Chapter Text
Suguru’s house is too large for one person. Sometimes, he thinks he should sell it and start over in a penthouse somewhere, inaccessible like a princess in her tower. It would fit his self-imposed exile. But the house comes with a yard large enough to grow some of his own ingredients, and he likes the busywork of maintaining it.
A lot of space is a necessity. Suguru needs to keep guests and clients separate from where he usually spends his time. He can just walk around the lingering mix of flavours by the front entrance and in the living room, never having to deal with it while he’s alone. And when he does have to entertain guests, Suguru is good at masking his revulsion. Like right now.
Nanami is stiff and out of place on the couch, holding himself like a statue. His aura tastes like popping candy frustration, chalky discomfort, and, most of all, sticky fatigue like raw pasta dough. Loaf, Nanami’s familiar, currently curled up in the man’s collar in the form of a small reticulated python, is the source of most of the taste.
Even highly skilled witches rarely master the art of separating themselves from their familiars. Nanami is like that, so he keeps Loaf small and easily concealable. He’s still head and shoulders above most of the magic community in terms of ability and experience. Which makes his presence here all the more surprising.
“I’ve sorted all the information available to me about each victim. I’ve also created a timeline.” He nods to the files laid out neatly on Suguru’s coffee table. “It’s fairly extensive, so I’m happy to walk you through it now in case you have questions.”
Suguru does, in fact, have questions. He smiles serenely. “Very well. Let’s start with the timeline.”
Nanami flips open a manila folder and begins pulling out its contents, arranging them into a neat row. “These are photos of the victims, along with the date, location, and estimated time of each incident, as well as basic information about each victim.”
Each picture shows a part of the human body—shoulder blade, the crook of an elbow, ankle, lower abdomen, neck—marred by a perfect bite wound. Each imprint of what seems to be a set of human teeth is a little different. Some are smaller, others larger, and most are crooked in various ways. However, it looks like pressure was applied in exactly the same way every time, resulting in the same general shape and depth of the bites. It’s the first sign that the wounds aren’t natural.
The second clue is that there’s no bruising around the marks, and no bleeding even though they look fresh. They could have been stamped on, except for how deep they are. Suguru brings the clearest photo closer to his face. He thinks if someone bit down like they meant to gouge out a chunk of flesh, then hesitated at the last moment, this is the sort of damage they would have left behind.
He checks the notes on the victims, and finds little of interest. The age range is seven to seventy three years old, in no particular order. There’s also no pattern in employment or marital status, place of residence, overall wealth, or looks.
“The only thing the victims have in common is that they buy bread at the same bakery,” Nanami says. “It’s a family business. I’ve been a patron for years, and never noticed anything unusual.”
“So it’s a new development.” Suguru hides his tension by taking a long sip of tea. “I’ll be shocked if it doesn’t turn out to be a pretty straightforward case. You don’t need my help, Nanami.”
Nanami’s aura doesn’t change, but that means little. Suguru knows from experience that it’s easiest to lie to a witch when depressed, overwhelmed, or otherwise going through it. Nanami almost certainly isn’t being honest with him.
“I’m going to quit, Geto-san, this time for real. And I just…” Nanami leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. He’s dressed immaculately as always, not a hair out of place, yet it’s clear that he’s fraying around the edges. Or it’s the impression he wants to make. “I can’t do it any more. It’s pointless. I took this job as a favour, but I realised I can’t give it my best effort. I’ll pay your usual fee, and like you said, the case should be simple. A few hours of your time at most.”
What Nanami’s saying is entirely in character for him, and nothing suggests that he’s lying. Unfortunately, it’s a little too close to what Suguru wants to hear from him to trust.
“Why didn’t you go to Satoru, then? I thought you’d decided to play by the rules. If the Council learns of you hiring me…”
“I will retire from witchcraft after this. The clans’ opinion of me will no longer matter.”
“That’s not true.”
“Gojo-san can and will keep them off my back.”
