Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wake up. 

Shower. 

Brush your teeth. 

Eat breakfast.

Go to work.

Come home. 

Eat dinner.

Go to sleep. 

Repeat. 

The days bleed into one another in a reassuring cycle. It’s a life built on predictability, carefully constructed to defend against the chaos that whispers at the edges of your mind.

You don't know if you’ve been reincarnated or if you’re just fundamentally broken. 

The second option feels more likely on most days. This is, for all intents and purposes, your second time around. There’s no dramatic backstory to it. No memory of how the first one ended. You’ve learned not to dwell on it. What’s the point? There’s no flash of light, no speeding truck. There is only a before, and a now. And the before is a problem.

The before is a language you’ve never studied but speak with perfect fluency. It’s the lyrics to a thousand songs that haven’t been written yet. It’s the detailed plot of a blockbuster movie that won’t be filmed for another decade. It’s an encyclopedia of useless knowledge rattling around in a brain that should be focused on restocking instant noodles and wiping down the counter.

You’ve learned, through years of anxiety and panic, to build a wall of sorts.

The memories are not real. They are a coping mechanism, a fantasy, a complex delusion your mind built for reasons you’ll never understand. You have to believe that. The alternative that you somehow lived a whole life and then simply just… started another one is a door you refuse to open. Because what would come of it? If you accept that the before is real, you’d have to accept that you are living in a world that is not your own, a past that is not yours. You’d have to accept the overwhelming loneliness of it all.

So you ignore it. You adapt. You rationalize.

It’s just déjà vu.

It’s just a weirdly specific dream you once had.

It’s just your brain playing tricks on you.

This is your life now. The chime of the konbini’s sliding door, the hum of the beverage cooler, the polite cadence of customer service.

Grounded. 

Mundane.

But some days, in the silence between customers, a feeling of panic bubbles up in your chest. A sense of responsibility for a future you shouldn’t know. A dreadful feeling that you’ve forgotten something important.

And sometimes, the dam breaks. 

The carefully constructed walls of your mundane life crumble, and the memories flood in of a life that isn't yours. You grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white, head bowed, just trying to breathe through it. Sometimes you just want to scream.

You can suddenly, vividly, picture a suburban street in America, the scent of cut grass and asphalt after a summer rain. You can almost hear your parents’ voices, a gentle murmur on the other end of the phone. They feel so real, so close, that the ache in your chest is a physical weight.

The memories aren't always kind. 

The humiliation burns just as brightly as the joy. You're back in a crowded university hall, the air thick with perfume and forced enthusiasm. You’ve been rejected by the in-group. You’re too nerdy, too alternative, too weird. You can feel the phantom sting of tears, the lump in your throat as you choke back sobs in your best friend’s arms, her comforting hand rubbing your back. Her name is on the tip of your tongue, a ghost of a syllable you can't quite form.

These moments leave you hollowed out, a stranger in your own skin. 

Who are you? 

The person stocking shelves, or the one who remembers the distinct taste of cheap coffee from a 24 hour diner after a failed exam? The helplessness is a suffocating blanket. You are haunted by a life you can never return to, trapped in a reality that feels more like a copy than anything else.

But there really is no sense in dwelling on it.

You take a deep breath. You mentally gather the ghosts of the before and shove them into a box. You lock it, chain it, and sink it into the deepest, darkest part of your mind. You carry on.

You go through the facts. The real facts. A mental checklist to ground yourself back in reality.

Your name.

You live in Tokyo, Japan, and you have lived here all your life. 

Your parents passed away in a car accident when you were a teenager. They are not waiting for a phone call in a house that doesn't exist an ocean away. 

You never went to university. 

You do not know the sting of rejection for being an otaku.

You work at a konbini.

You repeat the last one, feeling the smooth, cool surface of the counter beneath your fingertips. 

You work at a konbini. You are a person who sells snacks and magazines. That is all. The walls slide back into place, patched and precarious, but standing for now.

You are safe in the mundane.

The door chimes, pulling you from your thoughts. 

The store is quiet, the late-afternoon sun casting long shadows across the aisles. The panic has receded, leaving behind a familiar, hollow ache. You've locked the memories away again. They always come back, but for now, there is peace.

A gaggle of tourists enters, a sudden burst of noise and confused energy. 

They cluster around the counter, waving around a map and speaking in rapid-fire English. Your kohai, a sweet girl still in high school, freezes in her tracks.

But you don't lose a beat. Before you can even think about it, the words are forming on your tongue, smooth and effortless. It's an unnerving sensation, almost like your mouth is moving on its own to match the concepts in your head.

"Are you looking for the station?" you ask. Your English is perfect, without a trace of an accent you should probably have. The language feels foreign and yet deeply familiar on your tongue, a bizarre paradox that never fails to send a shiver down your spine. You’ve never studied English. In fact, you slept through most of your English classes in grade school.

The leader of the group looks at you in surprised relief.

The man looks at you with wide, relieved eyes, "Yes! Thank God. We're completely lost."

"You'll want to go out, take a right, and walk two blocks. You'll see the entrance on your left. You can't miss it," you explain, the vocabulary freely flowing.

They thank you profusely and leave, the door chiming with their exit. The store falls silent again.

"Your English is so amazing," your cute, little kohai says, her voice full of awe.

You shrug. "I watched a lot of American TV as a kid," you lie. It’s believable enough. There’s truly no way you would be able to truthfully describe your proficiency.

In moments like these, you can’t deny that the before is kinda helpful sometimes. You aren’t exactly going to complain about being bilingual without ever needing to study.

The rest of the shift passes in an uneventful blur. A few customers drift in for late-night snacks or drinks, but the rush is over for the most part.

About an hour before closing, you turn to your kohai, who is starting to yawn over her history textbook behind the counter. "You can head out," you tell her. "Go home and study. You're too bright to be stuck here all night."

She beams a grateful but tired smile. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. I've got this."

You enjoy the zen of closing up alone. The rhythmic wipe of a cloth on the counters, the final count of the register. Each task is a small, grounding ritual. There are no weird memories here, no before. There is only the familiar, methodical process of shutting down for the night. Nothing unusual happens.

The subway ride home is a quiet cocoon of motion and muffled announcements. You keep your head down, lost in the sea of tired faces. You’re just another anonymous commuter. Back in your shoebox apartment, the microwave hums as it heats a frozen burrito you picked up from the international market. You eat while standing in the kitchen.

Finally, you fall into bed, the sheets cool against your skin. The day's anxieties all fade into the background. It was just another day. Another turn of the wheel in a cycle you have fought so hard to maintain.

Time to start again.

–

Your workday has been blessedly normal so far. 

Your kohai called in sick, so it’s just you. The morning rush is long over, and the afternoon lull has settled in. It’s a peaceful stretch of time perfect for restocking shelves and getting lost in the rhythm of work.

Then the bell chimes, and he walks in.

He’s tall, with perfectly combed blond hair and a tan suit that looks far too expensive for a convenience store run. He moves with a sense of purpose, beelining straight for the bread aisle.

And your brain just… shorts out.

The sense of familiarity is so overwhelming, so immediate, that you have to stop yourself from physically flinching. It’s almost like seeing a childhood friend you haven’t met up with in twenty years. It’s an instant jolt of recognition but without any of the context needed to actually place it. 

You take him in, the strange, goggle-like sunglasses and the serious set of his jaw. Honestly, he gives off major DILF energy. Definitely a tourist, you reason, trying to shove the weird feeling of familiarity into a box. It’s a good thing your kohai isn’t here. She’d have an aneurysm at the thought of having to use her broken English with him.

But the feeling persists, an insistent itch in your brain. You know him. You know him. You know him.

He stops in front of the display of sliced bread and just… stands there. He stares at the selection of milk bread, whole wheat, raisin bread with an intensity that’s frankly bizarre. One minute passes, then two. He doesn’t move, his head tilted slightly as if the bread holds the secrets to the universe.

Your professional instincts start to override the creeping sense of déjà vu. 

Is he looking for something specific? Can he not find what he needs? The silence in the store starts to feel weird, and you find yourself gripping the edge of the counter.

It gets more awkward with every passing second. You stand there watching until you can't take it anymore. Wiping your hands on your pants, you step out from behind the counter. The logical part of your brain says he's just a tourist having a hard time with the local brands. The other, louder part is screaming that you know this man.

You clear your throat, opting for the path of least resistance. "Excuse me, sir," you start, the English flowing out smoothly. "Do you need any help finding something?"

The man turns from the bread display, and his gaze, obscured by the dark lenses of his glasses, settles on you. He looks completely, utterly baffled.

Then, in perfect, native Japanese, he says, "I'm sorry, miss, I don't speak English."

A hot wave of mortification washes over you. Oh my god. You just assumed. You can't believe you just profiled a man based on his hair color.

"Oh! I am so, so sorry!" you blurt out in Japanese, bowing at the waist in a flustered apology. "It was the blond hair, I just assumed you were a tourist. That was incredibly rude of me. I am so sorry."

You take a breath, trying to regain some semblance of professional composure. "I was just asking if you needed help with anything."

His expression softens. "Ah, I see. Yes, thank you. I can't seem to find any gruyère stuffed melonpan. Do you have any in stock?"

You're quiet for a moment. You know the answer, you just don't want to deliver the bad news. He looks like he's had a long day.

"I'm so sorry," you say, your voice gentle. "That melonpan was actually discontinued a few weeks ago. We don't have any more."

You have never, in your entire life, seen a grown ass man look so dejected so quickly. It's like a light switch flips off. The lines of his face seem to grow deeper, pulling his expression down into one of profound disappointment. His shoulders slump. 

All of this, over bread.

"I see," he says, his voice flat. He gives you a short, polite nod. "Thank you for your time."

And with that, he turns and walks dejectedly out of the store, the door chiming softly behind him, leaving you standing alone in the aisle, wondering what the hell just happened.

And then, just as the door slides shut, it clicks.

It's not a gentle realization. It's a violent slam of information, a missing puzzle piece from a box you typically keep locked far, far away. The familiarity isn’t from this life. It’s from the before.

A TV show? An anime? The memory is fragmented, the title and the character's name lost in a fog, but the image is crystal clear. You've seen that man before. You've seen him drawn, animated, on a screen. The haircut, the strange glasses, the impeccably tailored suit. He looked exactly like a character from a story.

Your breath catches in your throat. The air suddenly feels too thick to breathe, the fluorescent lights too bright.

No.

The word is like a desperate prayer in your mind. That's not possible. It can't be. People can look like other people. It's a coincidence. Your broken brain is just latching onto a familiar face and projecting it onto a random stranger who just wanted some weird bread. That's the logical explanation. That's the story you have to believe.

But he looked exactly the same. The way he stood, tired and disappointed over a damn pastry. It was too specific. Too real.

But that's not possible. 

Is it?

"God fucking damnit," you breathe out in English. "If I've been living in an isekai this whole damn time I'm going to scream."

The words hang in the air. An isekai. Yeah right.

But it makes sense in a weird, fucked up way.

The thought galvanizes you. Panic gives way to a desperate need. You can't let him just walk away. This is too important, too coincidental to ignore. You have to know his name. You have to be sure.

You suddenly bolt for the door, your uniform catching on the corner of a display stand and nearly sending you sprawling. You curse the automatic door for opening so slowly and burst out onto the sidewalk.

You scan the street left, then right. There are a few pedestrians, a cyclist waiting at the light, cars rolling past.

But he's gone.

There’s no sign of a tall man in a tan suit. It’s only been seconds, surely not nearly enough time for him to have turned a corner or disappeared into the crowd. He’d simply vanished. As if he was never there at all.

The cold afternoon air hits your face. You stand on the pavement, the familiar sounds of the city washing over you, and your certainty drains away, replaced by a hollow emptiness.

You imagined it.

The thought pulls you back to a reality that makes sense, even if it means you are slowly losing your mind. 

You imagined the man. You imagined the entire, bizarre conversation. He was a hallucination, a waking dream conjured by a broken brain that can no longer tell the difference between dream and reality.

You stumble back into the store, the chime of the door sounding unnervingly loud in the silence. You don’t even make it to the counter. You lean your back against the cool glass of the window, sliding down to the floor. It’s easier this way. It’s safer to believe you’re crazy than to believe the world itself is a lie.

–

A month has passed.

Thirty days of blissful normalcy. The incident with the blond man has been successfully filed away in the box of things that are easier to believe were never real. You’ve convinced yourself, through sheer force of will, that he was a stress-induced hallucination. A waking nightmare brought on by too many late shifts and not enough sleep. It’s a perfectly logical explanation.

You’re just overworked and anxious. It's a diagnosis you can live with. So you double down on your routine, finding solace in its predictability. 

Wake up. Shower. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. 

The cycle becomes your shield.

Tonight is no different. You’re in your small apartment, the gentle hum of the microwave the only sound as it heats a dinner that comes in a plastic tray. The day had been blessedly uneventful. A steady stream of customers, none of whom looked like they had stepped out of a half-forgotten dream. You feel a quiet sense of victory. You are in control. You are just a normal person, living a normal life.

There’s a distinct chill in the air tonight, the kind that seeps in through the window frames. The plastic tray of food feels warm in your hands as you slide your legs under the heavy quilt of the kotatsu. You pick up the remote and flip on the television, landing on some mindless reality show where brightly-lit celebrities with too much makeup laugh at things that aren’t funny. 

The canned laughter and dramatic music fill the silence.

It’s quiet. It’s peaceful.

Suddenly, the cheerful music is cut short by a shrill, piercing tone.

The screen goes black, then flashes with a block of red text. It’s the kind of tone that makes your stomach clench, the one reserved for earthquakes or tsunami warnings.

You lean forward, squinting at the screen, your chopsticks hovering over your meal. A scrolling message at the bottom of the screen confirms the alert. 

A series of unexplained gas explosions reported in Shinjuku? Residents are being urged to stay indoors. Public transportation in the area is being suspended. It sounds like a horrifying tragedy. You feel a distant pang of sympathy for the people caught in the chaos.

But then, an unease settles in your stomach, heavy and cold. You fumble for the remote, your thumb mashing the channel-up button, skipping past game shows and dramas until you land on a news broadcast.

The screen is filled with the face of a serious-looking newscaster, but you don’t pay attention to what she’s saying. Your eyes are glued to the grainy, preliminary photos flashing in the corner of the screen. They were taken on cell phones, blurry and chaotic.

There’s no way this was a gas explosion.

Entire building facades are gone, blown out as if by a massive force. Windows are shattered for blocks. A multi-story shopping center looks like a skeletal husk, its insides gutted out and blackened. It’s wrong. All wrong.

Your gaze drifts to the date displayed in a small, neat font at the bottom of the screen.

December 24th.

You’re not sure why the date hits you like it does, but it knocks the air from your lungs. 

Words, concepts you hadn't thought of in years, force their way into your brain. They’re alien and yet familiar, bubbling up from the deepest parts of the before.

Night Parade.

Sorcerers.

Curses.

You drop your chopsticks and they clatter against the low table. But you don’t hear it over the deafening roar in your own mind.

It’s… it’s all real.

The constant, nagging fear for your own sanity is gone, replaced by an internal fire alarm drowning out everything else with a shrill, deafening clang.

Holy shit. Holy shit. This is real.

It isn’t a tragedy. It isn’t a news report. It’s a chapter in a fucking book? 

People are dying right now, and they are dying according to a goddamn script you hold in your head.

The panic clawed its way up your throat.

How? How the FUCK could you know about this? 

This has never happened before. It couldn't have. This is your life, your timeline, your goddamn reality. Not some story.

But the voice in your head is screaming now. This wasn't a gas leak. This wasn't a random act of violence. This was a fucking terrorist attack. A declaration of war.

A war between the sorcerers and the curses.

What the hell does that even mean? 

The words are nonsense, absolute gibberish from a life that shouldn't exist. What’s a sorcerer? What the fuck is a curse? The terms mean nothing, and yet, in the pit of your stomach, you know they are the truest things in the world. You know that they are the reason a part of the city is burning.

It’s like a floodgate opened to a part of your brain you didn't even know you had. The information feels ancient, like something you haven’t thought about in decades. You aren’t trying to remember it, it’s just there, forcing its way out, pulled from a story you had completely forgotten ever existed.

Your body moves before your brain can catch up. Your half-eaten dinner soon sits forgotten as you scramble out from under the kotatsu. Your knees hit the floor hard as you lunge for your phone. Your hands are shaking so violently it takes you three tries to unplug it.

The screen feels too bright, the icons unfamiliar. You stab at the browser icon, the search bar blinking at you with a stupid indifference. What do you even search for?

Your trembling fingers type out the first thing you can think of.

blond man tan suit anime

The results are a useless stream of fashion ads and fan art for characters from a dozen other shows. None of them are him.

Useless. Think.

You delete the text, your thumb smearing the screen. You try again, more specific this time.

Shinjuku monster attack anime

The search engine floods you with links to the very news reports you're watching. Breaking updates, official statements from the police. It’s all real, happening now. There are no links to a story. No wiki pages. No fan forums discussing a plot.

A cold dread begins to seep into your bones. One last, desperate try.

Night Parade of a Hundred Demons

You scroll through the results. It’s all mythology. Historical articles about folklore. Academic papers on ancient Japanese legends. Woodblock prints of demons and ghosts. There's nothing. Not a single, goddamn thing about a story.

And that's when you understand.

Your searching is failing because there's nothing to find. The source material doesn't exist here. In this world, the story was never written. The anime was never made. It only exists in the before.

The phone slips from your grasp and clatters onto the floor. You are completely alone with this knowledge. You can't prove it. You can't explain it. If you ran out into the street right now and started screaming about curses and sorcerers, nobody would listen. You’d probably get yourself locked away.

You are the sole witness to a fictional catastrophe. Except it doesn't feel fucking fictional. Not when the news is still blaring from the TV, showing real smoke coming from real fire. Not when you can almost hear the distant sirens. It's not a story when you're actually living in it. It's just a Sunday. And on this Sunday in particular, Shinjuku is blowing up and people are dying.

For a long moment, you just sit there on the cold floor, the energy draining out of you. The news anchor's voice continues to drone. The sirens are just city noise. You are small and insignificant, and the world is ending according to a story you can't even properly remember. Hiding in your routine, building walls… what’s the point? The story apparently found you anyway.

The only question left is, "What do I do now?"

You can't be a passive observer in this. You can't just go to work tomorrow and pretend none of this is happening. If the blond man was real, if this "Night Parade" is real, then the rest of it has to be real, too. The other characters. The heroes of the story. They have to exist.

Your mind begins to race, frantically digging through the murky sediment of the before, searching for another name, another face. You push past the static, the mostly forgotten plot points, searching for someone who could actually do something about all of this. Someone at the center of it all.

And then, a name surfaces. It comes with a flash of white hair, blue eyes, and a confident, infuriating smirk. A man who was described, in that other life, as "The Strongest."

Gojo.

The name feels solid, real. And with it comes another seemingly trivial detail, a weird piece of character information that suddenly feels like the only hope you have of finding this man.

He has a really weird obsession with sweets.

Chapter Text

You're not sure when the sun came up. There was just a point where the blue light from the television was joined by a cloudy gray light from the window. 

Sleep hadn't happened. Sleep was for people who weren't living in a goddamn anime. 

Your back aches from being slumped on the floor for hours, and your legs have gone from pins-and-needles to just plain numb.

On the TV, the live footage and the screaming had stopped. Now it’s just men in helmets and officials in suits talking in serious voices. They keep going on and on about gas leaks and how there’s already an investigation underway.

Fucking liars! 

You saw the photos from last night. You saw the building that looked like a giant took a bite out of it. Gas leaks don't do that. You feel a hysterical giggle bubble up in your throat. They have no idea what they're talking about, but you do. And that is the most terrifying thing in the world.

The thought of your work uniform, folded neatly in your closet, makes you want to laugh until you vomit. Go to work? Stock the rice balls, wipe down the counter, and give your best irasshaimase with a polite smile? While all of this is happening? While a secret war is being fought with monsters and magic that no one else can see?

