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Gojo Satoru’s eyes sparkled brighter than any other star she’s ever ever seen.

If a candle was lit inside of a dark room alongside him—his eyes would be the one to glow brighter. No candle, no star, no light could glimmer as brightly and as vividly as his.

But, perhaps— the girl thought. Perhaps it wouldn’t be right to compare them to any star.

Gojo Satoru’s eyes were a deep, yet shallow-water blue. They were blue, yes, like the ocean.

But Gojo Satoru held the Six Eyes. He was born with them. From Head-Maid Akiyama, she heard many stories of the legendary, the glorious Six Eyes. The power it would give to a being. With such power, you are free.

And Gojo Satoru was the first in one-hundred years to inherit such power.

The girl decided that Gojo Satoru was better than to stay in the limits of the ocean. In his eyes, the white hues gave him freedom.

Gojo Satoru was free. The sky was his domain, not even his limit. He could see everything.

He was free.

A scream shook throughout the room.

Maids occupied the room, hushed whispers and eyes of fear. The girl, who’s thoughts were filled with the true meaning behind Gojo Satoru’s eyes, was crouched in a corner. She clutched her clothes, she bit her bottom lip—she refused to whimper.

Head-Maid Akiyama was angry again. Her dark eyes blazed with true menace—and yet, they seek pleasure.

A girl, not much older than her, crumbled on the tatami floor. Her cheek was stained red.

The girl knew—the crumbled girl tried not to cry. Her chest heaved, and her face quivered. They thought the same— don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, or it will get worse.

“Such a disgrace.” Head-Maid Akiyama spat, and the crumbled girl flinched at the tone. Her abyss-black hair was splayed over her face like a curtain drape.

The crumbled girl’s lips shook with such fright. “I-I—I am sorry, Akiyama- san. I won’t make another mistake—“

She hit her again.

The crumbled girl no longer tried to hold back her tears.

Do not, the younger girl thought as she stared at the scene, unmoving from the corner. She felt safer there. Weak, she thought again. But she was weak too.

Akiyama- san was still a maid. A maid who held power over those below her, however.

“A nuisance who cannot even pour tea correctly.” Another slap. “Did you know the temperature of the water? You pathetic,” Another one. “ Little ,” And another one. “ Girl!”

The girl who had crumbled had a small stream of a shiny red travel down her face, starting from her nose. The blood mixed with her tears. She chanted her apologies like a prayer— “I’m sorry, I’m-Im sorry, it won’t happen again, I’m s-sorry!”

The little girl wanted out.

She wanted to leave. She always had.

But the walls behind her were thick. They were no different from being imprisoned. No matter how hard she pushed, she, herself, was too weak.

And yet, in the center of all the madness, Gojo Satoru was free.

And the amount of freedom he held scared her.

She heard gasps. Akiyama -san was going to hit the crumbling girl again.

And then, a maid older than her, but years younger than Head-Maid Akiyama was foolish enough to try and stop the elder.

“Akiyama-san, that’s enough, please—“

The little girl did not want to see this.

Like the coward she was, she buried her face into her knees, covering her ears with her hands. She didn’t want to hear it either.

But she was weak. The little girl did hear it.

When she cracked a shaking glance at the scene, there were two crumbling girls on the floor. She heard panicked whispers and heavy breathing—mainly from herself.

Akiyama- san was relentless. Her aim were the older ones now, years older than the little girl. They had names, she did not.

“Lazy, perhaps?” Akiyama- san’s tone was venomous. “Is that why you decided to replace yourself with a brat so incompetent?”

An older maid, brown hair tied back, looked devastatingly afraid. “N-No, of course not, Akiyama-san! It—it’s the Gojo boy! He-he says he doesn’t find it worth his time for us ‘older ones’ to personally serve him—“

Akiyama- san glared at the girl. No words were said from her.

A sigh. And then, beats later, a chuckle. It passed a shiver down the little girl’s body. “That spoiled child. Whenever he doesn’t get exactly what he wants, he acts so high and mighty.”

The whispers diminished slightly.

The little girl, still frozen in the corner, stared at Akiyama- san with wide eyes. Akiyama-san, she—she had just insulted the Gojo heir!

Her laugh was cold. “In my many years of serving the Gojo Clan, who knew that the first inheritor of the Six Eyes after, so, so, long would be a child like him.” Her eyes slowly scanned the room of the fearful maids, still trembling.

The little girl’s heart went cold when Akiyama- san’s eyes landed on her crippling form.

Stand up, she urged herself. But she was scared. Stand up, or you know what will happen! Stand up! Stand up!

But Akiyama- san was already in front of her, kneeling down so that she was eye level with her trembling eyes.

Akiyama- san’s hand grabbed her face, fingers and thumb painfully squeezing her pale cheeks. The little girl could feel her sharp fingernails, carving crescents into her cheeks.

She couldn’t move.

“Such a youthful face.” Akiyama- san seemed to say, almost dreamily. She then narrowed her piercing-black eyes.

“You. How old are you again, child?” It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a demand.

The little girl felt her throat clog up. She was too scared to swallow. “E-Eight.” That’s what she was told, she was.

She hummed, her hand shifting her face as she observed her features. Her yellow and purple flowery kimono was engraved into the young girl’s mind. The little girl had nothing about her that stood out—she knew that for a very long time.

She smirked, a poisonous smirk. “The Gojo boy is ten. Splendid. Tell me, child, are you obedient?”

She did nothing but nod. She hoped she was.

“Will you do what is commanded of you, with no hesitation?”

She shakily nodded once again.

After a beat, Akiyama- san’s smile widened. “Good.” And a second later, “You know what the consequences of your failure will be.”

The little girl didn’t know what that meant.

She was being dragged by the arm, through the crowd of maids, past the two crumbles who still couldn’t get up. There were no protests that came out of her mouth—her throat felt dry and numb.

Not even a whimper.

The first and only time she had seen Gojo Satoru was when she was cleaning the floors outside his room. She remembered the afternoon sun rays, the ringing crickets, the sound of the koi fish swimming in the pond, dancing harmoniously.

He looked stern when he spotted her, almost bored. He didn’t even take a mere second before he looked away again.

She was a maid. She knew that as a maid, she was not worth Gojo Satoru’s time.

But that didn’t stop her from noticing the freedom and intensity of his eyes.

That was four months ago.

Her hand trembled as she held her knuckles over the door. Just don’t mess up. Don’t make any mistakes. Don’t make any mistakes, and you won’t end up with the same fate. You won’t crumble like those two, and those before them.

Just don’t make a single mistake.

She knocked.

“ Y-Young master,” it tasted foreign on her tongue. It was the first time she had ever addressed him out loud. “I have,” she swallowed. “I have your supper.”

The little girl was so, so frightened.

A bitter silence was her answer.

That scared her.

Would repeating it be suffice? Would it be rude? Yes, it would most definitely be rude. I most certainly cannot bicker the young heir.

She clenched the wooden tray, but immediately stopped, fearing that she may harm his meal. She could not. She absolutely could not.

Then, to her surprise but dread, he spoke from inside. “Come in.”

When she slid the door open, all she caught of him was a blue of his snow-white hair, his lower body tucked underneath his futon cover, before she looked away. She didn’t want to look at him in the eye, not after being assigned to such a risky matter.

After she bowed, she carefully brought the tray over to him. The young girl bowed once again, at his side. She felt small, so dearly small, compared to Gojo Satoru. She couldn’t see him— she didn’t want to— but his presence was enough to completely shut her down. Stay quiet. Don’t make a sound. If you make a mistake, Akiyama-san will not be pleased.

He placed a book down, and it was in her line of sight enough for her to see the book.

It was useless even to look. For the young girl could not read. Not a single word, not a single letter. She never learned. To her, those ‘words’ looked like random curved and crossed lines.

She wondered, however—was it a joy to read? She heard older maids discuss such novels, talking about them as if they were made of gold. As if it was so fascinating .

Would she, this young, small, nimble girl, also have the delight of such fascination?

There was no way of figuring it out.

Her ears perked up at the sound of something knocking—a small knock. A tapping noise. It didn’t sound like eating in her ears.

Her blood ran cold. Was something . . wrong?

“You,” she heard him speak. His voice was young, whole but nevertheless intimidating. He froze her blood.

Shakily, she responded. “Y-Yes?”

A pause, then, “Are you ever going to leave?”

She froze. Stupid. Dumb, stupid, dumb, stupid! I’m so stupid!

“O-Of course. I-I apologize.” she rushed, trying to level out the fear in her voice. Remember, respect. Her lips parted again, “P-Please enjoy your meal.” She bowed at his side before standing up and edging towards the door. Before she closed it on her way out, she bowed once again, eyes closed.

She slowly shut the door.

A few steps away from his room, she collapsed onto her knees.

She was going to have to do this every, single, day.

Maybe for even the rest of her life.

There were no known complaints of the Gojo heir, so the girl was to continue serving him. He would always be in his room after his training. She served him breakfast, lunch, and dinner everyday.

It was a torturous routine. The girl feared her luck was just a ticking time bomb—she felt as if there was a time limit to her luck.

So everyday she chanted the same words in her head; Don’t make any mistakes, don’t disobey, do what is told, do what is ordered of you.

Do what is ordered of you, and you won’t get hit.

And by a single tap, a single key out of place—it would all come tumbling down. She would crumble. Just like those two girls, and just like those before them. Before her.

Gojo Satoru, as what was expected from someone in such a high position as him—did not ponder over her existence. The girl simply thought it was better that way. Her job was only to serve the Gojo Heir—nothing more, nothing less.

And then, came the faithful day—her luck had run out.

Or so she thought.

Not even a mere five seconds passed before he said it. “I do not want it.”

Oh no. Something was different. Something was wrong.

She panicked.

“I-I’m sorry—“

“It’s bland. It’s tasteless. I don’t want it.”

Oh.

“I-I see.” She picked up the tray from his side, careful not to even allow a wrinkle to his futon. “I-I will go talk with the cook about your dissatisfaction, Young master.”

He didn’t give a reply.

She bowed, bowing again at the door and then she slid it close behind her.

When she turned, Akiyama- san stood a few steps away, arms crossed with a curious frown. Her yellow and purple yukata seemed to almost make the little girl dizzy.

“The Young master did not eat his breakfast today, I see.” Her voice was a piercing cold, like an icicle had carved itself into her heart.

She avoided her gaze, looking down at the untouched tray of food. It looked luxurious and delicious to her, as she had never eaten food as good-looking as this—and yet—to the Gojo heir, it was bland, and tasteless.

“H-He,” she swallowed a lump, yet another one formed just as quickly. “He did not want it, Akiyama-san.” Her voice was low and meek, not wanting to disturb the Gojo Heir.

“Oh?” The little girl could catch a flicker of annoyance in Akiyama- san’s voice.

Akiyama- san quickly hid her annoyance, however. The young girl could tell. “And why is that?”