Suguru manages to hold onto his temper and maintain a pleasant smile, but it’s suddenly very hard to feel any kind of sympathy for Nanami. At the same time, he grows even more paranoid. Nanami has to be fishing for something. There’s no way he’s being this callous by accident.
Unfortunately, the temptation to find out what this is really about is too strong. Suguru has also never been able to turn his back on a witch in need.
“In that case, I’m happy to take your money,” he says brightly, and quotes his fee. Between witches, speaking an agreement out loud is enough of a binding contract. They shake on it, then Nanami leaves, forgoing smalltalk and most pleasantries.
Suguru goes back to the files and calls Manami. “Tell everyone that it’s time to slow down a bit and lay low.”
“Hello to you, too, Geto-san. What did you do this time?”
Manami is still a little upset with him for agreeing to work with Satoru on Yuta and Rika’s case. It was, admittedly, a huge gamble, but it paid off, so Suguru generally ignores her digs, feeling good about his choices.
“I agreed to help an old kohai with something, and it may or may not be a trap. I’ll keep you updated.”
“This is turning into a pattern. We’re going to find you an assertiveness coach if it continues. I’m not joking.”
It’s cute that she thinks she can force him to do anything. “I weighed the pros and cons very carefully, I promise. Something did seem off, though, so let’s make sure the clans aren’t onto us. You’ll keep me updated?”
“Of course. Try to be careful, Geto-san.”
“Always am.” He hangs up—the lack of greetings and goodbyes is a running joke between them at this point—and turns his attention back to the case. Dragon reappears from wherever he’d gone to avoid Nanami, only to curl up on the loveseat and stare at Suguru with judgemental blue eyes. Suguru ignores him.
It’s impossible to say when the victims were affected by whatever ails them—presumably a curse—but their wounds appeared within the span of a week. May seventh, Monday. Then Wednesay and Thursday, the ninth and the tenth. A three days’ break, and two cases in a row: Monday and Tuesday, the fourtheenth and the fifteenth. It would be premature to call it a pattern, but it very well could be one. Today is the sixteenth, and not even noon. If a new person is affected, they may not come forward immediately.
A bite could signify a number of things. Hunger, desire, ownership. A feral sort of aggression, or violence against a beloved abuser. A desperate defence, or a naive, childish attack. Suguru has seen his fair share of similar cursed afflictions. The main thing distinguishing this one is how methodical it seems. Unusually free of strong emotions—the wounds are small, with no signs of tearing, and only one per person. It’s interesting.
Suguru spends a couple of hours going through each of the victim’s files, then updating them with what he can dig up online. There really is no pattern.
Shoulder blade is a single mother in her forties. She works in an office, has a dating app profile that seems active but isn’t very fleshed out, and spends a lot of time cheering on her sports inclined sons.
Elbow is a man in his seventies, married, a grandfather of many, retired after a successful career as a journalist. Some of his investigative pieces have gathered national fame, and his memoir sold a good number of copies.
Ankle is a seven year old boy, who seems to be going through a bread phase, based on his parents’ social media. His family life appears aggressively normal otherwise, though Suguru really doesn’t think people should document their children’s lives online.
Lower abdomen is a college student who spends most of her time partying and drinking. Based on some of the (poorly written) poetry she’s posted on social media, she suffered some form of abuse at home, most likely verbal. She frequents forums dedicated to the topic of eating disorders.
Finally, neck is a wheelchair bound man in his mid twenties. He creates online content about the experience of being disabled in Japan, as well as horror video game let's plays. He has family in Tokyo, but grew up in the countryside, and seems to be trying hard to get as much out of life as he can.
There’s a common thread, Suguru supposes. All of these people are currently pursuing or have pursued something important to them, to the detriment of other areas of their lives. Shoulder blade likely remains single because her focus is on her kids, elbow’s career surely required serious sacrifices, and so on. Ankle doesn’t really fit the pattern, though. He’s just a little kid who likes bread, but his relationship with his parents is probably going to suffer for it, when he grows up enough to realise what it means to have become a meme.