No. Absolutely not. Your life until now has been a joke. A flimsy cardboard set you just walked off of. That person, the one who meticulously arranged her life into a fortress of routine, is gone. She evaporated sometime last night between the news bulletin and the useless Google searches.

So what's the plan?

The question echoes in your silent, messy apartment. 

There is no plan. 

Wait. Yes, there is. There has to be. 

Your mind latches onto the only two pieces of solid information it has. The name. Gojo. And the other thing. The stupid, ridiculous, useless detail that has somehow become weirdly important. He has an obsession with all things sweets and sugar.

That’s it. That's the plan. Find the man named Gojo, the one they called The Strongest, by finding out where he buys his fucking cakes.

This is insane. It's the single most insane idea you have ever had, probably in your entire life. Hunting for a single person in a city of fourteen million based on a potential dessert preference from a not-so-fictional-anymore story. It's a plan that only a crazy person would come up with. And right now, it's the only thing that makes sense.

Your phone is still on the floor, screen dark. Your fingers feel clumsy as you pick it up, swiping through your contacts until you find the number for the konbini. It rings once. Twice. Your manager picks up, his voice groggy and annoyed on the other end.

"Hello?"

You don't say hello back. You don't apologize for calling so early.

"It's me," you say, and your throat feels like it’s coated in gravel. "I won't be coming in today. Or ever. I quit."

You press the end call button before he can form a question. He wouldn't understand the answer he'd get back anyway. 

There’s no time to waste.

–

Day one of the Great Gojo Hunt. 

You're sitting in the fanciest, most offensively expensive patisserie in Ginza, a place where the air probably costs money.

The chair is velvet. The chandelier is probably worth more than your entire apartment building. In front of you is a strawberry matcha latte that cost more than an entire shift's worth of pay at the konbini. It tastes like regret. You've been pretending to drink it for the last three hours, but it's mostly just a lukewarm cup of failure now. You lean down, hiding your mouth behind the ridiculously wide rim of the mug.

"This sucks," you whisper in English, the words feeling sharp and out of place in the hushed, polite atmosphere. "Why's this gotta be so hard?"

This was a stupid plan. You knew it was a stupid plan when you came up with it, and it’s even supider in practice. 

Every time the little gold bell on the door chimes, your entire nervous system fires at once and you try your best not to scream. Your head snaps up, your muscles tense, and you do a frantic, full-body scan of the new arrival. 

Tall? Check. White hair? Nope. Just a businessman with a receding hairline. Next. Another chime, another customer, another not-Gojo.

You watch a group of wealthy women in pearls laugh over mille-feuille and you desperately want to flip the table. What are you even doing here? You don't belong here. At this price point, chances are Gojo doesn't belong here either. This was a mistake.

You try to look casual, but you feel like a feral animal that wandered into a dollhouse. 

This is a stupid, stupid plan.

Day two of the Great Gojo Hunt doesn't go any better.

Neither do days three and four.

Your ass is numb from all the sitting and your savings account is really starting to feel the burn. You need a new strategy. You can't just stake out every cake shop in Tokyo. You'll be broke and no closer to finding him. 

The word kikufuku keeps bouncing around in your skull, and isn't that specific type of mochi from a certain region? A quick search on your phone points you to a specialty shop in a department store basement. It’s less fancy than some of the shops you’ve been to so far, but way more crowded. 

You spend four hours pretending to browse nearby stalls, your eyes locked on the entrance to the little mochi shop. You see salarymen, grandmothers, tourists. No one with white hair. No one who looks like they could level a city block. By the end of the day, the smell of sweet bean paste is making you nauseous, and you've accomplished absolutely nothing except blowing through more of your savings on train fares and bottled water.

By day seven, your motivation is starting to seriously flag, replaced by a gritty, bone-deep exhaustion and the gnawing fear that you're just having a very public, very expensive mental breakdown. The memory of Shinjuku and the news reporting is the only thing keeping you going. It was real. It had to be.

You're in Shibuya, just wandering aimlessly now, the plan completely shot to hell. Then you see him. Across the scramble crossing, a flash of white hair in the crowd.

Holy shit.

Your heart kick-starts, slamming against your ribs like a trapped bird. Adrenaline floods your system, sharp and metallic. It's him. It has to be. You don't even wait for the light, shoving past strangers who shoot you angry looks. You don't care. You're pushing, scrambling, your eyes locked on that spot of white hair.

"Excuse me! Hey!" you shout, but the words are swallowed by the city's roar.

You're getting closer, fighting through the current of the crowd. You can see the back of his jacket now. He's tall. It's him. You reach out a hand, fingers trembling, ready to grab his shoulder, to finally, finally know.

He turns to say something to the person walking next to him.

And your world just… stops.

It's just a kid. A teenager. Maybe seventeen, with a badly bleached dye job and a derpy grin. He's not even that tall once you get a good look up close. He's just a kid.

The last vestiges of hope, the sudden shock of adrenaline, it all drains out of you in a single, crushing wave, leaving you weak-kneed in the middle of the world's busiest intersection. The walk signal is flashing. People are pushing past you, but you just stand there, defeated. This is impossible. You quit your job and threw your life away for nothing. 

Maybe you really are just crazy.

–

It's over.

The thought lands with a dull, final thud. You're not even fighting it anymore. You’re slumped in a rickety chair in some nameless, grimy coffee shop that smells permanently of stale cigarette smoke and burnt coffee. You’ve been here for hours, staring out the window, watching the world go on without you. 

The black coffee in your chipped mug is bitter and cold, but you keep sipping it because it gives you something to do. The money is almost gone. The adrenaline is a distant memory. The past few days have been a masterclass in humiliation, a slow, methodical descent into a delusion of your own making.

You quit your job over this. A real, stable job that paid your rent. You threw it away to chase a ghost from a damn cartoon, based on his hypothetical preference for pastries. You are a fucking idiot. A certifiable, unemployed idiot.

You watch the parade of normal people walking by on the sidewalk. They all have places to be, jobs to go to, lives that make sense. They aren't on a wild scavenger hunt across Tokyo. 

You drain the last of the wretched coffee and make a decision. This is it. You're done. You'll go back to your apartment. You'll call your old manager tomorrow and grovel, and make up some story about a family emergency. He'll probably laugh at you, but maybe he'll take pity. Or maybe you'll just lie in bed until the eviction notice comes. It doesn't really matter.

Either way, the hunt is over.

And just like that, through the smudged, greasy glass of the window, a figure detaches from the crowd.

He doesn't just walk, he flows. A lazy, long-legged saunter that seems to bend the space around him, moving with an infuriating, breezy confidence that doesn't belong in the real world. He's so tall he has to duck his head to avoid a low-hanging shop awning, a motion he performs with a practiced, almost bored grace. He has a shock of brilliant white hair that seems to suck in all the ambient light against the gray backdrop of the city.

And he's wearing a black blindfold.

Not sunglasses. Not a medical patch. A full, honest-to-god black blindfold, covering the entire top half of his face.

Your brain, which had been sluggishly cycling through various modes of self-pity, just… stops. 

The world around you and the window goes silent. All the thoughts, all the exhaustion, all the crushing defeat, it all ceases to exist. He’s holding a small, elegant white bag with the gold-leaf logo of a world-famous pastry shop, one you’d staked out for three miserable hours on day two. He’s looking down at his phone and a wide, obnoxious grin splits his face as he laughs silently at whatever he's looking at.

It's him.

The recognition jolts you from your stupor. It is so undeniably, so viscerally, so absolutely him that it feels like the universe is playing a cosmic joke. The arrogant set of his shoulders. The way his ridiculously long legs eat up the sidewalk. He is a perfect, living, breathing carbon copy of the fractured memories in your head.

It’s like the world has stopped turning. He’s real. That’s the only thought in your head. He’s real and he’s right there and he’s holding a little bag of cakes.

And then he starts walking away.

That’s what does it. The sight of him moving, of him about to disappear, kicks you into high gear.

Oh no, you don't.

You are not letting him get away.

Your hands, suddenly clumsy and numb, fumble with your wallet. You pull out a crumpled handful of yen and slap it onto the table with a loud smack. It’s probably enough to buy the whole damn coffee pot, but right now you really don’t give a shit. Your chair screeches backward, a sound that cuts through the cafe's quiet and earns you a series of angry, startled glares. You don’t see them. You’re already moving, shoving past a man who’s about to take your table.

You slam through the glass door, the little bell above it jangling violently, and burst out onto the sidewalk. The sudden sounds of the city are like an assault. For a second, you’re disoriented. Then you see him. Still ahead, still sauntering, about twenty meters away now.

Why do his goddamn legs have to be so long? Why's he gotta be so fucking fast?

You're sprinting, a full-blown, panicked run, weaving through the crowd. He's just walking, and you're barely closing the distance. Your heart is a wild animal trying to beat its way out of your chest. Your breath is coming in short, ragged gasps. 

This is it. This is the moment your life splits in two. The point of no return. You are standing on a precipice. Behind you is the life you knew. The life where you are just a crazy girl trying her best to live a quiet life. You can still turn around, go back to your empty apartment, and accept that reality.

Or you can follow him. You can step off the edge of your world and into his. You can accept that the story is real, that you’re not crazy, and that your life is never, ever going to be the same.

He's getting further away. He's about to turn the corner at the end of the block. He’s going to vanish.

It's now or never.

You suck in a breath, the air burning your lungs. You open your mouth to shout, but only a strangled croak comes out. You swallow, your throat as dry as sandpaper, and try again. This time, a voice you don’t even recognize as your own cuts through the noise of the street.

"Gojo-san!"

He doesn't stop suddenly. 

He takes one more fluid step, then freezes mid-stride, one foot hovering just above the pavement. He doesn't turn. He doesn't move. But you see the line of his shoulders, which had been so impossibly relaxed, tense up. 

His head tilts just a fraction of an inch to the side, a curious gesture. 

You almost can’t believe he heard you. In the middle of this loud, chaotic city, he heard you. 

The world narrows down to just the back of his head. He doesn't move for what feels like an eternity, a perfectly still statue in the middle of the flowing river of pedestrians who part around him like water around a stone. The city noise fades into a dull, distant roar.

Holy shit, he actually stopped.

Then, he turns.

He doesn’t whip around like you half expect him to. It’s slow and deliberate, almost lazy. He pivots on the ball of his foot with a liquid grace that seems to defy his sheer size, a predator turning to regard a mouse. First the shoulders, then his body, and finally his head comes around to face you. And all your thoughts suddenly cease to exist.

He's gorgeous.

It’s a stupid, inadequate word for what’s standing in front of you. The fragmented, two-dimensional images from the before were a mockery of this reality. He is impossibly, inhumanly tall. How does he even exist in Japan? You have a fleeting thought about him having to custom-order all his clothes, about him smacking his head on every single doorway and subway entrance in the city. 

His white hair isn't just white, it's a chaotic, brilliant halo of spun moonlight that seems to defy gravity. And below the stark, absolute black of the blindfold, a wide, lazy, infuriatingly confident smirk is plastered on his face.

He’s not alarmed. He’s not threatened. He looks like a king surveying his domain, mildly amused that one of the ants has had the audacity to call out his name.

Throughout heaven and earth, I alone am the Honored One.

You’re not sure where the phrase comes from, but it feels significant. Other than those words, your mind goes completely blank. All the memories from the before, all the reasons you were chasing him down a crowded street blow away like dust. You’re lost. Not in his eyes, you can't see them past the blindfold, but in the sudden, vivid memory of them. A flash of celestial blue from a story you can barely remember watching, the color of a glacial crevasse or a gas flame, something not meant for this world. The memory is so vivid it steals the air from your lungs, leaving you breathless.

You feel a sensation you can't explain. It’s a feeling of being seen, not with eyes, but in a way that is far more invasive, like being run through a full-body scanner that analyzes not just your physical form but your entire history. 

It’s like you’re made of glass, and he’s taking in every single detail in an instant: the cheap, worn-out shoes you're wearing and the miles you've walked in them, the exhaustion etched into the lines of your face, the frantic thrumming of your heart. 

He sees the complete and utter lack of power within you, the fact that you are nothing more than a human in the presence of his grandeur. It happens in a fraction of a second, and it leaves you feeling completely, utterly exposed.

He takes a lazy step toward you, closing the distance slightly, his presence so immense it feels like it’s sucking up all the oxygen on the street. He tilts his head, the motion fluid and curious. The smirk widens.

"Oh?" he asks. His voice is a light, musical tenor that cuts through the city noise and sends a strange shiver down your spine. "You know my name? Should I be flattered? Are you a fan?"

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, but no sound comes out.

Words. You had words. You had a whole plan. Where did it go?

Say something. Say anything. The plan. What was the plan? Oh god, he smells good, like sugar and something clean, like ozone after a storm… No, focus, you idiot! The world is ending!

"I-" you start, your voice coming out as a pathetic squeak. You flush with embarrassment and take a gasping breath, the words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush. "I've been looking everywhere for you. For days." 

You stop as you realize how insane that sounds. You try to recover, grasping for the first important-sounding thing you can think of. "Shinjuku! The... gas leaks…”

Gojo’s smirk doesn't falter. If anything, it widens. He takes another lazy step, then another, closing the gap between you until you have to crane your neck just to see the bottom of his chin. He leans down so that you’re face to face, a playful gesture that feels anything but friendly. 

"Yeah, that was a real mess," he says casually and you can feel his voice rumbling in your chest. "Half of Tokyo is talking about it. But did you really just stop me during my snack break to talk about the evening news, stalker-san?"

Stalker-san? Did he just call me stalker-san? 

The condescending nickname is like a splash of ice water. The stupor shatters and a hot flash of frustration cuts through you. 

This arrogant, beautiful son of a bitch. I quit my job for this. People are dead because of this.

"It wasn't a gas leak," you say. You can hear the slight tremble in your voice.

An image then flashes in your mind. A man with long, flowing black hair tied up in a bun, wearing monk's robes. Bad guy? Yup, definitely the bad guy. The one behind Shinjuku. Is there supposed to be a scar across his forehead? Maybe? No, not yet. 

Then a different, weirder image surfaces. A funky-looking brain with a mouth on it, ancient and evil. The details, which had been murky just a moment ago, suddenly solidify into a sequence. 

Bad guy dies. Super old, super evil parasite brain steals bad guy's body. Bad guy becomes even badder. All in all it sounds very not good.

You stare up at the black fabric of his blindfold as if you can burn a hole through it with your gaze alone. "You need to burn the body."

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and wrong and pulled from a part of your memory you didn't even know existed. For a fraction of a second, the playful energy around him vanishes. The smirk tightens at the edges. The air grows cold and still. He doesn’t look amused anymore.

Then he throws his head back and laughs.

It's an obnoxiously loud, bright sound that makes a passing couple stare. It's a performance, you can tell, and it's for you. 

"Wow," he says, wiping a fake tear from the corner of his blindfold. "That is, by far, the weirdest way anyone has ever tried to get my number. 'Burn the body'? That's a new one. Very creative, I'll give you that."

His number? Is he serious? The whiplash is going to break your neck. 

"What? No!" you sputter, the frustration boiling over into indignation. "I don't want your number! This is serious! People are in danger! You have to listen to me!"

He just waves a dismissive, elegant hand, his wide grin never wavering. "Right, right. Look, I'm flattered by the dedication, really. But you're not really my type," he says, his tone dripping with fake sympathy. He gives you a blindfolded approximation of a final, infuriating wink in the direction of your face. "Have a nice day!"

And with that, he swivels on his heel and walks away. He doesn't saunter now. He moves with a purposeful speed, his long legs eating up the sidewalk. He's not running, but he's covering ground so fast it makes your head spin.

"Wait! Stop!" you yell, your voice cracking, “You have to listen to me!”

You try to run after him, your exhausted body screaming in protest. You shove past people, ignoring their angry shouts, your eyes locked on his back. It's useless. He's already half a block ahead, a flash of white hair in a sea of normal people. You see him duck into a narrow, dark alleyway between two buildings.

You push yourself harder, your lungs burning, and skid around the corner into the same alley a few seconds later.

He's gone.

The alley is a dead end, filled with nothing but overflowing dumpsters and graffiti. There are no other exits. No doors. No fire escapes he could have reached that quickly. He’s just simply vanished.

You stand there, panting, your hands on your knees, staring at the blank brick wall at the end of the alley. 

It's over. You failed. You had one chance, and you blew it. He thought you were a crazy stalker fan, and now he's gone. A hot, bitter pressure builds behind your eyes, and you squeeze them shut, a single, frustrated tear tracing a path through the grime on your cheek.

"Fuck."

–

The world compresses into an infinitely small dimensionless point and then snaps back into focus.

One moment, Satoru is in a grimy, garbage-strewn alley, and the next, he's on the roof of an adjacent building, the city spreading out below him under a gray, overcast sky. The cool air does nothing to quiet the unwelcome noise in his head.

He walks to the edge of the roof and looks down. 

You’re still there. What a weird girl. He watches as you slump down against the graffiti-covered brick wall, your shoulders shaking with what he assumes is frustration. You look so small from up here. 

Satoru’s eyes had told him everything he needed to know about you in the first two seconds of your encounter. Zero cursed energy, high levels of exhaustion and malnutrition, and a panicked heartbeat. A complete normie. A nobody.

So why can't he just let it go?

He closes his eyes behind the blindfold, but the image of your desperate, pleading face is burned into his mind. It was a good performance, he’ll give you that. The act of a delusional fan who had somehow gotten his name and thought saying weird shit would get his attention. He should be laughing. He had laughed.

But it all feels hollow now.

It’s been just over a week. A week since he’d stood in the back allies of campus and killed his best friend. His one and only. The memory is still a raw, open wound. Satoru refused to dwell on Suguru's final words. He'd said them in that casual, familiar cadence, the same one as their last normal conversation before everything went to hell more than ten years ago.

He did what had to be done. It was the only choice.

And the body... He couldn't bear to see Suguru desecrated any further. The thought of his body being handled by the higher-ups, dissected and cataloged like some kind of cursed object, was unthinkable. He’d begged Shoko, his voice raw in a way he hadn't let it be in years, to not follow standard protocol, to handle it personally. 

She had taken the body, her expression unreadable, and then it was out of his hands. He didn't know what she ended up doing with it. He hadn't asked. He couldn't.

And now, this.

"You need to burn the body."

Of all the things a random girl could have yelled at him, why that? It's too specific, weirdly so. It implies something that has no business coming from the mouth of a stranger. It's not a threat. It's not a pickup line. It's a warning. And it's a warning that resonates with the deep, aching grief that has taken root in his chest. 

The thought that something, anything, could happen to what was left of Suguru... he can’t stomach the thought.

Satoru’s playful mask is gone, and all that's left is the world's strongest sorcerer. His Six Eyes saw a normie. But his instincts honed over the last decade are screaming that he just walked away from something important. A harmless normie shouldn't know his name. And you sure as hell shouldn't know to say something that feels like a strike against the one single target that could still rattle him this way.

He looks down at you one last time as you finally push yourself to your feet and trudge out of the alley. You’re a small, defeated figure disappearing back into the anonymous river of the crowd. He can't just dismiss it. He can't afford to. He owes Suguru that much, at least.

He pulls out his phone, his thumb hovering over a familiar name.

"Shoko," he says when she picks up, his voice back to its usual playful cadence to cover up the growing dread he feels inside. "What did you end up doing with Suguru's body? I need to see it. Just gotta check something."

Chapter Text

Five weeks.

It's been five weeks since you stood in a dead-end alley, whispering curses at an empty brick wall. Five weeks since your grand plan to save the world imploded, leaving you with nothing but a maxed-out credit card and the crushing certainty that you are, in fact, just a crazy person who had thrown their life away for nothing.

And now, you're back.

