guilty pleasures

The shift that day was very calm — which didn’t mean you sat behind a desk doing nothing all day, of course, but at least you could actually pay attention to a patient at a time. Nevertheless, you felt like a walking zombie. Your nose was drier than Sahara because it bled twice that day. Paracetamol had already kicked in, so at least the headache from earlier had vanished.

You were pretty depressed.

As it is common knowledge, the cure to depression is alcohol, of course.

“Aaand we’re here! Have a good night, Mori-san!”, Nitta exclaimed cheerfully. 

You grabbed your stuff from the backseat in slow movements. Your hand rested on the handle.

“Thanks.” Even your voice was slow. You saw her smile through the rearview mirror.

Nitta was a nice girl. Despite being as overworked as Ijichi, she was always in a good mood and willing to talk. Except you not always wanted to talk after a tiring shift, which could become a bit annoying to deal with.

That wasn’t one of those days.

Before you knew Nitta would be the one to pick you up, you wanted to ask Ijichi to drink with you.

Ijichi wasn’t that talkative, but he was cool. You were closer to him than Nitta. Most importantly — despite being a goody two shoes, you knew he could drink like a motherfucker. Overworked like that? Pfft. He was the perfect example of burnt-out-alcoholic (in a way you could deeply respect). Bar owners should tremble whenever he walked in.

You weren’t sure about Nitta’s alcohol tolerance, but she looked fun to drink with.

She blinked and looked at you through the mirror.

“Is something wrong?” 

You thought of asking.

But then your dumbass remembered that she was driving.

You shook your head and huffed. “Nothing.” Before opening the door, you grabbed the box of donuts from your backpack. “Oh, almost forgot. Here. Hope you like mango.”

Nitta’s eyes gleamed with excitement as she turned around to take the box. “Ooooh, I love mango! Thank you so much!” 

It was nice that both Nitta and Ijichi appreciated the donuts. Made you feel less like a piece of shit.

You made your way inside the house slowly. The backpack almost dropped from your shoulder, but you didn’t care. Most lights were out. The kids should already be sleeping since they had class tomorrow — or, as usual, simply locked inside their respective bedrooms.

You exhaled the air through your lips heavily, emitting a sound similar to a neigh.

Drinking alone it is.

Slowly. Step by step. Dragging yourself to your bedroom.

But then you stopped.

The tatami room’s lights were on.

Weird.

Slowly. Step by step. Dragging yourself to the tatami room.

You stood by the half opened sliding door and frowned.

“Well, hello, pretty thing!” 

Look. 

It shouldn’t be shocking to see Gojo there.

That was his house after all.

But nevertheless— it was.

Maybe not even just because he was there, which he typically never did this late at night. But because his hair looked messy in the way that means I just blow dried it. Or because of the loose white shirt he wore. Or because of the blue shorts. He was sitting with his legs crossed, an iPad and his phone over the table, holding a pen.

For the first time since you moved there, you saw Gojo actually looking at home in his house.

That awakened a part of your brain that was dormant.

You tightened your eyes a bit.

“What are you… doing here?” Stupid fucking question, you thought, but the words had already slipped by then.

The corners of his lips went down and he looked around. “Uh… I’m sitting?” 

Yeah. Obviously.

His eyes were hidden behind the rectangular sunglasses, but he clearly was looking at you. So you stood there in silence for some seconds. Looking at him. While he looked at you. 

Silence.

“You’re starting to look like a horror movie demon.” Gojo pointed at you quickly. “You know. Peeking at me behind a door. It’s creeping me out.”

You snorted and shook your head.

“I’m gonna take a shower.” Again, stupid fucking thing to say, but the words had already slipped.

“Thanks for letting me know! Valuable information. I’m stunned.” You snorted again. He’s such a little shit. “Sleep well, Momorin, ‘cause you look like you need it. Good night!”

You still looked at him for three more seconds. Gojo wasn’t paying attention to you anymore, focusing on the iPad.

Okay.

You turned around. Headed to your bedroom. Showered. 

The water helped you wake up a bit.

Twenty minutes later, you were back in the tatami room carrying a plastic bag.

Gojo frowned, watching you plop down on the cushion.

“Uh… what are you doing?”

You put bags of chips, Doritos, M&M’s, a six pack of beer, a tequila bottle (the only bottle of distilled the motherfuckers who invaded your apartment didn’t break), and two shot glasses.

“If I can’t go to the izakaya…” you immediately pushed a can of cracking cold beer his way. “…the izakaya is coming to me.”

Gojo looked shocked.

Maybe because you should be looking crazy, wearing the short sleeved green pajama top and the red polka dotted pajama pants (they were absolutely horrendous, but they were also comfy, so whatever) that did not match at all. Or maybe because your hair was loose, damp, as you didn’t want to waste time properly drying it.

“…I thought you were tired.” He quirked one eyebrow up.

“I’m never too tired to drink.” You broke the seal of the tequila bottle. “I don’t care if I’m bothering you, by the way, ‘cause I’m sad and I need company.” You quickly poured two shots of tequila. “Also, I’m celebrating something, so don’t be an asshole and cheer with me.”

And then you pushed the shot glass his way, too.

You held your glass and looked at him expectantly.

Gojo made an awkward face.

“…Now I feel bad.” He opened an even more awkward smile. “I kind of don’t drink, Mori.”

Your shoulders dropped.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nope.”

You placed the glass over the table.

“But why?”

Gojo snorted. “Why are you acting like this is breaking news?”

“Because it kinda is.” Then your spine froze and you widened your eyes. “Wait— is this a sensitive topic for you? Am I being an asshole? I didn’t mean to—“

He chuckled and shook his hand. “No, it ain’t. Relax.” You sighed in relief. “I don’t drink alcohol ‘cause first, it’s yucky. I don’t drink anything that doesn’t taste sweet.” Grown man saying yucky. Gosh. “Second— it’s ‘cause my brain lags! And then I can’t keep my technique working.”

You frowned. “You mean Infinity?”

“Yup.” He poked his temple with the back of the pen. “I can keep it active all the time on the automatic as long as I’m fully sober.”

This sounded plausible. And very interesting.  But you didn’t care.

“Not even a teeny tiny glass?” You pouted. Which — once again — should be a sign that you were spending too much time with him.

Gojo laughed and tilted his head to the side. “Nope.”

You huffed and got up, disappearing towards the kitchen for a moment.

You reappeared with a bottle of Coke and another shot glass.

Gojo laughed.

“I’ll have to cheer like I do with Mayu, then.” You poured Coke on the small glass. He watched the whole thing with amusement.

You pushed yet another tiny glass in his direction. It looked even tinier in his large hand. Finally, you clinked glasses and said cheers! in unison.

You downed the tequila in a single quick gulp. The liquid went down your throat burning everything on the way like acid. 

“Holy shit.” you grimaced. “Now that’s good.”

“What are we celebrating, by the way?” Gojo asked as you downed the other shot glass you had poured for him. Once again, it burned. Geeeez.

You slammed the glass on the table.

“Today marks two years since I started my residency. I’m officially an R3 now.”

And your colleagues had invited you to celebrate, in fact, but you had to say no. Of course you had to say no. 

He was shocked.

“Really?” You nodded while cracking the beer open. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you right now.”

“Aw, you know what I mean. We could’ve gone out to celebrate. Do you want to go out right now?”

“Hell no.” You shook your head vehemently. “Nothing would make me leave this house tonight. No, this is fine.” You eyed him while sipping beer. “You don’t need to do anything. Just sit here like a decorative vase.”

He crossed his arms. Biceps biceps biceps biceps. 

“So this is what I am to you? A decorative item? Just a pretty face?”

“Exactly.” You shot a finger gun at him. “Glad you understand your place.”

Gojo covered his mouth with his hand and forced a dramatic weep. “I should’ve listened to my mother!”

You giggled and sipped more beer. 

He looked down to his iPad again.

Two seconds later, you were leaning in his direction, trying to see the screen.

“What are you doing?”

Gojo paused.

“Uhh… work.” He tapped the screen again. “Class planning. ‘Cause I forgot to do it earlier this week.”

“Oh.” One more sip. You leaned your elbow on the table and rested your cheek on your palm. “I keep forgetting you’re a teacher.”

“Understandable. People don’t tend to believe a guy this hot teaches high schoolers.” 

You rolled your eyes. It was his turn to chuckle.

“So… how are things going with your new student?”

He pouted while writing something on the iPad. “Pretty well. Better than I was expecting, to be honest.” He stopped for a second to scratch his scalp with the back of the pen. “Crazy how friends make a difference in a kid’s life.”

His speech immediately led your mind back to a dusty shoe box in the basement.

Hmm.

You’d been wanting to know more about him for a while already. The photos just made you even more interested. That moment felt like the perfect opportunity. But you wouldn’t just throw up a bunch of questions, of course; you knew Gojo would shut himself like a clam if you did. 

This had to be well thought out. 

A bit more beer.

“Ah! I almost forgot.” You reached for the plastic bag once more and noticed how it picked his interest. “Here it is, since you kept pestering me about it.”

You put the four CDs in front of him.

Gojo let go of the iPad and went hmmmmmm.

He analyzed them one by one with a little confused smile. Hikaru Utada - First Love.  Phil Collins - But Seriously. Linkin Park - Hybrid Theory. 80’s Greatest Hits.

Gojo snorted and waved the copy of Hybrid Theory a bit, looking at you with curiosity. “Your father listened to Linkin Park?”

“I did, actually. What? Everybody liked Linkin Park back then.” More beer. 

“Can’t judge.” He shrugged. “Well, since you went through the trouble of picking those, let’s hear it! Put it to play!” He handed you the 80’s Greatest Hits case.

You quirked one eyebrow. “Uh, why don’t you put it to play?” 

“Sorry, I can’t move.”

“Huh?”

Gojo leaned back a little and pointed at his own lap with both fingers.

You frowned and leaned in his direction.

A little, very little, very tiny part of you thought it was incredibly hot how he leaned back a bit, how he pointed at his own lap, how his dimples peeked. 

This little, very little, very tiny part looked at his lap, by the way, and noticed his toned thighs, how well the muscles were defined, how firm his skin looked.

But the bigger part of you noticed something more appalling, so you ignored the rest.

Countess.

Loafing on his lap.

“Huh?!” You were outraged.

“Yep.” Gojo nodded with a smug expression. “She loves me.”

The miniature cow looked up at you with half lidded eyes as if saying, yes, bitch. I’m on his lap. What you gonna do about it?

You settled on your cushion again.

“She never did this to me.”

“I’m afraid you must be an awful person then, Momorin. Disliking cats is a deep character flaw, did you know that?”

“But I like cats!” You crossed your arms defensively. “I don’t like her! And only because she didn’t like me first!”

Gojo shook his head and caressed the space between Countess’ ears. “Don’t listen to her, sweetie. She’s a terrible person.”

Countess closed her eyes and purred.

You huffed heavily and got up, taking the CD with you, and walked towards the TV in the room. It had a DVD player as well. Gojo was giggling behind you. Yeah, fuck that cat. It’s not like I’m jealous of it. It’s not like I wanted to be on his lap instead. 

You plopped down on the cushion again while holding the remote. More beer. The instrumental of Take on Me started playing; you turned the volume down to not wake the kids up.

Gojo started bobbing his head a bit to the rhythm of the song while still paying attention to the iPad. His hair looked so fluffy.

“You’re committed to the training, huh?” His eyes were still glued to the iPad.

You were about to ask how he noticed… but well. He was him. Satocchi Reborn was obediently dormant inside the front pocket of your pants. 

You shrugged cockily. “You give me a task, I’m gonna complete it with perfection, hun. That’s the type of person I am.”

He quirked one eyebrow while tapping something. “I don’t know about perfection, but I’d give you an extra point for effort, I guess.”

You huffed heavily. “You’re awful.”

“Thanks!”

More beer. You opened the bag of chips and munched a bit. Aha still sang.

There were approximately two minutes of silence.

Then you slammed the can on the table and groaned.

“You’re being boriiiing!”

Gojo finally stopped paying attention to the iPad.

“You said yourself that I didn’t need to do anything.”

“I didn’t think you’d comply!” You drank more of the beer. “I don’t get to hang out with adults a lot anymore, okay?! You’re no fun at all when you’re not annoying people! I should’ve invited Nitta-san anyway!”

Gojo gagged.

He looked actually offended.

“You’re telling me I’m not fun?!”

“Yes! That’s what you get for not drinking!”

He dropped the iPad and crossed his arms again. “Well then, miss, what’s your idea of fun? ‘Cause all you’ve done is sit here and complain until now.”

Right into the trap.

You smiled devilishly and got up in a jump, taking off towards the kitchen again.

Gojo was taken aback.

You were back two minutes later with five lemons, a knife, a squeezer and a jar.

“We’re gonna play a drinking game.” He was still taken aback. You knelt by the table, quickly cut the first lemon and put it on the squeezer, extracting a bunch of the juice into the jar. “Question and answer. If you don’t wanna answer, you have to take a shot.”

Gojo eyed the lemon juice and grimaced.

“You want me to drink pure lemon juice?”

“Yeah. Since you don’t drink alcohol.” You shrugged. “It’s supposed to be a punishment!”

And I hope you hate lemon more than answering whatever question I throw your way.

“Hell no.” He shook his head vehemently. You ignored him, though, and squeezed another lemon. “Without a drop of sugar? I have sensitive tastebuds! I hate sour stuff! Why do you think I would do that—?!”

“Pussy.”

You stared at him dead in the eye.

(Or in the sunglass. Whatever).

Playful. Challenging. 

You knew he wasn’t used to being called a coward.

He fell for it.

Gojo tilted his head to the side. The iPad and phone were definitely not of his interest anymore.

“Alright, sweetheart. But I’m gonna ask you things so embarrassing that you’ll be in an alcoholic coma within ten minutes.”

You giggled excitedly, focusing on squeezing one more lemon. “It ain’t gonna work like that.”

Finally it looked like it had enough juice. You settled on your cushion again and took your phone, tapping on the Q&A Game!! app. Last time you used it was months ago, at Lucius, as a way to get closer to your new colleagues.

The phone emitted a pretty stupid fanfare song upon opening. After clicking on play, a pop-up window asked:

Allow 18+ questions?

You tapped yes without a second of hesitation.

This was going to be fun.

Finally, the colorful roulette appeared. You placed the phone in the middle of the table.

“The questions are random to keep it fair.” You rubbed your hands together excitedly and smiled. Your excitement was contagious, it seemed, because he smiled too. “Who goes first?”

Rock-paper-scissors.

He won and grinned.

Gojo tapped the screen. The roulette spinned for ten seconds; it stopped with a loud ding ding ding!!.

He leaned closer to the table.

“What’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?” And then Gojo eyed you with interest. Much interest. “I’m gonna know if you lie, by the way. I can always tell when people lie to me.”

“I have no reason to lie!” You shrugged while thinking for a second. But damn. You proposed the game in the first place, yet you had forgotten for a second that it was Gojo, and he’d tease you about stuff to death. Well, fuck it! I’m not a pussy either. “Uh… I shat my pants at school.”

Gojo cackled.

His glasses slid a little, so you saw how his eyes were widened. “What? How?!”

You giggled a bit, rolling your eyes, because even though this was embarrassing, you could laugh about it now. Not back then. Definitely not back then. “I was eleven. Had a pretty bad viral infection but went to school anyway… ‘cause I didn’t think it was that bad when I woke up. But then I had, like… explosive diarrhea. A little fart came with company.”

He threw his head back and covered his mouth with both hands, trying to muffle how fucking loud he was wheezing. Countess opened one eye. 

“What the fuck! What the fuck!”

“Come on, now! This is pretty common!” You slapped his arm jokingly, but you were laughing too.

“I never shat my pants!”

“Not yet! Everyone goes through this at least once! It’s like nature’s humiliation ritual!” You drank a bit more beer. “Whatever, I answered my question! My turn!”

You tapped the screen. The roulette rolled.

Ding ding ding!

Your eyes gleamed.

“Have you ever flirted with someone who was taken?”

It was your turn to eye him with utmost interest.

“...Yeah.” Your jaw dropped. He immediately raised his palms defensively. “Look– I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. So it’s not really my fault.”

“Yes, but did you keep flirting after you found out?”

He licked his lips.

“That’s not what the roulette asked. I already answered my question.” 

His smug little smile was enough of an answer. You scoffed. Piece of shit!

He tapped the screen. Ding ding ding!

“What’s the most stupid thing you’ve ever cried about?”

You pouted and looked up whilst thinking. “Well… I’ve cried over a bunch of stupid things.” 

“Pick one.”

A bit more of thinking. “I cried ‘cause I dropped my ice cream cone once. I was already in college.”

“But that’s devastating. Even I would’ve cried over something like that.” Being the sweets lover he was, you didn’t doubt that.

You tapped the roulette. Ding ding ding!

Now things would get interesting.

“What is the name of your first love?”

You remembered what he said that day. A man never forgets his first love. Of course that made you curious. Why did he sound sad? Who could possibly have broken that steel heart?

Gojo crossed his arms. He was thinking. Would he open up? Would he drink pure lemon juice instead–?

“Aerith Gainsborough.”

You were taken aback.

“What?”

“What you heard.”

You tightened your eyes. “You mean the Final Fantasy character?”

“So you’ve played it!” You nodded. “Yeah. She was my first love.”

You rolled your eyes and dropped your shoulders. “Come on, now. You have to keep it fair! No lying, or you have to drink the lemon!”

“I’m not lying!” He was on the defensive again. “I was nine years old and in love! When she died I mourned for, like, a week! Locked in my bedroom and all. I had actual feelings for that girl! That was my polygon girlfriend!”

You shook your head slowly while eating a bit more chips. Little shit. I should’ve figured he’d dodge this question like a bullet. 

“Isn’t the black haired girl Cloud’s girlfriend, though? I don’t remember the game very well.”

“I don’t care about Cloud, it was me playing.” He scoffed. “You know, most guys liked Tifa more ‘cause of the big tits–”

“You’re talking about polygon tits?”

“–but to me? Aerith was that girl. Kinda weird, funny, tough despite her looks. She was perfect.”

So that was his type.

Or at least 9 year old Gojo’s type.

You tried not to delve too much on that.

“So you’d like a manic pixie dream girl.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“You fucking know what that is, mister cinephile.” You drank the last bit of the beer and took a new can, cracking it open. “Okay, it’s your turn.”

He tapped the screen and frowned a bit.

“Sorry, babygirl. My legs hurt.” Gojo said quietly, looking down, while he straightened his legs under the table. Countess lifted her head, but didn’t care that he changed positions.

You cared.

Babygirl.

Okay. Shut up. Shut up, brain. Shut uuuuup.

Ding ding ding!

Gojo looked at the screen.

He raised his eyebrows as if surprised. As if hesitating.

But then a little lopsided smile appeared slowly.

He licked his lips. Fucking distracting again.

“What’s the weirdest place you’d ever had sex?”

Oh fuck.

You had forgotten about the 18+ questions. 

Of course they’d start with me.

You drank a big gulp of beer and felt your body heat up, not knowing for sure if it was because of the alcohol already running in your system or the fact that he was stariiiiiing with that same smile. 

Don’t shy away from it, now. It’s you who wanted to play this game in the first place!

“Come on. You can take a shot.” He tilted his head to the side. “Coward.”

“I ain’t gonna take a shot. I’m just thinking.” More beer. “It’s not that interesting, really.” You shrugged. “Pick-up trunk.”

Gojo was silent – you didn’t know because he was shocked you actually answered, or because he didn’t expect you’d have sex in a trunk, or because he thought your answer was boring.

He leaned closer to the table with a curious expression. “Inside a garage? ‘Cause if yes, it’s definitely not that interesting.”

“Behind a bar.” And then he was silent again. “And I already said enough.” You tapped the screen.

Gojo chuckled quietly to himself and shook his head slowly.

Ding ding ding!

“What’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told your parents?”

“Hmm…” Gojo leaned back on his hands and pouted. A gentle breeze from outside played with the messy strands on the top of his head. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Gojo’s neck was so thick. He looks so hot. He looks so hot. He looks so hot– okay, shut up! “I never lied to my parents.”

“Oh? You were an obedient child?”

“No, not at all.” Gojo clicked his tongue. “They just weren’t around.”

You paused mid gulp.

“Are you an orphan?”

Maybe you wouldn’t have asked this so dryly if there wasn’t that much alcohol in your blood already, but oh well.

“Nope.” 

“Aw.” You drank more. “Difficult relationship?”

“Also no.” He shrugged. “It’s just that I see them, like… fucking twice a year, I guess. They literally weren’t around.”

Despite the shocking reveal (what do you mean you see your parents twice a year? And since he was a kid, apparently?!), it didn’t look like he cared that much. More than that – you had to remind yourself that Gojo was a clam that would shut itself if you forced uncomfortable questions. So, despite the raging curiosity, you shrugged with him.

The roulette rolled.

“What’s the most illegal thing you’d ever done?” Gojo asked.