The young girl’s blood ran cold.

Akiyama- san thought she did something wrong. She thought that she had made a mistake.

That wasn’t it!

“He-He said that it was ‘bland’, and . . ‘tasteless’.” She tried to control her trembling hands so that she wouldn’t cause a ruckus with the tray. “I-I was going to ask the cook about whether he can have something different—“

“Something different?” Akiyama- san repeated. The young girl visibly flinched, immediately regretting both her words and actions. Akiyama-san will hit me, not here, but later.

But to her surprise, the Head-Maid did none of the sort. Instead, she heard her chuckle. It sounded like a bell of death to the little girl.

“Of course. Thank you for notifying me of such concerns, girl.”

The young girl paused. She was rarely complimented.

And she still was, rarely complimented. Akiyama- san was not praising her—it was a warning. A warning saying, ‘ You were lucky. But luck won’t always come to you.’

She knew that.

It was only just another reminder that she should keep, polished and never ending in the deep-depths of her mind.

She stared meekly at the tray.

The young girl looked up, nervously, at the cook. The cook was like a tall mountain, and the little girl was at the bottom, not having even taken the first step to climbing it.

She swallowed. “I’m sorry, but this is—“

“The Young master is to follow a strict diet, as the wielder of the Six Eyes.” The cook stated simply, looking down at her with eyes of superiority. It is what The Heads of the house wished.”

“But—“

“Do not question, girl. Your only job is to deliver, not beckon.”

She flinched at the reminder. “Y-Yes. Of course.”

That is your only duty.

But she knew, and she was afraid of it—that the Young master would not be pleased.

And he wasn’t.

“I asked for something different.” His voice was edging onto irritation, but still stayed still and even.

The young girl clenched a fist, her fingernails digging into her flesh. “I am sorry, Young master. But they insisted that you have a strict diet, as the wielder of the Six Eyes—“

“Precisely, I am.” His voice had toppled over further into that irritation. “I will not accept such disobedience.”

The young girl trembled. This was it. I’m going to get in trouble. But why didn’t Akiyama-san do anything about it?

“I-“ Her throat felt dry. “I am sorry.”

The book he was holding in his hands snapped shut, making her flinch. “I am curious to know. They do  know what I am capable of, I assume. And you know just as well, am I correct?”

The little girl’s eyes were locked at her trembling hands. “Y-Yes, Young master.”

“So may I ask; why   is such a simple command so difficult?”

It’s not my fault, she wanted to reason. Akiyama-san told me that she would do something about it, she wanted to say, but she knew better than to give reasons that are meaningless to him.

Her voice came out as a trembling, quiet sound, “It is the request of the Gojo Heads, Young master. T-There is nothing I can do to change it.”

Instantly, she knew—she should not have spoken of them.

The bomb had exploded. The time had run out. She would crumble so, so devastatingly, just as those two girls did, and just as those before her.

“Leave.”

His tone was piercing.

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted, panicked, “But Young Master, you mustn’t skip a meal—“

“I will eat it. So leave.” He restated, and she could tell that he was staring right through her soul. Her actions were quick, swift. “O-Of course, Young master!”

Just as she always did, she bowed again at the door, before sliding it to a close.

Just as the day before, her knees gave out from beneath her.

He was going to announce his complaints.

And she knew, better than ever, that even if it wasn’t her fault—they would all place the blame on her.

She had to do something.

It was the middle of the night. She could barely sleep. Some maids—her elders—had already gotten up, scrubbing the floors at this very moment. The ones around her age were still sound asleep.

Except her.

She knew they wouldn’t change his meals. What he ate was what the Heads requested of their son, so he could wield the family power with pride and strength.

So she couldn’t do it. The young girl was too frightened—she couldn’t step into that room knowing what Gojo Satoru might do. It was the will of his parents, but he was still the heir.

She trembled. She always did. She was to live life in fear of what might happen to her if she disobeyed. The Young master wished for something different. The Heads of the house, his parents, already decided what is best for him. Akiyama- san obeyed the parents more than she did with the Heir.

Who was she to obey?

Akiyama- san, of course. But she served the family, meaning she also served the family. And currently, her job was to serve Gojo Satoru.

She was to serve Gojo Satoru.

Her breath hitched to a pause, before resuming. No. No, she was crazy. She would be mental if she was to actually do such a thing.

It’s bland, it’s tasteless, he had said.

She got ready, slipping her simple grey yukata on. She stepped over the sea of her fellow maids, apologizing internally to them.

Her footsteps were light as she walked herself closer and closer towards the kitchen. Her feet felt cold. When she entered, it was dark. She switched a small light on, not wanting to get caught.

She searched the kitchen, looking for anything that she could add to the Young master’s meal. She came across a fridge, and her worry increased.

She should not be doing this. If she got caught by the cook, she would get punished.

But still, a foolish part inside of her felt the need to do something for the Young master she served.

When she opened the fridge, she spotted a plate of odd-looking, powdery balls. It had a plastic wrapped around it. What was it? Was the cook making this for the Heads? Herself, perhaps?

She carefully took the plate out, closing the refrigerator quietly enough to not make a ruckus. She removed the plastic wrap, then picked up one of the balls. It was squishy, yet the outside was dry. Odd.

With great fear, she took a bite out of it. It surprised her when it stretched from her mouth. She chewed it the best she could. Swallowed it. Hopefully, she didn’t make a mess.

It tasted good. She had never tried anything like it before. The inside was red and sweet, and the outside was plain but soft. A nice contrast.

She ate the rest of the one in her hand, a small blush on her cheeks.

Food as delicious as that existed. It was amazing, really.

She quickly snapped herself out of her trance, putting the plastic over the plate again. She shifted her body, unsure of what to do for a moment.

She had to go. She had to hide it, and never get caught with it.

Eating one was already a harsh punishment—but stealing—this would get her punishment to become even more terrifying.

But the Young master mattered more.

She had hid the delicious snack in a cupboard, praying that it wouldn’t get too warm. She pretended to sleep, but deep down inside, she was in a swirl of panic.

Then came the moment. She was given the tray of the Young master’s breakfast—which was the same as its always been.

She managed to hide the plate of the mysterious, delicious soft snack as she arrived in front of his room. The young girl could feel her heart beating erratically. Her eyes found the plate—it still looked like it was in good condition. That was good.

And then she knocked with her trembling, small hand. The sunlight streamed behind her. “Young master, are you awake? I have your breakfast.”

She held her breath, closing her eyes through the silence. She was afraid.

“Come in.”

She opened her eyes, swallowing. Shakily, she slid the door open, bowing. She brought the tray over to his side, bowing again. She wasn’t looking at him, but she always noticed how he was reading a book—the same book. She couldn’t read, but she could tell the cover looked the same as he placed it down beside him.

A pause.

She could tell he was staring at the tray. Possibly the new plate.

“What is this?”

She was correct.

“Ah, well,” Her blood ran cold. She had no idea what it actually was.

“Well, I,” She swallowed. “I’m not so sure, but I know—I hear it tastes good.” She hoped that Gojo Satoru shared similar taste buds to her—if he didn’t, then she would get into big trouble.

Another pause.

“Is that so?”

Her breath hitched. Did he know? Was it the work of his Cursed Power, his Six Eyes that knew? “W-Well . .”

She trembled. This was not going well.

He did not wait for her to answer. He probably already knew. She panicked when she heard a click—he was going to eat it.

She bit her lip. What if he doesn’t like it? What if he’s offended that I stole something, instead of having something specially made for him? Would that make him feel lesser? Yes, that will happen. He will hate it and I will get punished. Akiyama-san will not like it.

I will get punished.

Her body trembled underneath her robe at the thought of it.

She heard him make a small sound. A small, slightly surprised sound. The young girl found herself moving her eyes up for the very first time, looking at his face for the very first time since the day she first saw his eyes.

A thick string of the squishy food stretched from his mouth like a leaf, to his chopsticks. His eyes were slightly wide, staring at it.

“U-Um,” She panicked. “It’s quite . . strange from other foods.” She quickly tried to explain, her hands motioning was she spoke. They trembled, of course, too.

Luckily, the white-haired boy managed to bring the whole of the mysterious edible into his mouth swiftly. He chewed it.

The girl wanted to know what he was thinking.

He swallowed, then afterwards, he paused.

And then, “It’s good.”

The young girl felt a foreign feeling blossom in her chest. Was it reassurance? The feeling of being in the safe zone?

For the first time in a long time, the young girl smiled, a small, nervous smile. “Indeed . . . it is.”

The cook of the Gojo Family Estate made the squishy snack everyday. So the young girl stole some for the Young master everyday.

There were loads of it in the fridge, and the young girl couldn’t help but ponder—was the cook really making all this for herself? Or for others? Who were those others?

The thought caused chills to run down her spine.

But, the young girl thought, She would barely notice if only a few were gone. She had plenty. The young girl grabbed three pieces of the squishy substances, placing them onto a plate.

This routine was torturous. Though she was only able to steal some for the Young master’s breakfast, the risk was still demandingly high.

She knew that at any moment, she could get caught.

And getting caught would mean getting punished.

She did not want to be punished.

But she always thought about the Young master. Ever since the first time she brought him the delicious edible, his room felt like the most safest place in the estate that she could access, other than the room she shared with the other maids.

But also—a part of her realized that Gojo Satoru, wielder of the Six Eyes and Limitless, was perhaps approachable, to say the least.

Instead of completely fearing his presence in which forced her to respect him, she actually did start to respect him. Out of pure genuine .

“I found out what these things are called,” He spoke after swallowing down the delicious edible. The young girl’s eyes flickered up to him, blinking in curiosity.

She could look at him now.

Nervously, her lips parted. “M-May I ask, Young master, what it is?”

He sipped his tea, placing it down afterwards. “It’s called mochi. Apparently my mother is quiet fond of it.”

The young girl’s blood ran cold.

The Madame of the family was fond of the snack.

Had she—Had she been stealing food meant for the Madame of the family?

She squeezed her hands together until they turned white. Could she—could she still do this?

She had gone too far.

But she couldn’t take it back either.

“Ah,” She tried to shake off her worry. “I-I see.” It wouldn’t shake off. “It’s called mochi.”

She had once eaten a mochi meant for the Madame, mother of the Heir.

Her lips shook.

Just as she thought something was good, something bad, really, really bad, had to occur as well.

But that’s what it meant, living your life in fear.

You are never safe.

You would be foolish enough to think the opposite.

Akiyama-san  had been told of her crime.

The elderly women had called her into another room. The young girl knew, oh, she knew—she knew that her actions wouldn’t hav even ignored for much longer.

“I find it amusing, really, child.” She smiled, a cold smile. She stood with her back faced to her, and the little girl’s eyes blazed into her kimono. Yellow and purple. Flowers. What type of flowers? She didn’t know.

But she did know to stay quiet.

She could do that with ease.

Akiyama- san turned around. She could see her wrinkly faces from the candle light.