The familiar, cheap polyester of the convenience store uniform chafes against your skin. The air smells the same. It's a mixture of cleaning supplies, refrigerated bentos, and the faint, sweet scent of the steamed buns in the warmer. It's the smell of a life you had tried, for one whole frantic week, to escape. A life you had to crawl back to.

"No, no, not like that," a voice says, and you flinch.

It's your former kohai. She’s sixteen, still in high school, and currently pointing at the display of limited-edition kurogoma pocky you're trying to arrange. "Manager wants these stacked in a pyramid. It's for the new winter promotion. Did you read the memo?"

She doesn't say it unkindly, but the condescension is there, a subtle, sharp edge to her voice. A little over a month ago, she wouldn't have dared to correct you. She would have called you senpai. Now, she just calls you by your name. 

The shift in the power dynamic is a bit of a constant humiliation. You are no longer her senior. You are the unreliable weirdo who quit without notice and came back with her tail between her legs.

The memory of it makes you want to curl up and die right here in the snack aisle. You can still feel the heat of the manager's tiny, cluttered office, the way the cheap leather of the visitor's chair stuck to the back of your legs. 

You had to sit there, head bowed, and spin the most pathetic, tearful story about a sudden family crisis in a distant prefecture. You remember the way his eyes had scanned your face, looking for the cracks in your story.

"You put us in a very difficult position," he had said, his voice flat.

"I know, sir," you'd whispered to the floor. "I am so, so sorry. It will never happen again. I promise."

He only took you back because they were desperate for someone to cover the night shifts. He made it very clear that you were on the thinnest of ice. One more mistake, one more unannounced absence, and you were gone for good.

You've been on your best behavior for a full month now.

So now, you smile. It doesn't reach your eyes.

"You're right, senpai," you say, your voice perfectly even. "My mistake."

You obediently start restacking the black boxes into a neat pyramid, just like she showed you. You are the kohai now. The new girl. The one who has to prove herself all over again. You are back in your cycle of routine, but this time, it feels less like a fortress and more like a prison.

And so you go through the motions. 

You wipe down the glass on the beverage coolers, leaving clean, satisfying streaks. You methodically scan items, the beep of the register a familiar, comforting rhythm. 

Irasshaimase. Beep. Beep. Arigatou gozaimasu. Beep. 

This is real. The weight of the coin tray is real. The crinkle of a plastic bag is real. The man in the blindfold who can teleport was not. He was a hallucination. A handsome, 190 centimeter hallucination brought on by stress and a lack of sleep.

Either that or he was just a cosplayer, you tell yourself as you restock the instant noodles. A very dedicated, very convincing cosplayer.

But the lies you try to tell yourself are thin and brittle, and they shatter a hundred times a day.

Every time the door chimes, you flinch. Your head snaps up from whatever you're doing, your heart giving a painful, violent lurch against your ribs. Your eyes frantically scan the new arrival, a desperate, split-second assessment. 

Tall? White hair? It's never him. It's just a salaryman, a grandmother, a group of high school kids. But the sickening drop in your stomach happens every single time.

You try to push the memory down, to shove it back into the "delusion" box where it belongs. But it won't stay. You can't forget the grace with which he moved. You can't forget the feeling of being seen by a power you can't comprehend. That felt more real than the pyramid of pocky you just stacked.

During a lull in the afternoon, your senpai is wiping down the counter near you. The door chimes, and you jump so hard you nearly drop the bottle of tea you're holding.

"Are you okay?" she asks, her brow furrowed with genuine concern. It's almost worse than the condescension. "You've been so on edge since you came back. You jump every time the door opens."

You force a laugh, the sound thin and reedy. "Just tired," you lie, placing the bottle on the shelf with a hand that's not quite steady. "Haven't been sleeping well."

She nods, accepting the lie easily. But her words echo in your head. So on edge. Your internal chaos is leaking out. You're not hiding it as well as you think.

–

It's getting late, nearly closing time. The last thing to do is take the trash out back. Simple. Easy. You've done it a hundred times. You heave the surprisingly heavy plastic bag off the floor, the familiar crinkle of the plastic a comforting sound in the silent store. You push open the heavy back door and step into the alley.

You've done this a thousand times.

The ground is a patchwork of cracked pavement and dark, oily stains. A single, flickering streetlamp casts distorted shadows that dance with every stutter of the light. It's grimy, but it's normal.

But tonight everything feels wrong.

It's like a switch flipped. The air is thick and you can't hear anything. No cars, no city noise. Nothing. It's dead silent. Then a patch of air next to you feels freezing cold, so cold it makes your teeth hurt, and then it's gone. What the hell was that?

Then you feel it. Eyes. On you. You feel like you're being watched. It's a heavy, pressing feeling, like a hand on the back of your neck. Your head whips around. Nothing. Just dumpsters and brick walls.

You scan the alley again, your heart starting to pound. Up at the windows, the fire escapes. Nothing. Nobody's there. But the feeling is getting worse, more intense. It feels like something is standing right in front of you, close enough to touch, and it wants to hurt you. But there's nothing there. There is absolutely nothing there.

Are you going crazy? Are you hallucinating again? This can't be real. Your brain is screaming at you that this is not real, that everything’s fine, but your nerves feel like their on fire.

The trash bag drops from your hand. You don't even register it. You just turn and run. You slam the door shut, your hands shaking so badly you can barely work the lock. It finally clicks, and you sag against the door, trying to breathe, your heart beating so fast it feels like it's going to explode.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

You flinch, a choked sound escaping your throat. It's just your senpai, looking at you with wide, worried eyes.

"You look like you saw a ghost."

You just stare at her, shaking your head. How do you even begin to explain? "I don't know," you finally manage to choke out, the words feeling useless. "There was... nothing there. I think I might be going crazy."

Your senpai gives you a worried look, the kind you give a spooked animal, before she finally gathers her things to leave. "Well, get some rest, okay? You're probably just overworked," she says, her voice soft. "Don't stay too late."

And then she's gone. The little bell above the door chimes, a cheerful, jarring sound in the heavy silence that immediately follows. The lock clicks.

And you are completely alone.

Fuck.

The konbini suddenly feels like a trap. The aisles seem longer, darker. The familiar hum of the refrigerators sounds like a low growl. Every shadow seems to hide something. You stand frozen for a full minute, straining your ears for any sound from the alley. Nothing. Of course, there's nothing. Because you're going crazy. You’ve been going crazy this whole time.

It was a just panic attack or something. Stress. Lack of sleep. That's all. Get a grip.

But your rationalizations do nothing for the building dread that has nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with feeling like prey.

You force your legs to move, walking stiffly towards the front of the store. The big glass windows. Anyone could be out there, looking in. Anything could be.

Stop it. Stop it. Fucking stop it.

You duck behind the counter, your heart still jackhammering against your ribs. You feel safer here, more hidden. You pull out your phone, your fingers trembling as you scroll aimlessly through social media. Pictures of food. Annoying influencers. Stupid memes. It's all so normal it feels alien. How can the rest of the world be so normal when you feel like you're fracturing at the seams?

The sliding door lets out its little electric jingle.

Your head snaps up, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat. But there's no one there. It was just the wind, a draft rattling the door. But in that split second, your blood ran ice-cold.

The feeling is back.

It's not as strong as it was in the alley, but it's there. A faint, insidious prickle. The feeling of being watched. Right here. Inside the store.

No. No way. Not in here. I'm safe in here.

Then, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, he's there.

He wasn't there a second ago. The space in front of the counter was empty. He didn't emerge from an aisle or anything. He just… appeared. One moment, nothing. The next, a man.

It’s him. 

The hallucination. 

The cosplayer. 

Gojo.

He’s different now. His hands are stuffed casually in his pockets. The black blindfold is gone, replaced by a pair of dark, perfectly circular sunglasses that hide his eyes completely. The playful, arrogant smirk that had infuriated you is also gone, replaced by a perfectly neutral, unreadable expression that is infinitely more terrifying.

He’s real. That actually happened. The fictional character Gojo is a real person who can apparently teleport. And now he's here. In your store. After you made a goddamn fool of yourself. You suddenly feel like you’re in deep, deep trouble

His lips peel back into a wide, sharp grin. It’s not friendly. It feels more like the smile of a cat that has cornered a mouse.

"Found you, stalker-san."

His grin doesn't waver. It’s terrifying. Absolutely, fundamentally terrifying. Your survival instincts are screaming, a blaring siren in your head telling you that this man is the single most dangerous thing you have ever encountered. Every cell in your body is locked in a state of fear.

And yet, a completely insane and traitorous part of your brain, somewhere in the back, decides to pipe up. 

The sunglasses are way sexier than the blindfold.

It's a thought so out of place it's almost hysterical. But it's true. Without the blindfold covering the upper half of his face, you can see the way his white hair falls against his forehead. You can see the expressive arch of his eyebrows. It makes him look less like a threat and more like an actual, ridiculously handsome person. An actual, ridiculously handsome person who is probably going to murder you or something.

The conflict between being utterly smitten and existentially terrified is giving you whiplash.

You finally manage to force air from your lungs, the words coming out as a dry, trembling whisper, "What do you want with me?"

Gojo’s grin somehow widens. He lifts his hand from his pocket and, with a slow, deliberate motion, points two finger guns directly at you. He even mimes shooting them off. Like a middle schooler. It’s so bizarre, so completely at odds with the crushing pressure of his presence, that it sends a fresh wave of disorientation through you. It's deeply off putting.

"Oh," he says, his voice light and cheerful now, as if commenting on the weather. "I'm just here to kidnap you!"

The statement hangs in the air for a single, stunned second. You barely have time to breathe out a raw, incredulous, "What the fuck–" before he moves.

It's not a normal movement. He doesn't walk around the counter. In a single, fluid motion, he vaults over it, a blur of white hair. Before you can even flinch, he's on your side, reaching a hand out towards you.

You don't have time to fall backwards. You don't have time to scream. The thought is still forming in your throat when his arm snakes around your waist, yanking you flush against him with unexpected strength. One of his hands rests firmly on the small of your back, the other arm locking you in place. His face is inches from yours.

Oh, god, he's touching me. 

The thought is electric, a jolt of pure panic and something else you refuse to name. Through the thin fabric of your uniform, you can feel the hard, lean muscle of his arms. He's a solid, immovable force. The air is punched from your lungs.

At this distance, you can vaguely see through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. And you see blue. An celestial blue so bright it seems to generate its own light. It feels like you're not just looking at a color, but at a concept, both the sky and the sea combined into one. It feels like those eyes are peeling back every layer of your being, looking straight into your soul and seeing every pathetic, terrified secret you have.

And then the world dissolves.

It starts at the edges of your vision. The fluorescent lights of the convenience store smear into long, greasy streaks. The colorful rows of snacks and drinks bleed into a meaningless, swirling vortex of color. Your stomach lurches, a violent, nauseating drop that feels like you’ve been kicked off a skyscraper.

What is happening what is happening what is–

There is a sensation of being pulled through an impossibly small space, of your entire body being compressed and stretched at the same time. The laws of physics just… stop. There is no up or down, no solid ground, just a sickening, disorienting plunge through a kaleidoscope of nonsense. It’s less movement and more deconstruction.

You squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn't help. The feeling of being turned inside out continues for a brief, terrifying eternity.

Then, in a blink, it stops.

If not for the strong arms holding you upright, you would have collapsed into a boneless heap on the floor. You can tell immediately that your equilibrium is shot. You take a moment, a deep, shuddering breath, pressing your face against the fabric of Gojo’s jacket. You try to will the roiling in your stomach to stop before you dare to open your eyes.

When you do, you find yourself in a dimly lit, incredibly claustrophobic room. It’s small, with no discernible windows or doors. The walls and even the low ceiling are plastered with hundreds, maybe thousands, of white paper talismans, each covered in black, inky script you can't read. Large, thick candles are scattered across the floor, their flickering flames providing the only light, casting a sickly yellow glow. The air is still and smells faintly of wax and old paper.

A wave of vertigo hits you again, but it’s not from the teleportation. It’s the room. You know this place.

The certainty is as unnerving as the teleportation itself. It's the same frustrating, on-the-tip-of-your-tongue feeling you get when you think about Gojo, or the blond man from however long ago, or this entire, insane world you've found yourself in. It's a memory that isn't yours, a weird familiarity for a place you've only ever seen on a screen.

Without a word, Gojo releases you. You stumble a half-step, your legs feeling like jelly, but you manage to stay upright. He steps back, the oppressive weight of his presence lessening slightly. He casually picks up one of the two simple wooden chairs in the middle of the room, turning it around to straddle it backwards. He rests his arms on the back of the chair, his chin now propped on his arms, looking every bit like a delinquent high school student. His infuriating smirk is back in full force.

He then motions with his head to the only other chair in the room.

"Sit, Stalker-san," he says, his voice a low, dangerous purr that vibrates through the still air. "We have a lot to discuss."

You do as he says.

You sit ramrod straight in the hard wooden chair, your hands clenched so tightly in your lap that your knuckles are white. The tiny room feels like it’s shrinking, the air growing thick and heavy, making each breath a conscious effort. Gojo’s shadow is thrown about by the flickering candlelight.

You stare at him as he straddles his chair backwards. It’s too casual. He's acting more like a goofy, overgrown child than a man who just teleported you into a secret prison. But you know, with a certainty that chills you to the bone, that it's just a facade. The pressure in the room is immense, a silent, crushing weight that emanates from him. He finally breaks the silence, his tone deceptively light.

"So, Stalker-san. Let's start with the basics. Who are you?"

The question hangs in the air. He’s not asking for your name, not really. He’s asking what you are, who you work for, how you fit into his world. You have no answer for that. You swallow hard against a dry throat and give him the only one you have. You tell him your name.

He hums, a noncommittal sound. "Okay, then. How do you know my name?"

Your mind races. Because you're a main character in a story I barely remember from another life? Because you're the strongest? You don’t want to sound crazier than you already are. You opt for a vague, panicked deflection that sounds weak even to your own ears. "I... I've seen you before."

His smirk tightens. It’s not a friendly expression. "Right. You saw me on the street. But you were looking for me before that, weren't you? So, why were you looking for me?"

"Because something bad is going to happen," you blurt out, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. It's unhelpful, but it's the truth.

"Lots of bad things happen every day," he says, his voice losing a bit of its playful edge. "You seemed pretty panicked on the street. What, specifically, were you trying to warn me about?"

This is it. The question you can't properly answer without sounding completely insane. You look away from him, focusing on a flickering candle on the floor.

"About... a friend of yours," you whisper.

He hums and leans forward slightly, the wood of the chair creaking under his weight. "That’s something, I guess. You're really not good at this, are you."

It’s not a question. It’s a statement, and it makes an indignant sound escape your lips. "I'm trying my best! I'm just trying not to sound crazy!" you snap, the words louder than you intended.

He raises a curious eyebrow. "And why would you sound crazy?"

The simple, direct question silences you. 

Because the truth is certifiably insane. 

You look at him, at his stupidly perfect face and the dark sunglasses hiding his stupidly pretty eyes, and you weigh your options. The cons are obvious: he'll think you're a lunatic, he'll lock you away somewhere, he'll decide you're more trouble than you're worth and simply erase you. But the pros... well, what other choice do you have? Being vague and evasive is clearly getting you nowhere but on his bad side. You're already in a secret candle-lit prison with a man who can teleport. The normal rules have flown out the window.

You let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure resignation. 

Fuck it.

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. "You're not allowed to laugh."

He looks skeptical, his eyebrow arching above the rim of his sunglasses. "...Sure?"

"Do you..." you start, your voice barely a whisper. "Do you know what an 'isekai' is?"

The question hangs in the air. His rhythm breaks. The smirk falters as he tilts his head, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his expression. It's the last thing he expected to hear, a complete non-sequitur that pulls him out of the interrogation. You can almost see the gears turning in his head before a slow, amused grin spreads across his face.

"Like the trope in fiction?" he asks, seeming to find the situation at least a little entertaining. "Sure I do. Reincarnated in another world, usually with some kind of crazy OP foresight. But what's that got to do with this?"

"It's like that," you say, the words tumbling out in a rush now that the dam has broken. "I... died. I think. And I was reborn here. In this world. And the thing is, from where I came from, this world... it was fictional. It was a story. A manga, an anime, I think there was even a movie."

You pause, taking a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his unseen gaze. "But you have to understand, my memory is a mess. It's like trying to remember a dream you had years ago. It’s been… effectively decades for me since I first saw the story. The details are fuzzy and the order of events is all jumbled up, but I swear to you it's real."

Silence hangs in the air for a minute. It's heavier than the air in the small room, more suffocating than the pressure he was exuding just moments before. 

You watch him, trying to read any hint of a reaction, but he's perfectly still. The candlelight flickers, the shadows dance, and he just sits there, processing. You hold your breath, half-expecting him to finally burst out laughing.

He doesn't.

After what feels like an eternity, he lets out a slow breath. He sits upright in his chair.

"Ok, so not gonna lie, that does sound pretty crazy,” he says, but you can see the way his eyes start to sparkle from behind his sunglasses. “Theoretically, if you could manipulate the fundamental fabric of spacetime, maybe create a localized singularity or a controlled distortion in the spatial manifold, you could potentially bridge the gap between realities…" Gojo stops himself there, and to be honest, he lost you at singularities. But then, "None of this matters of course if you’re not telling the truth.”

The sincerity in his tone is so unexpected it makes you want to cry or scream, you’re not sure which yet. "Of course I'm telling the truth!" you insist, your voice cracking. "Why would I ever make this up?"

"To get out of a tight spot? To mess with me? People have done weirder things," he shrugs, a hint of his old smirk returning. He tilts his head again, that curious, bird-like gesture. "So, this manga-slash-anime-slash-movie of yours. Is it popular?"

You're completely thrown by the question. "I... I think so? It was such a long time ago for me, but yeah, I think it was pretty big."

"Okay, okay," he says, leaning forward again, suddenly looking animated. "But more importantly… Am I cooler in person than I am as a manga character?"

The narcissism of the question is so jarring, so utterly Gojo, that you can only stare at him in disbelief. Of all the things he could ask, of all the vital, life-or-death information he could be demanding, that's what he's focused on?

"Are you serious right now?" you ask, your voice flat.

"Dead serious," he replies, his grin widening. "It's a matter of personal pride. C'mon, give me a verdict. Am I everything you dreamed of?"

You let out a short, hysterical laugh. You can't help it. "You're definitely more annoying in person," you say, not even trying to hide the snark in your tone.

He barks out a laugh, a real, genuine laugh that echoes in the tiny room. "I'll take it! At least I make an impression." 

He lets the humor hang in the air for a moment before his expression sobers.

"Okay, so this is fun and all, but I really do need you to prove it," he says, his voice hinting at something more serious beneath his earlier playfulness. "Tell me something useful."

You look at him, really look at him, and your mind goes into overdrive. Proof. Useful proof. What's useful? Something that hasn't happened yet. Or something that’s only halfway happened. Something big. Something he can verify. 

What about Shinjuku?

Okay, think. Shinjuku. What happened in Shinjuku? There was a big fight. A parade of monsters. Who was fighting? It was him... and his best friend. The one whose body you're trying to get him to burn. Okay, okay, what was it about? There was... a kid. A really nervous kid with black hair. And a girl… who was also a giant monster. That makes sense, right?

You realize that, ignoring when you first thought of Gojo’s name, this is by far the most effort you’ve ever put into remembering the details of the story.

You try your damndest to piece together the fragments of a story you watched on a screen once upon a time in another lifetime. You can’t remember names. You can’t even remember faces, beyond Gojo’s, of course. It’s all a blur of action and emotion, a plot that feels like it's slipping through your fingers. How do you explain a movie you barely recall to one of its main characters?

You take a deep breath and let the words start to spill out.

"So there's a kid," you begin. "And his wife? Girlfriend? Girlfriend. The kid and his girlfriend start going to your school. I’m not sure if you’re a teacher, or if you’re just kinda there. And there's a panda named Panda for some reason."