You thought a bit. “Uh… I never returned a textbook from the university’s library. I think it counts as theft.” More beer. “Oh! And I had a fake ID, too.”

“That’s boring.”

“Well.” You shrugged.

The roulette rolled.

Your eyes landed on the question and an evil smirk crept up your lips.

“When was the last time you had sex?”

Gojo froze for one second.

The next– he was pouring himself a shot of pure lemon juice.

“That’s not fair!” You whined. “I answered mine!”

“Nooope,” he shook his head vehemently. “Nope. Nope. Just no.”

He swallowed it at once.

You were under the impression his face flushed purple.

“Eeeergh!” He grimaced and put his tongue out like a cat about to vomit. “This is torture!”

You laughed, throwing your head back, while Gojo hurriedly opened the pack of M&Ms and munched a bunch. “You could’ve just answered it instead. Coward. Now I’m winning!”

“Whatever!” Oh Gosh– he hated losing. It was sooo cute. Hehe. Cute. Cuuute.

He tapped the roulette. Ding ding ding!

Gojo took the phone and brought it closer to his face.

“What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever taken from someone’s butt?”

You froze.

“That’s not what's written there.”

“It is!” Gojo turned the screen around in your direction for half a second and hid it in his chest. “See?” His voice was sweetly innocent. You laughed.

“You’re trying to cheat.”

“Come oooon.” His shoulders dropped. “You work on emergency. I know you must’ve taken something from someone’s butt at some point.”

You giggled, sipping more beer, and shook your head slightly. No, it was not the first time you received that question – and it wouldn’t be the last. You sighed heavily.

“Shampoo bottle.”

Even though they were hidden behind the sunglasses, you knew his eyes were widened. His jaw dropped.

“Really?” You nodded. “But– what size?”

“One liter.” He gasped. “It was his girlfriend’s Kérastase. These things are expensive as hell. I would’ve killed him.”

Gojo laughed, still incredulous. “I can’t even imagine–”

“Don’t.” You closed your eyes and shook your head in pure suffering. “Do yourself a favor and don’t imagine it.”

He was still giggling while putting the phone over the table again. 

You tapped the screen.

Before even reading the question, you rolled your eyes.

“Who’s the most beautiful person in the room?”

He scoffed. “That’s easy.”

Gojo and his massive ego. He was so predictable. You were already imagining how he’d puff his chest like a rooster and say well, obviously I am the most beautiful person in this room. In this house, in fact. In this neighborhood. In this city, even–

“It’s you.”

For the first time that night, you were actually, genuinely taken aback.

You couldn’t fake that.

You would like to have faked that. Maybe if you were more sober, you would have. Gojo was someone who liked to tease. He liked to see the reactions he caused.

He said it so quickly.

It didn’t sound like he was being sarcastic. Gojo was a puddle of sarcasm. You already knew the differences.

And his voice had dropped a bit, too. 

He had a tiny smile there. Enough to make his dimples visible. His arms were crossed.

Your body felt hot.

Might’ve been because of the alcohol. No— it definitely was because of the alcohol. 

You smiled and tossed your hair behind your shoulder dramatically.

“Well, sir, I guess you really have good eyes after all.” You blinked in a smug expression. He laughed.

Oh. Oooh shit. Shift the mood. Shift the mood.

“Can I ask you a question?” You said out of nowhere, once again resting your cheek on your palm.

“Uh, that’s what we’ve been doing here. Duh.”

“No, I mean— outside of the game.” Gojo nodded as if saying go ahead. “Do you have your eyes open under the blindfold?”

He scoffed. You were so sure it wasn’t the first time he answered this question.

“No, I do not.”

You took three seconds to process this information.

“So… you see with your eyes closed?”

Gojo shrugged.

“What do you think?”

This picked your whole interest.

“But— do you see see? Like— seeee?”

Gojo chuckled again and shook his head slowly. 

“I don’t see see as well as when my eyes are uncovered. But I see enough.”

You looked at him in silence for a while.

“Does it hurt?” Your voice was quieter.

Gojo pouted and tilted his head to the side. “Hm… it’s tiring. I get headaches if I don’t get them covered for a long time.”

“Oh.” Then you were pouting. “This is sad.”

“What?” He frowned.

“It’s sad.” You tilted your head even more, squeezing your cheek on your palm. “You can’t shut the world, isn’t it? Even if you close your eyes? This is sad.”

Gojo eyed you in silence with his mouth slightly open.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Oh, please!” You straightened your back and crossed your arms. “You think three beers and a few shots of tequila would knock me out so fast? Have some respect!”

“Okaaay then.” But he didn’t believe you. It was obvious. Whatever. “Guess it’s my turn.” 

Ding ding ding!

“What’s the most difficult thing you had to do in your life?”

“Oh.” You pouted. “This one’s kinda deep.” A big gulp of beer. Gojo watched you quietly. “Well— I’ve done a bunch of difficult shit at this point.” Like burying both my parents. “But since I don’t wanna bring the mood down…” You sighed. “Leaving Japan, I guess.”

Gojo seemed very interested.

“Really?” You nodded. “You didn’t want to leave?”

“Of course not.” More beer. The third can was almost empty. “First of all— it came out of nowhere. My parents had never talked about leaving before. And then, there I was— ten years old in a completely different country. I didn’t speak the language, I didn’t have friends, I didn’t understand the culture well, kids picked on me at school. I hated it. Cried every damn day.” You shook your head a bit. “It took me years to get well adjusted.” 

Gojo nodded. 

“Sounds shitty.”

“It was.”

You pushed the empty can aside and took another one.

You tapped the screen. Ding ding ding!

Oooh. Great one, game!

“Who’s one person you wish you could reconnect with?” You read, doing your best to sound nonchalant.

Gojo stared at the table in silence.

There was a tiny smile there — but you noticed something that sent shivers down your spine. Something you perhaps wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t looked at those pictures yesterday.

His smile became empty.

Just like on his graduation day.

He poured juice in the shot glass and gulped it without hesitating.

You were shocked.

What the fuck?!

This was about the classmate from the pictures, right?

God, it had to be.

Damn. Damn. This made you even more interested — and at the same time, more sad. What must’ve caused Gojo to be so sensitive about it to this day? Did he do something bad? You couldn’t discard the possibility; teenagers fuck up a lot, after all. Maybe it was something he regretted to this day?

Or maybe it was the opposite? His friend hurt him so bad that he still carried the scars?

Why did the mere thought of that happening made you hate the black haired guy from the pictures?

You feel protective of him, the sober part of your brain realized with a twinge of fear. 

I proposed playing this game to learn more about him. Turns out I am discovering more about myself.

Once again, Gojo coughed and grimaced. He poured Coca-Cola in the other empty shot glass and spilled a bit over the table in the process. “Shiit. My bad,” he mumbled while drinking the soda.

You giggled. “Aren’t you going to clean it? Be polite!”

He looked around; his eyes settled on his own lap and he went hmmmm. He took Countess with both hands and lifted her as if she was a tray, hovering her over the soda puddle on the table. The cat looked confused.

You laughed harder. “Don’t you dare!”

“What? I thought you didn’t like her!” He faked a ridiculous innocent tone.

“I’m against animal cruelty!” 

Gojo giggled, too, and put Countess on the tatami floor with care. She sent an offended look his way and took off outside. He stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

It was his turn to disappear towards the kitchen. You didn’t look back to watch him go.

A little joke with the cat to deviate my attention from the question.

He was so annoyingly aware of everything.

More beer.

He was so annoyingly hot, too.

Which wasn’t a surprise anymore at this point. But for real— it was the first time you’d seen Gojo not looking perfectly well composed. Why was that so attractive?

Ughhhhh.

More beer.

Why didn’t he answer the questions you wanted to know the most? He was so annoying.

Ughhhhhhhhhhh.

More beer.

He also said I’m the most beautiful person in the room. Was he joking to make me feel good? Did he mean that? I don’t knoooooow.

More beeeeeeeer.

Familiar notes started playing. You had completely forgotten about the background music. You gasped and threw your head back.

“What?”

You hadn’t noticed he was back carrying a bunch of tissues.

“I loooooove this song!” 

He plopped down back in his cushion and cleaned the soda puddle while you sang along to Purple Rain.

“Who sings this song?” He asked innocently.

“Prince.”

“Let him sing it, then!”

You groaned and threw an empty can towards him. As usual, it bounced back on his invisible shield. Gojo laughed.

“Why are you so meeeean to me?!” You whined.

“It’s my special talent!” He grinned. “Anyway, it’s my turn!”

Gojo tapped the screen of your phone. The roulette rolled.

Ding ding ding!

“What’s the beef between you and your grandmother?”

You almost choked on the beer.

Gojo looked at you expectantly.

“You’re trying to cheat again.” You frowned.

“A little bit, yeah.” He shrugged like an innocent boy. 

Part of that whimsical feeling vanished from your body. 

“You’re nosy as hell.” You avoided his gaze and sipped the little beer that still remained. “Nosier than me.”

“What can I say? I’m better than everyone at everything!” He, once again, grinned cheekily. Fuck. You hated that you chuckled.

“What do you want me to say? The whole thing between me and my grandmother is pretty self explanatory.”

“Huh, not really.” He leaned in your direction just the tiniest bit. His voice lowered. You already were familiar with this behavior – he was serious underneath that mask of playfulness. Such playfulness, in fact, was an attempt to make the situation lighter so you would speak. “I mean… you left the country when you were ten. You said that you didn’t even know why your mother was estranged from the rest of the family… and I remember that you said you hadn’t seen your granny since you were a kid.” He eyed your reactions with care. “But… the way you talked to her that day, the way you always talk about her… feels personal.”

You stared at him.

Gojo didn’t shy away from your stare.

You sniffed and grabbed the tequila bottle.

“Nosy.” You repeated while pouring it on the shot glass. Gojo’s shoulders dropped and he had the audacity to pout in defeat.

You downed the shot and slammed the glass on the table, staring at the wood blankly. He was about to push the phone in your direction, or grab more M&M’s, or reach for the remote–

Whatever it was, he froze upon hearing your deadpan, quiet voice.

“My dad had cancer.”

Why were you saying that?

Because alcohol made you talkative. Because, outside of Aunt Junko and Mayu — who did not know all the details —, you had never opened up to anyone about this. Because this story had been stuck in your throat for years, burning your insides like lava. 

Because you trusted him.

Because you thought he needed to hear it.

Slowly, Gojo readjusted himself on his cushion, hands on his lap. Quiet. Attentive.

For a few moments, only the slow melody of Purple Rain echoed in the room.

“Pancreatic cancer.” You continued, still not looking at him. It’d be easier this way. “It’s pretty fucking aggressive. Dad always took care of his health, but… these things don’t pick a person.”

You drummed your fingers on the tiny glass.

A bit more silence.

“We had a pretty comfortable life, you know. But dad had to quit work because of the treatment. ‘Course, we had our savings. Those dried out eventually.” You started shaking your leg on instinct. “Our family was always tiny. My grandparents on my father’s side were already gone… Aunt Junko was a widow living off her pension. There wasn’t much she could do from so far. And yeah– dad had friends, but those– pfft. Everyone fucking disappears when things get ugly the way they got.”

You scratched your scalp nervously. You didn’t like the sound of your own voice. Not at that moment.

“I wanted to drop out of med school to get a real full time job. Dad was absolutely against it. I tried not to argue with him because–” You had to interrupt yourself, because the image of him flashed in your mind– dad in a hospital bed, dad looking like skin and bone– “–because I didn’t want to upset him. But you know, even if I did drop out, an entry level salary wouldn’t be enough to cover the medical expenses. The insurance didn’t cover everything. Banks wouldn’t approve loans to someone in his… state.” You shrugged weakly. “I sold everything I could sell. Our house was naked at one point.”

Gojo was quiet, quiet, quiet. You still couldn’t look at him.

“I didn’t know what to do anymore.” You shrugged. Frustration, powerlessness– it was all coming back with the words. “And then… then Aunt Junko said. You girls have family, Mocchan. You have more family here in Japan.”

You took the bottle again. Poured another shot.

“I never told dad. He’d never forgive me. I didn’t want to do it either. B-But what else should I do? We… me and aunt– we managed to get a phone number.”

You downed the shot and slammed the glass on the table again. 

“You know what pisses me off the most in all this?” You side eyed him for the first time. Gojo had his arms crossed, eyebrows knit together, jaw locked. “She actually picked up. Not a secretary or one of my fuckass cousins. She picked up the call.” You avoided his eyes again, poured another glass because you needed it. The liquid, once again, burned your throat. “And you know what pisses me off even more? Is that I get her side. I mean– we never contacted her in over ten years! We could have tried to reconnect after mom’s death, but we didn’t! And then– out of nowhere, I call asking for help? I get that she might have disliked that.” At this point, the words just spilled out of you with no control, each more sour than any drink you could take. “But I called anyway, like a fucking beggar, because– because I still had hope that dad would make it. And I told her– I fucking told her– I told her I would pay her back. I was going to sell our house. It didn’t matter if we went to live under a bridge because of that, as long as my father had his treatment. It didn’t matter.”

You closed your eyes for a moment. 

Alcohol burned you from inside. Grief burned. Anger burned.

“You wanna know what she said in response?” A dry, humorless chuckle escaped past your lips. You stared at the ceiling. “I don’t have granddaughters.”

The weight of those words settled. Filled the room. Took a space, pushed things aside, steamed with discomfort.

You shook your head slowly. Licked your lips.

“We came back to Japan almost three fucking years ago.” Your voice came raspy. Venomous. “I did it without her. Yes, I sold the house. We left everything behind. We came back– and we were doing fine. And then out of nowhere–” and then you were looking at him again, and your eyes were burning with anger, and your face and neck were hot with everything bad your soul had been carrying all along. “–the second she finds out I have this, she comes running after me? Talking some bullshit about honor and pride? She wants to take advantage of my technique to sit on a fucking council? I hate her, Gojo. I hate her.” You gripped the collar of your own shirt nervously. “I never hated anyone as much as I hate her. Whatever I can do to go against that woman– whatever I can do to make her miserable– I’ll do it. It doesn’t matter. I’ll do it.” 

And then you avoided his gaze again, looking on the opposite side, cleaning the single tear that dripped down your cheek with the side of your palm.

Everything was hot. Dizzy. Trembling. You gulped.

Purple Rain’s guitar solo still played.

Gojo was silent.

You weren’t brave enough to look at him.

Shoulders dropped. You sighed heavily and, once again, stared at the ceiling.

“Goddamn. I love this song.” You sniffed. Finally, you side eyed him once more, feeling embarrassment weigh on your shoulders; a sad little smile made its way to your lips unconsciously. “Is this enough of an answer to you, gossiper?”

There wasn’t a hint of mockery in Gojo.

No playfulness.

He shook his head slowly.

“Yes. It’s more than enough.” He said quietly. 

You got it right then. Although his eyes were hidden, you recognized what his tone – what his expression – meant. It wasn’t pity.

It was understanding.

You groaned and squeezed your own cheeks, desperately wanting that tension to evade. “Shiiiit. I ruined the mood, didn’t I? My bad.”

Gojo chuckled. “It’s my fault.”

“Yes, it is. Nosy ass.” He chuckled again. “Well– I guess this means I won the game, right? ‘Cause I didn’t dodge any question.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. Why was he still so quiet? What that little smile meant? “There’s something else you didn’t notice yet, though.”

“What?” You frowned.

“Satocchi didn’t dance once.”

Your eyes widened.

You looked down at the pocket of the pants. The doll was there – squeezed, immovable. It never twitched. You even forgot it was there.

His smile grew bigger.

“You do deserve a ten, Mori.”

You smiled, too. This time, the smile was genuine.

“What can I say? I’m amazing!” The sudden spark of joy made the even flow crack and you flinched, feeling the doll move inside the pocket. “Shit.”

“Okay. Maybe a nine.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Gojo laughed for real this time. You used the plastic bag to yank the doll out of the pocket and drop it over the table; he started voguing right away. You stood up, feeling your legs rusty after so long – a lighter in one hand, a pack of cigarettes in the other. You needed to get away from him after all that, actually. “I’m gonna smoke.”

“Ew. Your grade just dropped to six.”

You walked behind him. Couldn’t fight your instincts and ruffled his hair aggressively. “Get ooooff!” He whined, but he was laughing. Of course he was laughing.

You stumbled to the garden, feeling the grass on your toes, and sat on the ground. The night was so cozy. You lit the cigarette and felt relief – not knowing for sure if because you were finally smoking, or because the night was nice, or because you finally got that off your chest after so long.

It didn’t matter.

And I didn’t learn what I wanted to learn about him. I fell for my own trap.

Fuck.

No. But it wasn’t over. You still had stamina. You would get up, press that fucking roulette again, and you’d find out what was the matter with his past friends and what the hell was wrong with his family–

You blacked out on the grass.

The next morning, you woke up on your bed, not remembering how you got there.

…Or maybe you remembered.

Maybe you remembered arms carefully lifting you. Warm hands. Maybe you remembered being carried inside the house, the change in temperature from outside to inside; maybe you remembered being put in bed. Maybe you remembered being tucked under the covers. Maybe you might’ve groaned something unintelligible in the dark; maybe your hand unconsciously reached for the hem of a shirt.

Maybe you felt the weight of someone sitting on the mattress.

Maybe you felt the calm, soft, warm caress of a hand on your head. Putting strands of hair away from your face. Maybe you remembered the heat. The familiar tune. The comfort. The safety.

Maybe you remembered the quiet footsteps leaving the room, the sound of the door closing. The silent darkness. 

Maybe you remembered all that.

Maybe not.

***

you: hey

you: uhhhh

you: sorry abt yesterday

You were so embarrassed that you immediately locked the screen and shoved the phone in your pocket.

You did what you did best: overworked yourself to not think of the uncomfortable stuff. It was so easy to get overworked in this field. I could never work with anything else in this world!

As expected, Gojo wasn’t there when you woke up in the morning.

Thank God he wasn’t, in fact.

You spent the day healing from the hangover and squirming with embarrassment at the thought of what happened. Not because you drank or made questions, of course, but because you passed out and–

Ugh–

Little fact about people that almost never share is that they feel physical pain when they do share.

And you shared something so incredibly personal. Shit– you even cried in front of him!

You wanted to die.

It would pass eventually, of course, but for the next hours, you’d cringe to death. Which you did. Then you clocked in for the night shift and forgot about it for a while – baggage stays at the front doors of the hospital always – but you’d remember it sometimes and consider slitting your wrists with the nearest scalpel.

You’d have to address what happened sometime.

Which you were trying to do.

Your phone buzzed. You flinched on instinct.

After looking to the sides for a second – the emergency room was full, as usual – you hurried to the nurses’ station at the center of the ER. The big circular desk had one empty chair that you quickly occupied. You looked at your phone. As usual, he replied fast, even if it was barely 7AM.

Gojo Satoru: Sorry for what??

Is he playing stupid?

you: well

you: i was acting up and all

you: :P

Not only that. 

It was also the first time the conversation between you got even remotely sexual. Even if just the tiniest bit.

And there was the fact that you kind of remembered being put in bed—

Your nape felt hot. You wanted to drop the phone again,  but Gojo Satoru is typing… popped at the bottom of the screen.

Gojo Satoru: Nahhhh

Gojo Satoru: It was fuuuun

Gojo Satoru: You and Shoko should go out together sometime btw

Gojo Satoru: Drink buddies!!!!

Gojo Satoru: 🍺(๑///๑) ⊹｡˚

An instinctive smile grew on your lips. If Gojo had fun, then it was fine. Well— you had fun, too.

Then a new notification popped.

Gojo Satoru: This is revenge for making me drink lemon btw

Gojo Satoru: [photo]

You gasped.

It was a selfie.

Gojo was crouched down, smiling handsomely, V sign near his face—

And beside him, your figure sleeping on the grass, mouth half opened, laying there as if you’d been shot.

You wanted to laugh.

You wanted to kill him.

you: DELETE

you: DELETE

you: DELETE

Gojo Satoru: NEVERRRRRR

Gojo Satoru: I’LL PRINT THIS AND GLUE IT OVER THE WALLS 

you: ILL KILL YOU

Gojo Satoru: SQUARE UP 

Gojo Satoru: (ง'̀-'́)ง

You chuckled and face palmed. He’s insufferable!

“Someone’s giggling at her phone.”

You stiffened.

Yuzuki, charge nurse, was eyeing you while typing something on the computer.

“I’m not giggling at my phone.” You said defensively.

“Who’s giggling at her phone?” Omi — another nurse sitting by her side — barged in.

“Dr. Mori’s giggling at her phone.” Yuzuki replied.

“Oooooh. I wonder why.”

The two of them sent you knowing looks.

“I wasn’t giggling at my phone.” You stood up. They eyed each other.

“Who’s giggling at what?”

You turned around, startled, to face Dr. Tanaka — Chief of Emergency.

It was funny how his black hair, albeit short, was always messy. He looked kind of insane — that, combined with his 1,80m of height, made people a bit scared of him. Well. You didn’t doubt he should be a certain degree of crazy. Everyone that worked with emergency ended up a bit coo coo in the head.