“We thought it was a mouse. Or a rat. Perhaps we weren’t wrong.”

The young girl trembled. She knows.

“Like a rat, slipping away under our noses wasn’t so difficult.” Akiyama- san edged towards the counter, picking a rounded-lid up, revealing a plate.

A plate of the squishy-sweet snacks she has stolen for a few weeks. The mochi, Gojo Satoru had called them.

Her eyes were stock still on them.

Akiyama- san picked the plate up. “Delicious, aren’t these?”

She was waiting for an answer. The little girl’s throat felt still. “I-I—“

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” She smiled again, head lolled slightly to the side. The candle light shifted on her face. “You rat.”

She flinched.

The elderly women placed the lid back over the plate. “We have these pre-made for the child’s mother, you see. She’s such a kind women. She enjoys such things.”

She enjoys such things.

The young girl has committed treason. Such a small, act—worth every coin and life in her body.

“Now, now, child.” Akiyama- san stepped towards her, each step making the little girl colder, and even more small. Akiyama- san kneeled, eye-level with the young girl just as she did the day she had given her the command. Akiyama- san clawed her cheeks with her fingernails as she pinched her face in her palm, just as she did before.

Her lips opened, a terrible sign. “Did I teach you to steal, girl?”

She could not answer. You did not, Akiyama-san. It is my fault. I am guilty. She knew the answer, but she feared making the slightest of sounds would cost her everything.

And then, the elderly women slapped her face. It didn’t hurt until a second later.

A tiny whimper escaped her small lips.

“Answer.” A command.

She did. “N-No, Akiyama- san. I am guilty!” She tasted blood inside her mouth, the taste mocking her to her very core.

A pause. Then, Akiyama- san’s lips curved into a smile. A wicked smile, so very wicked. She hummed. “I thought so.” Her cold hand lightly caressed the girl’s inflamed cheek.

It stung. Yet, she stayed silent.

Akiyama- san let go of her face. She stood up, walking past the young girl.

“Resume your duties, child. The Young Master seems to have some queer interest in you, which is why your presence is still needed.”

The young girl clenched her small hands, scratching a part of the tatami floor.

“Do not step out of line again, rat.”

The door slid shut behind her.

(The young girl wanted to scream).

Gojo Satoru had returned late that night. His training must have been longer. It worried her, yes—a worry for him seemed to cloud the burden in her chest. But she should not be worried for him. For he would turn out to be one of the greatest Jujutsu Sorcerers—worry was the last thing she should do for him.

When she opened his door, he was sitting with his legs folded underneath him. He was reading the same book, a book in which she recognized yet could not read. His face glowed with the glow of a small candle light, and yet—his eyes glowed brighter.

Her cheek throbbed, and she pushed away that useless curiosity.

“Your dinner, Young master.” She managed to speak without a stutter. Gojo Satoru had become more approachable, of course.

She bowed after setting his food down, a small, small smile on her lips. The candle light in Gojo Satoru’s room was different from the candle light Akiyama- san had. It was warm.

To her surprise, Gojo Satoru looked at her.

He rarely did. He spoke to her, yes—but looked? This was the first time. Or second time? She didn’t know. It was too rare to keep track.

She was taken aback. The candle light burned softly, the hazy flickering noise of the flame small in her ears. She too, had the glow of the candlelight dancing on her face. Her cheek stung and throbbed—yet, she payed no attention to the trivial matter.

Because Gojo Satoru’s eyes were beautiful.

She knew they sparkled. She knew they glowed brighter than any star, she knew they were more intense than any ocean she had seen in the few paintings scattered across the Estate walls.

But this was the first time she acknowledged about how beautiful they really were. Not the power they held, the fear they caused—but the pure beauty of those sparkling ornaments.

His eyes were slightly wide, his poker face discarded momentarily as he gazed at her.  It was like the first moment he had tried the sweet, delicious, so-called mochi. The dragonflies on his yukata design flew, buzzing around.

She stared.

And in that moment, she realized that she had been staring.

She panicked, but a small panic. “Please forgive me, Young master. Please enjoy your meal.”

His face was pensive in the corner of her eye. She wanted to leave.

The Young master did not utter a word in her presence, even as she left the room.

She had woken up late today.

This was not good. At this hour, most of the maids were already bustling about, and the kitchen was occupied.

Today, she was not able to retrieve any mochi for the Young master.

It had not only scared her, but it made her upset. The Young master wouldn’t have mochi, a snack in which he seemed to enjoy dearly, today.

And because of that, he might become angry at her.

She was always, always going to be in a tight situation. There were no safe zones here.

But, much to her shock, the tray prepared for the Young master today already included a plate of mochi.

She stared at it.

She did not question the cook. For the young girl was too confused and afraid to.

When she was in his room, she had to wonder whether it was his doing.

No. No, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. She must cut off that foolish, selfish thought. Perhaps the Heads of the Family Estate finally changed their minds, perhaps the cook intervened, or Akiyama- san—

There was no way, in eternity, that it was his doing. That he would help her. The thought of him, a holy heir, aiding a mere maid—it was just impossible .

“You,” He spoke, and she listened, surprised.

He wasn’t looking at her, but he was looking down at his plates. “You should take more time to rest, rather than stealing in the crack of dawn.” He spoke simply, taking another bite of the mochi. It sounded like a criticism.

He swallowed. “Then, perhaps you would be more interesting.”

Her eyes widened.

There was no way.

She remembered the candlelight. His eyes, his beautiful, beautiful eyes. His stare.

It couldn’t be.

Her lips flew open, “Y-Young master—!”

“You may take your leave now.” He interrupted, then proceeded to resume his meal. The young girl, once again, felt her chest blossom.

She bowed, once at his side, and another at the door.

But this time, before she slid it shut, she decided to have a change of words.

“Thank you very much, Young master.”

He didn’t respond.

Her lips twitched into the smallest of smiles, before sliding the door to a close.

It was a breezy, sunny day when he asked the question. A few sakura petals flew into the room, landing softly on the tatami mats like a feather.

“You,” He started, catching the young girl off guard. She was about to leave, but he had stopped her. When he addressed her directly, it scared her. It could mean something was wrong.

She tried to hide the fear. He had not caused her harm thus far. “Yes, Young master? Is there something you wish for?”

His paintbrush paused in his hand. Black ink bled the paper. When she had came in, the Young Master had been performing calligraphy.

She did not know what the lines meant, why they crossed in that certain way or why were shaped like so—but she found the strokes rather beautiful.

He placed his brush down. “Your name.”

She did not understand. For no one had ever asked such a question towards her. No one cared to. She felt her face slightly twist into confusion, but she immediately ripped it off. Such a face would be impolite.

But her words were still just as confused, much to her stupidity. “I-I’m sorry?”

He was looking at her again. The young girl felt her cheek throb again. The ice pack she used this morning unfortunately, was not very effective. She tried to remember the glow of the room, how the light did twirls and flips on the boy’s fair skin—she tried to remember the warmth of the moment.

But then, he looked slightly vexed. She snapped herself back to reality. His lips parted again:

“What is it. Your name.”

He sounded irritated, but seemed to hold his tongue. “I assume you know what a name is.” He then added.

She did. Of course she knew.

It still shocked her to her very core that he, the wielder of such great power—he, an heir to a noble house, would care enough to ask the name of a mere maid. He shouldn’t care.

He shouldn’t need to.

What surprised her too, was the fact that she did not feel much fear, but instead, she felt upset. She could not give the Young master a satisfactory answer, or any answer she assumed he wanted.

“I am sorry, Young master.” She looked down at her clenched fists that laid on top of her folded knees. Her knuckles were white.

She smiled, a sad smile. She felt compelled to, even though showing such emotion could cost her. “I do not have one.”

A bitter silence followed after. The young girl felt herself tense up, every muscle in her small frame stiffen. Should she leave? Or should she wait for his command? Would it be rude to even wait?

But he was merciful. He picked up his paintbrush again, resuming his delicate strokes of black. “How disappointing.”

She unknowingly faltered.

“You may leave now.”

It left a gut-wrenching feeling in her chest.

She caught a sakura petal in her palm.

A mindless game, she was playing. She was sweeping the garden in front of the Young master’s room, making sure his terrain wasn’t messy, nor unappealing.

But the sakura petals kept on dancing around her, moving in a rhythm like those elegant ladies in the paintings she saw around the estate. Sometimes, when she saw those paintings, she would imagine herself gliding from one foot to the other—a long, silky kimono flowing after her.

She was young. Yet she too, also had dreams.

Her hand closed around the petal. Her arm dropped, then, she let go of the pink feather. It fell to her feet, and now she wouldn’t know which petal was which.

Dreams, as beautiful as they are, are not worth it if they were never going to come true.

The young girl had many dreams, and she knew that in the end they would only destroy her. She could not live with them.

“Hey, you!”

The young girl swam out of her thoughts, ears alert at the familiar tone. When she looked, it was a maid much older than her—a young women, perhaps. A teenager.

She held a nasty expression. “Don’t stand there like a fool! The Young master is back from his training, his lunch is already prepared! Get moving, will you!”

And at that, the girl found herself running before she could even think.

When she opened the doors to his room, he was reading. She knew, of course, that it was the same book. Without even knowing what the cover said, she had already memorized the formation of the lines. The colors. The design.

“Your lunch, Young master.” She spoke as she set the plates on the table. It smelled good. Her breakfast this morning had only been rice and pickled plums.

She made sure to set the plate of mochi carefully, afraid to lessen the perfection of the plating.

She tucked the empty tray to her chest. “Please enjoy your meal, Young master.” Her small frame bowed. The saying was becoming second nature to her.

“Wait.”

She halted in her movements. The young girl was about to get up, but paused at the sound of his commanding voice. Hesitantly, she turned around, facing him. His eyes were still absorbed in his book. “Yes, Young master?” And repeated the words she had said the day before, when he had asked for her name. “Is there something you wish for?”

A sakura petal glided in, landing in the space between them. He turned his head away from his book, still holding it in place, but now—now, he was looking at her. Again.

His bright blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

His lips parted. “Stay,” He said.

The little girl felt her breath hitch. She felt a mixture of fear and confusion bubbling in her chest and mind. “Y-Young master?”

His mouth twitched. His expression was straight. “Stay.” He repeated.

She was not experienced with such a command. Her nimble mind didn’t understand the request. “I-I—Young master, I—“

“Must I repeat myself?” Again, irritation laced through the threads of his voice. The young girl has no choice but to obey.

She shook her head, rather quickly. “N-No, of course not, Young master. I’ll stay right here.” She should not have questioned his command.

He did not speak after that. He simply returned to his book, eating his lunch.

It was torturous.

She could not simply relax. It would be out of the question to. Before her, sat Gojo Satoru—the wielder of the Six Eyes, someone who sat in a position millions of times more higher than her. He had become more approachable, yes—but she couldn’t simply forget who he was.