You pause, searching his face for a sign that he understands, that he's not about to call you insane.

Nothing. 

His eyebrows are hunched together in a look of concentration.

"But then your friend," you continue, "wants to steal the kid's girlfriend? I'm really not sure why."

You glance at him again. His expression is unchanged, but his lip does this weird, pouty thing, like a child trying to solve a puzzle that makes no sense. The lack of a clear reaction makes you even more frantic to get to the point.

"Anyway, there's a big fight and he dies and everyone else lives happily ever after, but, and this is the important part, an evil brain parasite comes along and snatches his body and fucks shit up like a year later..."

Your voice trails off as you fix your gaze on him, pleading with your eyes for him to believe this. His eyebrows are still furrowed, the pout more pronounced. He’s listening, but you can't tell if he's buying a single word. You finish in a desperate whisper.

"...and that's why it's really important that you burn the body. Because a lot of things get destroyed in canon, but canon is now apparently my life, so I'd really rather that all just didn't happen."

You hold his gaze, your heart hammering against your ribs. He’s silent for a long beat, his expression unreadable. Then he lets out a quiet hum.

"Well, I won't lie, that sounds super ominous," he says, his voice starting to lose its skeptical edge. He pushes himself off the back of the chair, standing now with his hands in his pockets. The wood scrapes against the floor as he pushes it to the side "It was a bit crude, but... you technically got everything right."

His words hit you like a physical blow. A part of you is still struggling to comprehend the fact that it’s all real.

"The kid is Okkotsu Yuta," he continues, his voice even as he ticks off the points of your story. "His vengeful spirit was Rika. And my friend... was Geto Suguru."

The names. Hearing them spoken aloud makes the fragmented memories in your head feel solid. The name Geto Suguru makes something click. He’s more important than the other two, for reasons you don’t know.

Gojo leans forward, bending over at the waist so his face is almost right up against yours. "So this brain parasite thing," he says. "Are you absolutely sure about that?"

You nod, your throat too tight to speak at first. "Yes," you finally manage to say. "I’m pretty sure it was a major plot point. It was a whole reveal of the real villain behind everything."

Gojo backs off and looks away from you, hands still in his pockets, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling. He's silent for a moment, apparently lost in thought.

A thought occurs to you as he towers above you. He’s an imposing figure for sure. But is there anyone he doesn’t have to be The Strongest for? Did he ever have a real equal, someone who could stand beside him without being completely overshadowed?

The question hangs in your mind, and you imagine a younger Satoru, maybe still a teenager, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with another boy. There's an easy camaraderie between them, a shared laugh, a perfectly balanced power dynamic. 

An equal.

Geto Suguru.

Your eyes snap open as a new memory surfaces. "Wait," you say, your voice urgent. "That's the whole point. That's how he gets you."

Gojo's head tilts back towards you. "Gets me?"

"The brain," you explain, leaning forward in your chair. "His whole plan relies on using Geto's body. On using his face to trick you. To make you hesitate for just a second. Because you're the strongest, and a second is all he needs."

You see a flicker of something in his posture, a tension that wasn't there before.

"He uses a thing," you continue, the memory trying it's best to solidify. "A box? A cube? He uses it to trap you. And it only works if you're distracted."

He lets out a sharp exhalation at that, "Shit."

He looks back at you, and for the first time, you can see past the arrogance and the power. You see something grim, something haunted.

"I already checked Suguru's grave," he says, his voice flat. "Weeks ago, just after you found me on the street. It’s been desecrated."

He lets the word hang in the air for a moment.

"And his body is missing."

A cold dread washes over you.

Fuck. You're too late.

The realization is a punch to the gut. The story is already in motion. 

What can you even do now? If the body is gone, then that means the brain is already out there, walking around in Geto Suguru's skin, wearing his face. Which means the plan is already happening. The plan to... to get rid of Gojo.

“Shit,” you finally manage to respond, the word sounding raw and hopeless in the quiet room.

Chapter Text

The world dissolves and slams back into place with the same nauseating violence as before. You would have pitched forward and thrown up on the floor if Gojo hadn't kept a firm arm wrapped around your waist, holding you steady. Your head swims, and a low groan escapes your lips.

"My bad," a voice says into your ear. "Still haven't figured out how to make it less… soupy. You get used to it. Mostly."

You yelp at the closeness and take a few deep breaths, waiting for the world to stop spinning on its axis. When you finally dare to open your eyes, the claustrophobic, candle-lit room is gone.

You are instead standing in what can only be described as a palace in the sky.

Floor-to-ceiling windows make up an entire wall, revealing a breathtaking, panoramic view of the nighttime Tokyo skyline. The city is a glittering carpet of a million lights stretching out to the horizon. The apartment itself is a study in minimalism, with sleek, modern furniture, polished dark wood floors, and an open-concept living space that’s larger than the entire convenience store you'd been kidnapped from. 

It’s stunning, and the contrast with the cramped, talisman-covered room you were in just seconds ago is jarring.

Gojo finally releases you, and you stumble over to the back of a plush leather sofa, gripping it for support. He strolls past you, kicking off his shoes into the middle of the living room and stretching his arms over his head with a groan. You try to ignore the sliver of skin that becomes visible under the hem of his shirt.

"What is this? Where are we?" you ask, your voice weak.

"Home sweet home," he says, gesturing vaguely to the opulent space. "Otherwise known as my place."

"Your… you can't just–" you start, a wave of indignation rising. "You can't just kidnap me and take me to your apartment!"

"I can and I did," he says, walking in his socks over to a massive, stainless steel refrigerator and pulling it open. The bright interior light illuminates his face. "Look, the situation's changed. You're not just some normie I can ignore anymore. You're a walking, talking spoiler alert."

He pulls out a can of soda and a box of what looks like some kind of mochi. "The higher-ups are old, stuffy, and terrified of anything they don't understand. They'd have a field day if you were ever discovered. They'd probably want to dissect you to see where your 'future knowledge' comes from, and that's if they were in a good mood. So hiding you on campus is a no-go."

He closes the fridge with his hip and looks at you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Besides," he says, popping open the can and walking back into the living room. "Suguru is my problem. Which means you are, too. Can't have my super-secret source of information getting snatched, can I? So, welcome to the safe house."

He takes a long sip of his soda, his eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the can.

You stare at him for a long moment and decide he’s not wrong.

That doesn’t change the fact that your life has been completely upended, and your captor is a man-child with god-like powers and a serious sweet tooth.

Deciding you need something to do with your hands before you start screaming, you push off the sofa. "I need some water," you mutter, walking past him toward the kitchen area.

The kitchen is as impeccable as the rest of the apartment, with marble countertops, a recessed induction cooktop, and an array of high-end appliances that look like they've never been used. You find a glass in a cabinet and turn to the massive fridge, pulling the door open.

You freeze.

The interior is brightly lit, showcasing rows upon rows of… sugar. Cans of specialty sodas, imported energy drinks, several boxes of mochi and daifuku, a half-eaten strawberry shortcake, individually wrapped crepes, and a concerning number of puddings in small glass jars. There's nothing else. No milk, no eggs, no leftovers that don't look like dessert.

"What the fuck?" you breathe out, the words a mix of horror and disbelief.

"What do you mean 'what the fuck'?" Gojo asks from behind you, his voice laced with amusement. He wanders over and boxes you in with his arms, peering into the fridge over your shoulder.

You whirl around to face him, gesturing wildly at the contents, suddenly aware of how close he is. "This! This is what the fuck! There's not a single vegetable in here. No fruit that isn't suspended in gelatin. It's just... sugar! How are you alive?" You duck under his arm and yank open the pantry, revealing bags of candy, boxes of cookies, and brightly colored cereal. "This is a diabetic coma waiting to happen!"

He pops a mochi into his mouth and chews thoughtfully, looking completely unconcerned. "I have a fast metabolism and sugar helps me think," he says after swallowing. "Besides, what more do you need?"

The genuine confusion on his face is what breaks you. He truly does not seem to see a problem with this.

"Real food!" you exclaim, exasperated. "Protein! Vitamins! Things that grow in the ground! Look, if I'm going to be staying here for the foreseeable future, some things are going to have to change. We are going grocery shopping."

Gojo looks at you, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face, like he finds your domestic outrage hilarious. He waves a dismissive hand. "Fine, fine," he says, already turning away and losing interest. "Whatever you need. Make a list.”

–

"'What more do you need,' he says. 'Make a list,' he says. God, he's infuriating!"

You mutter the words to the empty living room, pacing back and forth in front of the massive wall of windows. Gojo had left a few minutes ago, something or other about checking in with the principal. He’d given you a casual wave and a promise to be back later, as if he hadn't just turned your entire world on its head. And then he'd just left you alone in his ridiculously expensive penthouse.

You finally flop down onto the even more ridiculously comfy sofa, the soft leather sighing under your weight. In front of you on the low-profile coffee table is a pad of paper and a pencil he'd pulled from a drawer. 

One sheet, filled with your neat handwriting, is already complete. 

Rice, tofu, miso, eggs, mirin, cooking oil…

You carefully tear it off and set it aside.

Now for the hard part.

You stare at the fresh, blank sheet of paper. The city lights glitter outside. It's just you, a pencil, and the dream-like memories of a story that is now your reality. You have to get it all down. Anything and everything you can remember. You can try to organize it chronologically later but right now, you just need to see how fucked you are.

You press the pencil to the paper.

Gojo Satoru - The Strongest. Six Eyes & Limitless. Annoying as hell.

That last thought sends a shiver down your spine. You add to the page.

Geto Suguru - Best friend. Dead. Body stolen by... Brain Guy? You tap the pencil against your lip. There’s a name, but you can’t think of it. You write down two question marks next to it.

You keep going, letting the memories flow as they come, a chaotic jumble of names and concepts.

• The Kid - Pink hair? Main character. Sunshine personified.
• The Other Kid - Black spiky hair. Shadow powers. Cute dogs.
• Hammer Girl - Unknown, will revisit
• Monster King - Big bad. Worse than Brain Guy?? Unknown. Collects fingers. 'Tummy Mouth' feels significant.
• Panda is just Panda

The list grows. It’s a mess of plot points and character traits. You add Later Incident - VERY BAD and underline it three times. You write The Cube and draw a little box next to it.

You lean back, looking at the chaotic scrawl. This is it. This is all you have. A half-remembered cartoon is your only weapon against the end of the world. It feels pathetic. But these aren't just characters on a page anymore. They're real people. 

That kid with the pink hair, you can't even remember his name, but you know he comes out of this whole mess super traumatized. The next two on the list... they're his friends, you know that much at least. They're just kids, and they don’t even know they're walking right into a tragedy.

And you're the only one who knows it's coming. The weight of it settles on your shoulders, heavy and cold. It's terrifying. But as you look down at the jumbled list, a flicker of something else sparks within you. 

Resolve. 

It may not be much, but it's more than nothing. It's a start.

–

You flop face-down onto the enormous leather sofa, letting out a long, frustrated groan that’s muffled by an expensive throw pillow.

It’s been a solid week. Seven full days since Gojo Satoru dumped you in his sky-palace and vanished. At first, it was a novelty. 

This place is huge. Like, ridiculously, unnecessarily huge. He showed you to a room before he vanished and said it was yours. It's bigger than your entire studio apartment. What are you supposed to do with all this space? Set up a bowling alley? Start an indoor farm? 

You then took time to explore every room, every nook and cranny of your new accommodation. Everywhere except his room. The door was closed. And yeah, no. Call it respect for privacy, call it self-preservation, call it just plain not wanting to know... you had absolutely zero desire to poke your head in.

The novelty has now, officially, worn off. You are bored out of your goddamn mind.

You think that for someone who can literally teleport, grabbing your phone from the konbini wouldn't be too difficult. When he first brought you here, you were too busy dealing with your panic to even think about asking for something so mundane. 

"Excuse me, Mr. All-Powerful-Kidnapper-Sir, could you possibly pop back and grab my phone? And maybe my charger while you're at it? Thanks." 

You didn't have the guts to ask him face to face, which is fine. It is what it is. But now? Now he’s just gone and who knows when he'll be back. So it doesn't even matter. You’re just stuck here, phone-less and contemplating the existential dread of existing off of premium cable reruns on a TV the size of a small car.

On an intellectual level, you get it. He's The Strongest. He’s probably out exorcising some horrifying curse that would turn a normal person inside out. He has people to save, an ancient, corrupt system to annoy… You even have the messy, scribbled-on pages of notes you made to prove it.

But still. A week? He’s a teacher, for crying out loud! Doesn’t he have classes to attend? Papers to grade? Apparently not! Apparently, his curriculum consists of abandoning his top-secret, world-saving informant in his apartment with nothing but your thoughts and a dwindling supply of produce.

That’s the other thing. That first, glorious batch of groceries is running out. The eggs are gone. You’re down to just a single last sad-looking carrot. Soon, you’ll have to start navigating the terrifying, sugar-filled depths of his pantry, and that is a line you refuse to cross.

You roll over onto your back and stare up at the ridiculously high vaulted ceiling. You know he's overworked. You know this is all a prelude to the hell that is the ‘Later Incident.’ The man probably hasn't had a day off in years. He deserves a break. A real one.

And that’s when the gears in your head start to turn. A slow, wicked smile spreads across your face.

A scheme begins to form, a beautiful, two-pronged plan. You get what you need, and he gets some mandated downtime. It’s perfect. He needs to eat, and you need to get out of this apartment before you start talking to the ridiculously expensive looking ficus plant in the corner.

You sit up, energized for the first time in days. You grab the notepad from the coffee table, flipping to a clean page. This is a mission now.

You'll need leverage. The promise of a home-cooked meal might work. Maybe something that takes a while to prepare, forcing him to stay put. You'll need to frame it strategically. He needs to keep his strength up, after all. He won't be able to see the manipulative genius behind it.

You start writing, a renewed sense of purpose humming through your veins. First on the list: dragging the strongest sorcerer on earth to the grocery store. It’s for his own good, you tell yourself. Totally for his own good.

–

You’re in the middle of a deep, strategic analysis of your scribbled spoiler notes, trying to decipher the second half of a name, when he appears. One moment, the space in front of the window is empty, the next, Gojo is there, slumping against the glass with a dramatic sigh. 

He’s ditched his usual black uniform for a simple hoodie and sweatpants, and for the first time, you see the faint, dark circles under his eyes.

"I'm exhausted," he announces to the room, as if he'd just stepped out for a minute instead of a whole week. "The higher-ups are so boring. All paperwork and scowling."

You jump, your heart leaping into your throat. You look from him to the mission plan on your coffee table. "You're back!"

"For now," he says, pushing off the window and dropping his sunglasses on the coffee table. He flops onto the other end of the sofa, letting his head fall back. "What's for dinner? I'm starving."

This is your moment. "Funny you should ask," you say, trying to keep your tone neutral. "The kitchen is currently classified as a disaster zone due to a critical lack of resources. Operation: Forced Relaxation is now in effect."

He cracks one eye open. "Operation what now?"

"We're going grocery shopping," you declare, standing up and grabbing the list. "For your own good."

He groans, but there’s no real heat behind it. "Too much effort."

"You want a home-cooked meal that doesn't consist of melted candy bars?" you counter. "Then get up. It's a strategic mission to maintain your physical condition."

A slow grin spreads across his face. He’s too tired to argue, and your plan clearly appeals to him on some level. "Fine. But you're pushing the cart."

–

Twenty minutes later, you're in a brightly lit, totally normal grocery store. Gojo, back to wearing wearing his sunglasses and with his hoodie pulled up, looks less like the world's strongest sorcerer and more like a suspiciously tall teenager trying to avoid his parents. He's also, you discover, incredibly… physically affectionate.

He drapes himself over your shoulders as you push the shopping cart, forcing you to bear a good chunk of his weight. "So what's first on the list, Captain?" he asks, his voice a low murmur near your ear. His proximity makes your skin prickle.

"Literally any vegetable," you say, trying to steer the unwieldy cart towards the produce section. "Things with vitamins."

"Boring," he sighs, but follows along. He's weirdly touchy-feely, his hand brushing yours as you both reach for a bag of carrots, his arm slung casually over your shoulders as you inspect a head of lettuce. Every time he does it, your stomach does a little flip, and a faint blush creeps up your neck. You know he's noticed, because a tiny, infuriating smirk plays on his lips every time you fluster. He's pushing your buttons on purpose.

The real trouble starts in the snack aisle.

His eyes light up, all traces of exhaustion gone. "Ooh, they have the limited edition melon pocky!" he exclaims, grabbing three boxes. He starts piling the cart with brightly colored packages. Gummies, chocolates, senbei, every sugary confection imaginable.

"No, absolutely not," you say, reaching out to bat a family-sized bag of candy out of his hand.

And your hand stops.

It freezes in mid-air, an inch from the bag, as if you've hit an invisible, unyielding wall. You push, but there’s nothing to push against. It’s like the space between your hand and the bag has become solid.

"What the...?" you look from your frozen hand to Gojo.

He's holding the candy bag with one hand, a triumphant, smug grin plastered on his face. Infinity. He's using his S-rank cursed technique to protect a bag of gummy candies from you.

"Ah, ah, ah," he chides, his voice dripping with amusement. "Nice try."

"That is an abuse of power!" you hiss, utterly flabbergasted.

He simply plops the candy into the cart and pulls a sleek, black credit card from his pocket, holding it up between two fingers. "My card, my rules, Stalker-san."

Your face flushes hot with a mix of embarrassment and anger. Leaning over the cart, you hiss at him in a furious whisper.

"I thought I told you to stop calling me that!"

His grin doesn't falter. If anything, it widens. He leans in conspiratorially, his voice a low, teasing rumble that sends a shiver down your spine despite your anger. "Calling you what? Stalker-san? I think it's cute. It's like a special nickname just for us."

"It's not cute, it's demeaning," you whisper back, your jaw tight. "My name is–"

"I know what your name is," he interrupts, his tone softening just enough to be confusing. He’s so close you can see the long, white lashes that frame his eyes behind his sunglasses. "But this is more fun."

The sight of his victorious, boyish grin makes your heart do another stupid little flip.

You want to throttle him. You also want to laugh. With a huff, you wrench the cart away from him and march determinedly towards checkout, leaving him to trail behind you like an oversized, smug duckling.

The cashier, a young woman with tired eyes, doesn't even blink at the bizarre combination of organic vegetables, lean protein, and a literal mountain of limited-edition sweets. She scans everything with a practiced efficiency. Gojo pays with his black card, humming a cheerful, off-key tune as if he's just conquered a small nation.

He grabs all the bags before you can, hoisting them with an ease that belies their weight. As you walk out into the cool evening air, the automatic doors sliding shut behind you, he glances over, his grin finally settling into a more relaxed smile.

"See?" he says, as if this outing was his idea all along. "That wasn't so bad. Forced relaxation and all."

You look at him, laden with bags of both sensible food and utter garbage, looking for all the world like a normal person after a normal shopping trip. He’s an infuriating, overgrown child with the power of a god. And, you reluctantly admit to yourself, you are starting to not mind so much.

Chapter Text

As a roommate, Gojo Satoru is… fine. 

He doesn’t leave any trash out or let dirty dishes pile up in the sink. 

That’s because, for the most part, he just isn’t really here at all.

After the grocery trip, he had stayed for dinner, devouring a truly insane amount of food before vanishing again with a vague comment about business. Since then, you’ve seen him maybe twice, and only for a few minutes at a time. He’d appear in a flash of warped space, raid the fridge for the sweets, ask if you’d remembered anything new or useful, and then disappear just as quickly, leaving you with nothing but the lingering scent of sugar.

The rest of the time, you are completely alone. And while the silence is a welcome reprieve from his bubbly energy, it leaves you with absolutely nothing to do. You’d cleaned the already immaculate apartment. You’d reorganized your scattered, frantic notes into something resembling a coherent timeline. The pages are now filled with sorta names and a whole lot of question marks. You cooked proper meals for one, the irony not lost on you that you were essentially playing house in the apartment of the man who had kidnapped you.

