finger.

His eyes follow your finger. Then snap back to your face. “I wouldn't say….”

"It's okay." You reach across the table and pat his hand. Let your fingers brush. "I can work with that. I have lots of experience."

His hand jerks back like "That's... very forward of you."

"Is it?" You bat your eyelashes.

The flush has spread to his ears now.

You spend the rest of the date making increasingly suggestive comments.

The food arrives. You eat slowly, making a show of enjoying every bite. At one point you let out a small sound… and watch Nanami's knuckles go white around his fork.

He sets his fork down. Picks up his water. Takes a very long sip.

By the time the check arrives… he pays, of course, because he's ‘polite’… Nanami Kento looks like he's been through a war.

"Call me." You wink. “ I had fun.”

You left him standing there, looking like he needed a cold shower and possibly a priest.

Two down.

Folder 3

Ryomen Sukuna, 29

His photo was… intimidating.

Tattoos visible even in what was clearly a professional headshot… which, props to whoever convinced him to sit for that. Expression that suggested he was mentally planning your murder.

CEO of a luxury hotel chain with international reach.

Also: multiple arrests.

Three assault charges, all dropped. One arson investigation, dismissed. Suspected ties to organized crime, never proven. The Itadori family's lawyers are apparently worth every yen, because this man should be in prison, not on a dating profile.

You switched to social media. His accounts were private, but fan accounts existed. FAN ACCOUNTS. For a CEO with anger issues??

Rich and dangerous. Probably bored of women throwing themselves at him.

Day 3 - Sukuna Ryomen Thursday, Private Members' Club

Operation: Gold Digger

You walk in wearing every piece of designer clothing you own. Dress with the Dior label clearly visible.

Sukuna makes no move to stand or pull out your chair when you arrive.

“Hi!” You slide into the seat across from him, dropping your designer bag on the table with a heavy thunk. “ Sorry I'm late”

He nods once… crimson eyes dragging over your outfit with absolutely zero expression.

Not impressed. Not disgusted. Just… nothing.

“This place is so fancy. Is it expensive? It looks expensive." You lean forward, smiling brightly.

“Yes.” his expression doesn't change

Okay. Man of few words. You can work with this.

Silence.

The kind of silence that would make most people uncomfortable.

You push through it.

"So," you continue, "I looked you up. Your family is like, really rich, right? What's that like?"

His eyebrow raises slowly. Like he couldn’t believe you’d just asked that. “Is that relevant?"

"Well, yeah." You laugh "I mean, that's why we're here, isn't it? To see if we're a good match? And I think lifestyle compatibility is super important."

Something that might have been disbelief crosses his face.

You flag down a waiter and order the most expensive thing on the menu.

"I love nice things," you explain. "and I can always tell quality when I see it. You can't really put a price on quality, you know? This dress, for example…” You point at the dress “….twenty eight thousand yen. Pre season Dior. I have a personal shopper who gets me things before they hit the regular collections.”

The waiter returns with the champagne. You make him pour you a glass and immediately hold it up to the light, examining it critically.

"This is the '98, right? Not the '02? Because I can tell the difference."

You absolutely cannot tell the difference. You bought your last bottle of wine from a convenience store.

"You're quite….. direct," he says finally…. watching you with an expression that's impossible to read. Disgust? Annoyance? Homicidal intent? All three?

Three words this time! Progress.

"I just believe in honesty." You take a sip of champagne. "I know what I bring to a relationship, and I know what I expect in return. Fair trade, right?"

"And what do you bring?" Sukuna asks, and you can't tell if hes genuinely curious or just morbidly fascinated by your audacity.

You gesture to yourself again, "Isn't it obvious?"

Sukuna picks up his wine glass and drinks half of it in one go. He spoke maybe twenty words total throughout the entire meal.

By the end, he looked ready to flip the table.

"This was fun," you say brightly as you leave. "We should do it again sometime. Maybe somewhere with better champagne?"

He just stares at you like you're an alien species.

“I’ll wait for your message” You give him a little wave. “Ciao!”

Three down

Folder 4

Gojo Satoru, 27

“Oh fuck off” The photo alone made you want to throw your wine at the wall. Gorgeous didn’t even cover it. He looked like someone had designed him specifically to make women stupid.

You kept reading, already annoyed.

Heir to Gojo Enterprises. Worth billions with a B.

There were photos. So many photos.

Gojo at charity galas with models. Gojo at clubs with actresses. Gojo at a beach in Monaco with someone who was definitely an Instagram influencer.…. always with beautiful women who looked like they’d never eaten carbs.

Rich, bored, and fucking everything that moves.

You grabbed your laptop and did what any sane person would do… went full stalker mode on social media.

His Instagram was a goldmine of red flags. The comments were even better.