Has she forgotten?

That scared her.

She wanted to leave. She wanted to leave, and go back to her calming work of sweeping the garden. She wanted to leave, and scrub the floors clean until she calmed down. She wanted to leave, and catch her breath. She wanted to leave, she wanted to leave, Oh—how badly she wanted to leave, she wanted to leave, leave leave leave leave leave—

“Hina.”

His voice managed to find the shore in her swarming thoughts. She frowned, a small frown, her eyes flickering back to the Young master. Did she mishear him? She wasn’t familiar with the word: Hina? What did he mean—

He met her gaze. She felt as if she was being pulled into those blue gems.

“Hina.” He repeated. “Your name will be Hina.”

She felt her breath hitch. Every limb in her body halted. Her eyes widened significantly, a youthful, surprised expression.

Your name will be Hina.

She swallowed, feeling thunderstrucked. Her chest felt warm, it felt as if something has blossomed—such a rare feeling, she couldn’t explain it. She didn’t know what it meant.

“Young master,” She breathed softly. “Is that—I-I mustn’t. I certainly mustn’t, as I am rather undeserving of a name given by someone such as yourself—“

“Don’t blabber about. It’s irritating.” The young girl flinched at the tone.

“I’m sorry, I—“

He looked displeased. “It’s irritating. I’m just repaying you, and you’re giving me these stupid excuses.” Gojo Satoru snapped, annoyed. The young girl should have felt scared at his exclamation—in fact, yes—it was more of an exclamation, rather than a snap of irritation.

She was confused.

I’m just repaying you.

Repaying what? For the Young master to repay something—especially to her— it was simply out of the question. Unthinkable.

Her face couldn’t mask her emotions now. “Y-Young master, I don’t understand—“

“Is that another excuse?”

This puzzled her. “Of-Of course not, Young master, I just—I just don’t understand what you mean by repaying—“

“Fine then.”

She felt her eyebrows knit together. “Huh?”

“You may leave.” His tone was becoming leveled again.

She was too confused to comprehend his command. “Y-Young master—“

“Leave.”

“I-I am sorry, Young master, please forgive me—“

“Hina.”

Her eyes widened to the dark abyss as she bowed before him.

Your name will be Hina.

Her lips shook. “Of-Of course, Young master. Please enjoy your meal.”

No response. A part of her was glad for it—she was saved from having to answer another puzzling thing, out of her experience.

She left the room quietly, bowing at the door then sliding it shut. Her small frame was shaking as she lightly leaned her back against the door. Her body cradled in on itself, hands fisted together. Her hair, a soft shade of black, fell over her face, sheltering her expression.

Your name will be Hina.

Hina.

Hina.

Hina.

She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut. She felt a strange, unexplainable feeling arise in her chest—the blossoming feeling was not absent.

“Hina.” It tasted new, foreign.

But she loved it.

She had a name now.

Having a name made her feel like a new person.

She savored in it. It made her want to dance even though she didn’t know how to dance. It made her want to laugh, even though she couldn’t remember the last time she ever did laugh.

But having a name made her unexplainably happy. That was the word for it, right? Happy. Happy-ness. Happiness.

This was perhaps the first time she had ever acknowledged her happiness. She repeated her name in her head like a prayer, a mantra: Hina, Hina, Hina, Hina, Hina, Hina—

“Hina.”

It felt strange, yet refreshing to hear someone else say her name, rather than only herself. Over the nights after the Young master had given her the name, she spoke ever so quietly to herself—just to give herself an excuse to hear her name out loud. She whispered it to herself at night before she slept, and sometimes gave herself commands as she swept the garden.

She loved it. She loved it, she loved it, she loved it.

Her small hands poured tea for the white-haired boy, ribbons of smoke twirling through the air. The tea smelled sweet. Her lips parted, rather excitedly, “Yes, Young master?”

He did not call her ‘You’ anymore.

That also made her happy. It was a selfish thought, one she knew she should not have.

She was taken aback when he held the book out for her to take. Hina’s eyes stared at it as if it was some sort of ancient relic.

“Read to me. From the marked page.”

Her happiness immediately ceased. It was the same one, same design—same words she could not read. Again, the same regretful feeling—the same one as the one she felt whenever she couldn’t give him her name, came flooding in.

That puzzled her. She was regretful that she could not fulfill his request, rather than terrified about the fact that she couldn’t. She wasn’t terrified that because she couldn’t, she might get punished.

She didn’t fear being punished, when she was around him.

Something was wrong with that thought.

“I am sorry, Young master.” She noticed the lack of stutter in her voice. “But I am afraid I cannot read.”

Fear him.

But at the moment, she didn’t. She was unable to fulfill his request, and that should terrify her to her very core—and yet, here she sat. Remorseful, not frightened.

“Eh? Seriously?” She didn’t feel fear from his tone. She heard disappointment, yes—but it didn’t scare her. It only made her more remorseful.

She nodded, smiling sadly. “I’m afraid so, Young master.”

“You cannot or you will not?”

Again, no fear. It really puzzled her. “I cannot, Young master. I never learned how to do so. I am not able to read a single word in that book.”

Her eyes found her hands. They looked relaxed as they rested in her lap. She wasn’t trembling.

She just felt sad. “I am sorry.”

She felt his intense gaze on her as he spoke, after those few beats of silence. “Well that’s just unfortunate.” He placed the book back on the wooden table.

She only smiled at the remark.

“Then, what can you do?”

Gojo Satoru always seemed to ask the most puzzling of questions, say the most oddest of things.

“Nothing remarkable, of course.” She decided to begin with, fumbling with her fingers. “I can clean. I can serve.” Her fingertips were dry from the morning cleaning. The sunlight was exceptionally bright.

Her thumb rubbed them. They were chalky. The white specs reminded her of the powdery texture of the mochi skin. “Nothing more than that, Young master.”

There was a tense pause for a moment. At least, on her end.

His questions were never-ending “Does that sicken you?”

She was confounded at the question. “I’m sorry?”

“Does that sicken you?” He repeated.

She still didn’t quite understand. “I-I don’t—“

“You’re stuck here.” He started, still reading the book. “You cannot do anything. You cannot read. You know nothing of the outside world. Your cursed energy is weak. I’m surprised you even have any.”

Hina started to feel her chest tighten.

“You spend day and night, doing the same thing over, and over, and over again.” He continued, no longer reading. His eyes were fixed on her now, and she stared back.

At that moment, she couldn’t look away. She wouldn’t dare to.

He was pulling her into the storm.

“Is it sickening, knowing your life isn’t yours to control?”

Stop.

“I can see it everyday. You’re always frightened. There isn’t a second you are not. Is death not a mercy to you?”

She wanted to throw up. She had never seen a dead body. But he made her think of the sight of seeing one.

He was pulling her into the storm, and he wasn’t letting go.

His grasp was tight.

“You’ll be bound here forever.” He had no sentiment in his voice. “‘What an unfortunate life I have been born into’, do you think that? You must.”

Stop.

“You will never leave this place.”

Stop it. Please.

“You will live in fear, everyday. For the rest of your life, perhaps.”

Stop, stop, stop. I’m begging you.

“If you have pathetic dreams, then they will only be rendered futile. They’re meaningless.”

Please, I’m begging you. Stop.

“You will live this pitiful, caged life. And you won’t even complain, because you can’t. ”

I know, I know, I know, so please stop.

“So I’ll ask again.”

Stop.

“Does that sicken you?”

“STOP!”

The word flew out of her lips before she could think. And when she could think, she realized that she had stopped reciprocating his gaze. Her eyes were fixed to the floor between them. She was bent over, cradling in on herself as her small hands were tangling and pulling and fisting the strands of her hair at the sides of her head. Her body temperature had risen, yet she felt cold sweat.

Hina was panting. Her breath was trembling. “Please . . .”

She shivered in his silence.

“You’re right,” she breathed shakily, face contorted in pain. “It sickens me. It sickens me s-so much.”

He didn’t respond.

Her breaths felt thin. “It sickens me that I have to wake up everyday, knowing that my life is at risk, knowing—knowing that with one,” She gritted her teeth. “s-single,” She should shut up, but she didn’t. “misstep, it could cost me everything. It sickens me so, when I know that I can’t do anything about it. .”

She wondered if she should cry. She didn’t feel like it. Hina sure didn’t remember the feeling of crying. She had blocked that feeling a long time ago.

“Akiyama- san said that I was blessed with this life,” she gritted out those foolish words, and they were tumbling. She had cut the rope to the cargo. “S-So I try. I try to think of it . . that way. But-But in the end, I just . . can’t . .”

She was burning. She was a raging inferno, foolishly and stupidly taking her anger and resentment out on a boy who could end her—right here, right now.

Hina shook her head slowly, a pathetic, solemn smile on her lips. “I’m not blessed, and I never was. I was c- cursed with this life.”

She choked. “So yes, Young master.” One hand moved from her hair to her chest, clenching the fabric of her simple grey yukata over it.

“It sickens me.”

She felt as if his silent presence was mocking her.

Would she get punished? Yes, of course she will—She had just raised her voice at the Gojo heir—the wielder of the Six Eyes. Someone tens of thousands of millions positions higher than hers.

Akiyama- san will not be happy.

A part of her didn’t care anymore.

“I see.”

Hina wanted to disappear after hearing his response. She still didn’t dare to look up.

“Do you hate me?”

Hina cradled in on herself even more. She probably looked manic.

In truth, no. She didn’t hate him. But perhaps she had been too complacent lately, perhaps she had forgotten for just a little while—that the boy she served everyday would be the strongest sorcerer alive.

She wanted to forget that he was Gojo Satoru. She wanted to forget that he was a god-like being.

Only because she wanted to feel safe for once. Just a little while.

“No,” She breathed, shaking her head profusely. “No, no, no. I do not.” Hina suddenly regained her sanity, realizing her rash mistake. Her head shot up in panic, “I am sorry, Young master, p-please—I did not mean a single thing I just said, please for- forgive me—!”

“Is that so?”

She trembled. “Y-Yes, I—!”

“I don’t believe that.”

No no no no, she panicked. Foolish! She was so stupid, arrogant and complacent! To lose her temper like that? Unthinkable!

Her lips were too scared to move. Yet, she couldn’t find it in herself to look away from the snow-haired boy.

His ocean-blue gaze was piercing. “No. Or rather, I do not want to believe it.”

Huh? This both perplexed and feared the girl.

He seemed so nonchalant and unbothered. “It’s refreshing to see.” He sipped his tea tenderly. The smoke laced from the cup, threading through the air. “It’s enjoyable, when I can converse with someone. Someone with their own thoughts and opinions.”

He placed his cup down with a small tap. Hina stopped cowering, raising herself back up slowly, hesitantly. She stared wide-eyed at him.

And then, he looked back at her. His eyes sparkled. “You are human. You can think. You can feel. If you don’t use them, they will become useless. I figure they have become already.”