You’re staring intently at a page, a deep frown creasing your brow as you try to remember a specific name that dances just at the edge of your memory, when he appears. Not at the window this time, but directly behind the sofa you're sitting on, leaning over the back of it to peer at your papers.

"Studying hard?" he asks, his voice startlingly close to your ear.

You jump, spinning around to find his chin resting on the top of the sofa, his sunglasses perched on his head. He looks tired, but there's a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"You could try using a door," you grumble, trying to slow your racing heart as you instinctively cover your notes.

"Doors are boring," he says with a wave. "Remember anything exciting?"

A wave of frustration washes over you, and you let out a sigh, dropping the pencil onto the coffee table. "That's not how it works. I wish it was."

He tilts his head, his playful expression softening into one of genuine curiosity. "No?"

"No," you say, gesturing to the scattered papers. "It’s literally like trying to remember a movie I watched once twenty years ago. I remember the big stuff, sure. But the details? I'll remember something important, like the evil parasite brain, but I can't for the life of me remember the name of the main character. It feels so useless."

He listens patiently, his gaze fixed on you. The silence stretches for a moment after you finish your rant.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so serious. Finally, he says with a thoughtful tone, "Still better than nothing. Don't stress about the details. Just give me the headlines and I'll figure out the rest."

His confidence is almost calming. He makes it sound simple, as if your fragmented, chaotic knowledge is all he needs. The weight on your shoulders lessens, just a little.

Then, as if a switch flipped, his mischievous grin returns. He claps his hands together once, a loud, sharp sound. "Anyway! Enough doom and gloom. Get ready, we're going on a field trip."

You stare at him, the sudden shift in tone giving you whiplash. "A field trip where?"

"That’s the surprise part," he says, already walking towards his room. "Just be ready in ten." He leaves you with no further explanation, a familiar mix of exasperation and curiosity churning in your stomach.

A field trip.

With him. 

The idea is both nerve wracking and, you are loath to admit, a little bit exciting. It’s the first time you’ll be leaving the apartment in a week.

You go to your room to change into something more presentable than sweatpants, a hum of suspicion buzzing under your skin. What’s his angle? He’d listened to your rant with a surprising amount of patience, and now he was rewarding you with… what? A surprise outing? 

It feels too nice, too normal. Gojo Satoru didn’t do normal. He’s a creature of chaos. Is this a test? A ploy to get you to relax and remember more? Or is it possible that he was actually trying to just be… nice?

The uncertainty is what makes you detour to the kitchen instead of heading straight for the door. You pull out a bento box and the leftovers from last night’s dinner. You don't trust him, not with logistics. The man’s idea of a balanced meal is a can of soda and three different kinds of wagashi. If this field trip lasts longer than an hour, you’re going to get hungry, and you have a sinking feeling that his plan for sustenance would involve a vending machine at best.

"What are you doing?"

You jump as his voice appears right beside you. He's leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you meticulously arrange rice and chicken in the bento box.

"I'm preparing for the inevitable," you say, looking back at your task. "You don't strike me as the type to plan for things like lunch."

A wide, delighted grin spreads across his face. "You're making me a bento? How wifely of you, Stalker-san."

"I'm making myself a bento because I have a functioning sense of self-preservation," you shoot back, snapping the lid shut with more force than necessary. "You're on your own, Mr. Sugar-is-a-Food-Group."

"Aw, but that's no fun," he says, his voice dropping into a pout. You glance over and see him looking at you, his sunglasses pushed up, his blue eyes wide and pleading. He’s giving you a look. It’s so shamelessly manipulative it’s almost impressive. "Don't you want to make sure your protector is well-fed and operating at peak performance?"

"You're the strongest sorcerer in the world. I think you can survive an afternoon without a home-cooked meal." You turn your back on him, pointedly starting to wash your hands.

A standoff ensues. The silence is broken only by the sound of the running water. You can feel his gaze on your back. You know he's still doing the face. It's a battle of wills, and you don’t want to be the first one to break. It's the principle of the thing. You will not be swayed by a handsome face. Not this time.

A minute passes.

And another.

Finally, with a loud, theatrical groan that echoes in the kitchen, you give in.

"Fine!" you snap, turning off the water and grabbing another bento box from the cabinet. "But you're not allowed to complain if you don't like what's in it. And you owe me."

His pitiful expression vanishes instantly, replaced by a blinding grin. "I never complain!" he declares, completely shameless, and you roll your eyes at that. He bounces on the balls of his feet, a picture of restless energy. "Come on, come on! Chop-chop! Adventure awaits!"

You quickly pack the second bento, grumbling under your breath the entire time, while he hums a cheerful tune. He's being too playful, too eager. He wants something for sure, you just don’t know what.

"Alright, I'm ready," you say, turning to face him.

His grin softens into a gentle smile, and he holds out his hand. "Great. Don't want to be late."

You stare at his outstretched hand, at the long, elegant fingers. Taking it feels like a trap. With a deep breath, you place your hand in his. His grip is warm and firm as he pulls you a step closer.

"Try not to puke," he says cheerfully, and the world dissolves.

–

The landing is just as jarring as always. One moment you're being pulled through a dimensionless void, the next you're standing on solid ground, the world slamming back into focus. Gojo's hand is a warm, steadying presence on your back as you sway, taking a moment to blink away the disorientation and fight down a wave of nausea.

The air is different here. The sterile, climate-controlled atmosphere of the penthouse is gone, replaced by the clean, earthy scent of old wood, tatami mats, and the faint fragrance of flowers from an unseen garden. You're in a traditional Japanese-style building, all polished dark wood floors and sliding shoji screens. Gojo, humming cheerfully, leads you down a short hallway and pushes open a screen door.

You find yourself in a spacious, well-maintained dojo. The late afternoon sun streams through a large, open doorway on the far side, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the still air. The room is empty save for a few training weapons neatly arranged on a wall rack and, in the center of the room, a lone figure.

A teenager is moving through a series of fluid, precise martial arts forms. He's tall and lean, with a shock of spiky black hair that seems to defy gravity. He’s dressed in a simple dark uniform, his expression one of intense focus.

"Yo, Megumi!" Gojo calls out, his voice booming in the quiet space. "Sorry I'm late!"

The boy doesn't miss a beat, finishing his form with a sharp, controlled kick before he straightens up, turning a thoroughly unimpressed glare on Gojo. "You," he says, his voice flat and laced with a familiar, weary annoyance, "were supposed to be here three hours ago. I'm done for the day."

"Aw, come on now!" Gojo says, strolling into the dojo as if he owns the place, which, you realize, he probably does. "I got held up! Very important business."

"Was your 'very important business' at a pastry shop again?" Megumi asks, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He grabs a towel from a nearby bench, wiping the sweat from his brow.

The sight of his face is like a key turning in a locked door in your mind. A memory, clearer than most, floods you. 

Fushiguro Megumi. 

This is the boy who starts it all. He’s the first sorcerer the pink-haired kid meets. 

Seeing him here, now, a real person in a real dojo, makes the future feel terrifyingly close. This isn't just a story anymore, you remind yourself. This is his life. And it's all about to go to shit.

You're so lost in your thoughts that you almost don't realize Megumi's gaze has shifted from Gojo to you. He looks you up and down, his expression wary, before his eyes finally land back on his guardian. The bratty annoyance is gone, replaced by a guarded curiosity.

"Gojo-sensei," he says, his voice flat. "Who’s this?"

The question hangs in the air, simple and direct. You open your mouth to introduce yourself, to offer some kind of vague, plausible explanation, but Gojo beats you to it. With a movement as swift as it is unexpected, he drapes a heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. The sudden proximity, the warmth of his body, his faint, clean scent… It all sends a jolt through your system.

A performative grin splits his face. He looks directly at his ward, puffing out his chest like a proud peacock.

"This," he declares, his voice oozing with satisfaction, "is my girlfriend!"

His what?

It feels like all the air is sucked from your lungs. A hot, furious blush floods your face, creeping from your neck all the way to the tips of your ears. You try to speak, to deny it, to say anything, but only a strangled squeak comes out. You are mortified.

Across the dojo, Megumi’s eyes widen fractionally, the first real crack in his cool composure you’ve seen. 

He freezes mid-motion, the towel he was using to wipe his neck falling from his slack fingers to land in a heap on the polished floor. His gaze darts between Gojo's ridiculously proud face and your horrified one, as if trying to solve a complex equation.

"Oh," Megumi squeaks out.

He stares at you for a second longer, then seems to decide that this situation is far above his pay grade. He awkwardly stoops to pick up his towel, his movements stiff. Without another word, he gives a short, jerky bow in your general direction and then promptly turns and all but flees the dojo, disappearing down the hallway.

"Hey! Don't be like that, Megumi!" Gojo calls out, not with any real heat, but with a laugh that bounces off the dojo walls. He clearly finds his ward's panicked retreat hilarious. "We brought snacks!"

Without another word, he starts moving, his long legs eating up the distance in a few easy strides. The only problem is that his arm is still firmly clamped around your shoulders like a vice, so you have no choice but to stumble along with him, a captive audience to his latest act of chaos.

"Gojo, let go!" you hiss, trying to dig your heels into the polished wood floor, but it's like trying to stop a freight train. He barely seems to notice, too preoccupied with his own amusement.

He drags you out of the dojo and down a quiet, sun-dappled hallway, his shoulders still shaking with laughter. You can’t believe you’re being manhandled through a traditional Japanese estate by a god-tier sorcerer in pursuit of a traumatized teenager.

Your mind reels, trying to process it all. 

This is the third one. The third person you've met from that story. First, there was the blond man months ago at the convenience store, the one whose name you still can't remember. Then there was Gojo himself, a walking, talking natural disaster who had turned your life upside down. And now Megumi.

You round a corner and find yourselves in what looks like a large, traditional kitchen with an adjoining dining area. Megumi is standing by a counter, pointedly drinking a glass of water with his back to you, pretending he can’t see you.

Gojo finally releases you, and you take a half-step away, rubbing your shoulder as you try to discreetly put some distance between you. He leans in close, his voice dropping to a whisper that’s clearly meant just for you to hear.

"Look," he says, his playful tone softening. "It looks like you'll be sticking around for a while, so I figured you should meet some familiar faces. Might help jog that fuzzy memory of yours."

That… was almost sweet. He wasn't just dragging you around for his own amusement after all.

And then the endearing moment is shattered as he straightens up, his boisterous energy returning in full force. "Megumi! Don't be rude to our guest!"

Before you can protest, he plucks the bag containing the bentos from your hand. You start to say something but he’s already moving towards Megumi. He pulls out one of the bento boxes and shoves it into Megumi’s free hand.

"Here," Gojo says, his voice taking on an exaggerated, parental tone. "She made you lunch. You need to eat something that isn't a protein bar."

Megumi stares down at the bento box as if it's a foreign object, then looks up at you with wide, confused eyes. "For… me?"

Gojo claps him on the shoulder, a wide grin on his face. "Of course it’s for you! You're a growing boy!"

You walk towards the two of them and he hands you back the bag, feeling lighter now with just your own lunch. He gives you a wink, and everything clicks into place.

He never wanted a bento for himself. The theatrics were just that. A performance. A weird, manipulative scheme to get you to make lunch for his moody teenage ward.

That’s… actually, infuriatingly, nice of him. A bit too indirect for your liking, but you appreciate the effort. You look from Gojo’s smug face to Megumi, who is now awkwardly holding the bento, a faint blush on his cheeks. You can’t even find it in yourself to be mad.

Megumi stands there, holding the bento box like it’s a bomb, the faint pink now creeping up his neck. He seems completely at a loss. Poor kid.

Gojo, ever the helpful instigator, breaks the silence with a loud, stage-whisper. "Megumi. What do you say when a beautiful lady makes you a delicious, hand-crafted lunch?"

You flinch at the compliment. Megumi shoots him a venomous glare, which Gojo completely ignores. He nudges his ward with his elbow. "C'mon. Manners."

The boy seems to internally resign himself to his fate. He looks in your direction, his gaze darting to the floor for a second before meeting yours. "Oh," he mumbles out. "Thank you." The words are quiet and a little stiff, but sincere.

"You're welcome," you manage to say, a small smile touching your lips.

Gojo claps his hands together, immensely pleased with himself. "Great! Now that we're all friends, let's eat! I'm starving."

He gestures towards a low table in the adjoining room. Then, from the mysterious depths of his pockets, he produces a king-sized chocolate bar with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. He starts to tear the wrapper open.

"Are you seriously going to eat that for lunch?" you ask, your eyebrow arching in disapproval.

"It's full of energy," Gojo says, taking a large bite. "Perfect for a growing boy like me. You can tell us all about your training, Megumi. I'm sure my girlfriend would love to hear all the boring details."

"She's not your girlfriend," Megumi mutters automatically, the words out before he can stop them. He freezes, his eyes widening as if he's just said something terribly rude.

"And I'm not making you another bento if you keep calling me that," you add, pointing a warning finger at Gojo.

Gojo just grins around his mouthful of chocolate, completely unfazed. "Details, details. Now come on, you two. Megumi, eat before your food gets cold. You wouldn't want to waste her hard work, would you?"

Sharing a look of mutual resignation, you and Megumi both follow him to the table.

–

Lunch is, against all odds, pleasant.

It’s also a masterclass in bad deflection, starring Gojo Satoru.

"So," Megumi starts, after a few minutes of eating his bento in silence, his eyes narrowed at Gojo. "How did you two meet?"

"At her workplace! She was so taken with my dazzling good looks that she stalked me for weeks. It was very romantic," Gojo announces cheerfully around a mouthful of chocolate.

You nearly choke on a piece of rice. Before you could think of anything to say, you find yourself captivated by the way Gojo just… handles things. He isn’t even remotely bothered by Megumi’s line of questioning. He just deflects with that infuriating charm of his.

"Where is she from?" Megumi presses on.

"A top-secret location! Very exclusive. You wouldn't have heard of it," Gojo says with a dramatic wink in your direction. 

“I’m from Tokyo, born and raised,” you say flatly, and Gojo sticks his tongue out at you. You can’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. He’s so stupid. It’s kind of cute.

Throughout it all, you find yourself watching him. You’re almost unaware of the way your eyes track him as he moves. When he leans back, propping himself up on his hands, you find yourself admiring the strong line of his arms. When he tells a stupid joke to derail Megumi's questioning, you’re the first to laugh, a soft sound that earns you a confused glance from the teenager.

The conversation, by Gojo's design, eventually becomes all about Megumi. You learn that he’s starting as a first-year at the Jujutsu school next month. You see the flicker of pride in Gojo's eyes when he talks all about his ward's potential. He’s a good mentor, you realize, underneath all the layers of chaos.

"And what about your family?" Megumi finally asks, his voice sharp, cutting through the light atmosphere. "Are they aware you’re with him?"

The playful energy in the room drops for a second. Gojo's smile doesn’t falter, but his voice, when he speaks, is quiet and serious. "Megumi. Some family situations are complicated. You know that better than anyone."

Megumi’s face shutters instantly, a deep sadness flashing in his eyes before being locked down. He looks down at his bento, his shoulders tense.

That’s when you remember Megumi has a sister.

But what’s her name?

There’s something there, something significant about her. You just can’t seem to remember what. But you have a gut-wrenching inkling it has something to do with the evil parasite brain.

You are so lost in your thoughts that you don’t realize you’ve been staring at Gojo's face until he turns his head and catches your gaze. You quickly look down at your bento, your cheeks flushing hot.

–

The goodbyes are brief and, on Megumi’s part, still a little stiff. He gives you another one of his short, jerky nods before retreating, bento box in hand. You’ll probably be able to get it back from him at a later date. Gojo waits until he’s out of sight before grabbing your wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"Ready?" he asks.

You nod, bracing yourself. The world dissolves and reforms in a now familiar lurch, and then you’re standing back in the penthouse. The afternoon sun is now casting long shadows across the living room floor.

You pull your hand from his grasp, expecting him to make some stupid, teasing comment about the trip. But he doesn't. The silence is so uncharacteristic that it makes you turn to look at him properly.

The boisterous, playful man from the dojo is gone. In his place is someone who looks… nervous? He’s not looking at you, but at a fixed point on the floor, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He seems genuinely uncertain for the first time since you met him.

"Hey," he starts, his voice quiet, stripped of its usual bravado. "Thanks. For coming with me today."

You’re so taken aback you can only stare. "Oh. Uh, you're welcome?"

He finally lifts his head, and his eyes are startlingly sincere. "Megumi's had it worse than most," he says, his voice low. "He doesn't really have… family, as I’m sure you probably know. So doing something normal, like this… it means more than you think. It was good for him."

He takes a small step closer, and the full force of his gaze makes it hard to breathe. The city lights reflected in his eyes seem to sparkle, and you feel like you’re seeing past the character for the very first time, catching a glimpse of the man underneath.

"So, thank you," he says again, and the words are so genuine, so heavy with an emotion you can't quite name, that your heart does a painful little flip.

The moment seems to hit him all at once. A faint flush creeps up his neck, and he breaks eye contact, suddenly looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He turns so abruptly it’s almost funny.

"Well! I have… things. To do. Paperwork," he blurts out, the words clumsy and rushed. And then he practically flees, retreating down the hall and disappearing into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.

You’re left standing alone in the quiet, sun-drenched living room, your mind reeling. You touch your fingers to your lips, the ghost of a smile forming. He had been flustered. Genuinely flustered.

A warmth spreads through your chest, a dizzying, unfamiliar feeling that has nothing to do with fear or anxiety.

You almost wish he were a monster. A monster, you could fear. A monster, you could fight or flee from. But this? 

This complicated, surprisingly gentle, handsome man who looked at you with sparkling eyes? That’s a completely different kind of threat.

And you realize, with a sudden clarity that steals your breath, that you find it all devastatingly charming. The smile on your face is no longer a ghost. It’s real. And you know, with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that feels suspiciously like excitement, that you are in very, very deep trouble.

Chapter Text

It's another Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday? Thursday? Does it even matter anymore? 

The days blur together. You're surrounded by luxury, a view worth millions, furniture that probably costs more than an entire house, but you are profoundly, achingly bored.

Your creative project cooks, born out of sheer desperation for something to do, are starting to hit a wall. There are only so many ways you can creatively incorporate mochi and imported sodas into a meal before you start questioning your life choices. You've made mochi-stuffed pancakes, soda-reduction glazes, and a truly questionable pocky-crusted chicken. Sometimes you just grab a random assortment from the pantry, yell “Allez cuisine!” Iron Chef style, and see what abomination happens.

You are running out of ideas, and frankly, you're starting to feel a bit sick of it.

You flop down on the sofa and stare up at the high ceiling.

Then, in an instant, Gojo appears.

He doesn't say anything, just jogs over to the coffee table, places a shrink-wrapped box down next to your scattered notes, gives you a little wave, and then vanishes just as quickly as he arrived.

You blink. Okay. That was weird, even for him.

You wait a beat for him to return and explain, but he doesn’t. You’re alone in the empty penthouse.

You cautiously approach the box. It's small and looks like the kind expensive electronics come in. Stuck to the top is a neon pink sticky note, written in Gojo’s surprisingly neat handwriting:

Solitary confinement can be such a drag… Sorry for the forced digital detox! Figured even my top-secret informant deserves access to cat videos. Try not to break it. Or call anyone boring. Or anyone at all for that matter, besides yours truly -Best Roommate Ever

You peel off the note, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips despite yourself, and open the box. Inside, nestled in pristine white packaging, is a phone. Not just any phone, but the absolute latest, top-of-the-line model. The kind that costs more than your entire security deposit on your old apartment.

You stare at it, completely stunned. You pick it up, the metal cool in your hand. You turn it on, the screen flaring to life with a blindingly bright display. You scroll through to find it already set up, your fingers feeling clumsy after so long without a touchscreen, and then you check the contacts.

There's only one entry.