The fact that Suguru can so easily fit all the victims into this potential pattern is a problem. It might mean that the mould is too general and vague, enough so that almost anyone would fit in it. He can’t let himself get stuck on this theory.
He takes a much needed break to eat something, water his plants, and send the bakery’s address to Yuta and Rika. A low-profile case like this is a perfect learning experience. Suguru drives, because the less time he has to spend tasting the emotions of the people around him, the more normal he can be for the rest of the day. He finds the kids already on the scene, sitting by one of the three small tables outside and munching on muffins.
“Hey,” Suguru greets them, dropping into a chair. “How are we doing today? Ready for some magic?”
“Hi, Geto-san,” says Rika, smiling kindly as her aura turns sour with annoyance.
Yuta swallows a mouthful of muffin. “Hi, sensei! You said this is about a case?” The air around him tastes like oranges and pickled ginger, all nervous excitement.
“That’s right. An old friend wanted me to take over an investigation into what is probably a curse. I’d like you two to help out, see how this kind of case can be handled.”
“Cool,” Yuta breathes. “What do you think, Rika-chan?”
She tilts her head cutely, and lies through her teeth, “I’m excited, too. Where do we start?”
Suguru beams at them. He pulls out his phone to show them photos of the bite marks. “A few patrons of this bakery have been affected with strange wounds. So far I haven’t found anything else they have in common. They just like the same bread.”
“It would have been nice if you warned us,” Rika says sweetly, glancing at her half-eaten muffin like it might come alive and attack her.
“Eh, you have your protective charms, you’ll be fine.”
Suguru spends the next half hour explaining the basics to the kids while keeping half of his attention on the bakery and its patrons. It’s nearing closing time, but people are still coming in and out. Business is apparently booming.
When he deems the kids sufficiently caught up to speed, Suguru turns to Yuta. “Alright, Yuta. You’re going to go in and try to sniff out any unusual residuals, weird auras, and the like. Remember what we said about keeping your aura contained and not tainting a scene? Rika will sit here with me and help you out.”
The girl shoots him a glare disguised as a gentle smile. Suguru is excellent at seeing right through Rika, because he has been masking his own emotions in a very similar way for years. It’s probably why they don’t get along, too alike in their dishonesty.
Yuta’s eyes are wide. “What if I mess up? Will you still be able to solve the case?”
“You won’t mess up, we’ve practised this a lot.” Suguru smiles wider and makes a shooing motion. “Off you go, they’ll be getting ready to close soon.”
Yuta lurches to his feet, shoots an uncertain smile at Rika, and heads into the bakery.
The moment his back is to them, Rika’s expression morphs into one of deep annoyance. “You should have warned us, Geto-san. I don’t care about the charms. Don’t ever put Yuta in danger.”
Suguru watches Yuta through the bakery’s windows. “He’s a witch, Rika, and he chose to put himself in danger when he got bonded to you. My job is to prepare him for a lifetime of dodging trouble, and sometimes, that means scaring him a little. You know his main weakness is that he’s too unsure of himself.”
It’s been almost two full months since Suguru gained his new apprentices, and things are honestly going well. Yuta is an incredibly fast learner—he reminds Suguru of teenage Satoru a lot—while Rika has shown that she will go to any lengths to keep Yuta safe and happy.
Physical separation turned out not to be a problem as long as the two of them can constantly message or call each other. Possibly, they’ve unconsciously charmed their phones. Because Rika’s grandma is a pushover, and Yuta’s parents work extremely long hours, the kids see each other at school, then spend the rest of the day together, only separating to sleep. Suguru has tried to push them to test their limits, but Rika’s reaction was so violent that the experiment got indefinitely postponed.
“Yuta can do anything he puts his mind to,” Rika declares with absolute confidence.
“Exactly. And we’re going to help him realise that.” Yuta seems to be handling himself well in the bakery, so Suguru turns his full attention to Rika. “Since we’re waiting, show me your maths homework.”