She couldn’t think of anything at that moment.

He didn’t break his gaze. “But not yet. Don’t ever forget that.”

She wouldn’t. Not for a lifetime.

They had a strange dynamic.

If Hina could describe it, it would be unthinkable. Ludicrous. She was, as always,  still on edge.

But she could feel it. They had become closer. Turns out sharing your feelings at a clan heir who inherited both the Six Eyes and Limitless after a hundred years can earn you something quite peculiar.

Hina was not sure what to call it. She just knew that the two of them—two polar opposites—had become closer.

What she did know, is that she liked being around him.

It wasn’t just a safe-haven anymore, nor a safe-zone. She enjoyed being around him and being in his room out of pure genuine.

Gojo Satoru made her feel warm.

Gojo Satoru also did the most unexpected things.

“Hina. Come here.” He said one day, eyes gleaming brightly.

She blinked. “Eh?”

“Come here. I’ll read to you.”

Her brain stopped working for a millisecond. And when it started again, she panicked. “No, no! You mustn’t, Young master!” She waved her hands dismissively at the offer.

He seemed unbothered. “Why?”

“Because, it—“ She swallowed, scrambling for an explanation. “Because it would be completely out- outrageous for you do to something like that, for-for someone like me!”

He simply shook his head. “No. Now come here.”

“Y-Young master!”

“This book is sappy and annoying.” He said, in a rather straight and leveled tone. He held the book, the same book that she had seen since her first day of serving him. It has been months ago. Does it take long to read a book? She wouldn’t know. But he would. “It’s a torturous, laughable book that I refuse to suffer through alone. So you will suffer with me.”

“H-Huh?”

He looked ticked off. “Is it in your best interests to annoy me as well?”

She panicked even more. “No, of course not, Young master! But this is—“

“Enough,” He cut her off. “Hina. Come here.”

She stared, a complete and utter loss for words.

“Of-Of course, Young master.”

And so, he read to her. Hina sat by his side, the new perspective unusual to her. She did not understand much, as he began in the middle. She figured that one was to start a book in the beginning, yet she did not object. But she admired the use of words in a book, she admired the way the writer used words in order to describe something. It was different from regular speaking.

But most of all, she found it calming, listening to the Young master’s voice as the words drifted out his lips. A melody, yet it was not. Not even close to one.

She observed the letters painted in black, in a row like a ladder, or a vine. It was dizzying, looking at a bunch of black-crossed lines.

She looked away, instead observing the boy next to her. A refined jawline that glowed because of the afternoon sunlight, pale skin, hair white as snow—

He was quite beautiful.

She didn’t understand it before, when she heard other maids gossiping about his looks. ‘Handsome’ they said. ‘Charming’, and ‘beautiful’. His eyes, of course, were beautiful—she had came to that conclusion the night with the small candlelight. But Hina never had time to think about such matters for long.

But now she could. She would.

Gojo Satoru was a beautiful boy. Hina could only realize that by looking at him in an entirely new angle. A new light. She predicted that when he would grow into an adult, he would be very handsome.

It made her chest feel strangely warm.

“Are you even listening?”

She snapped out of her hazy thoughts. “H-Huh?”

He stared at her, a form of unbothered disbelief on his features. “Seriously?”

She felt something odd, and it blossomed in her chest. Fuzzy.

Her face erupted in a shade of red.

“I-I apologize, Young master!” She rushed, suddenly feeling very hot. It was unusual. It was strange. Was it because of the summer heat? But why so sudden . . . ? “I was just—just curious about something, that’s all.”

Hina has rarely used such a word out loud. She wasn’t allowed to be curious, she was to only obey. Yet here she was, using her curiosity as an excuse for her distraction.

The Young master could probably see through her excuse, but she decided to keep on going. His look was intense, burning.

It meant for her to continue.

“I just realized that you read this book everyday.” The words rolled off her tongue, more easily than she thought. “If it’s okay for me to inquire, Young master, but what is the title?”

That wasn’t an excuse. She actually was curious about that fact.

The white-haired boy blinked at her, then turned back to the book. He closed it on a marked page, revealing the cover she recognized, yet could not read. “Romeo and Juliet.” He stated.

Hina found herself to be rather confused at the title. “Romeo and Juliet?” Western names, weren’t they? She had wondered the same thing when he mentioned their names as he read.

“I told you, it’s preposterous. You will suffer with me.”

Hina only blinked. “I—I do not understand. Forgive me for my rudeness, but If it’s okay to ask another thing, Young master—what is the book about?”

“Don’t you know by now? I have been reading this out loud for a while now.”

It was no use lying. “I am sorry, Young master, but I do not understand the context of the book, as you-you didn’t start in the beginning.”

“Then what do you understand?”

What did she understand from the words she heard? “Well—it was hard to understand, as the words they used and the way the used it were unfamiliar to me, but—what I do know is that this Romeo-san and this Juliet-san seem to love each other very much.”

“Is that all?” He drawled.

“Yes, Young master.” A part of her felt guilty for that.

He didn’t speak for a moment. She tilted her head to the side, confused.

“Well, I hate to spoil you, but they both die in the end.”

That caught her even more off-guard. “Eh?”

“Romeo and Juliet. They both die.”

Hina felt oddly upset at that fact. “But—But that cannot be—“

“It says it in the beginning. How they’re ‘star-crossed’ lovers. It’s pointless.”

She furrowed her eyebrows. “Star-crossed . .?”

“It means that they are doomed to fail.”

Hina blinked a few times, looking down at her hands. “I-Is that so? How-How could someone write something like that . .?”

“No idea.” Gojo Satoru interrupted, tossing the book onto the table. It made a disruptive noise in Hina’s ears. “It’s quite amusing, really. An enjoyable read, if you want something to laugh at.”

Hina did not know what to say to that.

And to her relief and fear, she didn’t have to. The door slid open, catching both of their attentions. It was the same women from before, the one who had notified her of the Young master’s return, that day when Hina was sweeping the garden.

“I apologize for interrupting, Young master. But you have been requested to resume your training.” Her voice was soft, balanced—unlike that day in the garden when she yelled at her.

It was expected, of course. Hina wouldn’t expect anything else.

Gojo Satoru slightly scowled at this.

Hina could not help hide a frown. Deep down inside, a part of her wondered if his never-ending training as the future’s greatest jujutsu sorcerer caused him dissatisfaction. She always kept the wonder buried away, however—she shouldn’t think things like that.

But she let the thought linger for a little longer.

Her gaze flickered from him to the floor as she moved away, bowing before him. His gaze was fixed somewhere else.

Hina couldn’t bare to leave without saying something.

“Young master,” She started, a soft tone. “If it is okay, please show me more stories in the future.”

His hand, in which his cheek had been leaning on shifted, pausing in the air for a split moment. Nevertheless, he remained silent.

A small, very small smile spread on her lips for a second, before standing up. Both her and the maid bowed before sliding the door to a close.

Hina ignored it, yet she could feel the gaze of the older maid staring through her skull the second the door closed.

“Go sweep the yard, girl.”

Hina knew that the older maid had something else in mind.

“A little birdie told me that you and Young- master Gojo have been becoming quite close.”

A dim room. A burning, small candlelight. Hina has not been in an environment like this for a while.

Her breathing was hushed.

“Answer me now, truthfully, girl.” Akiyama- san ’s kimono was the same as it is always been—a pattern of yellow and purple flowers lacing together. “Is that right?”

Hina kept her gaze low. “Yes, Akiyama- san.”

“And would you,” she paused, “would you say that he is fond of you?”

Her eyes slightly widened. “I-I do not know, Akiyama- san.”

“You do not know? Don’t make me laugh.” She snarled, her kimono shown in the limelight. “The answer is simple, girl.”

Hina, in all honesty, did not know how to answer. Was he fond of her? Maybe. When she recalled his actions towards her, that was the only answer she could come up with. That, or she could be too arrogant into thinking so. Perhaps he was using her, using her just for his own amusement—which was acceptable, which was fine, because he is Gojo Satoru, he is the clan heir—

Hina’s breath shook.

Why did her chest feel like it was being stabbed, again and again a million times at the thought?

“N-No.” She could not let herself be complacent, especially in front of Akiyama- san. “Of course not. He . . He is just using me for his own amusement.”

She remembered the mochi. A glimpse of the childlike expression on his face when he first tried it.

“I . . I am just a maid. A tool, nothing more to him.”

You should take more time to rest, rather than stealing in the crack of dawn.

“I am just fulfilling my duty.”

The small, flickering, warm candlelight. His gaze. His stare. His sparkling blue eyes.

Another flicker.

Akiyama- san seemed to be pleased at this answer. “And you? Have you grown fond of him, child?”

Your name will be Hina.

Her lips parted, about to speak. She knew the answer. She knew what she should answer.

“No, I have not.”

You are human. You can think. You can feel.

She was a liar.

“I see.” Akiyama- san’s voice was cold, her elderly age noticeable in the tone. She turned around, facing Hina from the other side of the room.

Hina refused to look up.

“Then was it enjoyable, allowing him to do things for you?”

Her eyes widened, trembling.

“I-I’m sorry?” A frightened, confused whisper.

“Was it worthwhile, fun, perhaps, allowing him to tell you stories? Asking him? Talking to him as if he was someone to take lightly?”

Now, Hina understood where this was coming from.

If it is okay, please show me more stories in the future.

The other maid had heard.

Akiyama- san didn’t know the whole truth.

“A-Akiyama- san, I-I can explain—!”

“Shut it, girl.” Hina flinched at the sudden twist in her tone. Akiyama- san slowly walked towards her, each step making Hina flinch.

“Perhaps I have been too careless, too generous with you.” Her large hand grasped her face, like she always did. Her nail pierced Hina’s cheek. “Perhaps I haven’t taught you well enough. I didn’t teach you to steal, nor did I ever teach you to lie.”

Hina seemed to have froze.

“Did I, child?”

“N-No, no, no! You did not, Akiyama- san! And I-I-I can explain, I . . !”

Her face was squeezed tighter. Hina’s voice died out. The elderly women’s nails dug deep into her skin.

“Hush, now, child. You don’t want to make a fuss now, do you?” Her tone was sweet, but a poisonous sweet. Hina let out a small whimper.

Akiyama- san ’s glare was piercing. “Make sure you don’t forget who you are, child. Your only duty is to serve the Young master, not befriend him. You must pamper him, not yourself.” Hina felt her cheek sting with pain, just like those days after Akiyama- san had hit her.

“Make sure you remember your place, brat.”

Her fingers slid off her face, quick and swift. A second later, she felt small wounds open on her face, dots of crimson blossoming out like a flower.

“Go resume your duties, girl. If you step out of line again, I suggest you do prepare for the consequences.”

Hina felt stiffly frozen. Numb. She bowed, crippling in the floor. “Of course, Akiyama- san.”

She was supposed to live in fear.

A few more hours later, she was told the Young master had requested a plate of mochi. He returned late, just like the other night with the soft candlelight.