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨

You just stare at the screen for a minute. 

You can't even be mad about his aggressive use of emojis. At least now you can finally look up some new recipes.

–

The weeks following settle into a strange rhythm. 

The world outside the window changes, even if the penthouse doesn't. You noticed it gradually. The bare branches of the distant trees you could see aren’t so bare anymore. They’re instead covered in an ocean of delicate, pale pink blossoms.

And then there is the state of Gojo’s ridiculously stocked fridge and pantry. When you first arrived, it was a hoard of rich chocolates, black sesame flavored treats, and decadent winter specials. But slowly, the inventory has shifted. Now, the shelves are dominated by pastel pink packaging, sakura-flavored everything, and delicate peach jellies.

It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out. It’s already early April, and you realize you’ve now been here for a couple months.

The initial tension of your stay has softened, worn down by the mundane reality of cohabitation. The new phone doesn’t hurt. It definitely doesn’t hurt. You don’t try to contact the outside world, per his request, but you now have the internet at your fingertips. It’s beginning to be a new normal.

Gojo is still an infuriating enigma, a whirlwind of chaotic energy, but he is a whirlwind that is, for the most part, elsewhere. 

He’s gone on missions more often than not, a fact you understand on an intellectual level to be a necessity. But something had shifted after that day you met Megumi. His absences feel less like abandonment and more like a weirdly long commute.

He’s started making an effort at least to be home.

Sometimes it’s just for a few hours in the middle of the night. You would wake up to a sound in the kitchen and find him leaning against the counter, eating a handful of sweets straight from the bag, looking exhausted but offering you a bright smile anyway.

Other times, he’d be there for a full evening, and you’d share a meal you’d cooked, the silence between you comfortable rather than strained. He’d watch you play Digimon World: Next Order, offering enthusiastic commentary on your monster-raising techniques. In your defense, you were getting quite good at it!

He’d also become more casually affectionate. It’s never overt, just small, fleeting moments that send a flutter through your chest. 

He’d drape an arm over your shoulders as he leaned over the sofa to see your game, his chin brushing the top of your head. He’d let his hand brush against yours when you’d pass him a plate. 

Each touch is light and meaningless, and yet feels charged in some way.

Sometimes, in the long stretches of silence when he’s gone, your mind drifts back to your old life. You’d be staring out at the glittering Tokyo skyline and you’d think about the fluorescent lights of the konbini. You’d wonder if your senpai ever thinks about you, if she ever tells the story of the coworker who had a panic attack in the alley and then just… never came back. 

You have effectively dropped off the face of the earth. No contact, no friends, no job. To the world, you’ve simply ceased to exist. The thought should be terrifying, but it feels strangely distant, like a memory from someone else’s life. A part of you understands that it’s for your own safety, lest the higher-ups or, god forbid, the evil brain somehow find out about you.

Your reality is here now, in this gilded cage, waiting for a man with eyes like the sky to come home.

You are no longer just his captive, for lack of a better word. You are becoming… something else. And you are both studiously avoiding putting a name to it.

–

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: ughhhhhh sooooo bored rn 😑😑😑 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: this mission sux the higher ups r literally worse than curses 😒 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: wyd?

You: trying to level up my digimon you know the usual 

You: stop texting and focus idiot dont get eaten because you were complaining 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: awww worried abt me??? 😘 dont worry the strongest cant b defeated that easy 💪💪💪 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: b home soon!!! maybe 😉 what's 4 dinner??

–

He appears on a Monday evening while you're deeply engrossed in a battle, the glow of the television screen illuminating the otherwise dark living room. You’re so focused on a particularly tough fight that you don’t notice him at first. It’s not a sudden sound that gives him away. It’s the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the faint, almost imperceptible hum of his presence in the room.

You pause the game and turn your head. He’s leaning against the wall just outside the kitchen, a bottle of water in his hand, just watching you. He’s not in his usual teaching uniform or his casual sweats, but a simple, well-fitting black t-shirt and jeans. He looks… good.

"Hey," he says. His voice is quieter than usual, lacking its typical boisterous edge. "Busy?"

"Just saving the digital world from imminent doom," you reply, setting the controller down on the sofa cushion beside you. The sudden quiet of the apartment feels more pronounced with him in it. "What's up? Another mission?"

"No, not tonight," he says. He pushes off the wall and walks further into the living room, but stops a meter away, a respectable distance. He’s not his usual, space-invading self. He takes a sip of his water before shoving his free hand into his pocket, a gesture that seems less casual and more like he doesn't know what to do with it. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think he was nervous.

"Actually," he starts, his gaze not quite meeting yours, instead fixing on the paused screen of the game. "I have to help Megumi move into his dorm at the school tomorrow. Officially. He’s starting next week." He pauses, taking another slow sip of water. "And I was wondering… if you wanted to come with me?"

The invitation hangs in the air, so unexpected. He’s asking, not telling. And his tone makes it sound like he’s actually worried about what your answer will be.

"To the school?" you ask, surprised. "I thought I was a state secret. You said the higher-ups would want to dissect me."

A hint of his usual smirk appears, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You are. Which is the fun part. It'd have to be a bit of a covert mission," he explains, finally looking at you. There’s a hopeful but uncertain glint in his blue eyes. "We'd have to be sneaky. Go when no one else is around, definitely after classes are done for the day."

He’s trying to make it sound like a fun conspiracy, but you can sense the underlying vulnerability. 

A slow smile spreads across your face, a warmth blooming in your chest. "A covert mission to move a teenager's boxes?" you say, your voice laced with amusement. "How can I possibly refuse?"

The change is subtle at first. The nervous tension in his shoulders dissolves in an instant. He visibly relaxes, the awkwardness melting away as if it were never there.

The hint of a smirk is replaced by a bright, unguarded smile. It’s the kind you’ve only seen a few times, the one that feels genuine to its core. It lights up his entire face, and the relief in his expression is so palpable it’s almost tangible. He clearly wanted you to say yes, and he was actually worried you wouldn’t. The realization sends a warm, dizzying flutter through your chest.

"Great," he says, his voice regaining its usual confidence. He claps his hands together. "Operation: Moody Teenager is a go!"

The endearing, boyish excitement on his face is what does it. This man holds the fate of the world on his shoulders, carries a burden you can barely comprehend, and yet he's beaming like a child.

A fond smile touches your lips.

You hear his footsteps follow you as you begin to head to the refrigerator.

"I'll start cooking something up for a couple bentos," you say over your shoulder. "Shouldn’t take too long."

"You don't have to do that," he says, his voice closer than you expected. You turn and find him leaning against the kitchen island, watching you with that same soft expression.

"I know I don't have to," you reply, pulling out some ingredients. "But you're a menace when your blood sugar is low. It’s for the success of the mission."

He doesn't reply immediately, just watches you as you gather the containers. The silence isn't awkward, just… full. It's filled with all the things the two of you aren't saying.

Finally, he pushes off the counter. "Okay," he says softly. "But I'm helping."

And he does. 

His best, at least.

Futomaki is simple enough. Cut up some vegetables, cook some protein, assemble, and you’re done.

The problem is that Gojo clearly has the culinary skills of a toddler armed with a power tool. It’s rare that you get to see him so clumsy and clearly out of his element. He tries to julienne a carrot with a butter knife for a solid couple minutes before deciding to just pop it into his mouth as a snack instead. And the way he mixes the mirin and shoyu together looks like he's trying to exorcise a curse from the bowl.

But he looks so proud of himself, so you decide not to say a word. 

You’re pretty sure he also just added three times the amount of sugar needed for the tamagoyaki. This is going to be... an interesting dinner. 

At least he's cute when he's concentrating. 

God, he's a menace.

–

The following evening, you find yourself in a room that is the polar opposite of Gojo's penthouse. It's a small, sterile box with white walls, a simple wooden bed frame, a desk, and a couple dressers. It smells faintly of fresh paint and disinfectant. A few cardboard boxes are stacked against one wall.

Megumi is already there, looking just as broody as when you’d last seen him, only now he's directing his silent frustration at a box of books.

"See? Covert ops," Gojo says cheerfully, warping directly onto the mattress in a blink and bouncing once, making the frame creak in protest. "No one even saw us." He stretches out, propping his head up with his hands. "Alright team, let's get Megumi unpacked! You two handle the heavy lifting, I'll supervise and provide moral support!"

Megumi shoots him a glare that could curdle milk. 

Sharing a look of mutual resignation with the teenager, you kneel down and start helping him unpack his books, arranging them on a built-in shelf. The work is quiet and methodical.

After a few minutes, you stand up to stretch, glancing out the open door into the empty, silent hallway. All the other doors are closed.

"Is it just you here?" you ask Megumi, curious.

He shakes his head, pulling a stack of textbooks from a box. "No. Inumaki-senpai should be around the boys' dorm somewhere. Okkotsu-senpai is abroad right now."

Gojo hums from the bed. "Yuta-kun's also a second-year. He's a big deal."

"Right," you say. "So, is Megumi-kun… the only first year, then?"

Gojo’s playful energy doesn't falter, but you notice a subtle sharpening of his attention. "For now," he says, his tone light. "It's a small class this year." He then claps his hands together, swinging his legs off the bed to sit up. "Megumi, speaking of Toge-kun, you should go find him and let him know you're finally moving in. He can show you where the good vending machines are."

Megumi looks skeptical. "You just want to talk to her alone," he states flatly.

Gojo gives him a big, theatrical wink. "Maybe! Now scoot. Important, top secret girlfriend-boyfriend stuff."

A hot, furious blush floods your cheeks. "Not your girlfriend!" you yell at him.

Gojo just laughs, completely unbothered. Megumi lets out a long sigh. He gives a curt nod in your direction, as if to wish you luck, and then leaves, his footsteps receding down the empty hall.

The moment he's gone, Gojo flops dramatically back onto the bed, throwing an arm over his blindfolded eyes. "Finally. He's so serious all the time, sucks the fun right out of the room." He peeks at you from under his arm. "Alright, spill," he says, his voice still lazy but with an underlying sharpness. "What's with the sudden interest in my student roster?"

You take a deep breath, recognizing that he had sent Megumi to protect him from this conversation. "It's just… my memory of it all is a mess, you know? But I'm pretty sure there are supposed to be three of them. Three first-years."

He pushes himself up on his elbows, his playful posture gone but the lazy smile still on his lips. He doesn't interrupt, just watches you, waiting.

You focus on a spot on the wall, trying to pull the images from your mind. "Remember the pink-haired kid from my notes?"

Gojo’s grin widens, and he perks up with amusement. "Ah, yes. Main character-san. How could I forget?"

"Whatever happens to him, I think it happens soon," you say, the words coming out in a rush.

The lazy smile is still on his lips, but his eyes are focused. "What makes you think that?"

"Well," you reason, going through everything that’s in your head, "I'm pretty sure he's one of your students. And he's in the same year as Megumi. Since Megumi is starting school next week, it has to be soon, right?"

You continue, "He's unnaturally, physically strong, even by your standards. And he's not from Tokyo. I don’t remember where, but somewhere outside the city."

Gojo listens, his expression unreadable behind his lazy smile. He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Unnaturally strong pink-haired kid from outside Tokyo, huh?" he muses, his tone light. "You realize that's a lot of ground to cover..."

You look down at your hands, then back up at him, a wave of grim determination washing over you. "I do realize that," you say, your voice quiet but firm. "And I know it might not be possible. We might not be able to change his fate at all."

You take a step closer, trying to make him understand, trying to see the man underneath. It’s frustrating.The blindfold, just like his infuriating smirk, is a shield, making it impossible to truly read his face, to know if any of this is actually getting through to him.

"But he's just a child," you insist, your voice gaining a raw, pleading edge. "And I have this… this foresight. It feels wrong, it feels useless most of the time, but if there's even a small chance, I have to try my best. We have to."

The air in the small dorm room grows heavy with the weight of your words. The silence stretches, thick and tense. You've laid your heart bare, and that’s the best you can do.

Gojo breaks the silence with a long, loud, incredibly dramatic sigh.

"I know you were probably getting lost in the passion," he exclaims into the room, "but you really should try using more tongue next time."

The statement is so abrupt, so personal, so wrong?? that your brain short-circuits. A mortified blush explodes across your face. You've never– You haven't even–

"What is WRONG with you?!" you sputter.

There’s a sudden squeak.

The sound is faint, like a startled mouse, and it comes from behind you.

You whip your head around. Megumi is standing in the doorway, his face a perfect mask of horror. He had clearly just come back from finding his senpai.

And then it clicks. Oh. Gojo knew. He sensed Megumi was there and wanted to keep your conversation from him.

You understand, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t scandalized.

Gojo then throws his head back and lets out a loud laugh, clutching his stomach as if he’s just witnessed the pinnacle of comedy.

That’s it.

You grab the nearest object, a thick textbook from one of the boxes, and hurl it right at Gojo’s face with all your might.

It flies through the air, a perfect spinning projectile of righteous fury. And then it stops. It hangs in the space between you, pages fluttering open, a mere inch from his nose.

He doesn’t even look at the book. He just laughs at you, and you imagine an infuriating sparkle in his eyes.

Megumi lets out a long, weary sigh, the sound of a teenager who has aged a thousand years in the last five minutes.

"I don't know how you put up with him," he says in his familiar flat tone.

And in that moment, looking from Megumi’s deadpan face to Gojo, who is now wiping a tear from under his blindfold, you have a realization. 

You are putting up with him. You're living in his apartment, eating his food, and being dragged into his secret life. This is your life now. And a growing part of you doesn't seem to mind at all.

"It's a full-time job," you reply to Megumi, a wry smile touching your lips for the first time.

"See? She does love me!" Gojo declares, finally getting his laughter under control. He blinks in an instant from the bed and slings an arm around your shoulders. Completely undeterred by your earlier attempt at assault, he pulls you back against his side. "Now, let's finish unpacking! Megumi’s room isn't going to set itself up!"

He starts nudging you and a still-mortified Megumi back towards the remaining boxes, humming a cheerful tune. You roll your eyes, but you don't pull away. The weight of his arm feels familiar now, almost comforting. The chaos is just beginning, but for the first time, you feel like you might just survive it.

–

A week later, you’re at the dining room table aimlessly scrolling through social media while Gojo is sprawled on the floor, meticulously constructing a precarious tower out of empty candy boxes.

A fond smile touches your lips. This is the new normal. These quiet, unassuming moments where you simply get to just coexist in the same space. There’s no need to talk, no need to fill the quiet. He does his ridiculous thing, you do yours, and it’s… peaceful. It all feels so wonderfully normal.

Suddenly, Gojo sits up, the tower tumbling down around him. 

"I wanna show you something," he announces, his eyes sparkling with an impulsive glimmer.

Before you can even ask what he’s talking about, he's on his feet, holding out his hand. You take it, bracing yourself for the usual lurch.

Once you come to your senses, you realize you're standing. But not on the floor. You gasp, looking down. Far below, bathed in the soft glow of security lights, are the familiar, traditional rooftops and training grounds of the school. You're hundreds of meters up, standing on nothing but air. 

You gasp, your eyes squeezed shut, and instinctively throw your arms around Gojo’s waist, clinging to him for dear life, burying your face hard against his chest. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You try to focus on his solid, steady presence instead of the open air around you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest and you can feel the vibration in your face. "Whoa there," he says, his voice full of amusement, his own arms coming up to hold you steady. "Don't worry. I got you. Solid ground, promise."

You stay pressed against him for a long moment, taking deep, shaky breaths, trying to will your racing heart to slow down. He doesn't rush you, just holds you patiently. Finally, you start to become calm enough to ignore the fear.

Slowly, hesitantly, you loosen your death grip and pull back just enough to open your eyes. You look down. You look again at the school far below and you realize you’re standing on a solid, invisible platform. It feels completely real under your feet, yet there is nothing there but empty air. The city lights of Tokyo are a distant, muted glitter on the horizon.

Then, you look up.

Above you, the sky is a breathtaking tapestry. This far from the city's light pollution, the stars are brilliant pinpricks of diamond dust scattered across a vast, inky blackness. The Milky Way is a shimmering river flowing across the heavens. It's the most beautiful, awe-inspiring thing you’ve ever seen.

"Better view up here, right?" Gojo says softly beside you. He’s standing easily on the invisible platform, his hands behind his head, looking completely relaxed. "No smog, no skyscrapers. Just… this."

You can only nod, speechless. He begins to sit down and you follow him.

"I used to come up here all the time," he says quietly, almost sounding reflective. "When I was younger, after I finally cracked RCT."

You look over at him, surprised by the admission.

He continues, his blindfolded gaze fixed on the stars. "Keeping Limitless active all the time was exhausting at first. It felt like my head was splitting open constantly." He continues. "Everything felt too bright. So I'd come up here where it was quiet just to practice."

You hum in response, and there’s a beat where neither of you speak, simply enjoying the sky.

He turns to you then, a slightly pompous smirk returning to his lips. "But enough of that! Bet you wanna know how I'm able to do this, don't you? Sit on nothing?"

You can't help but smile back. "Yeah, actually, I wouldn’t mind you explaining it all."

"Okay," he says, rubbing his hands together with sudden enthusiasm. "Do you want the easy explanation or the physics explanation?"

"Physics, definitely," you say without hesitation. "I never really studied it in school, but I've always been a little interested."

His face lights up like a kid who's just been asked about his favorite dinosaur. "Really? Awesome! Okay, so, you know Zeno's paradoxes, right? Achilles and the tortoise?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "My technique, Limitless, it basically brings that concept into reality. I'm subdividing the finite space between things infinitely. So, anything that approaches me gets slower and slower and technically never reaches me because it has to cross an infinite number of points. This platform? It's just me applying that same principle, creating an infinitely subdivided space that acts as a solid barrier.”

He gestures around you both. "I shaped it like a gumdrop this time. Flat on the bottom so we have something stable to stand on, obviously," he explains, tapping his fingers on the invisible floor. "But the top is curved and smooth, which makes it more aerodynamic. That lets the wind pass right over us without any annoying buffeting."

Of course he describes his spatial manipulation using candy, you think, a wave of fondness washing over you.

"Anyway," he continues, completely oblivious to your internal commentary, “It's not nothing, it's an infinite something compressed into..."

He launches deeper into a detailed explanation, his hands gesturing wildly as he talks about convergence and divergence, atomic particles, and spatial something or other. He's completely nerding out, his usual effortless cool replaced by an infectious, passionate enthusiasm for the complex mechanics of his own power.

You don't understand half of it, but you listen intently, captivated not just by the science, but by the brilliant, excited man explaining it all under a canopy of a million stars.

Chapter Text

The cherry blossoms came and went and before you know it, it’s been a month since the school year began. Gojo is still a ghost for unknown stretches, gone on missions you try not to think too hard about, but his returns are now a consistent part of your routine. He now appears several times a week, always bringing with him a bag of ridiculously expensive sweets and omiyage, and for a few hours, the cavernous apartment feels like a home.

He returns on a Friday afternoon, just as the sun is beginning to descend upon the Tokyo skyline. You’re curled up on the sofa, your notes spread out on the coffee table, trying to decipher a scribbled entry about a womb and a painting. They’re related, you swear, you just can’t figure out how.

He doesn’t announce his arrival with a greeting, but with the sound of a large, flat box being placed on the table next to your papers.

You look up, surprised. He’s standing there, nothing obscuring his celestial blue eyes. There’s a mysterious, self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Special mission briefing," he says, his voice low and playful.

Inside the box, nestled in delicate tissue paper, is a yukata. The fabric is a deep indigo, the color of a midnight sky, patterned with delicate, silvery-white flowers. It reminds you of the night you had together and it's breathtaking.

"Tonight’s objective," he continues, his grin widening, "is a deep-cover operation to observe local customs. Be ready in half an hour."

And with that, he vanishes into his room, leaving you with a thousand questions and a beautiful garment.

You have… no idea what’s going on. But you decide you’ll play along.