He eyed you through the thick lenses of his glasses. 

“How are things going with our lost foreigner lady on Trauma 9?” he asked while eyeing his tablet. 

You nodded and made a quick recollection of events in your mind. The woman, who should be around her sixties, was brought by EMS after being rescued on the street with symptoms of cardiac arrest. Didn’t speak a word of Japanese.

“We got a name, actually. It’s…” you gave a quick look at your own tablet. Remembering names won’t ever be a doctor’s forte. “…Malee. She’s Thai. Omi-san speaks a little bit, so we could get a number. Her son must be getting here anytime.”

Tanaka sent Omi a curious look. “One more of your hidden talents?”

She shrugged while still typing. “I dated a Thai guy once.”

His attention was back on you, so you quickly proceeded.

“She has already received aspirin, clopidogrel, anticoagulation and nitroglycerin with apparent relief of the pain. First troponin came negative. I’ve consulted Cardiology for probable NSTEMI and I’m waiting to repeat troponin.”

He nodded. “Good. Let me know as soon as the second troponin comes back.” 

“Will do.”

Tanaka looked back for a moment.

“Now— on the actual reason I came to talk to you.” He pointed towards the ER entrance doors. “Police are here to take your testimonial about the assaulted victim.”

You immediately straightened your back. 

He had already told you this would happen as soon as you clocked in. Of course, they waited to show up in the morning.

Two cops stood by the doors.

You hoped no one around would catch your nervousness.

You also hoped no one would notice you had a pistol hidden in the inside of your zip hoodie.

From the moment you learned that you’d meet cops, you escaped to the lockers and hid the gun there; there would be no way to hide a gun in a white coat. Satocchi Reborn was in the front pocket. 

It might’ve been stupid. You were probably (definitely) overthinking. But there was something in the idea of being alone with two presumably strong men that didn’t sit well. 

It’ll be okay. Nothing’s gonna happen inside the hospital. Besides, I have the anchor with me. Anything happens, Gojo will teleport.

Right.

You took the tablet and followed Dr. Tanaka.

“Officers, this is Dr. Mori, responsible for first tending the victim.” He introduced. You exchanged polite bows. The cop on the right was considerably short, but quite muscular; the one on the left was taller, older, with a bit of grey hair showing under his cap. 

“I am Masuda, and this is Arai-san,” the taller cop introduced. He was quite soft spoken. “We have already taken the paramedics’ testimonies, but we also need yours. This is just a procedure.”

“I understand.” 

“Would you prefer a quieter spot to speak?” Tanaka proposed. You looked around.

“South 3 looks empty.”

“Good.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice a bit. “Report back as soon as it’s over.”

You nodded. Tanaka walked away.

“This way, please.” You politely gesticulated. They bowed once more and started following you towards South 3.

It’ll be okay, you repeated again. It’ll be okay.

Satocchi was immovable.

You opened the door, allowing the cops to walk into the small treatment room, turned the lights on and closed the door. It immediately became quieter. 

Masuda took a small notebook and a pen from his pocket. He quickly wrote your full name and ID number on it.

“So… Dr. Mori, as I said, this is merely a procedure.” He explained while writing something else in the notebook. “We are investigating who did this and why.”

“Right.”

“Would you tell us the approximate hour he was admitted?” Arai, the shortest, asked.

“The ambulance arrived around midnight…” you eyed your own tablet, frowning a bit. “…12:43, to be exact. He was suffering with major blood loss due to a deep stab wound.”

“Was he conscious? Did he say anything that might be important?” Masuda asked.

“No. He was already unconscious when found and intubated in the field, so he wouldn’t be able to speak anyway.”

Arai nodded. “How did the treatment go?”

“He received a massive blood transfusion. Two units. He went into cardiac arrest, which we were able to reverse before he was taken to the OR.”

“You didn’t get a name yet?” 

“No. I checked on him earlier… it appears he suffered from amnesia.” You said while scrolling down his test results. You remembered how they had a head CT planned to check for any brain injury. “He’s in the ICU, actually, so the doctor in charge of him currently may give you more details.” 

Masuda was saying something, but you stopped paying attention for a second.

The CT scans were available. You tapped on them.

There was… nothing wrong with his brain.

So why didn’t he remember his own name?

Dissociative amnesia as a trauma response? It wasn’t due to any sort of infection — labs would have already picked on that. It wasn’t lack of vitamin B1, either; again, labs would’ve caught that.

So what was wrong with him?

What was wrong?

Was something wrong?

Your heart started to beat faster.

A side of you tried to rationalize things. It’s your anxiety. You’ve been freaking out about the police visit the entire night. It’s only two hours to the end of the shift, too, so you’re probably just exhausted.

Yes, this sounded very plausible.

But there was the other side of you.

And this side noticed, as you were inside a small treatment room with the door closed, partially hidden behind the curtain that surrounded the gurney, with two strange armed men, that you were hearing a tune.

Not hearing. Feeling. 

A frequency.

You gotta look for that spark in the darkness. The perception that something is off. That something that shouldn’t be there is.

It wasn’t silent anymore. 

You gripped the tablet tighter.

The anchor. The anchor. You had to call Gojo. You had to—

“…have everything we need.” Masuda’s voice caught your attention again. He was placing the notebook inside the pocket of his shirt. “Dr. Mori, thank you so much for your—“

His voice was cut short. 

His mouth was still half opened, but he– froze there.

A gag sound erupted from his throat.

“Sir?” Shit. Shit. Shit. “Are you alright?”

Arai looked at him with awkwardness. “What’s wrong, Kin–?”

And then he froze as well.

Both of them were choking silently.

Shit!

You turned around in a jump, reaching for the door handle. “Hey, I need some help here–!”

BLANK.

There was no seeing. There was no hearing. There was no nothing. But one second before everything blacked out– one second before the abyss– you saw who was standing by the door.

Umi.

BLANK.

What? What is going on? What is happening?

What?

What?

What?

I can’t see or hear or smell or feel. All that exists is nothing. It is everywhere; it is darkness, it is enveloping me. What is happening? What is time? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Where am I? Where was I? 

Body?

Do I have a body?

Can I control my body?

I can’t control my body.

Panic. Panic. Panic. Panic.

I am conscious. I can think, but I can’t do. 

No.

No.

This can’t happen.

Help. I need help. I need someone. I need Gojo.

Gojo?

Who is Gojo?

I know him? Who is he? Who is me? Who is– time? What is time? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Body? Do I have a body?

Body?

Body?

Can I control this body?

I can’t.

No. No. No.

Body?

I can’t feel it.

I can’t–

There is something–

Very close to me. Near my stomach. Wriggling uncontrollably. I can feel this. I can feel something. I have a body. I can feel this part of my body. It’s small, it’s wriggling, it’s– it’s–

Satocchi.

He’s dancing inside the pocket of my hoodie because I stopped flowing cursed energy.

Cursed energy!

You pulled cursed energy with all you could. The heat in your chest– expanding to every part of your body.

It felt like setting out an explosion.

You gasped for air.

You could see, you could hear, you could feel and taste and– you were laying in a gurney with a sheet over your body as if you were dead. There was movement.

You sat in a jump.

You were in the back of an ambulance with the siren on. It was going fast. There was no one there besides– 

The stab wound victim.

He sat in the stool of the ambulance, pale, shallow breathing, still in the hospital gown.

What the fuck?!

You jumped from the gurney. Without thinking twice, you took the pistol from your hoodie shot in the driver’s way.

The ambulance took a violent turn. Tires skidded on the road. You were thrown in the wall, shocking your back against it, and avoided being crushed by the gurney by a centimeter. The guy fell, too, moaning in pain.

You didn’t wait a second.

Opened the ambulance’s doors and ran before it had even properly stopped.

Some other cars behind had braked as well. Shocked people on the sidewalks gasped, asked what was going on– you just kept running. 

Shit. Shit. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening, not again–

Gojo said the hospital was safe!

You kept running, entered an alley, went out in an opposite street. You knew those streets; you were only two blocks down the hospital. It mustn’t have been that long. How did she take you out of the hospital? How did she get an ambulance? What happened to the two cops? How–

Umi.

How?!

You were told there were protective curtains around the entire hospital complex that would immediately alarm a strange cursed energy signature. You were told sorcerers kept an eye on the area daily to ensure no suspect would come close to it. How didn’t anyone suspect Umi? How was she hired?

How didn’t you suspect Umi?

Shit. Shit. Fuck!

You stormed inside a big supermarket down the street. 

Some customers were startled; there weren’t that many – mainly staff and elderly people – since it was still early. You ran to the back, to the back, some hidden place where you could call for help–

The doors opened behind you again.

“Miss, what is it that you’re holding–” you heard a male voice near the entrance ask. Probably security.

Then the sound of flesh being ripped. Bones breaking. Blood leaking.

Yells. 

Screams. Screams everywhere. Running. People were running out.

You didn’t look back. 

You jumped over the butcher counter and sat on the floor, back glued against a hidden spot, holding the pistol for dear life.

The phone wasn’t with you.

She had taken the phone, but did not notice the gun.

Shit. Shit. Shit. SHIT.

There were still screams, steps. The sound of a shelf being violently pushed; the bam echoed in the supermarket as the heavy objects with its contents spilled on the floor. 

There were less voices now. Another shelf was pushed.

It was quieter.

Your heart pounded in your ears.

“Come on, Dr. Mori! Show yourself!”

Umi’s voice.

You could hear her steps now. 

“My technique is Night Hypnosis. It completely paralyzes anyone that looks into my eyes.” Another shelf was pushed. You flinched at the loud noise. It explained why you blacked out, but– why the fuck would she reveal this? She gave herself a disadvantage! Now, you understood that if you looked at her again, it was all over.

How do you fight someone you can’t see?

Her steps were getting closer.

You felt about to spit your own heart.

“Come on, now, doc.” Her voice echoed. It was shaking a bit. She was nervous. “You might not believe me, but I don’t want to hurt you at all. You helped save my brother, after all.” Her brother? Is it– the guy in the ambulance? Is it why she was so clumsy treating him, staring instead of helping? She was shocked. “Let’s make this easier to the two of us, alright?”

I need to get out of here. I need to call Gojo. 

You crawled to the edge of the counter. Your own heartbeat thundered in your ears. Calm down! Control yourself! You’ll get captured if you don’t stop freaking out!

Her steps were getting closer. Closer. 

You saw her through the reflection of the steel fridge in front of you. 

Umi walked slowly, shoulders hunched; she held a long chain in her hands. A chain? You noticed with a shiver of fear that its edge was dripping blood.

You’ll only have one chance.

One step closer.

Two steps closer.

Right now.

You slid from behind the counter.

The fact that she was walking so slowly to not cause any noise helped. You didn’t dare lift your gaze to her upper torso for a second – but it wasn’t needed.

What you needed to see was her knee.

You pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed – along with her yell of pain.

There was no time to watch Umi fall. 

You took off running.

People screamed when you ran out of the supermarket again through its front doors; a small crowd gathered there with the people that escaped. You had time to quickly see the security guard sitting against the wall, groaning in pain with horrible, horrible gashes in his stomach, but you just kept running against your best instincts to go back and help. 

You needed a phone.

There are phones inside ambulances.

Run. Run. Run.

There was already a twinge of pain in the right side of your stomach from running so much, sweat ran down your forehead and glued the shirt to your back; yet, you didn’t stop. I need Gojo here. I need anyone here– anyone that can capture this woman. 

It didn’t take long to find the ambulance – turned across the street, completely blocking traffic with its doors opened. People stood around it, confused, getting out of their cars to assess the situation. You jumped inside it again and reached the telephone that stayed in the back; Gojo’s number was engraved in your mind. Four-four-six-three-nine-three–

A groan.

You turned around, heaving, while the phone beeped in your ear.

The man was still there, laying on the ground, face pale and sweaty.

You knew the abrupt crash and the way he fell could have reopened the wound. You knew how it could start another internal bleeding. You knew how dangerous it was; how painful it should be. You had treated him that week. Your palms had pushed their way on their chest to help his heart pump back.

But you also knew he was Umi’s brother.

And she was running towards the ambulance with that chain in hands.

So you ignored all that.

You scrambled towards him. You gripped his gown, forcing him to sit up, making him shriek in pain. 

And when Umi was close enough, she completely stopped– eyes widened in both shock and anger– as you stood behind her brother, gluing the pistol to the back of his head.

The street was empty. You heard screams in the far back. She must’ve hurt more people on her way, which made them avoid her. 

You were out of breath. So was she.

Umi’s right leg bled horribly. You couldn’t even comprehend how she was able to reach you so fast. Cursed energy enveloped your entire body. It’s what made you break out of her hypnosis; you’d assumed that, as long as you kept it that way, her technique wouldn’t work. 

You stood in the ambulance. She stood on the street.

Sirens echoed in the distance.

“You’re not faster than the bullet.” Your voice was harsh. Tired. Angry.

You couldn’t see Umi’s face; your eyes were locked on her chest. You didn’t need to. You knew the hatred that she bore.

“You don’t have the guts.”

She shouldn’t have said that.

Everything that unraveled next happened in seconds.

You thumbed the safety off.

Umi swayed her chain.

The chain destroyed a chunk of asphalt. Ripped the steel of the ambulance’s floor underneath your feet violently.

It wrangled around your right leg.

She pulled it.

BLANK.

Not because of her technique. 

At that moment, you felt the opposite.

I can see and hear and taste and smell. I have a body. And all that I know– all that I feel– all that exists–

Is PAIN.

You screamed.

A yell that came from your guts, one so visceral that seemed to be tearing your throat apart. You fell against the asphalt, but the fall barely meant anything against the pain. Pain pain pain pain PAIN. PAIN. PAIN. PAIN. PAIN. PAIN—

You looked down at your own leg and screamed.

The right leg.

The chain was still wrapped around it like a snake up to the knee. The chain– every knot– every knot–

The skin was shredded. 

Half of it was snapped to the left. An unnatural, gruesome angle – one you’d seen over and over again, one you’d treated over and over again and one you’d never wished to ever experience.

Bone peeked from the skin. 

It bled and bled and bled and the chain had shredded the skin of your leg and you had an exposed fracture and it hurt it hurt it hurt it HURT IT HURT IT HURT and all you could see was the red of the blood your own blood it was red red red red red red red red red–

It was blue.

Gojo was calling your name.

Your blurry vision focused on him– on his face, his worried face – an expression you’d never seen on him –, his bright blue eyes assessing you, cupping your face with both hands. You didn’t know where Umi was. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered but the pain.

He was saying something, but all you could hear were your own cries, your own shallow breath, the grunts and the groans– your own sounds in your head, muffled. It hurt. It hurt. It HURT. Your leg was destroyed. Destroyed.

Gojo took you in his arms. You gripped the fabric of his jacket on instinct – tight tight tight– a way to ease the pain.

Nothing existed but the pain. Nothing. Nothing.

Gojo ran with you in his arms towards a familiar place. A place of traditional architecture. A forbidden place. Another familiar face appeared– Ieiri Shoko, frowning, saying something, hurrying to put gloves on. 

It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the red, the blue and the pain.

By resolution of the Jujutsu Higher Council, it is hereby formally declared that MORI Y/N is prohibited from entering, attending, or otherwise frequenting the grounds and facilities of Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School.

The Council considers this matter closed and not subject to appeal.

< PART 1

The bunny doll was much smaller this time, about the size of your open hand. Still white and floppy; now, its button eyes were blue and yellow. It actually resembled the original Satocchi. Yes, it did make you feel fucking guilty all over again.

“What do you mean ‘reborn’?” You asked with hesitance.

Gojo had his usual excited smile, usual uniform, usual bandages covering his eyes. The doll looked even smaller in his hand. 

“It was made with pieces of fabric and stuffing from the deceased Satocchi! So it’s like he’s reborn! Reincarnated, even! Isn’t it magic?”

You still hesitated.

“So… the principal was okay with what happened? He didn’t try to kill you?”

“He did.” Gojo giggled nervously. Made your stomach feel cold. “But Yaga’s also a really cool guy even though he acts tough! All it took was a little bit of talking. Anyway, your training buddy is back and kickin’!”

Satocchi Reborn’s role was the same: to make you produce and expand your cursed energy output until you could do it with barely to no effort. He’d still try to dance if you stopped. Except you wouldn’t train in the comfort of your home – you had to take him everywhere you went.

By “everywhere” he meant the hospital, of course, because you couldn’t go anywhere else.

You had to train in the ER.

The idea was pretty good, actually. You didn’t need to watch movies to go through a rollercoaster of emotions: your day was already filled with it – anytime EMS would storm into the hospital pushing a stretcher with a dying patient to tend. You’d always learned better under pressure as well. During school days, a dangerous deadline would make you learn stuff at the speed of light. So the possibility of Satocchi Reborn jumping out of your reach and breakdancing in front of all of your colleagues was enough pressure to make you learn “faster”.

That being said, you fucking hated it.

You almost never wore a white coat while at work because it felt impractical, given how much you had to move around – but now, to continue training, you had to put the plushie inside the pocket of the coat. You were always hyper aware of the thing there as if it was a steaming hot rock near your body. 

It’ll be okay. Pull the energy. Even flow. You got this.

It, in fact, was not okay.

You had practiced first in a controlled environment. Sitting on a couch, watching a movie that, despite yanking reactions and emotions from you, was still just a movie. It was completely different from feeling real life pressure. Not to mention the fact that you were moving around while pulling cursed energy, and you hadn’t considered it would be difficult, but guess what? It was.

Even flow, you kept repeating in your mind like a mantra. Not too much, not too little. Don’t stop pulling. Keep it going.

Satocchi Reborn hadn’t twitched yet, which should be a good sign.

Until the first emergency happened.

It came out of nowhere, as it always did, in what was otherwise a “calm” night shift. You had even given yourself the luxury of sitting down to sip a bit of coffee. 

“You, wearing a coat?” Watanabe-san asked, quirking one eyebrow. She herself held a cup of coffee. “Now that’s rare.”

You shrugged. “Felt like trying it a bit.”

She snorted. A little truth about doctors is that most like to wear coats to not be mistaken for nurses, even though within the Metropolitan, nurses wore teal scrubs while doctor scrubs were navy blue. Everyone that worked on emergency learned to be a little more humble, however. There wasn’t much time to catwalk around the halls showing off the white coats while you were busy trying to keep patients alive all the time. (Or did it make you all more arrogant compared to doctors whose tasks weren’t so urgent or complex? What a paradox).

The conversation was cut short the second the phone over the table rang.

Coffee was left behind. Satocchi Reborn twitched for the first time that night.

Even flow. Even flow. Even flow. It stopped moving.

Satocchi twitched for the second time the moment you laid eyes on the patient.

There was so much blood. It soaked the sheets underneath him. His body was motionless, skin pale as paper.

“Stab wound in the abdomen!” The paramedic explained quickly. “Found unconscious. Massive blood loss at the scene. Palpable systolic around 60. Heart rate 154. Intubated in the field.”

Stab wound. The paramedics had already cut his shirt, revealing the chest tubes and the awful sight of a deep gash on his stomach. You didn’t have time to ask many questions, but that man had obviously been assaulted. It was rare to tend to a victim of a violent crime like that. 

The team scrambled around the gurney quickly. A single look at the patient was enough to set everyone in that absolutely focused state. 

This time, you weren’t nervous because you had to take the lead; you were used to it. You didn’t question yourself for a second. You felt nervous, however, because Satocchi twitched in the pocket of the coat and the main part of your mind – the one that was trying to focus on the patient – had to stop for a second to yell EVEN FLOW.

It stopped twitching. You gulped.

“Activate the massive transfusion protocol now.” Your voice was hardened, firm, steady.

The good news is that Watanabe-san had let go of her coffee, too, and ran with you to tend the patient.

Watanabe-san was a nurse since you were still in your diapers. She was tiny and mean – in other words, she was perfect. That woman could take blood from a goddamned rock. There wasn’t a single person inside that hospital who didn’t respect and fear her. Whenever Watanabe-san joined, you immediately felt more confident. She was like a safe, reliable rock.

The bad news is that Umi was there, too.

She was nowhere as experienced. Nowhere as dependable. And you didn’t like her, either.

Don’t mind her. As long as she does her job right.

Before you had even finished speaking, Watanabe-san was already reaching for the phone, calling the blood bank. Meanwhile, Umi was standing there looking like a fucking idiot–

Satocchi twitched.

Even flow even flow even flow–

“Umi-san, I need two large-bore IVs,” you requested between gritted teeth.

“On it,” she said and finally moved.

Calm down. It’ll be okay. She’s new. Maybe she’s never seen a case like this.

Your mind went fully focused as you proceeded with the FAST ultrasound that only revealed worse news. The hemorrhage was absolutely appalling. Liquid had spread all over his abdomen down to his pelvis.

“Massive intra-abdominal hemorrhage. He’s going straight to the OR.” You didn’t need to look up to know Watanabe-san was once again on the phone, already calling surgery. 

Meanwhile, you noticed Umi struggling with the IV.