The cuts on her face had mostly dried up, but we’re still tender and sensitive. She ignored the pain, for it was a trivial thing. What mattered most was bringing the Young master’s late night snack.

“Please excuse me, Young master.”

When she slid open the door, she was offered a surprising sight. Her eyes were wide.

The young, white-haired boy had his legs tucked under him, slumped over his table. A small candle was lit, and Hina was hit with the memory of that night. His gaze. But this time was different, however.

He was asleep.

It was astounding, really. A curious sight. It reminded Hina of the fact that even though Gojo Satoru held so much power, even though he inherited the Six Eyes, and even though he was the great clan heir—

He was still a child, only a mere two years older than her.

He looked peaceful as he slept. Graceful. His breaths were feather-light. Hina closed the door behind her, heading towards his form. She quietly placed the plate behind his head. Cicadas were heard from outside the other set of doors, which were closed for the night. The temperature had dropped.

Her eyes flickered from the closed doors back to the white-haired boy’s frame.

Was he cold?

Hina stood up, walking towards a nearby cabinet, quietly opening it. She took out a thin light-blue throw blanket, tucking it under her arm. He still slept, sound asleep.

Hina quietly draped the blanket over his form, carful not to wake the boy up. She pulled the blanket up to the nape of his neck.

A small sound escaped his lips.

Hina flinched, stumbling backwards and quickly finding her ground.

He was still asleep.

She tilted her head to the side, an innocent curiosity. Did Gojo Satoru dream? Could he even dream?

She frowned. Of course he could dream. He was still human, was he not? A strong, powerful one with loads of potential—but he was still human.

You are human.

Gojo Satoru could think. Gojo Satoru could feel.

Perhaps Hina thought for a moment that it was ludicrous, for someone such as Gojo Satoru, the wielder of the Six Eyes, to have something in common with her.

And then, Hina saw it.

With another flicker of the candlelight, a small, thin, line of crimson red marked the Young master’s pale face. A cut. It marked the skin next to his eye, on the side of his face.

Hina stared.

Gojo Satoru could be cut.

Another surprise that Hina could not believe. It must have come from his training—was it exhausting? Did today’s training cause more fatigue? Was it more harsher?

Hina had never seen the Young master show any sign of fatigue. To think, that this was actually the first time she had seen him asleep.

He looked innocent. He looked like a normal, harmless boy.

Hina blinked, her own cuts stinging. She should leave.

She watched as he exhaled, a soft breath. Her lips parted, a quiet, hushed whisper, yet one full of care, “Sleep well, Young master.”

She left the room quietly.

A hot summer slowly crept into a cool autumn.

Hina admired the change of color. There was so much yellow, so much orange. Bright , beautiful, glistening colors.

During breakfast one day, Gojo Satoru had surprised her, yet again.

By stuffing mochi into her mouth.

“Eat. It tastes good.” He said simply, making Hina squeak and flinch at the sudden act. Her cheeks were pink.

“Y-Youmgh maphta . . !” Her voice was muffled, as she quickly covered her mouth and attempted to chew down the squishy substance. It was hard, but she managed to gulp it down after a minute.

It tasted good. It hit her with a sense of nostalgia to the day she first tried it, the day when she first stole the snack for the Young master before he intervened.

That was not important.

Her mouth was now empty, the sweetness still remaining in her mouth. “Young master! W-Why would you—!”

“It’s too much for me to eat.” He cut in smoothly. She blinked.

“B-But it can’t be . . you always end up finishing a plate on your own . .”

Her words died down. Gojo Satoru looked at her with an unreadable expression.

“ . . . Because it tastes good.”

Hina found herself smiling. An unusual smile for her, not a solemn one, not a sad one. A genuine, content smile. “Indeed it does, Young master. But I mustn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am a maid.”

“Hah.” He scoffed.

Another day in their never-ending cycle, Gojo Satoru told her a story.

“There’s a famous one about a girl who got eaten by a wolf who was disguising himself as her grandmother.”

Hina felt chills run down her spine. “H-Huh?”

“Basically, this girl with a red cloak was walking in a forest on her way to her grandmother’s house, but then she met a wolf. The wolf asked where she was heading, and she told him like the fool she was.”

Hina blinked. “The wolf could . . speak?” She knew of wolves, but had never seen one with her own two eyes before.

“In the story, yes. It’s stupid.” He replied, then sipped his tea. “Then, when the girl reached her grandmother’s house, she saw that her grandmother looked different.”

“Her grandmother was a . . a wolf?” Hina asked, feeling fearful.

“Mhm. Turns out the wolf ate her grandmother. And then he ate her. But then, this huntsman found them and ended up saving the two of them.”

“H-How?” Wouldn’t they be . . dead?

He shrugged. “He slit the wolf’s belly open and pulled them out in one piece. It makes me wonder whether the huntsman could have been a Jujutsu Sorcerer using Reverse Curse Manifestation.”

Hina did not understand such a story.

“. . . Young master, such a story I cannot seem to understand.”

“You don’t have to. It’s ludicrous. It would have made more sense if the girl and her grandmother had actually died.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know what to say to a lot of the things Gojo Satoru said.

One day, Gojo Satoru asked her to sit at the table with him. Hina did as told.

It was a cool afternoon. He had requested her presence when he had returned from training. A plate of pink, sakura petal-colored mochi sat on the table gingerly.

“I’ll show you how to write your name.” Is what he said after she sat down. Hina stared at him with wide eyes. “But, Young master—I cannot write.”

“Yeah, I know. Which is why I’m going to show you.” He clarified, with a slightly ticked off voice. Hina gulped.

“You—You don’t have to . .”

“I’m not doing this for you. I’m just doing this because I’m bored.” He elaborated, picking up a paint brush, dipping it in black ink. He had a sheet of paper in front of him, clipped on a black board.

His expression was borderline stubborn, but well-hidden with a pensive look.

After a second, Hina smiled lightly. “Of course, Young master.”

Watching Gojo Satoru write gave Hina the memory of when she saw him sleep. His aura was calm, peaceful. His hand moved delicately from one end to the other, creating a stroke of black on the paper.

How Hina wished she could read.

It was a wish that she kept hidden, locked up and chained away. She wished she could write. She wished she could soar. She wished she could do many things.

You cannot do anything.

He was right. He would always be right.

But . .

You are human. You can think. You can feel.

She mustn’t be distracted from reality.

Remember your place, brat.

She mustn’t forget.

Don’t ever forget that.

Hina found herself in a mix of emotions. Conflicts, within herself.

She would not let them break away again. I am sorry, Young master.

Her chest ached.

He finished the last stroke, backing away his brush and placing it down. Hina observed the delicate, intricate strokes of pitch black, a sharp contrast to the white paper. Her eyes followed each line.

That was her name. Those crosses of black spelled out her name.

“Are you judging? Criticizing my handwriting?” The Young master questioned, gazing at her through a side eye. Hina immediately shook her head, “No, no. Of course not, Young master. I think it’s very pretty. You are very skilled.”

That was not a lie. Even though she didn’t know how to read, each time she caught him writing in calligraphy, she always thought it was quite beautiful. They were different from the writing in books, they were less busy. More elegant.

“That is your name.” He stated, pulling the white sheet out from the board, tossing it on an empty space on the table. Hina watched, blinking as he placed other sheet of clean white paper on the black board. He pushed it in front of her, making a skidding sound.

Hina stated blankly at the white void.

“I . .” She felt another stir of troubling thoughts arise within herself. “I don’t know . . how to . .”

“Were you not watching me?”

Hina panicked. “Ah, but Young master—it is still d-difficult. To only have seen it once, I—I just don’t know how to.” She looked down, solemn. “I am sorry, Young master.”

He did not say anything for a moment. It only helped increase the shame Hina had in herself—the shame of knowing that she was defenseless, useless.

A sudden shift of something next to her startled her out of her thoughts. The paint brush was held out to her.

“You can start by picking up the brush.” He said, nudging it to her hand.

Hina blinked, then reluctantly took it into her fingers, unsure how to hold it. It seemed out of place in her palm, and her fingers did not understand what to do with it. She was inexperienced and clumsy, and it was showing heavily.

Two pale hands overlapped her small one.

“Hold it like you would with chopsticks, but move your fingers here.” He positioned the brush upright in her hand, placing her fingers on the stem. Hina felt her cheeks warm up, but ignored the sensation.

His hands were cold. But they gave her a sense of reassurance, for some odd, unexplainable reason.

His hands paused around hers for a second. Hina thought he was going to let go.

He didn’t. Not yet.

“Now, dip it in here.” He guided her hand, dipping the tip of the brush in the ink, tapping it lightly on the rim. He led the brush to the paper. “Start here, and then go down.”

Hina paid close attention to the paper, not wanting herself to make a mistake.

(Although, it was Gojo Satoru who was really doing the writing).

“Make a curve here.” He led the brush in a curve, ending it to the side. He then moved his brush to a different place, then painted a line across. “That’s the ‘Hi’ in Hina.”

Hina blinked at it. The ‘Hi’.

“Now,” he dragged the brush in the air, stopping it in a space below the first letter. “Draw a curved line here.” He guided her hand in making a stroke of black. And then, he made a line across.

“That says ‘na’.” She felt him slightly back away from her, but still say close. He let go of her hand, taking the brush from her fingers and placing it aside. He took her hand again, fingers grasping Hina’s own finger. He made her point to the first letter. “Hi-“ then to the one below it, “-na. Hina.” He let go of her hand again.

Hina stared, wide-eyed at the strokes of black.

She was speechless.

It didn’t make sense. She had seen the Young Master write it. She already saw it.

But, why did she feel this way now?

Her hand held that brush. Yes, the Young Master practically just wrote it for her—but the paper was in front of her. She held that brush.

“Young master,” Her voice was hushed. “If I may ask . . . Hina, the name you gave me. Does it—Does it mean something? Does it have a meaning?”

She heard him quietly inhale. Her eyes were still glued to her name.

After a few beats, he answered, “Sun.”

Her breath halted.

“It means sun. Or light. Same thing.”

She felt herself freeze. It was overwhelming. There was an eruption of feelings bursting out inside of her.

He is just using me for his own amusement.

She didn’t mean that.

A tool, nothing more to him.

She didn’t think that. At least, she didn’t want to.

I’m just fulfilling my duty.

That is what she was doing. It is what she has been doing.

Make sure you do not forget who you are, child.

She didn’t. She never forgot.

Make sure you remember your place, brat.

She didn’t dare to forget that.

Your name is Hina.

But Gojo Satoru gave her a name. He gave her meaning, he carved out the hidden gem inside of the rock, and gave her value.

She would never forget the strokes of black that formed her name. She would never forget this day.

Never.

She slowly turned towards him, eyes bright and starry. “Young master,” she bent her upper body, bowing slightly in front of him. Hina pressed her lips together, trying to contain the lid of that overflowing glass bottle—it wanted to shatter inside of her. Her eyes were glued to the small space between them on the floor.