You manage to get the body of the yukata on easily enough. It wraps around you like a gentle hug. But the obi is another matter entirely. You twist and turn in front of the full-length mirror in your room, the thick sash refusing to cooperate, looking less like an elegant bow and more like a limp, wrinkled mess. After ten minutes of fruitless struggling, you let out a frustrated sigh.

"Need a hand?"

And Gojo is right behind you. You jump, startled to see his reflection in the mirror. He’s changed into his own yukata, a simple, dark grey one that makes him look a little broader than usual.

You try your best to ignore the fact that he clearly entered your room without knocking and nod, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

He steps closer, and your breath catches in your throat. He takes the sash from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours. "It's all about tension," he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that you feel more than hear.

He stands behind you, his body a warm, solid presence at your back. You watch his hands in the mirror as he works, his movements sure and surprisingly tender. His large, powerful hands, which you know are capable of unimaginable destruction, are now gentle, folding the heavy fabric into a crisp, perfect bow. You're hyper-aware of everything. The way his knuckles graze your lower back, the warmth of his breath on your neck. You find yourself holding your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He gives the knot a final, firm tug, his hands resting for a fraction of a second on your waist.

"There," he says in a low murmur against your ear. "Perfect."

You feel like you can barely breath, let alone form a coherent response. Your face is bright red, and you’re sure he can feel the heat radiating from your skin. You look up, intending to say something, anything, but your eyes don’t meet his in the mirror. He’s not looking at your face, but is instead glancing down, his expression focused as he carefully secures the thin, decorative obijime around your waist. His gaze flickers up, meeting yours for a fraction of a second. The intensity in that fleeting glance makes your breath catch.

Before you can process it, he's attending to your hair. His movements are still deliberate, his touch surprisingly gentle. You shiver at the feel of the cool brush of his knuckles against your neck as he gathers your hair, his long fingers expertly twisting and pinning it into a neat, secure bun at the nape of your neck.

"How do you even know how to do all this?" you finally manage to ask, your voice a little breathless as you watch his hands work in the reflection. "It looks really complicated."

He lets out a small huff, his focus on catching any loose strands. 

"Stuffy clan traditions," he mutters dismissively. "Endless lessons on etiquette and all that… including how to properly dress someone in formal wear." He pauses, a flicker of his usual smirk returning as he reaches into his sleeve. "I'm pretty sure my handlers were trying to prepare me to woo some important clan daughter. You know, make sure I could properly assist my future wife with her attire."

He produces a pair of elegant kanzashi, delicate, lacquered hairpins with tiny, dangling silver blossoms. You have no idea where they came from, but you don't even have time to question it. He starts to tastefully arrange them in your hair, his touch so light it’s barely there. You find yourself leaning back into his hands.

"There," he says again, his voice a soft murmur that seems to vibrate through you. He takes a step back, his work apparently finished. He gives you a quick, assessing look in the mirror, then shoots you a wink. "Practice makes perfect, I guess."

You can’t deny it all looks beautiful.

He turns and starts to leave the room, his long strides silent on the wooden floor. You stand there for a second, your mind still catching up, before turning to follow him. That’s when you catch your side profile in the mirror.

The bun is perfect, the Kanzashi are luxurious, but the collar of the yukata… It’s pulled down low in the back, exposing the entire nape of your neck in a way that feels… deliberate. The gap is significantly larger than what would be considered traditionally elegant. Some might call it alluring. You would call it scandalous. It's definitely a statement.

You look towards the doorway. He’s paused there, looking back at you, a knowing, lazy smirk playing on his lips. He saw you notice. He did that on purpose. You give him a look, your eyebrows arching in a silent glare.

He just starts laughing before turning and continuing down the hall.

You follow him back out into the living room, the cotton fabric of the yukata rustling with every step. He’s standing in the center of the room, waiting for you with a pair of socks and geta sandals.

"So," you start, breaking the comfortable silence as you adjust the front of your yukata, feeling a little self-conscious under his gaze. "Where are we going on this 'special mission'?"

A slow smile spreads across his face, the kind that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Asakusa," he says in a delicate voice. "For the Sanja Matsuri. If you'll join me."

He holds out his hand, a clear and simple invitation.

There’s no teasing glint in his eyes, no hint of a joke. It’s just him, offering you a night out, a brief escape from the heavy weight of the future.

You look at his outstretched hand, at the long, elegant fingers. And, with a small, answering smile, you place your hand in his.

His fingers close around yours, his grip warm and firm. He doesn't warp immediately. Instead, he pulls you in, his other arm wrapping securely around your waist, drawing you flush against his side. You can feel the solid warmth of his body through the layers of cotton, your head fitting perfectly under his chin.

"Hold on tight," he says and the world dissolves into a kaleidoscope of light and sensation.

–

You realize you haven’t been to a festival in ages.

Strings of bright red and white paper lanterns hang overhead, casting a warm glow on a sea of people. You’re standing on a crowded street, the energy of the Sanja Matsuri thrumming through the soles of your geta sandals.

You blink, trying to take it all in. The air is thick with the delicious smells of grilled squid, sweet takoyaki, and caramelized sugar. Locals and tourists alike in colorful yukatas and happi coats flow around you, a river of laughter and chatter. It’s overwhelming and vibrant and wonderful.

You look around the immediate area, scanning the faces in the crowd. "So," you say, your voice raised slightly to be heard over the din of the crowd. "Where are we meeting him? Megumi, I mean."

Gojo, who’s been watching your reaction with a pleased smile, looks genuinely confused for a second. "Megumi?" he repeats, as if the name is completely foreign. Then, a slow, knowing grin spreads across his face. "Oh, he's studying. Very important first-year business. This is just for us."

Oh. 

Oh.

This is a date.

The thought sends a fresh wave of heat to your cheeks, but this time, it’s not from embarrassment.

"C'mon," he says, his hand still loosely holding yours. "No moody teenagers allowed. Tonight’s all about having fun."

He drags you to a food stall selling mitarashi dango, the sweet soy glaze glistening under the lantern light. 

"Two, please!" he says cheerfully to the vendor, before leaning in. "And for mine, can you put on extra extra glaze? Like, a ridiculous amount. I want it drowning in it." 

The vendor gives him a strange look but does what he asks, handing over one skewer with a normal coating and another that is practically dripping. Gojo takes the heavily glazed one with a look of pure bliss.

"Perfection," he declares, his voice a low, reverent hum.

He brings the skewer to his lips, bypassing the first dango ball entirely and going straight for the thickest pool of glaze between the first and second. He doesn't just lick it, he inhales it, a long, slow draw that makes his eyes flutter shut with a soft hum.

Then, as he takes his first actual bite, the soft dango yielding under his teeth, the hum escalates into a full-on moan. It makes the back of your neck prickle with secondhand embarrassment.

"Mmmph, so good," he groans around the mouthful, his head tilting back. He follows it with a long, drawn-out sigh that borders on indecent. He then licks a stray drop of glaze from the corner of his mouth with a slow motion that is utterly unnecessary and deeply distracting.

You can't decide if you want to throttle him for being so extra or just... stare. It's ridiculous. It's embarrassing.

"Gojo, stop being so loud!" you hiss, your cheeks burning as you notice a few nearby festival-goers giving him amused, sideways glances. "People are staring!"

He immediately stops, his eyes snapping open. He looks around with an expression of pure, feigned innocence, as if he has no idea what you're talking about. Then, he looks back at you and snickers.

You just roll your eyes but can’t help but smile. Of course, you knew he was faking it. Or at least, dramatically exaggerating it, purely for your benefit.

In his defense, the dango is really good.

Later, he insists on playing a goldfish scooping game. He takes the flimsy paper scooper with the confidence of a master, leaning over the shallow pool. You expect the paper to rip instantly, but it doesn't. He moves the scooper through the water with… impossible grace, and a fat goldfish leaps onto it. 

You squint, and you can just make out that the fish isn't actually touching the paper. It's flopping frantically a few millimeters above it, held aloft by his infinity. He deposits it neatly into a plastic bag, the paper scooper still perfectly intact. The stall owner stares, slack-jawed, as Gojo proudly presents you with your prize.

You laugh, playfully hitting him on the shoulder. "That's cheating!"

He grins down at you, his eyes sparkling under the lantern light. "Hey now," he says, his voice light and teasing. "The rules don't say you have to use only the scoop!"

"No, I'm pretty sure that's exactly what the rules state," you retort, arching an eyebrow. "It's literally called 'Goldfish Scooping,' not 'Levitating Goldfish with your Mind'."

He just laughs, completely unrepentant. "Details, details! We got the fish, didn't we? That's all that matters."

At one point, after the sun has started to set, a sudden surge in the crowd separates you. You feel a brief moment of panic in the overwhelming sea of people, but then his hand finds yours again, his fingers lacing through yours, his grip firm and reassuring. He doesn't say anything, just tugs you gently along in his wake.

The gesture makes your heart ache. Looking at the back of his head, at the way the dark fabric of his yukata stretches across his broad shoulders as he carves a path for you through the crowd, you realize you’re starting to see him for him.. He isn’t Gojo, the Honored One, the untouchable, all-powerful sorcerer. He’s just Satoru. 

The shift is jarring, but feels… right.

–

The sun has now fully set, and the brilliant energy of the main festival thoroughfare has softened into a warm glow. You’ve found your way to a side street where a small crowd has gathered around a raised wooden stage to watch a taiko performance. The drumming thrums through the soles of your geta and resonates deep in your chest.

Satoru’s arm is a warm, solid weight around your shoulders, and you find yourself leaning into his side without a second thought. Any earlier awkwardness has long melted away, replaced by a comfortable, easy silence. 

You watch the performers, their movements synchronized and powerful, their faces illuminated by the paper lanterns strung above them. This is nice, you think. It’s more than nice. It’s the closest you’ve felt to peace in a very long time.

Suddenly, the solid warmth you’re leaning against shifts.

You feel him tense up, the relaxed muscle of his arm going rigid around you. It’s a shift from comfort to high alert. You look up at his face, and the soft, amused smile he’d been wearing all day is gone. For a split second, his expression is one you’ve only seen glimpses of before, a flash of cold seriousness. 

His eyes, fixed on a point somewhere beyond the cheering crowd, are sharp and focused, all traces of the playful man from the festival gone.

Just as quickly as it disappeared, the mask is back. He blinks, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders, and his expression relaxes into a neutral smile. 

But the moment is broken. The warmth is gone, replaced by a weird undercurrent of danger that has nothing to do with the festival and everything to do with the world he truly belongs to.

"Sorry," he says, his voice devoid of its usual lilt. "Party's over. Just spotted what I think might be an unregistered special grade and I’ll need to go take care of it."

His words cut through the festive atmosphere, a chilling reminder of the danger surrounding you in the outside world. This is what he does. He fights monsters in the dark while other people listen to music and eat candy. The contrast is dizzying.

He starts to pull away, clearly intending to leave you in the relative safety of the crowd. But then he hesitates, his hand still resting on your shoulder. He looks at you, his blue eyes sharp.

"This will be pretty quick," he says, almost to himself. Then comes a quiet, unexpected question. "...unless you want to come with?"

Before you can react, he quickly adds, "It’ll be totally safe, I promise! You'll be far enough away. But I thought… you might want to see what I really do."

The offer hangs in the air between you. 

Part of you, the sane, rational part, is screaming to say no, to stay here amidst the lanterns and the music and the safety of the festival. But another, larger part of you, the part that has been living in his world for months, is consumed by a desperate curiosity. 

You know the stories. You know of course what he’s capable of. But you've never actually seen him in his element. You've never seen the Strongest at work.

You look into his eyes. He's offering you a piece of himself, the part that he keeps hidden behind a wall of jokes and sweets. And you realize, past all your fear, that you want to see it.

You give a single, resolute nod. "Okay."

–

Satoru doesn't warp you. Instead, his hand finds yours again, his grip firm as he leads you away from the thrumming taiko drums, pulling you down a narrow, unlit side street. The sounds of the festival fade behind you, replaced by the distant hum of city life and the soft, rhythmic clap of your geta on the pavement. He moves with a quiet, predatory grace that is a stark contrast to his earlier, playful demeanor.

He stops at the mouth of a dark, garbage-strewn alleyway, a pocket of deep shadow between two old buildings. He positions you behind a large, overflowing dumpster, a vantage point that keeps you mostly hidden from view but gives you a clear line of sight.

"Stay here," he murmurs, his voice a low, serious command. "Don't move, and don't make a sound. I won’t let anything happen to you."

And then he steps out into the center of the alley.

"Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure."

You can barely see the inky black veil against the dark sky.

The air grows heavy, thick with a palpable malevolence that feels like it’s sucking the oxygen from your lungs. The shadows in the center of the alley begin to writhe and coalesce, twisting into a shape that defies nature. It’s a grotesque amalgamation of limbs and mouths, a lurching, multi-jointed horror that seems to weep a thick, black ichor onto the pavement.

Satoru doesn't flinch. He stands there, perfectly calm, his hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his yukata. The creature lets out a wet, gurgling shriek and lunges, a tangle of mismatched limbs scuttling across the ground at an unnatural speed.

What happens next is not a fight.

It's a performance.

Satoru doesn't dodge. He simply ceases to be there, reappearing a meter to the left in a flicker of movement too fast for your eyes to track. The curse crashes into the spot where he just stood. The long, elegant sleeves of his yukata swirl around him as he moves, the dark fabric a stark contrast to the brilliant, crackling blue energy that begins to gather in the palm of his hand.

He begins toying with it. He moves in a series of fluid, precise steps, less like a warrior and more like a dancer. Each time the creature lunges, he’s already gone, reappearing behind it, beside it, his movements so effortless they almost seem choreographed. The alley becomes his stage, and the curse is his unwilling partner.

Seeing him like this is intense. 

The alluring lethality of his power is a force of nature. It’s a power that could erase you, this alley, this entire city block without a second thought. But as he teleports again, the sleeve of his yukata billowing out like the wing of a bird, another thought cuts through your fear.

He’s beautiful.

It’s an undeniable fact. The sight of him, so utterly in control, so graceful, is breathtaking. You are completely entranced, a silent, hidden spectator to this violent ballet.

He raises a hand, two fingers extended. A brilliant, azure light, no bigger than a marble, blooms at his fingertip. The curse lets out a final shriek.

"Time's up," Satoru says. His voice is calm, almost bored.

He flicks his fingers. 

The tiny orb of blue light shoots forward, not with a bang, but with a quiet hum. It hits the creature dead center, and for a moment, nothing happens. Then, the curse implodes, collapsing in on itself in a silent, violent vortex of azure light before vanishing completely. 

Nothing is left behind but the faint smell of ozone.

Satoru whips around, a huge, triumphant grin plastered on his face, his eyes sparkling with childish delight.

"See? What'd I tell you? Quick and easy!" he says, jogging back towards you, clearly very impressed with himself and expecting you to be as well. "Ten out of ten performance, if I do say so myself. The curse didn’t stand a cha–"

"Satoru," you interrupt, your voice barely a whisper. You’re not looking at him. Your eyes are fixed on a point in the air where the curse had just imploded. The space is shimmering, and a small, dark object is slowly materializing from nothing, as if being spat out by reality itself. You raise a trembling hand and point at it just as it begins to fall. "What's that?"

His cheerful boasting cuts off instantly. He follows your gaze, and his smile vanishes. "Oh," he says. "That's not good."

In a blink, he’s gone from your side. He reappears directly under the falling object, plucking it neatly from the air a couple centimeters before it hits the grimy pavement. In the next instant, he’s back in front of you, the sounds of the festival still playing in the distance.

It's a single, gnarled finger, with a long, blackened nail. Its skin is an angry red, dry and mummified.

"Recognize this?" he asks, his voice serious now. He holds it up for you to see more clearly. "It's a special grade cursed object. Sukuna's finger. Real nasty stuff. The curse must have eaten it to get as strong as it did, even if it was still pretty weak."

The sight of it, combined with the name, is a lightning bolt to your memory. You can suddenly see a high-definition scene playing out in your mind’s eye. A high school. Megumi. A curse much larger than the one Satoru just fought. A boy with pink hair, a desperate, reckless boy, popping this exact finger into his mouth.

A strangled gasp escapes your lips, your hand flying to your mouth as the full weight of the memory hits you.

"He eats it!"

Satoru looks from the gnarled finger in his hand to your panicked face, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.

"Wait, what?" he asks, his tone still light and teasing. "Who eats what?”

You take a step closer and lowering your voice, your eyes darting around the empty alley as if the walls might be listening. "The pink-haired kid from my notes, Main Character-san! He eats one of those, and that's how the story starts!"

“Oh man, that’s disgusting,” Satoru lets out an awkward chuckle. "If that kid eats one of these and doesn't immediately die, that means…"

The lighthearted facade finally drops. He looks down at the finger, then back at you.

He carefully closes his fingers around the cursed object and stuffs it into his yukata sleeve.

"Okay," he says in a tone that’s all business. His hand finds your wrist, his grip firm and grounding. "New plan. I'm dropping you off at home, right now."

"What are you going to do?" you ask, your heart still hammering.

"I'm bringing this to the warehouse at the school. It’s going under lock and key," he says, his gaze already distant, his mind clearly racing miles ahead. "And from now on, I’ll need to keep a very close eye on any more of these that pop up. If your memory is right, we might be able to find this kid before he finds this." He looks at you, back to grinning. "And if we pull this off, the plot doesn't even have to start at all."

–

Satoru warps the two of you back to the penthouse.

You’re still in your yukata, the sad little goldfish in its plastic bag still clutched in your hand, but the magic of the night feels light years away.

Satoru’s hand drops from your wrist.

He’s the first to break the silence, running a hand through his white hair. He looks tired, the weight of his responsibilities settling back onto his shoulders. 

"Hey," he starts, his voice quiet. "I’m sorry for ending the night like this."

You look up at him and a surprising smile touches your lips. 

"Don't be," you say, your voice soft. "I still had fun. It was… really nice." You pause, a faint blush warming your cheeks as you add, "And for what it's worth… you looked really cool back there."

His mouth opens slightly, as if to say something, but no words come out. He just stares at you for a moment, a look of surprise on his face.

Then, the surprise melts away, replaced by a brilliant grin. It makes his eyes sparkle, and your heart does a now familiar little flip.

"Leave everything to me," he says, his voice brimming with a sudden, unshakeable confidence. It's a promise.

And then he's gone, vanishing in a silent flicker of warped space, leaving you alone in the quiet of the penthouse.

You stand there for a long moment, the quiet of the room a stark contrast to the racing of your heart. 

You really, really hope he knows what he's doing.

Chapter Text

You look out into the open space of the penthouse. It’s vast and kinda empty, but it’s no longer quite as lonely.

In the corner of the living room, a massive 500 liter aquarium now sits. Inside is a vibrant, living world that you’re damn proud of. You put an absolutely stupid amount of work into it. Kingyo-chan, the single, sad-looking goldfish Satoru had won for you at the festival, now swims majestically in a beautifully aquascaped tank filled with a variety of seaweed and driftwood.

You’d felt so sorry for her in her little plastic bag that you’d convinced Satoru to make a late-night run to a pet store that weekend. Kingyo-chan now has two companions, a calico fantail and a black moor, and the three of them spend their days exploring their luxurious new home. 

You often find yourself watching them, a wry smile on your face. You started this whole mess as a captive prize, too. For good reason, of course. But you’ve found a way to build a life in your own beautiful, oversized fish tank.

And now, the early June sun is beating down on the city. Even high up in the climate-controlled sanctuary of the penthouse, you can feel the oppressive weight of the coming summer. You're curled up on the coolest spot on the leather sofa, a tall glass of iced tea sweating onto the coaster on the coffee table in front of you, trying to lose yourself in a book. It’s quiet, peaceful even.

Too peaceful, apparently.

"Ughhhhh, I'm melting," Satoru groans from the floor, where he’s sprawled out dramatically on his front across the cool wood like a starfish. "This is unbearable. There should be laws against weather this hot."