Holy fucking shit.

“I– I can’t get the vein.”

Maybe if you weren’t rushing with such a critical case, you would’ve been more patient. You would’ve thought, I guess she really never helped with a case this urgent. But there was no goddamn time. 

You felt Satocchi’s arm move a bit and froze for a second. It stopped.

“Intraosseous,” you ordered without taking your eyes off the ultrasound.

Umi hesitated.

“...I’ve never done one.”

“Then don’t.” You were fully aware that you sounded harsher than you’d usually sound. The other nurse by your side froze.

Can’t do an IO. Can’t pluck your eyebrows. Can’t not be fucking inconvenient. What the hell can you do?!

“Excuse me.”

Watanabe-san was already pushing Umi out of the way. Her excuse me sounded even harsher than what you’d said; that was a unique talent of hers. The lady had even less patience than you did. It took Watanabe-san twenty seconds to get the IO line in place and flowing.

Thank God she’s here, you silently breathed out. 

No one spoke much the following few minutes as the blood unit arrived. The team moved around the patient like clockwork, adjusting lines and taking care of the chest tube that the paramedics did on the way to the hospital. Your eyes went back to the monitor every two seconds. You just needed to keep the patient stable until the surgery team was ready to take him.

Then the monitor beeped loud.

BP: 46/28.

Shit.

Your own heart rate spiked.

“We’re losing him.” It was the first time you raised your voice. It seemed to send slight electric shocks throughout the entire team.

Umi stood there, you noticed, eyes widened and glued on the monitor, and Jesus Christ, you wanted to slap her.

Satocchi twitched. Even flow! Even flow!

“Umi-san.” Watanabe sounded like a mean teacher everyone was afraid of. Umi flinched. “You can panic later. Go get another unit of blood now.”

“Y-Yes!” She nodded and took off running.

You didn’t have time to see her going, however, because there was almost no output from his chest tube. You frowned and listened to the left lung again. Nothing.

“Shit,” you cursed quietly.

There was air stuck in the pleural space. That pressured air would keep squeezing his lungs until he’d go into shock.

He wasn’t breathing already.

Watanabe-san approached as well, already understanding the situation. “Need another chest tube?”

“No.” You grabbed a large-bore needle. “It’s a recurrent tension pneumothorax.”

You positioned the needle on his thorax with care after desinthetizing the area. You made a quick measurement of his chest, finding the space between his ribs with your fingertips and, without wasting a second, pierced it. Skin, muscle; a drop of thick blood dripped from the incision you inflicted. The decompression was immediate – you could even hear the sound of air escaping his body. His saturation climbed from 74% to 89%.

You allowed yourself a quick sigh of relief.

Satocchi didn’t move the entire time, a little part of you noticed, which should be a good sign, right? It felt that your emotions were stunted while you did the procedure.

Umi appeared again with a new blood unit. Watanabe didn’t have the patience to watch her struggle with it this time, however, snatching the bag from her hand, breaking the seal, connecting the tubing, priming the line and opening the flow wide – all in less than a minute. That woman was a beast. 

You didn’t even have time to thank God again for her being there, because you checked the patient’s pupils. Then the monitor. Then the bleeding. The cardiac rhythm had slowed.

There was no pulse. 

“He’s in arrest.”

The entire room shifted instantly.

“Start compressions!”

Watanabe rushed. Her palms were on the patient’s chest: deep, steady compressions. Perfect rhythm. 

Shit. Shit shit shit. You have to think. Think of a reversible cause.

Satocchi moved. You felt a twinge of panic and stomped your feet on the floor in an awkward movement because it’d make the coat flow a bit and disguise the critter’s movement inside the pocket, but oh well, there was a dying guy on the gurney, no one paid attention to that. You wanted to yank that fucking doll and throw it out the nearest window. I can’t deal with this! Not right now!!

“Hemorrhagic shock. Keep the blood going,” you ordered.

With the corner of your eye, you saw Umi reaching for a syringe of epinephrine.

“No,” you said firmly, lifting your finger at her, but what you really wanted to say was what the fuck are you doing?!

She looked confused.

“But he’s in cardiac arrest.”

“He’s in arrest because he’s bleeding to death. If we don’t restore his circulating volume, epi won’t fix this.”

Umi gulped and lowered the syringe. How the hell wouldn’t she know about this? It must be her first time, some part of you reasoned, while the other bitter part imagined yourself slapping her, while another part (the most important part, hopefully) was fully focused on the task of checking the chest tubes, eyeing the monitor and controlling the blood flow, as yet another part was sweating to keep the cursed energy output stable because the idea of Satocchi jumping out of the pocket and b-boying over a patient in arrest was way too terrifying to ignore.

Two minutes passed. No rhythm. You quickly took turns with Watanabe — deep, steady compressions. You felt that the ribs underneath your palms were broken; it was always a nasty feeling to do compressions, but it only meant you were doing a good job. You felt as if your own heart was in your throat. Absolute tension made the room heavy, as if each and every one of you carried tons over your shoulders. The transfusion was massive and aggressive. Come on. Come on. Come back to us.

At last, you stopped, barely out of breath.

The monitor showed an organized rhythm. 

You checked the patience’s carotid.

There it was.

“...I’ve got a pulse.”

The entire team took a deep breath – and you were sure it was the first time you all breathed properly in minutes.

Satocchi moved. You punched the pocket of the coat with the side of your fist on instinct. It stopped.

The patient was stabilized. Finally, the surgery team wheeled him to the operating room in a hurry.

You took yet another deep breath while pulling the bloody gloves off and tossing them into the trash. 

“Good job, everyone,” you said in a calm, confident manner, while bowing your head slightly. Your eyes passed quickly by Umi. Not you, bitch, a really mean part of you hissed. You were a nuisance.

“You did great, kid.” Watanabe-san patted your shoulder. She looked tired, cleaning the sweat from her forehead with a tissue.

You smiled. A compliment from that woman had the same weight as receiving an award.

“Thank you so much.”

She sighed heavily and shook her head a bit. “I think I’m getting too old to do these things. Gonna take a painkiller before my arms start to hurt.”

And then you were alone. Kinda.

Discreetly, you looked down and opened the pocket of the coat to look at Satocchi Reborn.

It had twitched a few times – mostly when you wanted to slap Umi – but it didn’t fully dance or call anyone’s attention, which was definitely an achievement.

You pressed your lips together.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, remembering how you punched it earlier.

Satocchi Reborn twitched his hand. You imagined he was throwing a middle finger at you and telling you to fuck off.

The feeling’s mutual, you thought – and then you realized that you were having an imaginary fight with a doll and went back to your senses.

Just another shift in the ER.

September 29th.

It’d already been over two months since your life turned upside down.

It was shocking, to say the least, because looking back, it felt like ages. So much happened within these two months. 

Your past life was unrecognizable now.

No longer you lived in a tiny yet cozy apartment, only two streets down the subway station. No longer having dinner every Saturday at Aunt Junko’s house. No longer stopping at Luciu’s after work to drink a bit with your colleagues. No longer taking Mayu to buy clothes at the mall or just hanging out with her when you had free time. No more having lunch at that Italian restaurant near the hospital with Remi. No longer posting anything on any social media. 

Now, your life consisted of living confined inside a beautiful house that didn’t really feel like yours, even though you spent almost all of your free time in it. You knew how to use a gun. Two months prior, you’d never even considered owning a gun. You’d been kidnapped once, victim of another kidnap attempt that resulted in a massive car crash; you found out that your late mother – and her entire bloodline – were not what you thought they were. You couldn’t go anywhere without being escorted. Abruptly, you were forced to push away all of your friends, including your own sister to a degree. And you had to walk around with a cursed little doll in your pocket to exercise your supernatural ability that popped up out of no-fucking-where.

Okay.

You avoided summarizing everything in your head like that to not freak out. When things just happened and you dealt with them one at once, the burden felt lighter. 

But yeah. 

It was all kind of insane to look back on.

Truth be told, not everything was that bad. If you said living in this house was bad, you’d straight up be lying. Not having to worry about chores was cool. Sure, you did dishes and overall did your best to not make a mess, but deep cleaning wasn’t a concern anymore, which meant you could just rot in bed on your days off instead of washing bathrooms and dusting furniture (that house was so big. You imagined how much dust it accumulated after a week and shivered).

You didn’t have to worry about rent, either, or gas, which was definitely nice. However, you talked to Gojo about it a week back, because you felt fucking useless for not contributing on the bills, and he literally laughed. “There is nooooo way I’m letting you pay bills, sweetie,” was all he said, not giving you a second to argue before teleporting his way out. 

A side of you thought it was kinda hot.

The other part that used brain cells and not pussy to think had a different opinion. First of all, isn’t it kinda misogynistic? Second – we’re living in the house, using water and electricity, what’s wrong with contributing on the bills? I don’t wanna feel like I owe them something.

It was nice to have more money saved every month, though. You’d been keeping everything untouched on your savings. What if another disaster happened? You had to be prepared in any way.

Of course, there was the fact that made all of this a little less despicable. Or rather, the person.

Gojo was cool.

You liked him. That was the simple truth. He was funny, friendly, treated Mayu well, and pretty dependable. He was hella annoying, too, but annoying in the way a boy is when he’s trying to get your attention, not an unbearable type of annoying. You got along well from the get-go. You wondered how much harder all of this would be if you didn’t get along.

Maybe you were getting too well, which was worrying.

But again – you didn’t like summarizing things all at once in your head, ‘cause it’d make you freak out. One problem at a time. One feeling at a time. 

Right now, you just had to worry about picking new CDs.

Your weekly trips to the shooting club were still up. As usual, Gojo would want to listen to music, but he had already listened to all the 3 CDs you kept in the glove box and started to whine that he wanted to listen to something new.

So there you were, like an absolute fucking fool, into the basement.

The place was packed. It already was before you moved in: boxes of all sizes, old furniture, there was a lot of stuff there. Yours and Mayu’s belongings just crumpled the place even more to a point it was difficult to walk in. You made your way carefully, trying to find free spots on the ground where you could place a foot after the other.

There was really a lot of stuff. And you didn’t remember in which box you put the CD collection. 

This wasn’t going to be quick. But you had nothing else to do, so whatever.

You quickly got distracted from the primal task, though. 

It’s that type of situation when you’re cleaning your room and find an old notebook and is oh, I hadn’t seen this in a while. Then you find a photo album that you thought had disappeared. Then you find a book, and another, and another–

And then you were sitting on the floor, completely surrounded by boxes, reading a letter you had written to a school crush and cringing hard. 

There were so many books. Dad considered throwing books away a crime and you kind of got the same principle. All of your school books from middle school to college were still there, not to mention Mayu’s and dad’s. Hardback medical textbooks from when he was in college; stuff that was invaluable, really, not only because they were testament of a time in the past, but because dad liked to write little notes in the corner of pages.

His handwriting was awful. You always struggled to read anything he wrote.

There was a lump in your throat, so you let go of the books.

It didn’t take long to find old notebooks and journals. You spent an awful long time reading stuff and laughing. You found Mayu’s first birthday photo album, your high school graduation album, an album from a trip to Hokkaido when mom and dad were still dating. They were in their early twenties there.

You stopped at a particular photo where they were posing side by side in front of a gorgeous flower field. Mom wore a pretty long yellow dress and a straw hat. Dad wore a matching hat, a blue shirt you knew mom had picked for him, and his usual glasses.

They were both so young. So beautiful.

Was mom still a sorcerer in this photo?

Was she already fighting her way out of the Hosokawa family?

Did dad know about her true background? If so, then why did he never talk about it with you? Did they agree to hide everything from their children? Or perhaps– perhaps dad never knew about anything as well, accepting whatever excuse mom gave him as to why she was estranged with the rest of her family?

There were so many questions to be asked. Yet, the only two other people who could answer them stared back at you in that photo, thirty years in the past, smiling innocently.

There were moments in which you felt particularly alone.

In a way, you knew you were never alone. You had Mayu. As young as she was, you knew she’d always have your back. You had Aunt Junko who had been there in the darkest moments of your life. You had good friends – friends from overseas, who still texted regularly to check on you, who made it so difficult to leave everything and come back to Japan.

You weren’t alone. Not really. 

But at the same time, you were. In ways that couldn’t really be helped.

The lump in your throat was back and worse.

Something twitched in the pocket of your pants. You flinched.

Satocchi Reborn was trying to dance.

You huffed and carefully took the doll off, using the sleeve of your shirt for coverage so your skin wouldn’t touch it. You dropped Satocchi on the floor. It immediately started a very detailed choreography. 

That thing was goofy as hell.

It grounded you back in the present.

You gulped the lump in your throat and slammed the photo album hard.

“I came here to pick CDs,” you reminded yourself out loud, putting the album back in the box you found it and standing up.

You had to wander deeper in the basement, once again, balancing yourself in small gaps on the floor to walk. At last, a familiar box appeared, hidden behind a larger one. It was packed with trinkets… and a bunch of CDs and vinyls.

You crouched down. 

The collection included both original CDs and some in clear cases identified with sharpie (though dad was a correct man, he was always pretty okay with piracy). The collection was very wild, to say the least. It ranged from Celine Dion’s Let’s Talk About Love to Metallica’s Black Album. Dad listened to whatever, to be honest, and mom was pretty eclectic as well. There were a couple of CDs you listened to a lot back then and Mayu’s: you shivered upon seeing the infamous copy of Inai Inai Baa! in the bottom of the box. She used to listen to that CD everyday, all the time as a toddler and would throw tantrums when it stopped playing. 

You didn’t really know Gojo’s musical taste, but the point here wasn’t to please him. He joked about how old the CDs you had were. You thought keeping the tradition would be fun. Four CDs from the large collection were chosen. You smiled, imagining what his reaction would be, and finally stood up.

You were at the very back of the basement. It occurred to you for a second that spiders could be hiding – not that the place was super dusty or abandoned, but there was so much stuff there that it could very well become home to a spider civilization. The idea was awful. You were ready to turn around and leave.

Then you noticed the treadmill. 

You didn’t remember it being there. 

The equipment was close to the wall, almost hidden behind a steel cabinet that stored dozens of more boxes, covered in dust. Abandoned. 

An idea popped in your head.

Due to your circumstances, you couldn’t exercise anymore – and your chosen exercise was always jogging. You used to run around your block when you had time at least twice a week. After two months of the new routine, you could already feel that your endurance was worse and sleep felt heavier and difficult. 

That treadmill could be the solution to your problem.

Was it broken? If so, could it be fixed? 

You stepped closer to the equipment to see it better. The space between boxes was barely enough for your foot.

You tripped.

“Shit–” you yelped, gripping the steel cabinet for balance.

The thing swayed a bit – and for a split second, your entire life passed before your eyes.

But it stopped with a thud.

You sighed in relief.

The movement dropped a box from the very top shelf, though.

You crouched to take it. It was a small black shoe box you didn’t recognize as yours or Mayu’s. The thing fell with the lid facing down. You turned it around to close it again and put it back where it was.

But then your eyes landed on the contents of the box and you froze.

It was a photo.

You blinked, mouth slightly open. Slowly, you took the photo, hesitating as if the paper would burn your fingertips.

Gojo was in the picture.

A much younger Gojo, wearing a football uniform: red shirt, white shorts. It was taken the exact moment he grabbed a ball, so the picture had a bit of motion blur. Two other guys stood nearby in the field, but you barely paid attention to them.

At the very bottom of the paper, the date when it was taken was printed. 21 MAY 2006.

Ooooooh.

Oh fuck.

Gojo’s school days pictures?!

You felt your spine freeze. You dropped the picture back in the box and closed the lid in a hurry.

Would it be wrong to look?, you asked yourself, already feeling as if you were doing something forbidden. Instinctively, you looked towards the stairs; it was as if Gojo would appear there any moment and ask what the hell are you doing?

Well. But it’s just pictures. How bad could it be?

Very bad.

You knew that.

Pictures are overall a very private thing. But at the same time… Gojo was so obnoxiously private. He simply didn’t talk about his life. This was a golden opportunity.

You bit your lower lip and eyed Satocchi Reborn for a moment, battling with yourself. The doll was popping and locking on the floor. Yeah. Goofy as hell.

You huffed.

Fuck it.

You opened the lid again.

There were many photos stacked inside the box, most of them turned around. You took them and sat on the floor, once again squeezed in between bigger boxes.

A thrill of excitement spread through your system.

One by one, you started to turn the pictures around.

Your eyes widened a bit again.

In this picture, Gojo was sitting in the stool of a diner with two other teenagers. One short haired girl and a black haired boy. Gojo grinned happily to the camera, holding a thumbs up. He wore round sunglasses that were pushed up his forehead. 

A small smile appeared on your own lips on instinct.

Next picture. This time, he was posing with a group of people in a classroom. Four guys and only one girl; all of them wore black uniforms that looked very similar to the one Fushiguro had, except their uniforms had a golden button on the left side of the chest. Gojo had the smuggest expression you’d ever seen; his arm was draped around that same black haired boy from before. Meanwhile, said guy had his arm around another shorter boy with a bowl cut; a blonde emo guy peeked awkwardly from the door, and the girl smiled–

Wait– that’s Ieiri-san, isn’t it?!

Your eyes widened a bit again as you brought the photo closer. Gosh, she had changed a lot, but it was definitely her – except her cheeks were chubbier and there were no dark circles under her eyes. So Gojo and her were classmates?

You looked at the next picture, and the next, and the next.

They were all pretty candid. Classrooms were the recurrent scenery, though you recognized a bit of Jujutsu High’s campus in some of them. The same people appeared over and over again: Gojo, Ieiri, that black haired boy, the bowl cut kid, and the blonde emo. You saw a younger Masamichi in some of them.

Gojo looked incredibly goofy in almost everything.

He made funny faces, awkward grins, widened eyes and all. You stopped at a specific picture and smiled. He was clearly taken off guard while studying: holding a pen, hunched over the table with two open notebooks, using earphones. He side eyed whoever took that photo and pouted. That goddamn pout. He really is the same guy.

You remembered a cocky comment Gojo made a while ago while you watched Mayu’s stupid vampire show, after you claimed no teenager was attractive. Talk for yourself. I was always this hot.

Unfortunately, he was correct.

It almost angered you. 

Gojo’s hair was fluffier. He didn’t have an undercut back then and would rather use the same round sunglasses. He hadn’t changed much since then except for a few differences. Gojo’s face looked a bit skinnier in the pictures; his eyes appeared bigger and he overall wasn’t as muscular. Today’s Gojo was more masculine in a way. Nevertheless – yes, he was very handsome. 

But there was the other guy who appeared in almost every picture.

That guy would be a problem to the teenager version of you.

It looked like he was as tall as Gojo. His skin wasn’t as pale; his long black hair was almost always tied in a bun. A stylish bang adorned the left side of his face. He had cat-like eyes, plump lips and black ear gauges. His uniform was slightly different from the others, choosing to wear baggy pants. There was a laid-back, cool aura about him.

He was sooooo your type.

God. You could imagine yourself squirming anytime he’d walk by. He was the type of guy you would send a friend request on mixi and pray to God that he’d accept, and you’d run laps around your room if he did; then you’d keep hoping he someday would message you or like one of your pictures. That stylish way of his was what would make you melt as a teenager.

This guy and Gojo were attached by the hip, by the way. They were always around each other in every photo. It earned yet another smile from you. If he got along with Gojo, you could imagine how insufferable they should’ve been. 

(You didn’t know what that said about yourself, as you got along with Gojo).

You paused in a photo that was straight up adorable.

Gojo, Ieiri and their other friend were sitting in what looked like a hotel bed. They wore matching shirts and their hairs collectively looked a mess. Gojo in particular looked like a dandelion with the way light from outside touched the back of his head. 

This one had something written on the back.

☆ SA-SHI-SU!! ☆

OKINAWA - 2007

(,,>ヮ<,,)

Hand drawn emoji.

That was Gojo’s doing for sure.

You giggled.

This was all very nice.

It didn’t quite match the impression you had of Gojo. Knowing how wealthy he was, you imagined he was one of those obnoxiously sheltered kids… but what you’d seen proved otherwise. It all looked so normal. By seeing these pictures, you’d never assume they were attending a school that taught them how to kill supernatural creatures.

And then came the next photo.

Gojo and Ieiri stood side by side by the school’s gates. On their left side, a board said “Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School – Graduation Ceremony, 2008”.

They looked awkward.

Ieiri had an empty small smile on her lips. But not quite as empty as Gojo’s. He lifted his red certificate tube without any excitement.

You frowned.

Where was the other friend? You had the impression the three of them were classmates.

The mood had changed.

Next picture. A selfie this time with Ieiri, Gojo, Masamichi, and a pretty girl with bangs you hadn’t seen before. Ieiri’s smile was, once again, empty. Gojo held a V sign and an awkward smirk – but not the goofy one you’d seen before. He looked done. His eyes were hidden behind the round sunglasses. It created a distance between you and him that traveled through time; you imagined how much more distant it felt to the ones around him.

The certificate was in his hand. It was a picture from the same day.