He watched her, silently.

A small, certain whisper. “Thank you so, so much.”

The sun was bright on that cool, windy autumn day.

Weeks went by.

She kept the paper with her name close to her, tucked in her robes. The Young master had let her keep it.

It was a good luck charm, as she liked to call it. She had never had one before, so she kept the sheet folded up, tucked safe with her at all times.

When the leaves were a subtle orange, Gojo Satoru gave her another trinket.

“It’s candy.” Is all he said, after dropping it into her hands. They were in an empty hallway, and Hina had just ran into the boy when he returned from his training.

She observed the object in her hands. It was an odd, little thing. A skinny, short white stick, with a wrapped sphere-shaped thing. Hina glanced at him, face painted in confusion. “Candy . . ?”

“You know what candy is, right?”

She nodded. She knew.

He gave her an unreadable stare. Hina wondered whether she should return it or not.

She didn’t have to.

“Don’t try to swallow it whole, you will choke.” He put simply, then proceeded to walk past her. Hina noticed how dark his sweater was, a ravenous pitch black.

She nodded, eying the candy in her hands. “Of-Of course, Young master.”

She followed his instructions. It was strange, but she eventually figured it out. Hina thought the candy was very sweet.

(It was good).

Akiyama- san had summoned her again.

Hina couldn’t push the fear down, as each step made her want to run even more. She wondered, what for? What reason, this time? Had she done something wrong again?

You have, A small, crippling noise in the back of her head snarled. You have not felt fear for a while.

She has not.

Again, she had been too complacent.

Fear came and went. It crept up from the shadows, ready to taunt her every breath—but cowered away as soon as the light hit. It was unpredictable.

Her hand paused on the door. She breathed, once, twice, thrice.

She opened the door.

“Akiyama- san, you have summoned me—“

Hina froze.

Plit. Plat. It chimed like the seconds of a clock.

Blood. There was blood. Sparkling, crimson, and reflective. Dripping from a broken vase. The girl. The same girl, the girl with the long, beautiful abyss-black hair. The same girl who was punished the night Hina was assigned to serve the Young master. Blood was also dripping from her chin, creating crimson pebbles on the tatami floors.

The bleeding girl whimpered.

Hina did not dare to scream.

Akiyama- san stood over her crumbling form, eyes piercing and grasp tight around the neck of the vase. It had a peculiar design, colors and flowers that didn’t mix well together.

“Ah,” Akiyama- san’s eyes found Hina’s shaking form. “There you are, child. Perfect timing.”

Hina felt every limb in her body tense up, fearing to even make the slightest movement.

The bleeding girl’s breath shook.

Akiyama- san turned her attention to the girl again, momentarily. Her elderly frame bent down, hands striking the girl’s hair. “Hush, now. Shh, shh. You disobeyed me, so you must understand, don’t you? You must.”

The bleeding girl cowered. Was she crying? Hina could not tell. Every fiber of her being yelled ‘ do not cry, do not be foolish like that’.

You can save yourself that way.

Akiyama- san looked stern. “Brat.”

She hit the girl’s face.

Hina flinched, and without knowing she unconsciously took a step back.

That was a mistake.

Akiyama- san’s attention was on her again. She had made a sound. “Trying to run, girl? Now, now—don’t be so rude. Come here, closer, will you?” Her voice was dipped in a silent poison.

Hina had no choice but to obey. She closed the door behind her, then slowly and carefully made her way closer to the scene. Her eyes didn’t know where to stay—the bleeding girl, or Akiyama- san.

“Don’t be frightened, child.” Akiyama- san stood up, dusting off her robes. “Being frightened will make you want to leave, and,” Her wrinkly hand found the top of the girl’s head.

She knotted her hand in the girl’s black strands, pulling them roughly. “And run.”

Hina heard the girl whimper again. She stared at her, face painted in absolute disbelief and shock.

She had tried to run away.

Run? Run?

The term was unfamiliar to her. She knew what it meant, of course—but to actually do so?

Ludicrous.

The girl before her was foolish.

Hina felt cold sweat. Then why . . . Why was the back of her mind saying that?

Just why . . .

“I wanted you to see this, child.” The elderly woman’s voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. Hina flinched. Her mouth felt dry.

“Children, such as this one here,” Akiyama- san yanked the girl’s hair slightly, and the girl mewled, a painful, fearful sound. A sound that said ‘please help me’.

Hina could do nothing.

Akiyama- san feigned care. “They disgust me, you know that? They really do. So young , so full of life.”

Her grasp tightened on the girl’s hair.

Hina’s eyes couldn’t move. They stayed frozen on the bleeding girl.

“And yet,” Akiyama- san yanked the girl’s hair again, roughly pulling her up. Hina almost gasped, trying to stop herself from imagining the amount of pain the girl was in. She could slightly see the girl’s eyes, and they were—

They were lifeless.

Akiyama- san lied.

“And yet, they still try to run. They still try to run away from the life in which they have been blessed with. It’s a blessing to be born, to serve the Gojo Clan.” Hina watched as the girl struggled to find ground, the blood still dripping from her face, plit plat, plit plat, the girl still whimpered in such fear, such pain and loss and—

She was to only live in fear.

Her eyes were glassy. So were the girl’s.

But why?

“That is why I cannot seem to understand these children. Do tell, just why are they so ungrateful?”

That wasn’t it.

“So greedy and useless.”

That was not their fault.

“To serve such a blessed house, a blessed family. A beautiful world. Selfish brats.”

Hina felt. She felt her entire being overflow with sudden, uncalled for, emotion.

You are human.

“I have served the Gojo Clan all my life. Why can’t they understand? It’s so pitiful, I try so hard to make them understand.”

You can think. You can feel.

The girl stopped moving. Hina felt frightened. She felt so many things. Was she dead? No, she moved. The slightest of movements.

She had given up.

I’m not blessed, and I never was.

I was cursed with this life.

“It seems you have forgotten your place, brat. I have eyes watching your every move. You disobeyed me once again.”

I was cursed.

“I feel so, so hurt. How ungrateful, you have been to me. Spoiled, that’s what.”

Cursed . .

Hina remembered. She suddenly remembered something, from long, long ago.

Akiyama- san had once said her mother was killed by a curse.

That is how Hina had ended up here. A motherless orphan, taken in only to serve as a maid for a clan of curse exorcists.

“Don’t you agree, brat?”

Akiyama- san let go of the girl, shoving her aside. The bleeding girl let out a small shriek, her head hitting against a cupboard.

She stayed still.

Akiyama- san advanced towards her. Hina found herself taking a step back at her very advancement, shaking in fear. Her bare feet felt cold, stiff.

Run, run, run, the back of her mind screamed. But she could not.

“A-Akiyama- san, I . . . I don’t,” She stuttered on her own words. The fear was controlling her. “I-I have not . . .”

The elderly women grabbed a fistful of Hina’s hair, pulling and yanking tightly on her strands. Hina yelped in pain, hands reflexively trying to stop the pain.

“Insolent brat.” Akiyama- san snarled, face close and eyes piercing. Hina kept her eyes closed, fearing what she may see if she opened them. It hurt. Her scalp hurt. Her chest hurt. Her mind was too busy, too much.

“ Everything about you disgusts me,” She was strong for her age. Hina opened her mouth to reason, to reason and save herself—

Akiyama- san threw her small frame across the floor. Hina was no where near the door now, as she stumbled backwards. She couldn’t breathe.

She had crumbled.

She could see the bleeding girl in a crack between her messy strands of hair. Her eyes were half-lidded, pupils lifeless.

Hina wanted to run.

“You have one of the most crucial duties in this household, and yet,” Akiyama- san took a step forwards. Hina staggered backwards on the floor.

“And yet, you succeed. You won his favor so, so easily,”

Hina felt a sharp, sudden stinging pain on her forehead. It must have been a a cut from Akiyama- san’s fingernails, when the elderly women had grabbed her hair.

She ignored it. It didn’t matter now.

She could end up even worse. The bleeding girl sat so close to her, the picture burned so intensely in her mind.

Hina tried to find it in herself to speak. “A-Akiyama- san, please—!”

“Shut it, girl.”

No—

She was getting closer. Hina didn’t have bough strength to get up. No, she was too scared to get up.

No, no—

She didn’t want this life. She never asked for this.

Her hands flailed around, trying to find support and ground. The elderly women walked in such a mocking, dominant way.

No, no, no, please!

Her finger met with something cold. Smooth.

“You act all innocent , but I know you are not,” She snapped coldly. “No one , in this world, is innocent. No one.”

Hina unknowingly grabbed whatever it was that she had touched.

No, please, I beg you! Akiyama-san, I did nothing wrong!

She was too afraid to utter a single word.

“So, don’t you try to play all innocent, you putrid, insolent brat—!”

Akiyama- san grabbed her hair again.

Hina shrieked, shutting her eyelids tightly. Her arm whipped flailed before she could even comprehend.

Slice.

Plit. Plat.

“Ah-Aghh . .”

It was a weak sound. Hina felt something cold drip onto her cheek, trickling down her face like a raindrop on a leaf.

She opened her eyes.

She saw blood. So, so much blood.

She saw Akiyama- san, staggering backwards, grasping her own neck. Blood trickled from the spaces between her finger tips, soaking her kimono.

The yellow and purple flowers became red. A nauseous red.

Hina couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think right. She only watched as Akiyama- san made the most painful of noises, a wail, a cry—

She collapsed on the floor.

She didn’t move. She was still. She was a dry leaf on a non-windy day.

Hina stared.

“Ah,” Her hand let go of the vase. Mixed blood trickled on the shards of the broken end.

Blood trickled down from Akiyama- san’s lips. They were dry. She could see it in the dim room.

Hina stumbled forward, crawling over to Akiyama- san’s lifeless form. Her limbs shook. She felt weak.

No . .

No, no, no, no, no, no, no . .

This couldn’t be.

Her small hands reached for the elderly women’s face. Blood. Fresh, crimson red blood smeared on her own small hands. Blood. It was everywhere. It has splattered on her clothing, on the walls, on the floor, on the furniture. The smell was nauseating.

Suddenly, the elderly woman seemed so small. 

Her breath shook.

This wasn’t happening.

“Aki-,” Blood popped out from the skit mark in her neck. Hina felt light-headed. “Akiyama . . . san,” Her own hands shook, as she shakily faced her palms upwards.

There was blood on her hands.

She choked. “No.” She shook her head, looking manic and possessed, “ No, no, no, no, no—“

A scream flooded her ears.

Hina slowly looked up in the direction of the scream. It was the bleeding girl. She, in fact, had not died—and her eyes, her eyes—

They were very much filled with life at this very moment.

They were filled with fear.

She heard the doors slide open, and her head whipped around. Her eyes squinted at the light. How many maids were there? Two? Four? Five?