She grimaces, but does as told. Suguru thinks that Rika secretly likes this kind of attention. Until now, the adults in her life have been either scared of her or completely wrapped around her finger. This is probably closer to a normal father-daughter interaction than anything she’s experienced from her actual dad. Though the strongest taste in her aura is disgruntlement, sour like an unripe apple, Suguru detects traces of sickly sweet desire to please, followed closely by salty self-deprecation.
They work through a few maths problems before Yuta makes it back outside. He sets three croissants on the table.
“I couldn’t not buy something after looking around for so long,” he admits sheepishly.
“Thank you.” Suguru digs into the pastry immediately, eager to get it over with. There’s a reason why he never eats out if he can help it, but he isn’t going to show that kind of weakness in front of the kids. A croissant is mild enough for him to handle, even with the traces of licorice fatigue baked into it.
“I didn’t feel anything weird from the patrons,” Yuta reports. “But the girl behind the counter seemed nervous. I dunno. And some of the baked goods made me really hungry even though I’m not. Like… not even hungry, really, but I really wanted them?”
“Interesting.” Suguru finishes the croissant. “Good job, Yuta. What do you think that means?”
The boy takes a moment to think. “Maybe… someone’s baking the curse into bread? And the people who buy and eat it are affected? But it doesn’t make sense to do that on purpose. Why would they want to hurt their customers?”
“Excellent question. Sometimes, people curse each other accidentally. Do you have ideas for how that might happen?”
“They look up magic online and do it wrong,” Rika offers.
Suguru nods. “That happens a lot. Anything else?”
“If someone has the talent to be a witch,” Yuta says, “like I did, without knowing it… Can they use it accidentally?”
“They sure can. There’s also the possibility of external influence. For example, I could give someone a charmed ring that would make that person’s emotions sink into anything they touch.” Suguru shrugs. “It’s rare, though. Firstly, making a charm powerful enough would require a lot of time, effort, or both. And secondly, that kind of roundabout approach usually isn’t worth the trouble.”
“But it could be a witch trying to hurt people and hiding their involvement by being indirect,” Rika says.
“That’s right.” It’s why the clans took interest in this case. What’s happening falls squarely under illegal magic activity. It’s bad PR. “You two can head home if you want. I’ll send you the case files, and we’ll talk about your conclusions tomorrow.”
They exchange goodbyes. Suguru leaves the kids to finish their pastries and walks into the bakery. It’s a little less than an hour until closing time, so not a lot of their goods are still on the shelves.
It doesn’t take Suguru long to identify the products that seemed off to Yuta. It’s all different types of bread, and they smell heavenly, except for underlying notes of bitterness and fiery spice. Suguru’s eyes water a little as the clerk builds a small mountain of bread on the counter for him. The girl’s aura is interesting, too. Sadness or regret like bitter peppers, watery fatigue, and lemon juice anxiety. The flavours mix strangely, clumping together and separating at intervals, dragging in the muted taste of the shop’s ambient magic.
This would be typical for someone going through a serious life crisis, such as the loss of a job or a terminal diagnosis. The girl herself tastes healthy, though—people that are about to die always carry an extra note of rot or mildew, and sickness usually registers as some kind of fermented fruit. It could be about a family member, then, or some other kind of tragedy. The important bit is that the girl is vulnerable to magical influence, and any experienced witch would have taken note of that.
“Thank you very much for your business,” she tells Suguru as he’s leaving with his purchases. “Please visit us again!”
Suguru takes his armful of bread home and spreads it over the living room table. His kitchen is a sacred space; he will not taint it with a curse. Compelled by intuition, he turns on the TV and immediately, there’s Satoru, talking to a female reporter with a fake smile and meticulously neat appearance.
They tend to send women to interview him, Suguru has noticed. He wonders if it’s a bigoted attempt to make Satoru sound less credible, or if it simply pleases the masses to look at a handsome man beside an attractive woman.
“A string of strange occurrences befalling patrons of libraries across the country has ignited discussion about the pros and cons of banning books detailing magical practices,” she says, rapid-fire but with excellent diction. “Has the Council for the Promotion of Witchcraft issued a statement at this time?”