The two other guys – the one with the bowl cut and the blonde one – were nowhere to be seen.

…Oh.

Things started to make sense.

You don’t keep precious pictures inside a dusty shoe box, hidden in some corner of your basement. It’s just not something people do.

Unless you don’t want to look at them. 

A weird feeling settled in your stomach.

What must have happened?

Why didn’t their friend graduate? Why did Gojo never even mention a friend? Sure– he was very private and never even talked about other friends, but this felt different. Did they simply lose contact? Did he drop out? What happened to the two other guys?

You weren’t so excited anymore.

You felt like an intruder, in fact.

You closed the lid. Tiptoed and put the box where it was – at the very top of the steel cabinet, once again under the impression that it burned. 

There was so much you wanted to know about him. You wanted him to talk about himself. Talk to you.

You wanted to understand Gojo better – and those pictures just picked even more of your interest.

You took the CDs and Satocchi Reborn, interrupting his impeccable performance, and finally exited the basement, leaving behind decades worth of bittersweet memories – both yours and his.

The bunny doll was much smaller this time, about the size of your open hand. Still white and floppy; now, its button eyes were blue and yellow. It actually resembled the original Satocchi. Yes, it did make you feel fucking guilty all over again.

“What do you mean ‘reborn’?” You asked with hesitance.

Gojo had his usual excited smile, usual uniform, usual bandages covering his eyes. The doll looked even smaller in his hand. 

“It was made with pieces of fabric and stuffing from the deceased Satocchi! So it’s like he’s reborn! Reincarnated, even! Isn’t it magic?”

You still hesitated.

“So… the principal was okay with what happened? He didn’t try to kill you?”

“He did.” Gojo giggled nervously. Made your stomach feel cold. “But Yaga’s also a really cool guy even though he acts tough! All it took was a little bit of talking. Anyway, your training buddy is back and kickin’!”

Satocchi Reborn’s role was the same: to make you produce and expand your cursed energy output until you could do it with barely to no effort. He’d still try to dance if you stopped. Except you wouldn’t train in the comfort of your home – you had to take him everywhere you went.

By “everywhere” he meant the hospital, of course, because you couldn’t go anywhere else.

You had to train in the ER.

The idea was pretty good, actually. You didn’t need to watch movies to go through a rollercoaster of emotions: your day was already filled with it – anytime EMS would storm into the hospital pushing a stretcher with a dying patient to tend. You’d always learned better under pressure as well. During school days, a dangerous deadline would make you learn stuff at the speed of light. So the possibility of Satocchi Reborn jumping out of your reach and breakdancing in front of all of your colleagues was enough pressure to make you learn “faster”.

That being said, you fucking hated it.

You almost never wore a white coat while at work because it felt impractical, given how much you had to move around – but now, to continue training, you had to put the plushie inside the pocket of the coat. You were always hyper aware of the thing there as if it was a steaming hot rock near your body. 

It’ll be okay. Pull the energy. Even flow. You got this.

It, in fact, was not okay.

You had practiced first in a controlled environment. Sitting on a couch, watching a movie that, despite yanking reactions and emotions from you, was still just a movie. It was completely different from feeling real life pressure. Not to mention the fact that you were moving around while pulling cursed energy, and you hadn’t considered it would be difficult, but guess what? It was.

Even flow, you kept repeating in your mind like a mantra. Not too much, not too little. Don’t stop pulling. Keep it going.

Satocchi Reborn hadn’t twitched yet, which should be a good sign.

Until the first emergency happened.

It came out of nowhere, as it always did, in what was otherwise a “calm” night shift. You had even given yourself the luxury of sitting down to sip a bit of coffee. 

“You, wearing a coat?” Watanabe-san asked, quirking one eyebrow. She herself held a cup of coffee. “Now that’s rare.”

You shrugged. “Felt like trying it a bit.”

She snorted. A little truth about doctors is that most like to wear coats to not be mistaken for nurses, even though within the Metropolitan, nurses wore teal scrubs while doctor scrubs were navy blue. Everyone that worked on emergency learned to be a little more humble, however. There wasn’t much time to catwalk around the halls showing off the white coats while you were busy trying to keep patients alive all the time. (Or did it make you all more arrogant compared to doctors whose tasks weren’t so urgent or complex? What a paradox).

The conversation was cut short the second the phone over the table rang.

Coffee was left behind. Satocchi Reborn twitched for the first time that night.

Even flow. Even flow. Even flow. It stopped moving.

Satocchi twitched for the second time the moment you laid eyes on the patient.

There was so much blood. It soaked the sheets underneath him. His body was motionless, skin pale as paper.

“Stab wound in the abdomen!” The paramedic explained quickly. “Found unconscious. Massive blood loss at the scene. Palpable systolic around 60. Heart rate 154. Intubated in the field.”

Stab wound. The paramedics had already cut his shirt, revealing the chest tubes and the awful sight of a deep gash on his stomach. You didn’t have time to ask many questions, but that man had obviously been assaulted. It was rare to tend to a victim of a violent crime like that. 

The team scrambled around the gurney quickly. A single look at the patient was enough to set everyone in that absolutely focused state. 

This time, you weren’t nervous because you had to take the lead; you were used to it. You didn’t question yourself for a second. You felt nervous, however, because Satocchi twitched in the pocket of the coat and the main part of your mind – the one that was trying to focus on the patient – had to stop for a second to yell EVEN FLOW.

It stopped twitching. You gulped.

“Activate the massive transfusion protocol now.” Your voice was hardened, firm, steady.

The good news is that Watanabe-san had let go of her coffee, too, and ran with you to tend the patient.

Watanabe-san was a nurse since you were still in your diapers. She was tiny and mean – in other words, she was perfect. That woman could take blood from a goddamned rock. There wasn’t a single person inside that hospital who didn’t respect and fear her. Whenever Watanabe-san joined, you immediately felt more confident. She was like a safe, reliable rock.

The bad news is that Umi was there, too.

She was nowhere as experienced. Nowhere as dependable. And you didn’t like her, either.

Don’t mind her. As long as she does her job right.

Before you had even finished speaking, Watanabe-san was already reaching for the phone, calling the blood bank. Meanwhile, Umi was standing there looking like a fucking idiot–

Satocchi twitched.

Even flow even flow even flow–

“Umi-san, I need two large-bore IVs,” you requested between gritted teeth.

“On it,” she said and finally moved.

Calm down. It’ll be okay. She’s new. Maybe she’s never seen a case like this.

Your mind went fully focused as you proceeded with the FAST ultrasound that only revealed worse news. The hemorrhage was absolutely appalling. Liquid had spread all over his abdomen down to his pelvis.

“Massive intra-abdominal hemorrhage. He’s going straight to the OR.” You didn’t need to look up to know Watanabe-san was once again on the phone, already calling surgery. 

Meanwhile, you noticed Umi struggling with the IV.

Holy fucking shit.

“I– I can’t get the vein.”

Maybe if you weren’t rushing with such a critical case, you would’ve been more patient. You would’ve thought, I guess she really never helped with a case this urgent. But there was no goddamn time. 

You felt Satocchi’s arm move a bit and froze for a second. It stopped.

“Intraosseous,” you ordered without taking your eyes off the ultrasound.

Umi hesitated.

“...I’ve never done one.”

“Then don’t.” You were fully aware that you sounded harsher than you’d usually sound. The other nurse by your side froze.

Can’t do an IO. Can’t pluck your eyebrows. Can’t not be fucking inconvenient. What the hell can you do?!

“Excuse me.”

Watanabe-san was already pushing Umi out of the way. Her excuse me sounded even harsher than what you’d said; that was a unique talent of hers. The lady had even less patience than you did. It took Watanabe-san twenty seconds to get the IO line in place and flowing.

Thank God she’s here, you silently breathed out. 

No one spoke much the following few minutes as the blood unit arrived. The team moved around the patient like clockwork, adjusting lines and taking care of the chest tube that the paramedics did on the way to the hospital. Your eyes went back to the monitor every two seconds. You just needed to keep the patient stable until the surgery team was ready to take him.

Then the monitor beeped loud.

BP: 46/28.

Shit.

Your own heart rate spiked.

“We’re losing him.” It was the first time you raised your voice. It seemed to send slight electric shocks throughout the entire team.

Umi stood there, you noticed, eyes widened and glued on the monitor, and Jesus Christ, you wanted to slap her.

Satocchi twitched. Even flow! Even flow!

“Umi-san.” Watanabe sounded like a mean teacher everyone was afraid of. Umi flinched. “You can panic later. Go get another unit of blood now.”

“Y-Yes!” She nodded and took off running.

You didn’t have time to see her going, however, because there was almost no output from his chest tube. You frowned and listened to the left lung again. Nothing.

“Shit,” you cursed quietly.

There was air stuck in the pleural space. That pressured air would keep squeezing his lungs until he’d go into shock.

He wasn’t breathing already.

Watanabe-san approached as well, already understanding the situation. “Need another chest tube?”

“No.” You grabbed a large-bore needle. “It’s a recurrent tension pneumothorax.”

You positioned the needle on his thorax with care after desinthetizing the area. You made a quick measurement of his chest, finding the space between his ribs with your fingertips and, without wasting a second, pierced it. Skin, muscle; a drop of thick blood dripped from the incision you inflicted. The decompression was immediate – you could even hear the sound of air escaping his body. His saturation climbed from 74% to 89%.

You allowed yourself a quick sigh of relief.

Satocchi didn’t move the entire time, a little part of you noticed, which should be a good sign, right? It felt that your emotions were stunted while you did the procedure.

Umi appeared again with a new blood unit. Watanabe didn’t have the patience to watch her struggle with it this time, however, snatching the bag from her hand, breaking the seal, connecting the tubing, priming the line and opening the flow wide – all in less than a minute. That woman was a beast. 

You didn’t even have time to thank God again for her being there, because you checked the patient’s pupils. Then the monitor. Then the bleeding. The cardiac rhythm had slowed.

There was no pulse. 

“He’s in arrest.”

The entire room shifted instantly.

“Start compressions!”

Watanabe rushed. Her palms were on the patient’s chest: deep, steady compressions. Perfect rhythm. 

Shit. Shit shit shit. You have to think. Think of a reversible cause.

Satocchi moved. You felt a twinge of panic and stomped your feet on the floor in an awkward movement because it’d make the coat flow a bit and disguise the critter’s movement inside the pocket, but oh well, there was a dying guy on the gurney, no one paid attention to that. You wanted to yank that fucking doll and throw it out the nearest window. I can’t deal with this! Not right now!!

“Hemorrhagic shock. Keep the blood going,” you ordered.

With the corner of your eye, you saw Umi reaching for a syringe of epinephrine.

“No,” you said firmly, lifting your finger at her, but what you really wanted to say was what the fuck are you doing?!

She looked confused.

“But he’s in cardiac arrest.”

“He’s in arrest because he’s bleeding to death. If we don’t restore his circulating volume, epi won’t fix this.”

Umi gulped and lowered the syringe. How the hell wouldn’t she know about this? It must be her first time, some part of you reasoned, while the other bitter part imagined yourself slapping her, while another part (the most important part, hopefully) was fully focused on the task of checking the chest tubes, eyeing the monitor and controlling the blood flow, as yet another part was sweating to keep the cursed energy output stable because the idea of Satocchi jumping out of the pocket and b-boying over a patient in arrest was way too terrifying to ignore.

Two minutes passed. No rhythm. You quickly took turns with Watanabe — deep, steady compressions. You felt that the ribs underneath your palms were broken; it was always a nasty feeling to do compressions, but it only meant you were doing a good job. You felt as if your own heart was in your throat. Absolute tension made the room heavy, as if each and every one of you carried tons over your shoulders. The transfusion was massive and aggressive. Come on. Come on. Come back to us.

At last, you stopped, barely out of breath.

The monitor showed an organized rhythm. 

You checked the patience’s carotid.

There it was.

“...I’ve got a pulse.”

The entire team took a deep breath – and you were sure it was the first time you all breathed properly in minutes.

Satocchi moved. You punched the pocket of the coat with the side of your fist on instinct. It stopped.

The patient was stabilized. Finally, the surgery team wheeled him to the operating room in a hurry.

You took yet another deep breath while pulling the bloody gloves off and tossing them into the trash. 

“Good job, everyone,” you said in a calm, confident manner, while bowing your head slightly. Your eyes passed quickly by Umi. Not you, bitch, a really mean part of you hissed. You were a nuisance.

“You did great, kid.” Watanabe-san patted your shoulder. She looked tired, cleaning the sweat from her forehead with a tissue.

You smiled. A compliment from that woman had the same weight as receiving an award.

“Thank you so much.”

She sighed heavily and shook her head a bit. “I think I’m getting too old to do these things. Gonna take a painkiller before my arms start to hurt.”

And then you were alone. Kinda.

Discreetly, you looked down and opened the pocket of the coat to look at Satocchi Reborn.

It had twitched a few times – mostly when you wanted to slap Umi – but it didn’t fully dance or call anyone’s attention, which was definitely an achievement.

You pressed your lips together.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, remembering how you punched it earlier.

Satocchi Reborn twitched his hand. You imagined he was throwing a middle finger at you and telling you to fuck off.

The feeling’s mutual, you thought – and then you realized that you were having an imaginary fight with a doll and went back to your senses.

Just another shift in the ER.

September 29th.

It’d already been over two months since your life turned upside down.

It was shocking, to say the least, because looking back, it felt like ages. So much happened within these two months. 

Your past life was unrecognizable now.

No longer you lived in a tiny yet cozy apartment, only two streets down the subway station. No longer having dinner every Saturday at Aunt Junko’s house. No longer stopping at Luciu’s after work to drink a bit with your colleagues. No longer taking Mayu to buy clothes at the mall or just hanging out with her when you had free time. No more having lunch at that Italian restaurant near the hospital with Remi. No longer posting anything on any social media. 

Now, your life consisted of living confined inside a beautiful house that didn’t really feel like yours, even though you spent almost all of your free time in it. You knew how to use a gun. Two months prior, you’d never even considered owning a gun. You’d been kidnapped once, victim of another kidnap attempt that resulted in a massive car crash; you found out that your late mother – and her entire bloodline – were not what you thought they were. You couldn’t go anywhere without being escorted. Abruptly, you were forced to push away all of your friends, including your own sister to a degree. And you had to walk around with a cursed little doll in your pocket to exercise your supernatural ability that popped up out of no-fucking-where.

Okay.

You avoided summarizing everything in your head like that to not freak out. When things just happened and you dealt with them one at once, the burden felt lighter. 

But yeah. 

It was all kind of insane to look back on.

Truth be told, not everything was that bad. If you said living in this house was bad, you’d straight up be lying. Not having to worry about chores was cool. Sure, you did dishes and overall did your best to not make a mess, but deep cleaning wasn’t a concern anymore, which meant you could just rot in bed on your days off instead of washing bathrooms and dusting furniture (that house was so big. You imagined how much dust it accumulated after a week and shivered).

You didn’t have to worry about rent, either, or gas, which was definitely nice. However, you talked to Gojo about it a week back, because you felt fucking useless for not contributing on the bills, and he literally laughed. “There is nooooo way I’m letting you pay bills, sweetie,” was all he said, not giving you a second to argue before teleporting his way out. 

A side of you thought it was kinda hot.

The other part that used brain cells and not pussy to think had a different opinion. First of all, isn’t it kinda misogynistic? Second – we’re living in the house, using water and electricity, what’s wrong with contributing on the bills? I don’t wanna feel like I owe them something.

It was nice to have more money saved every month, though. You’d been keeping everything untouched on your savings. What if another disaster happened? You had to be prepared in any way.

Of course, there was the fact that made all of this a little less despicable. Or rather, the person.

Gojo was cool.

You liked him. That was the simple truth. He was funny, friendly, treated Mayu well, and pretty dependable. He was hella annoying, too, but annoying in the way a boy is when he’s trying to get your attention, not an unbearable type of annoying. You got along well from the get-go. You wondered how much harder all of this would be if you didn’t get along.

Maybe you were getting too well, which was worrying.

But again – you didn’t like summarizing things all at once in your head, ‘cause it’d make you freak out. One problem at a time. One feeling at a time. 

Right now, you just had to worry about picking new CDs.

Your weekly trips to the shooting club were still up. As usual, Gojo would want to listen to music, but he had already listened to all the 3 CDs you kept in the glove box and started to whine that he wanted to listen to something new.

So there you were, like an absolute fucking fool, into the basement.

The place was packed. It already was before you moved in: boxes of all sizes, old furniture, there was a lot of stuff there. Yours and Mayu’s belongings just crumpled the place even more to a point it was difficult to walk in. You made your way carefully, trying to find free spots on the ground where you could place a foot after the other.

There was really a lot of stuff. And you didn’t remember in which box you put the CD collection. 

This wasn’t going to be quick. But you had nothing else to do, so whatever.

You quickly got distracted from the primal task, though. 

It’s that type of situation when you’re cleaning your room and find an old notebook and is oh, I hadn’t seen this in a while. Then you find a photo album that you thought had disappeared. Then you find a book, and another, and another–

And then you were sitting on the floor, completely surrounded by boxes, reading a letter you had written to a school crush and cringing hard. 

There were so many books. Dad considered throwing books away a crime and you kind of got the same principle. All of your school books from middle school to college were still there, not to mention Mayu’s and dad’s. Hardback medical textbooks from when he was in college; stuff that was invaluable, really, not only because they were testament of a time in the past, but because dad liked to write little notes in the corner of pages.

His handwriting was awful. You always struggled to read anything he wrote.

There was a lump in your throat, so you let go of the books.

It didn’t take long to find old notebooks and journals. You spent an awful long time reading stuff and laughing. You found Mayu’s first birthday photo album, your high school graduation album, an album from a trip to Hokkaido when mom and dad were still dating. They were in their early twenties there.

You stopped at a particular photo where they were posing side by side in front of a gorgeous flower field. Mom wore a pretty long yellow dress and a straw hat. Dad wore a matching hat, a blue shirt you knew mom had picked for him, and his usual glasses.

They were both so young. So beautiful.

Was mom still a sorcerer in this photo?

Was she already fighting her way out of the Hosokawa family?

Did dad know about her true background? If so, then why did he never talk about it with you? Did they agree to hide everything from their children? Or perhaps– perhaps dad never knew about anything as well, accepting whatever excuse mom gave him as to why she was estranged with the rest of her family?

There were so many questions to be asked. Yet, the only two other people who could answer them stared back at you in that photo, thirty years in the past, smiling innocently.

There were moments in which you felt particularly alone.

In a way, you knew you were never alone. You had Mayu. As young as she was, you knew she’d always have your back. You had Aunt Junko who had been there in the darkest moments of your life. You had good friends – friends from overseas, who still texted regularly to check on you, who made it so difficult to leave everything and come back to Japan.

You weren’t alone. Not really. 

But at the same time, you were. In ways that couldn’t really be helped.

The lump in your throat was back and worse.

Something twitched in the pocket of your pants. You flinched.

Satocchi Reborn was trying to dance.

You huffed and carefully took the doll off, using the sleeve of your shirt for coverage so your skin wouldn’t touch it. You dropped Satocchi on the floor. It immediately started a very detailed choreography. 

That thing was goofy as hell.

It grounded you back in the present.

You gulped the lump in your throat and slammed the photo album hard.

“I came here to pick CDs,” you reminded yourself out loud, putting the album back in the box you found it and standing up.

You had to wander deeper in the basement, once again, balancing yourself in small gaps on the floor to walk. At last, a familiar box appeared, hidden behind a larger one. It was packed with trinkets… and a bunch of CDs and vinyls.

You crouched down. 

The collection included both original CDs and some in clear cases identified with sharpie (though dad was a correct man, he was always pretty okay with piracy). The collection was very wild, to say the least. It ranged from Celine Dion’s Let’s Talk About Love to Metallica’s Black Album. Dad listened to whatever, to be honest, and mom was pretty eclectic as well. There were a couple of CDs you listened to a lot back then and Mayu’s: you shivered upon seeing the infamous copy of Inai Inai Baa! in the bottom of the box. She used to listen to that CD everyday, all the time as a toddler and would throw tantrums when it stopped playing. 

You didn’t really know Gojo’s musical taste, but the point here wasn’t to please him. He joked about how old the CDs you had were. You thought keeping the tradition would be fun. Four CDs from the large collection were chosen. You smiled, imagining what his reaction would be, and finally stood up.

You were at the very back of the basement. It occurred to you for a second that spiders could be hiding – not that the place was super dusty or abandoned, but there was so much stuff there that it could very well become home to a spider civilization. The idea was awful. You were ready to turn around and leave.

Then you noticed the treadmill. 

You didn’t remember it being there. 

The equipment was close to the wall, almost hidden behind a steel cabinet that stored dozens of more boxes, covered in dust. Abandoned. 

An idea popped in your head.

Due to your circumstances, you couldn’t exercise anymore – and your chosen exercise was always jogging. You used to run around your block when you had time at least twice a week. After two months of the new routine, you could already feel that your endurance was worse and sleep felt heavier and difficult. 