They all gasped. No, some screamed.

“M-Murderer!” A maid screamed.

Hina froze.

“Akiyama-san!” Another one.

“Murder in the estate!”

“She’s a murderer!” They all sounded the same.

Murderer, murderer, murderer, murderer—me? No, no—I didn’t—I didn’t, I couldn’t have—I . . . I . .

She looked down at her sickly hands.

There was blood on her hands.

Hina wanted to run.

So, she ran.

She couldn’t remember the last time she did run. She could feel everything and nothing at the same time, she ignored every gasp and every shriek when people saw the sight of her. The light was blinding. Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears, each pound reminding her of the plit plat, plit plat, plit plat, plit plat, and she wanted to tell it to shut up, please, shut up— She kept on running, and running, and running, and running, her bare feet met the grass, and she kept on running.

She could hear a commotion still behind her. They were following her, trailing after her. No, no they didn’t know—they didn’t understand—

Plit, plat, plit, plat, plit, plat.

It was not the drip of the blood. It started slowly, then became heavier.

Rain.

It soaked her clothing, matted her hair, blending with the blood on her face like a glorious painting.

It mocked her, and she wanted it to stop, stop, stop, stop, stop—

A terrible, desperate wail, “S-STOP!”

The sun was nowhere to be seen.

Hina collapsed behind a tree, trying to catch her breath. She couldn’t. With each reach, it only blew away farther.

She wanted to scream, scream even louder than she already had.

But they would catch her.

What would they do, she wondered , panting and gasping for air. What would they do to me? What would happen to me?

She remembered the blood.

Hina’s eyes widened, and a strange, sudden, sickening feeling erupted in the back of her throat.

She threw up.

It hurt. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. It was disgusting—

Everything about you disgusts me.

She threw up again. Such a putrid scent.

You putrid, insolent brat—!

She held her hands over her mouth, trying to hold back the feeling. It hurt. Everything hurt too much. The rain was burning her with its icy coldness.

Everything was too much.

Hina choked. She choked again, and again, and again. Another sickly feeling stirred up—but it wasn’t the feeling of wanting to puke, it was, it was—

What was it?

She felt something warm trickle down her face.

Her eyes felt warm. Her head throbbed.

Hina was crying.

And with that realization, she broke down.

Sobs wracked her small frame, engulfing her in pain, and misery—

“I-I didn’t mean to . .” She sobbed, pathetic and weak. “I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t!” Hina nearly groveled, clenching her robes tightly, squeezing them in an endless pain. Everything burned.

“There she is!”

“That’s her!”

Hina gasped, head whipping around. She could see them—small specks becoming bigger and bigger. The rain blurred her vision.

She ran off again.

It was storming, the rain no longer just a plit, plat, plit, plat— it engulfed her, swallowed her in its inescapable throat as she ran, ran to hide, ran to escape (but could she escape?)—

She managed to lose them again. Perhaps the rain was a blessing, helping her with its invisible wings.

Or maybe it was fooling her, only delaying the inevitable to mock her.

Hina slipped on her own two, bare feet, stumbling to the ground. She panted, legs burning—everything was burning. The ground was wet, grass muddied. Her face was painted with splotches of mud, dirt, loose grass.

She weeped, trying to push herself up.

She stopped.

Her palms, matted with dirt, still showed the blood. It felt crisp, dry on the folds of her palms.

Why— She choked, staring at them. She felt weak. Why am I—

She gasped for air, the burning sensation in her body standing relentless—yet she felt cold, oh, so cold at the same time. Hina choked another sob, tears mixed with blood and dirt trickling down her dirtied cheeks.

Why am I even trying?

They’ll just catch her, anyway. She was weak, foolish, and naive. What was she doing? Running? Such a coward, she was—she would own up and live to that fact for the rest of her life.

The rest of her life . . .?

Hina shook her head, panting.

That’s why she had been running.

Because, what would happen to her, when they would catch her? What would become of her? She had . . had—

“Hina.”

Hina froze. Her name. Such a familiar voice.

But the pounding. The loud, crushing, pounding of the rain was blinding her, beating her deaf. She couldn’t differentiate anything from anything anymore.

She wanted to disappear.

Her small frame slowly staggered up, finding her balance shakily on her feet.

“Hina.”

Again. The same voice again.

She knew very well who it was.

Her hands clenched, cold and wet. She refused to look up, she refused to confront him, to even look at him at the moment.

She was so pitiful.

Under the clapping, thundering, crashing of the rain, she heard the wood of the floorboards creak. He had stepped forward.

No.

“STOP!”

—She yelled, just as the day she had told him to stop, to stop his words.

The creaking of the floorboards stopped.

Hina found herself so, so pitiful. So pitiful, that it was laughable. She wrapped her arms around her body, somehow feeling even colder.

She chuckled, a sad, melancholic, pitiful laugh at herself.

“You mustn’t, Young master . . . .” She squeezed her arms tightly, nails digging into her skin over her wet robes. She shook her head, slowly, dazed. “Or else you . . or else you will get wet . . .”

A wet strand of hair fell over her line of sight. Her eyes were misty.

Her lips broke into a tragic grin.

“And then . . . you will have to change your clothes . . . it will take long, you know . . hanging them to dry . .” Her lips shook.

He didn’t say anything.

Hina started to crumble. “Young master, I . . I did something . . . terrible . .” She closed her eyes shut, shaking her head, trying to shake away the memory but not let it go too far. “B-But I, I . . I didn’t mean to . .”

No one in the world is innocent. No one.

She broke down. “Was,” she stumbled on her words. “Was my life not valuable, Young master? Was it . . . was it really worth nothing?”

Still, nothing. Just the rain.

“T-Then . .” She sniffled, chuckling again. “Then was Akiyama . . . -san’s life worth m-more than mine? ” Was it, really? That old, elderly lady with such power over a limited group? Over weak, powerless maids? That cruel, controlling woman?

“Or is it just pure luck? ” She spit out, shaking. “Who chooses who gets to be born . . blessed ? Strong? Who? The gods?”

The rain didn’t stop.

“I just . . .” She crumbled even more. “I d-didn’t care if I wasn’t born blessed, or cursed,” She sobbed, tasting her tears in her mouth. It was salty.

“I just . . . wished one day that . . . that it would all be over . .”

The ground was mushy under her feet. She wanted the mud to swallow her whole, hide her and protect her from the world.

“That things will get better . .”

She looked at her hands. She could still see the blood, faint and washed away by the rain—but it was still there, mocking and and teasing her, pitying her.

She had been hanging on so tightly, to that nonexistent promise all this time.

Her lips quivered. “Y-Young master, what should I do . . .? What . . . can I do now?”

Then, what can you do?

Nothing. In this world, she was powerless.

“Where do I go?”

She wanted to be crushed by the rain. She was afraid, too, too afraid of what might await her, when she would be caught.

Hina was alone. She was weak, and powerless, and alone. Her mother, whom she couldn’t even remember a single spec of in her memories, was killed by a curse. She had no friends, she feared making them. She was chained to Akiyama- san.

Or was chained by her.

But still, she wasn’t free. She never will be.

She tasted rain water in her mouth. It trickled down her cheeks, her neck, her arms. It was cold, yet she still burned.

“Run.”

Hina’s eyes widened. He finally spoke.

But—

She shook her head, face twisted and on the verge of sobbing again. “T-That’s impossible, Young master . .” She chuckled a bit. “They will catch me anyway, and I . .”

She hugged herself even tighter. “M-Maybe I do deserve to be p-punished . .”

“Do you?”

Hina finally looked up, finding his form in the rain. By the look of his clothes, she assumed he had just returned from training. He was safe, under the shelter and protection of the roof, staring right at her. She stared back. His blue eyes still sparkled, even with the rain blurring her vision.

“I . . I . .”

She hesitated.

“Look ahead.”

Hina didn’t understand. She slowly, almost robotically, turned around, eyes narrowing at the rain.

A spectacle to see. There was a door, somewhat hidden by leaves and vines—but it was there. She could see it.

She could escape.

Her heart rate picked up, abruptly turning back to the Young master. “Young master—“

“Go.”

She still hesitated. “But, is it—is it really alright? For . . me?”

After what I have done?

Do I deserve it?

He didn’t answer her question. “Go.” He repeated.

She opened her lips to speak again, but immediately stopped. She heard voices, yelling for her—calling for her—

Calling to capture her.

Her eyes flickered back to the Young master, panicked. “Young master, I—“

“You are free, Hina.”

Her breath hitched, eyes wide and glassy.

He took a step forward, still sheltered by the roof.

“Run.” His final words.

And Hina did.

She ran, hating herself for not being able to thank the Young master. She ran, hating herself for the deed she had done. She ran, hating herself for being able to escape successfully, while the others couldn’t. She ran, finding freedom in roads she did not recognize, buildings she had never seen before. She ran, in this new, unfamiliar world.

That things will get better, she had said.

They had become better. He made sure of it. Those past few months of her serving him, had been the happiest she’s ever been.

Your name will be Hina.

She ran, without looking back.

It was a silly mistake.

Perhaps he had underestimated just what that non-shaman could do.

Gojo Satoru laid on the ground, lifeless and cold. Unmoving. His eyes were cracked open, half-lidded, gaze dull and grey. Blood pooled and trickled from his neck, chest and abdomen, thigh, and forehead, creating a painful, nauseous piece of art.

Gojo Satoru was dead.

For Fushiguro Toji had killed him.

The sky was bright. Yet, no sun was shone. A cloudy day, depressing and mocking his lifeless form.

In his pre-death mentality, he thought:  well shit. He wondered if Amanai Riko ended up refusing the merger, and returned back with Kuroi. An adorable, laughable reunion. He even wondered about Shoko’s words, her words about that Reverse-Curse Manifestation he just could not grasp. He could really use it right now. He wondered if Suguru managed to fend the non-shaman away, capture him, or better yet, kill him.

He doubted it. If he couldn’t, then no matter how strong Suguru was, that blasted non-shaman without even a spec of cursed energy, would not die.

What a predicament death was.

Only, Gojo Satoru would refuse it, the mere idea of death, until the very end.

“Young master!”

Who chooses who gets to be born blessed?

He could have laughed. It was very much pitiful, laughable really, remembering that powerless, desperate girl at this very moment.

“Young master! Wake up!”

It brought back bittersweet memories, hearing that title. That tone.

“Young master, open your eyes, please!”

I’m not blessed, and I never was. I was cursed with this life.

Perhaps, she was. Metaphorically speaking.

“Young master . . !”

He had to wonder, how was she these days, if she had survived this far? Was she feeling human, enjoying her life to the fullest?

It was hilarious that he even cared.

“Young . . .”

His finger twitched. A pause, in, whatever pre-death delusion he was having. Was it even a delusion?

He didn’t know.

“Young master,”

He finally figured it out. The core of cursed energy.

“Fight.”

He opened his eyes to a bright, newly sunny sky.