Satoru, leaning comfortably back in his chair, legs crossed, hands steepled over his knee, appears entirely at ease. “Yes, but I’m not going to quote it.” He laughs, and the reporter, helpless, joins him. “What I will say is that the comparison between the proposed ban and the Firearm and Sword Possession Control Law is not as silly as it may sound. Here’s a fun fact for you: in the vast majority of cases where books and other materials on magical practices have been misused with harmful results, the perpetrators were non-witches, attempting something they shouldn’t. Actual witches learn through years-long apprenticeships, guided by experienced masters.”
The woman nods, expression now serious. “Don’t you think that all people should have the right to use magic, regardless of whether or not they have a talent for it?”
“As nice as that sounds in theory, in practice, it’s more like trying to compose music without hearing, or paint without sight. Without understanding what it means to hear or to see.” Satoru turns to the camera, letting his sunglasses slide down his nose so he can stare down the audience. “The results can certainly be interesting, and there are some applications of modern witchcraft that are relatively harmless, but the more complex and powerful rituals should not be attempted by anyone without proper training.”
“This seems like a good opportunity to talk about the proposed legislation that would require witches to obtain licences in order to practise their craft legally,” the reporter says. “Can you comment on that?”
Suguru turns the TV off, wholly uninterested in whatever the Council wants Satoru to say on the subject. There will be no new regulations, because handing over that much power to the government is not in the clans’ best interest. Simple as that.
Refocusing on his case, Suguru chokes down bite-sized chunks of bread and tries to pay attention to what the curse wants to do to him, but it’s difficult when the bread tastes like doughy ghost pepper sauce mixed with raw dandelion leaves.
Suguru’s house is charmed to help him handle the onslaught of another’s aura and block external ambient magic. Those charms do nothing against magic that’s going directly into his body. Red faced and searching urgently for a tissue to dry his eyes and blow his nose, Suguru gives up after the sixth piece of bread. He sits back on the couch, breathing a little hard, eyes closed to ward off nausea.
It’s strange. The bread seems to be charmed to make a person want to buy it and eat it. It provokes an uncomfortably strong desire for a baked good—Suguru suspects most people would find it off-putting, and buy something else. Once eaten, though, the magic just sort of settles like a weight in his gut, doing nothing. Possibly, it has a delayed effect with some sort of emotional trigger.
Frustrated with himself, Suguru chucks a loaf of bread into a trash bag. He should be able to learn more. Tasting magic is his specialty; he’s the only one who can. If his stupid, useless talent isn’t even good for this, what’s the point of it? Ruining his life and offering nothing in return?
Ah-ha, there it is. As the magic in his stomach flares up with heat, Suguru feels sharp pressure on his right hand, between thumb and forefinger. When he brings the hand up to his face, Suguru is hit by an eye-watering mix of spices that remind him of sambal and South East Asian cuisine. He lets the curse do its thing for half a second before absorbing the magic. It settles under his skin as a bottomless hunger for meaning, for purpose.
Suguru jerks to his feet, nausea made worse by the feelings the curse has awakened. He stumbles into the kitchen for the bottle of cold brew he always keeps in the fridge for emergencies. He takes a large gulp, swishes the bitter coffee around his mouth, and is just beginning to feel better when the ringtone he’s set up for Satoru blasts from his pocket.
There’s nothing Suguru can do other than pick up. “I guess that interview was pre-recorded, then,” he says, and immediately curses himself. He must be really out of it if he’s betraying so easily that he pays attention to Satoru’s public appearances.
He’s answered by delighted laughter. “Aw, Suguru, are you secretly one of my fans?”
Silently, Suguru scoffs. He’s the OG Gojo Satoru fan, has been since they were fifteen. It’s not even a secret, but Suguru is hardly going to admit it out loud. “You have fans?”
“That’s what the PR team tells me, and also Yaga’s apprentices. Apparently, people have written stories about me. There are drawings, too. Crazy, isn’t it?”