That treadmill could be the solution to your problem.

Was it broken? If so, could it be fixed? 

You stepped closer to the equipment to see it better. The space between boxes was barely enough for your foot.

You tripped.

“Shit–” you yelped, gripping the steel cabinet for balance.

The thing swayed a bit – and for a split second, your entire life passed before your eyes.

But it stopped with a thud.

You sighed in relief.

The movement dropped a box from the very top shelf, though.

You crouched to take it. It was a small black shoe box you didn’t recognize as yours or Mayu’s. The thing fell with the lid facing down. You turned it around to close it again and put it back where it was.

But then your eyes landed on the contents of the box and you froze.

It was a photo.

You blinked, mouth slightly open. Slowly, you took the photo, hesitating as if the paper would burn your fingertips.

Gojo was in the picture.

A much younger Gojo, wearing a football uniform: red shirt, white shorts. It was taken the exact moment he grabbed a ball, so the picture had a bit of motion blur. Two other guys stood nearby in the field, but you barely paid attention to them.

At the very bottom of the paper, the date when it was taken was printed. 21 MAY 2006.

Ooooooh.

Oh fuck.

Gojo’s school days pictures?!

You felt your spine freeze. You dropped the picture back in the box and closed the lid in a hurry.

Would it be wrong to look?, you asked yourself, already feeling as if you were doing something forbidden. Instinctively, you looked towards the stairs; it was as if Gojo would appear there any moment and ask what the hell are you doing?

Well. But it’s just pictures. How bad could it be?

Very bad.

You knew that.

Pictures are overall a very private thing. But at the same time… Gojo was so obnoxiously private. He simply didn’t talk about his life. This was a golden opportunity.

You bit your lower lip and eyed Satocchi Reborn for a moment, battling with yourself. The doll was popping and locking on the floor. Yeah. Goofy as hell.

You huffed.

Fuck it.

You opened the lid again.

There were many photos stacked inside the box, most of them turned around. You took them and sat on the floor, once again squeezed in between bigger boxes.

A thrill of excitement spread through your system.

One by one, you started to turn the pictures around.

Your eyes widened a bit again.

In this picture, Gojo was sitting in the stool of a diner with two other teenagers. One short haired girl and a black haired boy. Gojo grinned happily to the camera, holding a thumbs up. He wore round sunglasses that were pushed up his forehead. 

A small smile appeared on your own lips on instinct.

Next picture. This time, he was posing with a group of people in a classroom. Four guys and only one girl; all of them wore black uniforms that looked very similar to the one Fushiguro had, except their uniforms had a golden button on the left side of the chest. Gojo had the smuggest expression you’d ever seen; his arm was draped around that same black haired boy from before. Meanwhile, said guy had his arm around another shorter boy with a bowl cut; a blonde emo guy peeked awkwardly from the door, and the girl smiled–

Wait– that’s Ieiri-san, isn’t it?!

Your eyes widened a bit again as you brought the photo closer. Gosh, she had changed a lot, but it was definitely her – except her cheeks were chubbier and there were no dark circles under her eyes. So Gojo and her were classmates?

You looked at the next picture, and the next, and the next.

They were all pretty candid. Classrooms were the recurrent scenery, though you recognized a bit of Jujutsu High’s campus in some of them. The same people appeared over and over again: Gojo, Ieiri, that black haired boy, the bowl cut kid, and the blonde emo. You saw a younger Masamichi in some of them.

Gojo looked incredibly goofy in almost everything.

He made funny faces, awkward grins, widened eyes and all. You stopped at a specific picture and smiled. He was clearly taken off guard while studying: holding a pen, hunched over the table with two open notebooks, using earphones. He side eyed whoever took that photo and pouted. That goddamn pout. He really is the same guy.

You remembered a cocky comment Gojo made a while ago while you watched Mayu’s stupid vampire show, after you claimed no teenager was attractive. Talk for yourself. I was always this hot.

Unfortunately, he was correct.

It almost angered you. 

Gojo’s hair was fluffier. He didn’t have an undercut back then and would rather use the same round sunglasses. He hadn’t changed much since then except for a few differences. Gojo’s face looked a bit skinnier in the pictures; his eyes appeared bigger and he overall wasn’t as muscular. Today’s Gojo was more masculine in a way. Nevertheless – yes, he was very handsome. 

But there was the other guy who appeared in almost every picture.

That guy would be a problem to the teenager version of you.

It looked like he was as tall as Gojo. His skin wasn’t as pale; his long black hair was almost always tied in a bun. A stylish bang adorned the left side of his face. He had cat-like eyes, plump lips and black ear gauges. His uniform was slightly different from the others, choosing to wear baggy pants. There was a laid-back, cool aura about him.

He was sooooo your type.

God. You could imagine yourself squirming anytime he’d walk by. He was the type of guy you would send a friend request on mixi and pray to God that he’d accept, and you’d run laps around your room if he did; then you’d keep hoping he someday would message you or like one of your pictures. That stylish way of his was what would make you melt as a teenager.

This guy and Gojo were attached by the hip, by the way. They were always around each other in every photo. It earned yet another smile from you. If he got along with Gojo, you could imagine how insufferable they should’ve been. 

(You didn’t know what that said about yourself, as you got along with Gojo).

You paused in a photo that was straight up adorable.

Gojo, Ieiri and their other friend were sitting in what looked like a hotel bed. They wore matching shirts and their hairs collectively looked a mess. Gojo in particular looked like a dandelion with the way light from outside touched the back of his head. 

This one had something written on the back.

☆ SA-SHI-SU!! ☆

OKINAWA - 2007

(,,>ヮ<,,)

Hand drawn emoji.

That was Gojo’s doing for sure.

You giggled.

This was all very nice.

It didn’t quite match the impression you had of Gojo. Knowing how wealthy he was, you imagined he was one of those obnoxiously sheltered kids… but what you’d seen proved otherwise. It all looked so normal. By seeing these pictures, you’d never assume they were attending a school that taught them how to kill supernatural creatures.

And then came the next photo.

Gojo and Ieiri stood side by side by the school’s gates. On their left side, a board said “Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School – Graduation Ceremony, 2008”.

They looked awkward.

Ieiri had an empty small smile on her lips. But not quite as empty as Gojo’s. He lifted his red certificate tube without any excitement.

You frowned.

Where was the other friend? You had the impression the three of them were classmates.

The mood had changed.

Next picture. A selfie this time with Ieiri, Gojo, Masamichi, and a pretty girl with bangs you hadn’t seen before. Ieiri’s smile was, once again, empty. Gojo held a V sign and an awkward smirk – but not the goofy one you’d seen before. He looked done. His eyes were hidden behind the round sunglasses. It created a distance between you and him that traveled through time; you imagined how much more distant it felt to the ones around him.

The certificate was in his hand. It was a picture from the same day.

The two other guys – the one with the bowl cut and the blonde one – were nowhere to be seen.

…Oh.

Things started to make sense.

You don’t keep precious pictures inside a dusty shoe box, hidden in some corner of your basement. It’s just not something people do.

Unless you don’t want to look at them. 

A weird feeling settled in your stomach.

What must have happened?

Why didn’t their friend graduate? Why did Gojo never even mention a friend? Sure– he was very private and never even talked about other friends, but this felt different. Did they simply lose contact? Did he drop out? What happened to the two other guys?

You weren’t so excited anymore.

You felt like an intruder, in fact.

You closed the lid. Tiptoed and put the box where it was – at the very top of the steel cabinet, once again under the impression that it burned. 

There was so much you wanted to know about him. You wanted him to talk about himself. Talk to you.

You wanted to understand Gojo better – and those pictures just picked even more of your interest.

You took the CDs and Satocchi Reborn, interrupting his impeccable performance, and finally exited the basement, leaving behind decades worth of bittersweet memories – both yours and his.

The bunny doll was much smaller this time, about the size of your open hand. Still white and floppy; now, its button eyes were blue and yellow. It actually resembled the original Satocchi. Yes, it did make you feel fucking guilty all over again.

“What do you mean ‘reborn’?” You asked with hesitance.

Gojo had his usual excited smile, usual uniform, usual bandages covering his eyes. The doll looked even smaller in his hand. 

“It was made with pieces of fabric and stuffing from the deceased Satocchi! So it’s like he’s reborn! Reincarnated, even! Isn’t it magic?”

You still hesitated.

“So… the principal was okay with what happened? He didn’t try to kill you?”

“He did.” Gojo giggled nervously. Made your stomach feel cold. “But Yaga’s also a really cool guy even though he acts tough! All it took was a little bit of talking. Anyway, your training buddy is back and kickin’!”

Satocchi Reborn’s role was the same: to make you produce and expand your cursed energy output until you could do it with barely to no effort. He’d still try to dance if you stopped. Except you wouldn’t train in the comfort of your home – you had to take him everywhere you went.

By “everywhere” he meant the hospital, of course, because you couldn’t go anywhere else.

You had to train in the ER.

The idea was pretty good, actually. You didn’t need to watch movies to go through a rollercoaster of emotions: your day was already filled with it – anytime EMS would storm into the hospital pushing a stretcher with a dying patient to tend. You’d always learned better under pressure as well. During school days, a dangerous deadline would make you learn stuff at the speed of light. So the possibility of Satocchi Reborn jumping out of your reach and breakdancing in front of all of your colleagues was enough pressure to make you learn “faster”.

That being said, you fucking hated it.

You almost never wore a white coat while at work because it felt impractical, given how much you had to move around – but now, to continue training, you had to put the plushie inside the pocket of the coat. You were always hyper aware of the thing there as if it was a steaming hot rock near your body. 

It’ll be okay. Pull the energy. Even flow. You got this.

It, in fact, was not okay.

You had practiced first in a controlled environment. Sitting on a couch, watching a movie that, despite yanking reactions and emotions from you, was still just a movie. It was completely different from feeling real life pressure. Not to mention the fact that you were moving around while pulling cursed energy, and you hadn’t considered it would be difficult, but guess what? It was.

Even flow, you kept repeating in your mind like a mantra. Not too much, not too little. Don’t stop pulling. Keep it going.

Satocchi Reborn hadn’t twitched yet, which should be a good sign.

Until the first emergency happened.

It came out of nowhere, as it always did, in what was otherwise a “calm” night shift. You had even given yourself the luxury of sitting down to sip a bit of coffee. 

“You, wearing a coat?” Watanabe-san asked, quirking one eyebrow. She herself held a cup of coffee. “Now that’s rare.”

You shrugged. “Felt like trying it a bit.”

She snorted. A little truth about doctors is that most like to wear coats to not be mistaken for nurses, even though within the Metropolitan, nurses wore teal scrubs while doctor scrubs were navy blue. Everyone that worked on emergency learned to be a little more humble, however. There wasn’t much time to catwalk around the halls showing off the white coats while you were busy trying to keep patients alive all the time. (Or did it make you all more arrogant compared to doctors whose tasks weren’t so urgent or complex? What a paradox).

The conversation was cut short the second the phone over the table rang.

Coffee was left behind. Satocchi Reborn twitched for the first time that night.

Even flow. Even flow. Even flow. It stopped moving.

Satocchi twitched for the second time the moment you laid eyes on the patient.

There was so much blood. It soaked the sheets underneath him. His body was motionless, skin pale as paper.

“Stab wound in the abdomen!” The paramedic explained quickly. “Found unconscious. Massive blood loss at the scene. Palpable systolic around 60. Heart rate 154. Intubated in the field.”

Stab wound. The paramedics had already cut his shirt, revealing the chest tubes and the awful sight of a deep gash on his stomach. You didn’t have time to ask many questions, but that man had obviously been assaulted. It was rare to tend to a victim of a violent crime like that. 

The team scrambled around the gurney quickly. A single look at the patient was enough to set everyone in that absolutely focused state. 

This time, you weren’t nervous because you had to take the lead; you were used to it. You didn’t question yourself for a second. You felt nervous, however, because Satocchi twitched in the pocket of the coat and the main part of your mind – the one that was trying to focus on the patient – had to stop for a second to yell EVEN FLOW.

It stopped twitching. You gulped.

“Activate the massive transfusion protocol now.” Your voice was hardened, firm, steady.

The good news is that Watanabe-san had let go of her coffee, too, and ran with you to tend the patient.

Watanabe-san was a nurse since you were still in your diapers. She was tiny and mean – in other words, she was perfect. That woman could take blood from a goddamned rock. There wasn’t a single person inside that hospital who didn’t respect and fear her. Whenever Watanabe-san joined, you immediately felt more confident. She was like a safe, reliable rock.

The bad news is that Umi was there, too.

She was nowhere as experienced. Nowhere as dependable. And you didn’t like her, either.

Don’t mind her. As long as she does her job right.

Before you had even finished speaking, Watanabe-san was already reaching for the phone, calling the blood bank. Meanwhile, Umi was standing there looking like a fucking idiot–

Satocchi twitched.

Even flow even flow even flow–

“Umi-san, I need two large-bore IVs,” you requested between gritted teeth.

“On it,” she said and finally moved.

Calm down. It’ll be okay. She’s new. Maybe she’s never seen a case like this.

Your mind went fully focused as you proceeded with the FAST ultrasound that only revealed worse news. The hemorrhage was absolutely appalling. Liquid had spread all over his abdomen down to his pelvis.

“Massive intra-abdominal hemorrhage. He’s going straight to the OR.” You didn’t need to look up to know Watanabe-san was once again on the phone, already calling surgery. 

Meanwhile, you noticed Umi struggling with the IV.

Holy fucking shit.

“I– I can’t get the vein.”

Maybe if you weren’t rushing with such a critical case, you would’ve been more patient. You would’ve thought, I guess she really never helped with a case this urgent. But there was no goddamn time. 

You felt Satocchi’s arm move a bit and froze for a second. It stopped.

“Intraosseous,” you ordered without taking your eyes off the ultrasound.

Umi hesitated.

“...I’ve never done one.”

“Then don’t.” You were fully aware that you sounded harsher than you’d usually sound. The other nurse by your side froze.

Can’t do an IO. Can’t pluck your eyebrows. Can’t not be fucking inconvenient. What the hell can you do?!

“Excuse me.”

Watanabe-san was already pushing Umi out of the way. Her excuse me sounded even harsher than what you’d said; that was a unique talent of hers. The lady had even less patience than you did. It took Watanabe-san twenty seconds to get the IO line in place and flowing.

Thank God she’s here, you silently breathed out. 

No one spoke much the following few minutes as the blood unit arrived. The team moved around the patient like clockwork, adjusting lines and taking care of the chest tube that the paramedics did on the way to the hospital. Your eyes went back to the monitor every two seconds. You just needed to keep the patient stable until the surgery team was ready to take him.

Then the monitor beeped loud.

BP: 46/28.

Shit.

Your own heart rate spiked.

“We’re losing him.” It was the first time you raised your voice. It seemed to send slight electric shocks throughout the entire team.

Umi stood there, you noticed, eyes widened and glued on the monitor, and Jesus Christ, you wanted to slap her.

Satocchi twitched. Even flow! Even flow!

“Umi-san.” Watanabe sounded like a mean teacher everyone was afraid of. Umi flinched. “You can panic later. Go get another unit of blood now.”

“Y-Yes!” She nodded and took off running.

You didn’t have time to see her going, however, because there was almost no output from his chest tube. You frowned and listened to the left lung again. Nothing.

“Shit,” you cursed quietly.

There was air stuck in the pleural space. That pressured air would keep squeezing his lungs until he’d go into shock.

He wasn’t breathing already.

Watanabe-san approached as well, already understanding the situation. “Need another chest tube?”

“No.” You grabbed a large-bore needle. “It’s a recurrent tension pneumothorax.”

You positioned the needle on his thorax with care after desinthetizing the area. You made a quick measurement of his chest, finding the space between his ribs with your fingertips and, without wasting a second, pierced it. Skin, muscle; a drop of thick blood dripped from the incision you inflicted. The decompression was immediate – you could even hear the sound of air escaping his body. His saturation climbed from 74% to 89%.

You allowed yourself a quick sigh of relief.

Satocchi didn’t move the entire time, a little part of you noticed, which should be a good sign, right? It felt that your emotions were stunted while you did the procedure.

Umi appeared again with a new blood unit. Watanabe didn’t have the patience to watch her struggle with it this time, however, snatching the bag from her hand, breaking the seal, connecting the tubing, priming the line and opening the flow wide – all in less than a minute. That woman was a beast. 

You didn’t even have time to thank God again for her being there, because you checked the patient’s pupils. Then the monitor. Then the bleeding. The cardiac rhythm had slowed.

There was no pulse. 

“He’s in arrest.”

The entire room shifted instantly.

“Start compressions!”

Watanabe rushed. Her palms were on the patient’s chest: deep, steady compressions. Perfect rhythm. 

Shit. Shit shit shit. You have to think. Think of a reversible cause.

Satocchi moved. You felt a twinge of panic and stomped your feet on the floor in an awkward movement because it’d make the coat flow a bit and disguise the critter’s movement inside the pocket, but oh well, there was a dying guy on the gurney, no one paid attention to that. You wanted to yank that fucking doll and throw it out the nearest window. I can’t deal with this! Not right now!!

“Hemorrhagic shock. Keep the blood going,” you ordered.

With the corner of your eye, you saw Umi reaching for a syringe of epinephrine.

“No,” you said firmly, lifting your finger at her, but what you really wanted to say was what the fuck are you doing?!

She looked confused.

“But he’s in cardiac arrest.”

“He’s in arrest because he’s bleeding to death. If we don’t restore his circulating volume, epi won’t fix this.”

Umi gulped and lowered the syringe. How the hell wouldn’t she know about this? It must be her first time, some part of you reasoned, while the other bitter part imagined yourself slapping her, while another part (the most important part, hopefully) was fully focused on the task of checking the chest tubes, eyeing the monitor and controlling the blood flow, as yet another part was sweating to keep the cursed energy output stable because the idea of Satocchi jumping out of the pocket and b-boying over a patient in arrest was way too terrifying to ignore.

Two minutes passed. No rhythm. You quickly took turns with Watanabe — deep, steady compressions. You felt that the ribs underneath your palms were broken; it was always a nasty feeling to do compressions, but it only meant you were doing a good job. You felt as if your own heart was in your throat. Absolute tension made the room heavy, as if each and every one of you carried tons over your shoulders. The transfusion was massive and aggressive. Come on. Come on. Come back to us.

At last, you stopped, barely out of breath.

The monitor showed an organized rhythm. 

You checked the patience’s carotid.

There it was.

“...I’ve got a pulse.”

The entire team took a deep breath – and you were sure it was the first time you all breathed properly in minutes.

Satocchi moved. You punched the pocket of the coat with the side of your fist on instinct. It stopped.

The patient was stabilized. Finally, the surgery team wheeled him to the operating room in a hurry.

You took yet another deep breath while pulling the bloody gloves off and tossing them into the trash. 

“Good job, everyone,” you said in a calm, confident manner, while bowing your head slightly. Your eyes passed quickly by Umi. Not you, bitch, a really mean part of you hissed. You were a nuisance.

“You did great, kid.” Watanabe-san patted your shoulder. She looked tired, cleaning the sweat from her forehead with a tissue.

You smiled. A compliment from that woman had the same weight as receiving an award.

“Thank you so much.”

She sighed heavily and shook her head a bit. “I think I’m getting too old to do these things. Gonna take a painkiller before my arms start to hurt.”

And then you were alone. Kinda.

Discreetly, you looked down and opened the pocket of the coat to look at Satocchi Reborn.

It had twitched a few times – mostly when you wanted to slap Umi – but it didn’t fully dance or call anyone’s attention, which was definitely an achievement.

You pressed your lips together.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, remembering how you punched it earlier.

Satocchi Reborn twitched his hand. You imagined he was throwing a middle finger at you and telling you to fuck off.

The feeling’s mutual, you thought – and then you realized that you were having an imaginary fight with a doll and went back to your senses.

Just another shift in the ER.

September 29th.

It’d already been over two months since your life turned upside down.

It was shocking, to say the least, because looking back, it felt like ages. So much happened within these two months. 

Your past life was unrecognizable now.

No longer you lived in a tiny yet cozy apartment, only two streets down the subway station. No longer having dinner every Saturday at Aunt Junko’s house. No longer stopping at Luciu’s after work to drink a bit with your colleagues. No longer taking Mayu to buy clothes at the mall or just hanging out with her when you had free time. No more having lunch at that Italian restaurant near the hospital with Remi. No longer posting anything on any social media. 

Now, your life consisted of living confined inside a beautiful house that didn’t really feel like yours, even though you spent almost all of your free time in it. You knew how to use a gun. Two months prior, you’d never even considered owning a gun. You’d been kidnapped once, victim of another kidnap attempt that resulted in a massive car crash; you found out that your late mother – and her entire bloodline – were not what you thought they were. You couldn’t go anywhere without being escorted. Abruptly, you were forced to push away all of your friends, including your own sister to a degree. And you had to walk around with a cursed little doll in your pocket to exercise your supernatural ability that popped up out of no-fucking-where.

Okay.