“Marry me”

“I volunteer as tribute”

“He can ruin my life”

Jesus Christ.

This man has probably seen more lingerie than a Victoria's Secret buyer.

A manwhore with a trust fund

Day 4 - Gojo Satoru Friday, the Peninsula Hotel

Youre going to vomit.

Not from nerves… well, maybe partly from nerves, but mainly because you’ve stress eaten an entire sleeve of crackers in the Uber.

Also, your shapewear was cutting off circulation to your legs.

Why did you wear shapewear under a modest funeral dress? What were you even shaping? The outfit is practically a potato sack.

Too late now.

You're dressed like you're going to a funeral. Or church. Or a funeral at a church. Currently clutching a small cross pendant you borrowed from your grandmother's jewellery box.

You push open the door… which is heavier than it looks and you nearly face plant, great start… and immediately spot him.

Gojo Satoru is impossible to miss. Jesus fucking Christ, those eyes.

He's scrolling on his phone, completely at ease, probably sexting three different women right now.

He looks up when you walk in and smiles

Oh no.

"You must be my future wife," he says, and his voice is warm honey poured over gravel. "I have to say, the photos didn't do you justice."

Don't react. Don't react. You're a good Christian woman who doesn't react to sinful men.

You arrange your face into something you hope reads as "scandalized."

"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me," you say, voice soft and earnest like you're greeting a pastor.

“Of course.” He pulls out your chair… gentleman points, you suppose… and gestures. “Please.”

You sit, immediately folding your hands in your lap like you were at a prayer meeting.

He settles back into his chair, still smiling. That smile hasn’t faltered once. Is it surgically attached to his face?

“Can I get you anything?” he asks. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Just water, please.” You smile sweetly.

The waiter brings water. You thank him quietly, taking small, delicate sips like you were in a Victorian novel.

Gojo leans back, completely comfortable. “So, I have to admit… I was curious when my parents mentioned this meeting.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” That smile somehow got wider. “They said you were… different from the usual arrangements.”

Different. That could mean anything.

“Different how?” you ask, tilting your head innocently.

“Just different.” His eyes are doing that sparkly thing. Is he always this sparkly? Its unsettling. “But I’m already intrigued.”

Oh, he was intrigued now.

Just wait.

“That’s very kind of you,” you say, voice still sweet and soft. “I should probably mention something upfront, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Mr Gojo” You fold your hands more carefully, sitting up straighter

"Satoru, please." He sits back down, legs crossed, "Mr Gojo is my father. And he's an asshole, so."

You don't laugh. "I believe in traditional values."

"Oh?" his smile flickers

You pull out your phone and show him your lockscreen… a stock photo of a church you found on Google last night. "I actually volunteer with my local congregation here. We do purity workshops for young women."

"Purity... workshops?"

"Mmhm. Teaching them to save themselves for their future husbands." You tilt your head. "Do you go to church, Mr Gojo?"

“No.”

Just flat out “no.” Not even trying to soften it.

“Oh.” You bit your lip, looking concerned. “That’s… we might need to work on that. I could help you.”

“And I should mention” you add, voice dropping to a more serious tone “ We should have a chaperone for our dates until we’re engaged.”

“A chaperone? Why?”

“Just to avoid temptation!!!! Once we’re engaged we can spend more supervised time together.”

Gojo drained his entire coffee in one long gulp.

The server came by to check on you. Gojo looked at them like they were a life raft. “Actually, could I get another coffee? Double shot.”

Every time Gojo tries to steer the conversation toward something normal…hobbies, work, interests…. you bring it back to your values.

By the time youre finished, Gojo looks like he’s aged five years.

“I’ll be praying about this,” you add brightly. “About whether God is calling us together. I’ll let you know what He reveals to me.”

“Right. God. Sure.”

“Have a blessed evening” You give him your sweetest smile and leave him standing there, probably questioning every decision that has led to this moment.

All down

—

Now you just had to wait for them to reject you.

The week that follows is blissfully silent. No calls. No texts. You’ve done it. You’ve successfully repelled four of the most eligible bachelors in the country through the sheer power of being a fucking nightmare.

You wake up on the eighth day, the morning sun streaming through your window, a victorious smirk on your face. You stretch, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

The war is over

You reach for your phone on the nightstand to check the time.

And freeze.

Four notifications. Four messages. All received within minutes of each other, night.

Your heart plummets into your stomach. No. No, no, no.

With trembling fingers, you open them.

From: Gojo Satoru… Round two, sweetheart? My place, Friday. Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior.

From: Ryomen Sukuna Name your terms. I’m interested.

From: Nanami Kento… I would like to continue our discussion. Are you free Thursday evening at 7:00 PM?

From: Fushiguro Toji Hey. You’re weird. I’m in.

You drop your phone on your face.

Fuck.

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