Suguru, who also spends time around teenagers and actually listens to what they talk about, has a pretty good idea of what kind of fanfiction and fanart involving Satoru is being created. “Ah, the burden of fame. If you weren’t a witch, you’d need to go out in a disguise.”
“Sometimes, someone will walk into the shop and get really excited when they see me. And then upset, when I don’t let them take a selfie with me.”
Even though photos of Satoru are widely available online, it’s smart of him to be cautious. A selfie has a deeper meaning than a shot from an interview or other public appearance. The potential magical applications are too much of a concern.
His shop, too, is protected by an assortment of charms and wards. Suguru felt them brush against his awareness when he spent the night there. Most likely, people are able to find and enter the shop only when they really need a witch’s services, and don’t get to keep clear memories of their time there. It’s effective, though less thorough than Suguru’s own protections.
“How tragic,” he deadpans, starting to lose patience. “Did you have a reason to call?”
It’s not the first time Satoru has done so out of the blue. These random check-ins are the unfortunate consequence of sharing responsibility for Yuta and Rika with Satoru—who, to his credit, hasn’t followed his natural inclination to be pushy and obnoxious. Until now.
“Felt like a good time to check on you,” he says.
Suguru shouldn’t be surprised. The two of them have always been able to tell when the other was in any sort of distress. Over the last few years, Suguru has gotten used to ignoring the sudden pounding of his heart, goosebumps, or ringing in his ears. He assumes that it’s been the same for Satoru, only now, with the excuse of checking on Rika and Yuta, he’s taking liberties.
“There’s no reason for you to worry about me,” Suguru murmurs. He wonders if he sounds pleased despite his protest. He hopes not.
“There’s no harm in it, right?” Satoru has always been the type to take more than he’s offered. “I’m already calling to check on the kids every week. Relax.”
“So limit yourself to calls about the kids, or I’ll stop picking up.” It is, of course, an empty threat. “I was in the middle of something.”
Satoru snorts. “Yeah, I could tell.” His voice echoes, then there’s the sound of a car being unlocked. He must be in a multi storey car park. “It doesn’t have to be so complicated, you know. Ijichi, we can go.” The last words are quieter, a little muffled.
“Your entire existence is complicated, Satoru. I’m not budging on this, so back off.” Suguru knows himself too well to risk it. Staying away with zero contact was difficult enough, but this is torture.
Satoru heaves a defeated sigh. “Fine, fine. Spoilsport.” He pauses. “You were wrong, by the way.”
“About what?”
“The interview was live. I called right after. Might have cut it a little short, even.”
“Then that’s your mess to clean up,” Suguru says, and hangs up.
He slumps against the fridge, cold brew forgotten in his other hand, and stares at the screen of his phone as it turns black. He feels much better after hearing Satoru’s voice. It’s awful. Suguru mindlessly finishes his coffee, wrenching his mind away from temptation and back into focus. He has a job to finish.
Back in the living room, he examines his hand. There’s the beginning of a bite, individual teeth clearly indented into his skin—and already fading. Suguru snaps a few photos then relocates to the bathroom. In front of the mirror, he carefully fits his mouth over the mark. Angling his head this way and that, he determines that he was right. The would-be wound is his own dental impression.
Disliking having to do so, he snaps a few photos of his hand between his teeth. Even shitty proof is better than nothing. He glances at the phone screen and notes the late hour. Time to call it a day.
Suguru throws out most of the bread, and locks the one remaining loaf in a large tin can. He digs out his paper seals—simple verbal spells written with animal blood on handmade paper—and glues a few to the tin. It should be good enough to prevent leakage, since the curse isn’t particularly strong. It’s powered mostly by the victim’s own emotions. Still, Suguru will not tolerate that taste permeating the air of his home.
As he settles down to sleep, he remembers his promise to the kids, and sends them the files, along with a quick writeup of his findings. After a moment of hesitation, he follows up with Nanami, too. The sooner Suguru figures out the man’s real intentions, the better.