You avoided summarizing everything in your head like that to not freak out. When things just happened and you dealt with them one at once, the burden felt lighter. 

But yeah. 

It was all kind of insane to look back on.

Truth be told, not everything was that bad. If you said living in this house was bad, you’d straight up be lying. Not having to worry about chores was cool. Sure, you did dishes and overall did your best to not make a mess, but deep cleaning wasn’t a concern anymore, which meant you could just rot in bed on your days off instead of washing bathrooms and dusting furniture (that house was so big. You imagined how much dust it accumulated after a week and shivered).

You didn’t have to worry about rent, either, or gas, which was definitely nice. However, you talked to Gojo about it a week back, because you felt fucking useless for not contributing on the bills, and he literally laughed. “There is nooooo way I’m letting you pay bills, sweetie,” was all he said, not giving you a second to argue before teleporting his way out. 

A side of you thought it was kinda hot.

The other part that used brain cells and not pussy to think had a different opinion. First of all, isn’t it kinda misogynistic? Second – we’re living in the house, using water and electricity, what’s wrong with contributing on the bills? I don’t wanna feel like I owe them something.

It was nice to have more money saved every month, though. You’d been keeping everything untouched on your savings. What if another disaster happened? You had to be prepared in any way.

Of course, there was the fact that made all of this a little less despicable. Or rather, the person.

Gojo was cool.

You liked him. That was the simple truth. He was funny, friendly, treated Mayu well, and pretty dependable. He was hella annoying, too, but annoying in the way a boy is when he’s trying to get your attention, not an unbearable type of annoying. You got along well from the get-go. You wondered how much harder all of this would be if you didn’t get along.

Maybe you were getting too well, which was worrying.

But again – you didn’t like summarizing things all at once in your head, ‘cause it’d make you freak out. One problem at a time. One feeling at a time. 

Right now, you just had to worry about picking new CDs.

Your weekly trips to the shooting club were still up. As usual, Gojo would want to listen to music, but he had already listened to all the 3 CDs you kept in the glove box and started to whine that he wanted to listen to something new.

So there you were, like an absolute fucking fool, into the basement.

The place was packed. It already was before you moved in: boxes of all sizes, old furniture, there was a lot of stuff there. Yours and Mayu’s belongings just crumpled the place even more to a point it was difficult to walk in. You made your way carefully, trying to find free spots on the ground where you could place a foot after the other.

There was really a lot of stuff. And you didn’t remember in which box you put the CD collection. 

This wasn’t going to be quick. But you had nothing else to do, so whatever.

You quickly got distracted from the primal task, though. 

It’s that type of situation when you’re cleaning your room and find an old notebook and is oh, I hadn’t seen this in a while. Then you find a photo album that you thought had disappeared. Then you find a book, and another, and another–

And then you were sitting on the floor, completely surrounded by boxes, reading a letter you had written to a school crush and cringing hard. 

There were so many books. Dad considered throwing books away a crime and you kind of got the same principle. All of your school books from middle school to college were still there, not to mention Mayu’s and dad’s. Hardback medical textbooks from when he was in college; stuff that was invaluable, really, not only because they were testament of a time in the past, but because dad liked to write little notes in the corner of pages.

His handwriting was awful. You always struggled to read anything he wrote.

There was a lump in your throat, so you let go of the books.

It didn’t take long to find old notebooks and journals. You spent an awful long time reading stuff and laughing. You found Mayu’s first birthday photo album, your high school graduation album, an album from a trip to Hokkaido when mom and dad were still dating. They were in their early twenties there.

You stopped at a particular photo where they were posing side by side in front of a gorgeous flower field. Mom wore a pretty long yellow dress and a straw hat. Dad wore a matching hat, a blue shirt you knew mom had picked for him, and his usual glasses.

They were both so young. So beautiful.

Was mom still a sorcerer in this photo?

Was she already fighting her way out of the Hosokawa family?

Did dad know about her true background? If so, then why did he never talk about it with you? Did they agree to hide everything from their children? Or perhaps– perhaps dad never knew about anything as well, accepting whatever excuse mom gave him as to why she was estranged with the rest of her family?

There were so many questions to be asked. Yet, the only two other people who could answer them stared back at you in that photo, thirty years in the past, smiling innocently.

There were moments in which you felt particularly alone.

In a way, you knew you were never alone. You had Mayu. As young as she was, you knew she’d always have your back. You had Aunt Junko who had been there in the darkest moments of your life. You had good friends – friends from overseas, who still texted regularly to check on you, who made it so difficult to leave everything and come back to Japan.

You weren’t alone. Not really. 

But at the same time, you were. In ways that couldn’t really be helped.

The lump in your throat was back and worse.

Something twitched in the pocket of your pants. You flinched.

Satocchi Reborn was trying to dance.

You huffed and carefully took the doll off, using the sleeve of your shirt for coverage so your skin wouldn’t touch it. You dropped Satocchi on the floor. It immediately started a very detailed choreography. 

That thing was goofy as hell.

It grounded you back in the present.

You gulped the lump in your throat and slammed the photo album hard.

“I came here to pick CDs,” you reminded yourself out loud, putting the album back in the box you found it and standing up.

You had to wander deeper in the basement, once again, balancing yourself in small gaps on the floor to walk. At last, a familiar box appeared, hidden behind a larger one. It was packed with trinkets… and a bunch of CDs and vinyls.

You crouched down. 

The collection included both original CDs and some in clear cases identified with sharpie (though dad was a correct man, he was always pretty okay with piracy). The collection was very wild, to say the least. It ranged from Celine Dion’s Let’s Talk About Love to Metallica’s Black Album. Dad listened to whatever, to be honest, and mom was pretty eclectic as well. There were a couple of CDs you listened to a lot back then and Mayu’s: you shivered upon seeing the infamous copy of Inai Inai Baa! in the bottom of the box. She used to listen to that CD everyday, all the time as a toddler and would throw tantrums when it stopped playing. 

You didn’t really know Gojo’s musical taste, but the point here wasn’t to please him. He joked about how old the CDs you had were. You thought keeping the tradition would be fun. Four CDs from the large collection were chosen. You smiled, imagining what his reaction would be, and finally stood up.

You were at the very back of the basement. It occurred to you for a second that spiders could be hiding – not that the place was super dusty or abandoned, but there was so much stuff there that it could very well become home to a spider civilization. The idea was awful. You were ready to turn around and leave.

Then you noticed the treadmill. 

You didn’t remember it being there. 

The equipment was close to the wall, almost hidden behind a steel cabinet that stored dozens of more boxes, covered in dust. Abandoned. 

An idea popped in your head.

Due to your circumstances, you couldn’t exercise anymore – and your chosen exercise was always jogging. You used to run around your block when you had time at least twice a week. After two months of the new routine, you could already feel that your endurance was worse and sleep felt heavier and difficult. 

That treadmill could be the solution to your problem.

Was it broken? If so, could it be fixed? 

You stepped closer to the equipment to see it better. The space between boxes was barely enough for your foot.

You tripped.

“Shit–” you yelped, gripping the steel cabinet for balance.

The thing swayed a bit – and for a split second, your entire life passed before your eyes.

But it stopped with a thud.

You sighed in relief.

The movement dropped a box from the very top shelf, though.

You crouched to take it. It was a small black shoe box you didn’t recognize as yours or Mayu’s. The thing fell with the lid facing down. You turned it around to close it again and put it back where it was.

But then your eyes landed on the contents of the box and you froze.

It was a photo.

You blinked, mouth slightly open. Slowly, you took the photo, hesitating as if the paper would burn your fingertips.

Gojo was in the picture.

A much younger Gojo, wearing a football uniform: red shirt, white shorts. It was taken the exact moment he grabbed a ball, so the picture had a bit of motion blur. Two other guys stood nearby in the field, but you barely paid attention to them.

At the very bottom of the paper, the date when it was taken was printed. 21 MAY 2006.

Ooooooh.

Oh fuck.

Gojo’s school days pictures?!

You felt your spine freeze. You dropped the picture back in the box and closed the lid in a hurry.

Would it be wrong to look?, you asked yourself, already feeling as if you were doing something forbidden. Instinctively, you looked towards the stairs; it was as if Gojo would appear there any moment and ask what the hell are you doing?

Well. But it’s just pictures. How bad could it be?

Very bad.

You knew that.

Pictures are overall a very private thing. But at the same time… Gojo was so obnoxiously private. He simply didn’t talk about his life. This was a golden opportunity.

You bit your lower lip and eyed Satocchi Reborn for a moment, battling with yourself. The doll was popping and locking on the floor. Yeah. Goofy as hell.

You huffed.

Fuck it.

You opened the lid again.

There were many photos stacked inside the box, most of them turned around. You took them and sat on the floor, once again squeezed in between bigger boxes.

A thrill of excitement spread through your system.

One by one, you started to turn the pictures around.

Your eyes widened a bit again.

In this picture, Gojo was sitting in the stool of a diner with two other teenagers. One short haired girl and a black haired boy. Gojo grinned happily to the camera, holding a thumbs up. He wore round sunglasses that were pushed up his forehead. 

A small smile appeared on your own lips on instinct.

Next picture. This time, he was posing with a group of people in a classroom. Four guys and only one girl; all of them wore black uniforms that looked very similar to the one Fushiguro had, except their uniforms had a golden button on the left side of the chest. Gojo had the smuggest expression you’d ever seen; his arm was draped around that same black haired boy from before. Meanwhile, said guy had his arm around another shorter boy with a bowl cut; a blonde emo guy peeked awkwardly from the door, and the girl smiled–

Wait– that’s Ieiri-san, isn’t it?!

Your eyes widened a bit again as you brought the photo closer. Gosh, she had changed a lot, but it was definitely her – except her cheeks were chubbier and there were no dark circles under her eyes. So Gojo and her were classmates?

You looked at the next picture, and the next, and the next.

They were all pretty candid. Classrooms were the recurrent scenery, though you recognized a bit of Jujutsu High’s campus in some of them. The same people appeared over and over again: Gojo, Ieiri, that black haired boy, the bowl cut kid, and the blonde emo. You saw a younger Masamichi in some of them.

Gojo looked incredibly goofy in almost everything.

He made funny faces, awkward grins, widened eyes and all. You stopped at a specific picture and smiled. He was clearly taken off guard while studying: holding a pen, hunched over the table with two open notebooks, using earphones. He side eyed whoever took that photo and pouted. That goddamn pout. He really is the same guy.

You remembered a cocky comment Gojo made a while ago while you watched Mayu’s stupid vampire show, after you claimed no teenager was attractive. Talk for yourself. I was always this hot.

Unfortunately, he was correct.

It almost angered you. 

Gojo’s hair was fluffier. He didn’t have an undercut back then and would rather use the same round sunglasses. He hadn’t changed much since then except for a few differences. Gojo’s face looked a bit skinnier in the pictures; his eyes appeared bigger and he overall wasn’t as muscular. Today’s Gojo was more masculine in a way. Nevertheless – yes, he was very handsome. 

But there was the other guy who appeared in almost every picture.

That guy would be a problem to the teenager version of you.

It looked like he was as tall as Gojo. His skin wasn’t as pale; his long black hair was almost always tied in a bun. A stylish bang adorned the left side of his face. He had cat-like eyes, plump lips and black ear gauges. His uniform was slightly different from the others, choosing to wear baggy pants. There was a laid-back, cool aura about him.

He was sooooo your type.

God. You could imagine yourself squirming anytime he’d walk by. He was the type of guy you would send a friend request on mixi and pray to God that he’d accept, and you’d run laps around your room if he did; then you’d keep hoping he someday would message you or like one of your pictures. That stylish way of his was what would make you melt as a teenager.

This guy and Gojo were attached by the hip, by the way. They were always around each other in every photo. It earned yet another smile from you. If he got along with Gojo, you could imagine how insufferable they should’ve been. 

(You didn’t know what that said about yourself, as you got along with Gojo).

You paused in a photo that was straight up adorable.

Gojo, Ieiri and their other friend were sitting in what looked like a hotel bed. They wore matching shirts and their hairs collectively looked a mess. Gojo in particular looked like a dandelion with the way light from outside touched the back of his head. 

This one had something written on the back.

☆ SA-SHI-SU!! ☆

OKINAWA - 2007

(,,>ヮ<,,)

Hand drawn emoji.

That was Gojo’s doing for sure.

You giggled.

This was all very nice.

It didn’t quite match the impression you had of Gojo. Knowing how wealthy he was, you imagined he was one of those obnoxiously sheltered kids… but what you’d seen proved otherwise. It all looked so normal. By seeing these pictures, you’d never assume they were attending a school that taught them how to kill supernatural creatures.

And then came the next photo.

Gojo and Ieiri stood side by side by the school’s gates. On their left side, a board said “Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School – Graduation Ceremony, 2008”.

They looked awkward.

Ieiri had an empty small smile on her lips. But not quite as empty as Gojo’s. He lifted his red certificate tube without any excitement.

You frowned.

Where was the other friend? You had the impression the three of them were classmates.

The mood had changed.

Next picture. A selfie this time with Ieiri, Gojo, Masamichi, and a pretty girl with bangs you hadn’t seen before. Ieiri’s smile was, once again, empty. Gojo held a V sign and an awkward smirk – but not the goofy one you’d seen before. He looked done. His eyes were hidden behind the round sunglasses. It created a distance between you and him that traveled through time; you imagined how much more distant it felt to the ones around him.

The certificate was in his hand. It was a picture from the same day.

The two other guys – the one with the bowl cut and the blonde one – were nowhere to be seen.

…Oh.

Things started to make sense.

You don’t keep precious pictures inside a dusty shoe box, hidden in some corner of your basement. It’s just not something people do.

Unless you don’t want to look at them. 

A weird feeling settled in your stomach.

What must have happened?

Why didn’t their friend graduate? Why did Gojo never even mention a friend? Sure– he was very private and never even talked about other friends, but this felt different. Did they simply lose contact? Did he drop out? What happened to the two other guys?

You weren’t so excited anymore.

You felt like an intruder, in fact.

You closed the lid. Tiptoed and put the box where it was – at the very top of the steel cabinet, once again under the impression that it burned. 

There was so much you wanted to know about him. You wanted him to talk about himself. Talk to you.

You wanted to understand Gojo better – and those pictures just picked even more of your interest.

You took the CDs and Satocchi Reborn, interrupting his impeccable performance, and finally exited the basement, leaving behind decades worth of bittersweet memories – both yours and his.

The bunny doll was much smaller this time, about the size of your open hand. Still white and floppy; now, its button eyes were blue and yellow. It actually resembled the original Satocchi. Yes, it did make you feel fucking guilty all over again.

“What do you mean ‘reborn’?” You asked with hesitance.

Gojo had his usual excited smile, usual uniform, usual bandages covering his eyes. The doll looked even smaller in his hand. 

“It was made with pieces of fabric and stuffing from the deceased Satocchi! So it’s like he’s reborn! Reincarnated, even! Isn’t it magic?”

You still hesitated.

“So… the principal was okay with what happened? He didn’t try to kill you?”

“He did.” Gojo giggled nervously. Made your stomach feel cold. “But Yaga’s also a really cool guy even though he acts tough! All it took was a little bit of talking. Anyway, your training buddy is back and kickin’!”

Satocchi Reborn’s role was the same: to make you produce and expand your cursed energy output until you could do it with barely to no effort. He’d still try to dance if you stopped. Except you wouldn’t train in the comfort of your home – you had to take him everywhere you went.

By “everywhere” he meant the hospital, of course, because you couldn’t go anywhere else.

You had to train in the ER.

The idea was pretty good, actually. You didn’t need to watch movies to go through a rollercoaster of emotions: your day was already filled with it – anytime EMS would storm into the hospital pushing a stretcher with a dying patient to tend. You’d always learned better under pressure as well. During school days, a dangerous deadline would make you learn stuff at the speed of light. So the possibility of Satocchi Reborn jumping out of your reach and breakdancing in front of all of your colleagues was enough pressure to make you learn “faster”.

That being said, you fucking hated it.

You almost never wore a white coat while at work because it felt impractical, given how much you had to move around – but now, to continue training, you had to put the plushie inside the pocket of the coat. You were always hyper aware of the thing there as if it was a steaming hot rock near your body. 

It’ll be okay. Pull the energy. Even flow. You got this.

It, in fact, was not okay.

You had practiced first in a controlled environment. Sitting on a couch, watching a movie that, despite yanking reactions and emotions from you, was still just a movie. It was completely different from feeling real life pressure. Not to mention the fact that you were moving around while pulling cursed energy, and you hadn’t considered it would be difficult, but guess what? It was.

Even flow, you kept repeating in your mind like a mantra. Not too much, not too little. Don’t stop pulling. Keep it going.

Satocchi Reborn hadn’t twitched yet, which should be a good sign.

Until the first emergency happened.

It came out of nowhere, as it always did, in what was otherwise a “calm” night shift. You had even given yourself the luxury of sitting down to sip a bit of coffee. 

“You, wearing a coat?” Watanabe-san asked, quirking one eyebrow. She herself held a cup of coffee. “Now that’s rare.”

You shrugged. “Felt like trying it a bit.”

She snorted. A little truth about doctors is that most like to wear coats to not be mistaken for nurses, even though within the Metropolitan, nurses wore teal scrubs while doctor scrubs were navy blue. Everyone that worked on emergency learned to be a little more humble, however. There wasn’t much time to catwalk around the halls showing off the white coats while you were busy trying to keep patients alive all the time. (Or did it make you all more arrogant compared to doctors whose tasks weren’t so urgent or complex? What a paradox).

The conversation was cut short the second the phone over the table rang.

Coffee was left behind. Satocchi Reborn twitched for the first time that night.

Even flow. Even flow. Even flow. It stopped moving.

Satocchi twitched for the second time the moment you laid eyes on the patient.

There was so much blood. It soaked the sheets underneath him. His body was motionless, skin pale as paper.

“Stab wound in the abdomen!” The paramedic explained quickly. “Found unconscious. Massive blood loss at the scene. Palpable systolic around 60. Heart rate 154. Intubated in the field.”

Stab wound. The paramedics had already cut his shirt, revealing the chest tubes and the awful sight of a deep gash on his stomach. You didn’t have time to ask many questions, but that man had obviously been assaulted. It was rare to tend to a victim of a violent crime like that. 

The team scrambled around the gurney quickly. A single look at the patient was enough to set everyone in that absolutely focused state. 

This time, you weren’t nervous because you had to take the lead; you were used to it. You didn’t question yourself for a second. You felt nervous, however, because Satocchi twitched in the pocket of the coat and the main part of your mind – the one that was trying to focus on the patient – had to stop for a second to yell EVEN FLOW.

It stopped twitching. You gulped.

“Activate the massive transfusion protocol now.” Your voice was hardened, firm, steady.

The good news is that Watanabe-san had let go of her coffee, too, and ran with you to tend the patient.

Watanabe-san was a nurse since you were still in your diapers. She was tiny and mean – in other words, she was perfect. That woman could take blood from a goddamned rock. There wasn’t a single person inside that hospital who didn’t respect and fear her. Whenever Watanabe-san joined, you immediately felt more confident. She was like a safe, reliable rock.

The bad news is that Umi was there, too.

She was nowhere as experienced. Nowhere as dependable. And you didn’t like her, either.

Don’t mind her. As long as she does her job right.

Before you had even finished speaking, Watanabe-san was already reaching for the phone, calling the blood bank. Meanwhile, Umi was standing there looking like a fucking idiot–

Satocchi twitched.

Even flow even flow even flow–

“Umi-san, I need two large-bore IVs,” you requested between gritted teeth.

“On it,” she said and finally moved.

Calm down. It’ll be okay. She’s new. Maybe she’s never seen a case like this.

Your mind went fully focused as you proceeded with the FAST ultrasound that only revealed worse news. The hemorrhage was absolutely appalling. Liquid had spread all over his abdomen down to his pelvis.

“Massive intra-abdominal hemorrhage. He’s going straight to the OR.” You didn’t need to look up to know Watanabe-san was once again on the phone, already calling surgery. 

Meanwhile, you noticed Umi struggling with the IV.

Holy fucking shit.

“I– I can’t get the vein.”

Maybe if you weren’t rushing with such a critical case, you would’ve been more patient. You would’ve thought, I guess she really never helped with a case this urgent. But there was no goddamn time. 

You felt Satocchi’s arm move a bit and froze for a second. It stopped.

“Intraosseous,” you ordered without taking your eyes off the ultrasound.

Umi hesitated.

“...I’ve never done one.”

“Then don’t.” You were fully aware that you sounded harsher than you’d usually sound. The other nurse by your side froze.

Can’t do an IO. Can’t pluck your eyebrows. Can’t not be fucking inconvenient. What the hell can you do?!

“Excuse me.”

Watanabe-san was already pushing Umi out of the way. Her excuse me sounded even harsher than what you’d said; that was a unique talent of hers. The lady had even less patience than you did. It took Watanabe-san twenty seconds to get the IO line in place and flowing.

Thank God she’s here, you silently breathed out. 

No one spoke much the following few minutes as the blood unit arrived. The team moved around the patient like clockwork, adjusting lines and taking care of the chest tube that the paramedics did on the way to the hospital. Your eyes went back to the monitor every two seconds. You just needed to keep the patient stable until the surgery team was ready to take him.

Then the monitor beeped loud.

BP: 46/28.

Shit.

Your own heart rate spiked.

“We’re losing him.” It was the first time you raised your voice. It seemed to send slight electric shocks throughout the entire team.

Umi stood there, you noticed, eyes widened and glued on the monitor, and Jesus Christ, you wanted to slap her.

Satocchi twitched. Even flow! Even flow!

“Umi-san.” Watanabe sounded like a mean teacher everyone was afraid of. Umi flinched. “You can panic later. Go get another unit of blood now.”

“Y-Yes!” She nodded and took off running.

You didn’t have time to see her going, however, because there was almost no output from his chest tube. You frowned and listened to the left lung again. Nothing.

“Shit,” you cursed quietly.

There was air stuck in the pleural space. That pressured air would keep squeezing his lungs until he’d go into shock.

He wasn’t breathing already.

Watanabe-san approached as well, already understanding the situation. “Need another chest tube?”

“No.” You grabbed a large-bore needle. “It’s a recurrent tension pneumothorax.”

You positioned the needle on his thorax with care after desinthetizing the area. You made a quick measurement of his chest, finding the space between his ribs with your fingertips and, without wasting a second, pierced it. Skin, muscle; a drop of thick blood dripped from the incision you inflicted. The decompression was immediate – you could even hear the sound of air escaping his body. His saturation climbed from 74% to 89%.

You allowed yourself a quick sigh of relief.

Satocchi didn’t move the entire time, a little part of you noticed, which should be a good sign, right? It felt that your emotions were stunted while you did the procedure.

Umi appeared again with a new blood unit. Watanabe didn’t have the patience to watch her struggle with it this time, however, snatching the bag from her hand, breaking the seal, connecting the tubing, priming the line and opening the flow wide – all in less than a minute. That woman was a beast. 

You didn’t even have time to thank God again for her being there, because you checked the patient’s pupils. Then the monitor. Then the bleeding. The cardiac rhythm had slowed.

There was no pulse. 

“He’s in arrest.”

The entire room shifted instantly.

“Start compressions!”

Watanabe rushed. Her palms were on the patient’s chest: deep, steady compressions. Perfect rhythm. 

Shit. Shit shit shit. You have to think. Think of a reversible cause.

Satocchi moved. You felt a twinge of panic and stomped your feet on the floor in an awkward movement because it’d make the coat flow a bit and disguise the critter’s movement inside the pocket, but oh well, there was a dying guy on the gurney, no one paid attention to that. You wanted to yank that fucking doll and throw it out the nearest window. I can’t deal with this! Not right now!!

“Hemorrhagic shock. Keep the blood going,” you ordered.

With the corner of your eye, you saw Umi reaching for a syringe of epinephrine.

“No,” you said firmly, lifting your finger at her, but what you really wanted to say was what the fuck are you doing?!

She looked confused.

“But he’s in cardiac arrest.”

“He’s in arrest because he’s bleeding to death. If we don’t restore his circulating volume, epi won’t fix this.”

Umi gulped and lowered the syringe. How the hell wouldn’t she know about this? It must be her first time, some part of you reasoned, while the other bitter part imagined yourself slapping her, while another part (the most important part, hopefully) was fully focused on the task of checking the chest tubes, eyeing the monitor and controlling the blood flow, as yet another part was sweating to keep the cursed energy output stable because the idea of Satocchi jumping out of the pocket and b-boying over a patient in arrest was way too terrifying to ignore.

Two minutes passed. No rhythm. You quickly took turns with Watanabe — deep, steady compressions. You felt that the ribs underneath your palms were broken; it was always a nasty feeling to do compressions, but it only meant you were doing a good job. You felt as if your own heart was in your throat. Absolute tension made the room heavy, as if each and every one of you carried tons over your shoulders. The transfusion was massive and aggressive. Come on. Come on. Come back to us.

At last, you stopped, barely out of breath.

The monitor showed an organized rhythm. 

You checked the patience’s carotid.

There it was.

“...I’ve got a pulse.”

The entire team took a deep breath – and you were sure it was the first time you all breathed properly in minutes.

Satocchi moved. You punched the pocket of the coat with the side of your fist on instinct. It stopped.

The patient was stabilized. Finally, the surgery team wheeled him to the operating room in a hurry.

You took yet another deep breath while pulling the bloody gloves off and tossing them into the trash. 

“Good job, everyone,” you said in a calm, confident manner, while bowing your head slightly. Your eyes passed quickly by Umi. Not you, bitch, a really mean part of you hissed. You were a nuisance.

“You did great, kid.” Watanabe-san patted your shoulder. She looked tired, cleaning the sweat from her forehead with a tissue.

You smiled. A compliment from that woman had the same weight as receiving an award.

“Thank you so much.”

She sighed heavily and shook her head a bit. “I think I’m getting too old to do these things. Gonna take a painkiller before my arms start to hurt.”

And then you were alone. Kinda.

Discreetly, you looked down and opened the pocket of the coat to look at Satocchi Reborn.

It had twitched a few times – mostly when you wanted to slap Umi – but it didn’t fully dance or call anyone’s attention, which was definitely an achievement.

You pressed your lips together.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, remembering how you punched it earlier.

Satocchi Reborn twitched his hand. You imagined he was throwing a middle finger at you and telling you to fuck off.

The feeling’s mutual, you thought – and then you realized that you were having an imaginary fight with a doll and went back to your senses.

Just another shift in the ER.

September 29th.

It’d already been over two months since your life turned upside down.

It was shocking, to say the least, because looking back, it felt like ages. So much happened within these two months. 

Your past life was unrecognizable now.

No longer you lived in a tiny yet cozy apartment, only two streets down the subway station. No longer having dinner every Saturday at Aunt Junko’s house. No longer stopping at Luciu’s after work to drink a bit with your colleagues. No longer taking Mayu to buy clothes at the mall or just hanging out with her when you had free time. No more having lunch at that Italian restaurant near the hospital with Remi. No longer posting anything on any social media. 

Now, your life consisted of living confined inside a beautiful house that didn’t really feel like yours, even though you spent almost all of your free time in it. You knew how to use a gun. Two months prior, you’d never even considered owning a gun. You’d been kidnapped once, victim of another kidnap attempt that resulted in a massive car crash; you found out that your late mother – and her entire bloodline – were not what you thought they were. You couldn’t go anywhere without being escorted. Abruptly, you were forced to push away all of your friends, including your own sister to a degree. And you had to walk around with a cursed little doll in your pocket to exercise your supernatural ability that popped up out of no-fucking-where.

Okay.

You avoided summarizing everything in your head like that to not freak out. When things just happened and you dealt with them one at once, the burden felt lighter. 

But yeah. 

It was all kind of insane to look back on.

Truth be told, not everything was that bad. If you said living in this house was bad, you’d straight up be lying. Not having to worry about chores was cool. Sure, you did dishes and overall did your best to not make a mess, but deep cleaning wasn’t a concern anymore, which meant you could just rot in bed on your days off instead of washing bathrooms and dusting furniture (that house was so big. You imagined how much dust it accumulated after a week and shivered).

You didn’t have to worry about rent, either, or gas, which was definitely nice. However, you talked to Gojo about it a week back, because you felt fucking useless for not contributing on the bills, and he literally laughed. “There is nooooo way I’m letting you pay bills, sweetie,” was all he said, not giving you a second to argue before teleporting his way out. 

A side of you thought it was kinda hot.

The other part that used brain cells and not pussy to think had a different opinion. First of all, isn’t it kinda misogynistic? Second – we’re living in the house, using water and electricity, what’s wrong with contributing on the bills? I don’t wanna feel like I owe them something.

It was nice to have more money saved every month, though. You’d been keeping everything untouched on your savings. What if another disaster happened? You had to be prepared in any way.

Of course, there was the fact that made all of this a little less despicable. Or rather, the person.

Gojo was cool.

You liked him. That was the simple truth. He was funny, friendly, treated Mayu well, and pretty dependable. He was hella annoying, too, but annoying in the way a boy is when he’s trying to get your attention, not an unbearable type of annoying. You got along well from the get-go. You wondered how much harder all of this would be if you didn’t get along.

Maybe you were getting too well, which was worrying.

But again – you didn’t like summarizing things all at once in your head, ‘cause it’d make you freak out. One problem at a time. One feeling at a time. 

Right now, you just had to worry about picking new CDs.

Your weekly trips to the shooting club were still up. As usual, Gojo would want to listen to music, but he had already listened to all the 3 CDs you kept in the glove box and started to whine that he wanted to listen to something new.

So there you were, like an absolute fucking fool, into the basement.

The place was packed. It already was before you moved in: boxes of all sizes, old furniture, there was a lot of stuff there. Yours and Mayu’s belongings just crumpled the place even more to a point it was difficult to walk in. You made your way carefully, trying to find free spots on the ground where you could place a foot after the other.

There was really a lot of stuff. And you didn’t remember in which box you put the CD collection. 

This wasn’t going to be quick. But you had nothing else to do, so whatever.

You quickly got distracted from the primal task, though. 

It’s that type of situation when you’re cleaning your room and find an old notebook and is oh, I hadn’t seen this in a while. Then you find a photo album that you thought had disappeared. Then you find a book, and another, and another–

And then you were sitting on the floor, completely surrounded by boxes, reading a letter you had written to a school crush and cringing hard. 

There were so many books. Dad considered throwing books away a crime and you kind of got the same principle. All of your school books from middle school to college were still there, not to mention Mayu’s and dad’s. Hardback medical textbooks from when he was in college; stuff that was invaluable, really, not only because they were testament of a time in the past, but because dad liked to write little notes in the corner of pages.

His handwriting was awful. You always struggled to read anything he wrote.

There was a lump in your throat, so you let go of the books.

It didn’t take long to find old notebooks and journals. You spent an awful long time reading stuff and laughing. You found Mayu’s first birthday photo album, your high school graduation album, an album from a trip to Hokkaido when mom and dad were still dating. They were in their early twenties there.

You stopped at a particular photo where they were posing side by side in front of a gorgeous flower field. Mom wore a pretty long yellow dress and a straw hat. Dad wore a matching hat, a blue shirt you knew mom had picked for him, and his usual glasses.

They were both so young. So beautiful.

Was mom still a sorcerer in this photo?

Was she already fighting her way out of the Hosokawa family?

Did dad know about her true background? If so, then why did he never talk about it with you? Did they agree to hide everything from their children? Or perhaps– perhaps dad never knew about anything as well, accepting whatever excuse mom gave him as to why she was estranged with the rest of her family?

There were so many questions to be asked. Yet, the only two other people who could answer them stared back at you in that photo, thirty years in the past, smiling innocently.

There were moments in which you felt particularly alone.

In a way, you knew you were never alone. You had Mayu. As young as she was, you knew she’d always have your back. You had Aunt Junko who had been there in the darkest moments of your life. You had good friends – friends from overseas, who still texted regularly to check on you, who made it so difficult to leave everything and come back to Japan.

You weren’t alone. Not really. 

But at the same time, you were. In ways that couldn’t really be helped.

The lump in your throat was back and worse.

Something twitched in the pocket of your pants. You flinched.

Satocchi Reborn was trying to dance.

You huffed and carefully took the doll off, using the sleeve of your shirt for coverage so your skin wouldn’t touch it. You dropped Satocchi on the floor. It immediately started a very detailed choreography. 

That thing was goofy as hell.

It grounded you back in the present.

You gulped the lump in your throat and slammed the photo album hard.

“I came here to pick CDs,” you reminded yourself out loud, putting the album back in the box you found it and standing up.

You had to wander deeper in the basement, once again, balancing yourself in small gaps on the floor to walk. At last, a familiar box appeared, hidden behind a larger one. It was packed with trinkets… and a bunch of CDs and vinyls.

You crouched down. 

The collection included both original CDs and some in clear cases identified with sharpie (though dad was a correct man, he was always pretty okay with piracy). The collection was very wild, to say the least. It ranged from Celine Dion’s Let’s Talk About Love to Metallica’s Black Album. Dad listened to whatever, to be honest, and mom was pretty eclectic as well. There were a couple of CDs you listened to a lot back then and Mayu’s: you shivered upon seeing the infamous copy of Inai Inai Baa! in the bottom of the box. She used to listen to that CD everyday, all the time as a toddler and would throw tantrums when it stopped playing. 

You didn’t really know Gojo’s musical taste, but the point here wasn’t to please him. He joked about how old the CDs you had were. You thought keeping the tradition would be fun. Four CDs from the large collection were chosen. You smiled, imagining what his reaction would be, and finally stood up.

You were at the very back of the basement. It occurred to you for a second that spiders could be hiding – not that the place was super dusty or abandoned, but there was so much stuff there that it could very well become home to a spider civilization. The idea was awful. You were ready to turn around and leave.

Then you noticed the treadmill. 

You didn’t remember it being there. 

The equipment was close to the wall, almost hidden behind a steel cabinet that stored dozens of more boxes, covered in dust. Abandoned. 

An idea popped in your head.

Due to your circumstances, you couldn’t exercise anymore – and your chosen exercise was always jogging. You used to run around your block when you had time at least twice a week. After two months of the new routine, you could already feel that your endurance was worse and sleep felt heavier and difficult. 

That treadmill could be the solution to your problem.

Was it broken? If so, could it be fixed? 

You stepped closer to the equipment to see it better. The space between boxes was barely enough for your foot.

You tripped.

“Shit–” you yelped, gripping the steel cabinet for balance.

The thing swayed a bit – and for a split second, your entire life passed before your eyes.

But it stopped with a thud.

You sighed in relief.

The movement dropped a box from the very top shelf, though.

You crouched to take it. It was a small black shoe box you didn’t recognize as yours or Mayu’s. The thing fell with the lid facing down. You turned it around to close it again and put it back where it was.

But then your eyes landed on the contents of the box and you froze.

It was a photo.

You blinked, mouth slightly open. Slowly, you took the photo, hesitating as if the paper would burn your fingertips.

Gojo was in the picture.

A much younger Gojo, wearing a football uniform: red shirt, white shorts. It was taken the exact moment he grabbed a ball, so the picture had a bit of motion blur. Two other guys stood nearby in the field, but you barely paid attention to them.

At the very bottom of the paper, the date when it was taken was printed. 21 MAY 2006.

Ooooooh.

Oh fuck.

Gojo’s school days pictures?!

You felt your spine freeze. You dropped the picture back in the box and closed the lid in a hurry.

Would it be wrong to look?, you asked yourself, already feeling as if you were doing something forbidden. Instinctively, you looked towards the stairs; it was as if Gojo would appear there any moment and ask what the hell are you doing?

Well. But it’s just pictures. How bad could it be?

Very bad.

You knew that.

Pictures are overall a very private thing. But at the same time… Gojo was so obnoxiously private. He simply didn’t talk about his life. This was a golden opportunity.

You bit your lower lip and eyed Satocchi Reborn for a moment, battling with yourself. The doll was popping and locking on the floor. Yeah. Goofy as hell.

You huffed.

Fuck it.

You opened the lid again.

There were many photos stacked inside the box, most of them turned around. You took them and sat on the floor, once again squeezed in between bigger boxes.

A thrill of excitement spread through your system.

One by one, you started to turn the pictures around.

Your eyes widened a bit again.

In this picture, Gojo was sitting in the stool of a diner with two other teenagers. One short haired girl and a black haired boy. Gojo grinned happily to the camera, holding a thumbs up. He wore round sunglasses that were pushed up his forehead. 

A small smile appeared on your own lips on instinct.

Next picture. This time, he was posing with a group of people in a classroom. Four guys and only one girl; all of them wore black uniforms that looked very similar to the one Fushiguro had, except their uniforms had a golden button on the left side of the chest. Gojo had the smuggest expression you’d ever seen; his arm was draped around that same black haired boy from before. Meanwhile, said guy had his arm around another shorter boy with a bowl cut; a blonde emo guy peeked awkwardly from the door, and the girl smiled–

Wait– that’s Ieiri-san, isn’t it?!

Your eyes widened a bit again as you brought the photo closer. Gosh, she had changed a lot, but it was definitely her – except her cheeks were chubbier and there were no dark circles under her eyes. So Gojo and her were classmates?

You looked at the next picture, and the next, and the next.

They were all pretty candid. Classrooms were the recurrent scenery, though you recognized a bit of Jujutsu High’s campus in some of them. The same people appeared over and over again: Gojo, Ieiri, that black haired boy, the bowl cut kid, and the blonde emo. You saw a younger Masamichi in some of them.

Gojo looked incredibly goofy in almost everything.

He made funny faces, awkward grins, widened eyes and all. You stopped at a specific picture and smiled. He was clearly taken off guard while studying: holding a pen, hunched over the table with two open notebooks, using earphones. He side eyed whoever took that photo and pouted. That goddamn pout. He really is the same guy.

You remembered a cocky comment Gojo made a while ago while you watched Mayu’s stupid vampire show, after you claimed no teenager was attractive. Talk for yourself. I was always this hot.

Unfortunately, he was correct.

It almost angered you. 

Gojo’s hair was fluffier. He didn’t have an undercut back then and would rather use the same round sunglasses. He hadn’t changed much since then except for a few differences. Gojo’s face looked a bit skinnier in the pictures; his eyes appeared bigger and he overall wasn’t as muscular. Today’s Gojo was more masculine in a way. Nevertheless – yes, he was very handsome. 

But there was the other guy who appeared in almost every picture.

That guy would be a problem to the teenager version of you.

It looked like he was as tall as Gojo. His skin wasn’t as pale; his long black hair was almost always tied in a bun. A stylish bang adorned the left side of his face. He had cat-like eyes, plump lips and black ear gauges. His uniform was slightly different from the others, choosing to wear baggy pants. There was a laid-back, cool aura about him.

He was sooooo your type.

God. You could imagine yourself squirming anytime he’d walk by. He was the type of guy you would send a friend request on mixi and pray to God that he’d accept, and you’d run laps around your room if he did; then you’d keep hoping he someday would message you or like one of your pictures. That stylish way of his was what would make you melt as a teenager.

This guy and Gojo were attached by the hip, by the way. They were always around each other in every photo. It earned yet another smile from you. If he got along with Gojo, you could imagine how insufferable they should’ve been. 

(You didn’t know what that said about yourself, as you got along with Gojo).

You paused in a photo that was straight up adorable.

Gojo, Ieiri and their other friend were sitting in what looked like a hotel bed. They wore matching shirts and their hairs collectively looked a mess. Gojo in particular looked like a dandelion with the way light from outside touched the back of his head. 

This one had something written on the back.

☆ SA-SHI-SU!! ☆

OKINAWA - 2007

(,,>ヮ<,,)

Hand drawn emoji.

That was Gojo’s doing for sure.

You giggled.

This was all very nice.

It didn’t quite match the impression you had of Gojo. Knowing how wealthy he was, you imagined he was one of those obnoxiously sheltered kids… but what you’d seen proved otherwise. It all looked so normal. By seeing these pictures, you’d never assume they were attending a school that taught them how to kill supernatural creatures.

And then came the next photo.

Gojo and Ieiri stood side by side by the school’s gates. On their left side, a board said “Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School – Graduation Ceremony, 2008”.

They looked awkward.

Ieiri had an empty small smile on her lips. But not quite as empty as Gojo’s. He lifted his red certificate tube without any excitement.

You frowned.

Where was the other friend? You had the impression the three of them were classmates.

The mood had changed.

Next picture. A selfie this time with Ieiri, Gojo, Masamichi, and a pretty girl with bangs you hadn’t seen before. Ieiri’s smile was, once again, empty. Gojo held a V sign and an awkward smirk – but not the goofy one you’d seen before. He looked done. His eyes were hidden behind the round sunglasses. It created a distance between you and him that traveled through time; you imagined how much more distant it felt to the ones around him.

The certificate was in his hand. It was a picture from the same day.

The two other guys – the one with the bowl cut and the blonde one – were nowhere to be seen.

…Oh.

Things started to make sense.

You don’t keep precious pictures inside a dusty shoe box, hidden in some corner of your basement. It’s just not something people do.

Unless you don’t want to look at them. 

A weird feeling settled in your stomach.

What must have happened?

Why didn’t their friend graduate? Why did Gojo never even mention a friend? Sure– he was very private and never even talked about other friends, but this felt different. Did they simply lose contact? Did he drop out? What happened to the two other guys?

You weren’t so excited anymore.

You felt like an intruder, in fact.

You closed the lid. Tiptoed and put the box where it was – at the very top of the steel cabinet, once again under the impression that it burned. 

There was so much you wanted to know about him. You wanted him to talk about himself. Talk to you.

You wanted to understand Gojo better – and those pictures just picked even more of your interest.

You took the CDs and Satocchi Reborn, interrupting his impeccable performance, and finally exited the basement, leaving behind decades worth of bittersweet memories – both yours and his.