You lower your book slightly, peering at him over the top. He’s dressed in nothing but a pair of loose shorts, his white hair sticking up at odd angles. You’re studiously ignoring his display of sculpted musculature. "You have air conditioning," you point out dryly. "And the ability to teleport literally anywhere in the world. Maybe somewhere… colder?"

"Too much effort," he whines, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. "Besides, all the cold places are probably boring too. Everything is boring today. My brain is going to liquefy from sheer under-stimulation."

God, with how much sugar he eats, how the hell does he have abs??

"Maybe you could try reading a book?" you suggest, gesturing to your own, not allowing your inner thought process to spill out.

Why do his collar bones have to look so goddamn pretty??

He makes a face. "Reading? Too quiet. I need action. Excitement. Maybe a surprise curse? Just a little one?"

You sigh, shaking your head, but a small smile plays on your lips. His dramatic complaints about boredom are almost as much a part of the routine as feeding the fish. It’s a comfortable noise, one that helps distract you from… other thoughts.

Suddenly, he sits bolt upright, his blue eyes sparkling with a familiar, impulsive light that usually precedes some kind of ridiculous scheme. "Wait! I have an idea!"

You refuse to acknowledge the way his sweat makes his pecs glisten. 

Instead, you sigh, a long, drawn-out sound, and carefully place your bookmark between the pages of your book before closing it. 

You know that look. And so you just raise an eyebrow, waiting for the punchline.

Before you have time to process what’s happening, he grabs your wrist. You let out a surprised yelp as the world dissolves in a familiar, nauseating lurch, and you slam back into reality. Fushiguro Megumi is sitting at his desk, hunched over a textbook, and he jumps about a foot in the air at your sudden appearance.

"GOJO-SENSEI!" Megumi yells, whirling around, his usual stoic expression replaced with surprise. "What the hell? Can't you knock?! And where are your clothes!"

"Shhh!" Satoru immediately puts a finger to his lips, adopting an expression of grave seriousness. "I have a top secret urgent mission briefing!"

Megumi just stares at him in weary disbelief. You can practically see him mentally calculating how much trouble he'd be in if he just punched his guardian right in the face.

Satoru ignores him, turning to address both of you. "Alright, team," he announces, his voice low and serious. Well, as serious as he can be while standing in his student’s dorm room, sweaty and in only a pair of shorts. "We have intel suggesting a potential high-level threat requiring immediate reconnaissance. A Grade 1, minimum."

He pauses for dramatic effect, leaning in conspiratorially. "Our target: Tokyo Disneyland."

Megumi's jaw actually drops slightly. "Tokyo… Disney?" he repeats flatly.

"Precisely!" Satoru confirms, nodding gravely. "Think about it. These locations are potent breeding grounds for curses. They concentrate negative human emotions on an industrial scale!" 

He starts ticking points off on his fingers. "Fear, from the rollercoasters and haunted houses! Anger, from the ridiculously long lines and overpriced food! And you can’t forget the deep, soul-crushing disappointment from it not being nearly as good as DisneySea!"

He throws his arms out wide. "This volatile cocktail of negativity, amplified by the oppressive summer heat, creates a perfect storm for curse manifestation! We need to infiltrate, assess the threat level, and neutralize any emergent curses before they can reach critical mass. It's a dangerous mission, but someone has to do it." 

He beams at you both.

Satoru points a commanding finger at Megumi. "For this incredibly dangerous operation," he declares, his voice echoing slightly in the small dorm room, "I will require my top student! Fushiguro Megumi!" He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Your tracking abilities will be crucial for locating any curses attempting to conceal themselves amidst the civilian population."

Megumi just stares at him. "So you want me to patrol with my Divine Dogs over by the carousel?"

"Precisely!" Satoru confirms, either missing or ignoring the sarcasm entirely.

Megumi sighs, rubbing his temples. "Okay, fine," he says, his voice dripping with resignation. "But if we need my tracking skillset, why’s your not-girlfriend here? Does it have anything to do with why you’re half naked?"

Satoru gasps dramatically, putting a hand to his chest as if wounded. "Megumi! Are you questioning my tactical decisions?" He leans in. "She's here for morale, of course. A happy team is an effective team! Plus, someone needs to hold the souvenirs while we're fighting off curses. It's a vital support role!"

You look from Megumi's deadpan expression to Satoru's wide grin. This is absurd. This mission is so clearly fabricated that you’re immediately suspicious.

But… Disneyland. A whole day out, away from the penthouse. A chance to just… be normal. The idea is too tempting. And honestly, watching Satoru try to maintain this ridiculous charade all day sounds highly entertaining.

You let out a long sigh, mimicking Megumi's earlier resignation. "Fine," you say, meeting Satoru's grin with a roll of your eyes. It’s clear Megumi doesn’t have a say in the matter so you might as well make it dramatic. "For the sake of preventing widespread death and destruction, we accept this incredibly dangerous mission. But only if you put on a shirt first."

"Excellent!" Satoru cheers, clapping his hands together. "Team Gojo Amusement Park Reconnaissance Squad, move out!"

–

The three of you land in a surprisingly quiet corner just outside the bustling entrance plaza of Tokyo Disneyland, Satoru thankfully clothed in what you can only describe as vacation chic with a pair of oversized sunglasses. You can hear the faint, cheerful music from the park, the excited chatter of crowds, and the distant whoosh of the monorail passing overhead.

Megumi stumbles slightly upon arrival, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "Could you please give some warning next time?" he grumbles, adjusting the collar of his shirt. Megumi almost looks like a mini-me, and it’s clear his guardian had a heavy hand in curating his wardrobe.

"Where's the fun in that?" Satoru asks, completely unrepentant. He strikes a dramatic pose, one hand on his hip, the other pointing towards the iconic castle just visible over the entrance gates. And perched jauntily on top of his white hair, glinting in the bright summer sun, is a pair of Mickey Mouse ears.

You just stare at him. Where did those come from and when did he have the time to put them on?

"Are those regulation uniform for this mission, sensei?" you ask, pointing above your head, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.

"They’re essential equipment!" he declares, adjusting the ears with a flourish. "Helps blend in with the locals. Now, let's commence the mission!" He starts walking towards the entrance, already radiating an aura of chaotic vacation energy. Megumi just sighs again, the sound long and drawn out, and reluctantly follows in his wake.

–

"Alright, Megumi! First objective." He points dramatically towards Tomorrowland on the map. "Space Mountain. Intel suggests a high concentration of fear-based cursed energy in that sector. Screams, darkness, sudden drops are prime conditions for curse manifestation. Ride Space Mountain and report back immediately on any anomalous energy fluctuations born from the terror of high-speed darkness."

Megumi's eyebrow twitches. "You want me to ride Space Mountain... for work."

"For reconnaissance," Satoru corrects. "Now go! The fate of the park rests on your shoulders!"

With a sigh so deep it seems to carry the weight of the entire Jujutsu world, Megumi trudges off towards Tomorrowland.

Satoru watches him go with a proud nod before turning to you with a conspiratorial grin. "Okay, while he's busy risking his life in the name of public safety, what do you want to do first? Popcorn or churros?"

"Popcorn sounds good," you agree, the cheerful, buttery smell already wafting over to where you’re standing.

He immediately pulls you towards the nearest popcorn cart. "Can't fight curses on an empty stomach! What flavor? Caramel? Butter? Roast beef? Actually, let's get all three."

"We are not getting three buckets of popcorn," you laugh, pulling him back slightly. "Just get the regular butter."

"Fine, fine," he sighs dramatically, ordering a large bucket with extra, extra butter. He hands it to you, then immediately steals a large handful.

You find a bench slightly away from the main flow of traffic in Fantasyland. For a few minutes, it feels almost normal. Just two people sharing popcorn on a sunny day at Disneyland.

"So," Satoru says around a mouthful, "enjoying the high-stakes mission so far?"

"It's certainly… something," you reply dryly, eating another handful of popcorn. "Very different from my usual Tuesday."

He lets out a big laugh. "Gotta keep you on your toes." His gaze drifts over the crowd, then stops, a familiar, mischievous glint entering his eyes. "Hold that thought, just spotted something vital to the mission."

Before you can react, he’s up and weaving through the crowd. You don’t see where he disappears off to, but he returns a moment later, holding a pair of Mickey ears identical to his own save for a big polka dot bow on the front.

"Okay, maybe not vital," he admits, holding them out to you. "But definitely necessary for maximum enjoyment. C'mon, put 'em on. For morale."

"Absolutely not," you say, shaking your head, though you can feel a smile tugging at your lips. "I’d look ridiculous."

"We’d both look ridiculous," he corrects, adjusting his own ears. "That's the point! It's camouflage. We’d blend in." He holds the ears out again, wiggling them in the air in front of your face. "Besides, you’d look cute, too."

The casual compliment makes your cheeks warm slightly. You sigh, snatching the ears from his hand before he can try to put them on you himself. You perch them awkwardly on your head, acutely aware of how silly you must look.

He beams, looking immensely pleased. "See? Perfect! Now we look like completely normal, unsuspicious tourists enjoying some overpriced popcorn."

You sit with him for another ten minutes while you enjoy the popcorn and people watch. Then, Satoru jumps to his feet.

"Okay, quick!" he says, grabbing your hand and pulling you up from the bench. "Megumi should be on line for Space Mountain for at least another thirty minutes, so we have a crucial window for some actual fun!"

"Actual fun?" you ask, laughing as he pulls you towards the pastel-colored Alice’s Tea Party. "As opposed to the fake fun we were having pretending this was a mission?"

"Exactly," he says, completely serious for a split second before breaking into another grin. "Come on!"

There’s no line and you’re able to walk right on. He practically shoves you into a bright pink teacup, sliding in opposite you. The ride lurches to life with a cheerful, slightly manic tune.

"Wanna see something cool?" he asks, leaning forward, his blue eyes sparkling.

“Sure,” you say, intrigued. “Why not.”

He holds his hands out, hovering just above the central steering wheel but not touching it. In his right palm, a tiny, brilliant orb of crackling blue energy appears. In his left, a pulsing, equally small orb of intense red. Blue and Red. Attraction and Repulsion.

He holds them steady on either side of the wheel.

And the teacup moves.

It doesn't just spin, it accelerates, going from a gentle rotation to a dizzying blur in seconds. The force pushes you back against the side of the cup, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. The world outside dissolves into streaks of color, the cheerful music only adding to your growing feeling of vertigo.

"Faster?" Satoru shouts over the noise, his own laughter mingling with yours. He adjusts the position of the orbs slightly, and the spinning intensifies.

"Okay, okay, that's enough!" you gasp, trying to catch your breath between laughs, your head already starting to spin faster than the teacup itself. You cling to the sides, dizzy and exhilarated. It's ridiculous and nauseating, and it's the most fun you've had in ages.

He finally lets the orbs dissipate, and the teacup gradually slows, the world slowly resolving back into distinct shapes. You lean back, your head swimming, a goofy, dizzy grin plastered on your face. Satoru is in much the same state, leaning back with his eyes closed, still chuckling. It’s a wonder his sunglasses didn’t fly off.

"See?" he says breathlessly. "Nothing like good old applied physics. Way more fun than just spinning the wheel like a normie."

You just shake your head, still laughing. The teacup slowly glides to a stop, but the world keeps spinning. You try to stand, but your legs feel like overcooked noodles, and the cheerful, pastel landscape tilts violently to one side.

"Whoa there," Satoru laughs, easily catching you as you stumble out of the teacup. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you upright as you lean against him, trying to regain your equilibrium. The ground feels suspiciously unstable beneath your feet.

"That," you say, blinking hard and trying to focus on his bright grin, "was absolutely ridiculous."

He just beams at you. "See?" he says. "Told you it’d be fun." He doesn't let go, just keeps you steady, radiating a warmth that’s almost as dizzying as the ride itself.

You try to take a step, but the cheerful, spinning world has imprinted itself on your inner ear. The pavement seems to tilt and sway beneath your feet like the deck of a ship in a storm. "Whoa," you mumble, stumbling slightly.

Satoru just laughs, tightening his grip around your waist. "Easy there, spinning top," he teases. "Too many G’s?"

"Shut up," you grumble, but you lean gratefully more against his solid frame, letting him take most of your weight. He starts walking you slowly away from the ride, his pace matching your wobbly steps.

"There's a bench right over here," he says, guiding you towards a shaded spot under a nearby tree.

He helps you the last few feet, and you sink onto the bench with a sigh of relief. The world is still doing a gentle, slow-motion spin, but at least you're not about to fall over anymore. You close your eyes for a moment, just breathing.

Megumi reappears soon after, looking even more annoyed than before. He hastily reports, "The line was an hour long. No curses detected, just guests."

"Excellent work!" Satoru declares, his tone changing at the drop of a hat. "Phase two!" He pulls out his park map and gestures towards the gothic architecture of the Haunted Mansion. "This location is saturated with ambient dread and residual spookiness. Go inside, gauge the energy levels. Be sure to blend in. Don't engage with any curses, just observe."

Megumi gives him a long, flat stare before turning and walking towards the mansion without a word.

"He's such a good student," Satoru says, beaming. "Takes his duties so seriously. Which means..." His grin turns mischievous. "...we should have plenty of time!"

Once you’ve sufficiently recovered from your bout of vertigo, he practically yanks you away from Fantasyland and towards the faint, cheerful cacophony of the carnival games in Adventureland. He bypasses the ring toss and the water gun races, his eyes fixed on a darts stall offering absurdly large, almost life-sized stuffed animals as top prizes. A giant Stitch catches his eye.

"Shouldn’t be too hard," he murmurs, pulling out his wallet. He pays for three darts, his expression one of unwavering concentration.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but the first dart flies from his hand with crazy speed and precision, hitting the dead center of the tiny bullseye. 

You gasp, your eyes widening in genuine surprise. "Whoa, nice shot!"

The second dart follows, landing directly beside the first. The third splits the plastic tail of the second dart. Three perfect bullseyes.

You clap your hands together in delighted disbelief. "No way! How did you do that?"

The college age staff member running the booth just stares with his mouth hanging open, clearly bewildered.

Satoru just grins, holding out his hands expectantly. "Prize, please!"

A moment later, the enormous, ridiculously fluffy Stitch is shoved into your arms. It's almost as big as you are.

Satoru pats Stitch on the head. "He can provide cover for you in case of emergency."

You wrestle with the giant stuffed alien, trying to find a way to carry it without completely obscuring your vision. "There’s no way! You had to have cheated somehow," you accuse, though you can't quite keep the smile off your face.

"Nonsense," he says airily, already steering you towards some mochi. "Pure skill. And maybe a just little bit of manipulated aerodynamics."

This time, Megumi is gone for a solid two hours. When he returns, his expression is bordering on murderous. He eyes the giant Stitch in your arms but chooses to not say anything. "A lot of dust," he reports curtly. "And animatronics. Zero cursed energy."

Satoru nods gravely, stroking his chin. "As I suspected. The real threat lies elsewhere." He points a dramatic finger towards Fantasyland, specifically towards the brightly colored facade of It's a Small World. His voice drops to a low, serious whisper. "This is the most dangerous location of all."

Megumi looks like he's about to physically implode.

"The potential for curses born from existential ennui..." Satoru continues, his eyes wide with mock terror, "...the sheer, mind-numbing rage induced by that relentlessly cheerful, endlessly repetitive music... it's off the charts! We need a thorough analysis. Megumi, I need you to go in. And you may need to ride it twice, just to be sure."

Megumi just closes his eyes, takes a deep, fortifying breath, and walks towards the ride like a man heading to his own execution. You and Satoru watch from outside as he disappears into the brightly colored entrance.

You both burst into laughter the moment he's out of sight.

–

Somehow, despite the dinner rush and the lack of a reservation, Satoru manages to charm the hostess into giving you the best table in the themed restaurant. It’s a prime spot on the covered patio overlooking the bustling walkway. He slides into his chair with a pleased grin, setting his Mickey ears on the table. You’re still wrestling with the giant Stitch plushie, trying to wedge it into the chair in the corner corner without knocking over a water glass.

A few minutes later, Megumi appears, looking thoroughly done with the day. His usual stoicism is fraying around the edges, replaced by a deep exasperation. He slumps into the chair to the side of Satoru, pointedly ignoring the giant stuffed alien currently taking up the neighboring seat.

"Ah, Megumi! Report!" Satoru immediately snaps into his ridiculous persona, leaning forward with an expression of grave importance. "What did your reconnaissance reveal? Were the levels of existential ennui as high as predicted?"

Megumi just stares at him for a long moment, takes a slow sip of water, and then delivers his report with absolute deadpan seriousness. "Zero curses. Zero ambient negative energy. The churros were decent."

Satoru recoils as if physically struck. "No curses?" he gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. "Impossible! After two rides through the epicenter of saccharine despair? My intel must have been compromised!" He slams a hand down on the table, rattling the silverware. "This requires immediate, drastic action!"

Before you or Megumi can react, he flags down a passing waiter. "Excuse me! Yes, emergency!" He gestures grandly to the menu. "Bring us one of everything! Yes, everything. Appetizers, entrees, desserts, the novelty drinks in the souvenir cups. All of it!"

The waiter blinks, bewildered, but dutifully starts taking down the ludicrous order. Megumi just buries his face in his hands with a low groan.

What follows is pure chaos. 

Plate after plate of brightly colored, themed food descends upon the table, including burgers shaped like characters, pasta in questionable colors, and desserts piled high with whipped cream and sprinkles. Satoru insists Megumi try bites of everything for analysis. 

At one point, he produces a ridiculously goofy Toy Story alien hat from one of his shopping bags and tries to plop it onto Megumi’s head.

"Come on, Megumi, blend in!" Satoru insists, dodging Megumi’s swatting hand.

"I am not wearing that," Megumi grits out through clenched teeth.

You just sit back, taking small bites of a surprisingly decent Mickey-shaped pretzel, and watch the show. 

Satoru’s energy is infectious, Megumi’s suffering hilarious, and the sheer absurdity of the situation is exactly the kind of ridiculous fun you didn’t know you needed.

–

The sun begins its slow descent, painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and pink. 

The relentless heat of the day finally breaks, replaced by a soft, warm evening breeze that rustles through the leaves of the perfectly manicured trees. The three of you walk slowly through the park, your arms laden with a ridiculous assortment of half-eaten snacks. You're still lugging around the giant Stitch, Satoru has bags brimming with candy and novelty popcorn buckets, and even Megumi is reluctantly carrying a small bag of souvenirs.

The cheerful music still drifts through the air, but the energy of the park is shifting. The crowds are starting to gather along the main parade route and in front of the castle, a palpable buzz of excitement building in anticipation of the nightly fireworks display. Families are laying out blankets, couples are finding prime viewing spots, and kids are bouncing with impatience.

Megumi, however, is determined not to appear charmed by the growing festive atmosphere. He walks with his usual stiff posture, his free hand shoved deep into his pocket, his face set in a carefully maintained scowl.

"This entire day was a waste of time," he announces to no one in particular. "We gathered zero actionable intel on curse activity, my training has been completely disrupted, and I was forced to listen to that damn song six times."

Satoru just grins, slinging an arm around Megumi's shoulders, ignoring the boy's immediate attempt to shrug him off. "Ah, but Megumi, think of the invaluable info we did gather! We now have conclusive proof that the churros are, in fact, decent."

"And," you add, nudging Megumi playfully with Stitch's oversized foot, "you learned that It's a Small World is a unique form of psychological warfare capable of breaking even the most stoic of sorcerers."

Megumi just grunts, refusing to acknowledge the joke, but you see it. It's tiny and almost imperceptible. A slight softening around his eyes, the barest hint of an upward twitch at the corner of his mouth as he looks towards the brightly lit castle, now the focal point of a thousand expectant faces. And he still hasn't taken off the stupid alien hat. Despite his best efforts to maintain his cool, annoyed facade, you think he might’ve actually had some fun.

"Well," Satoru says, surveying your surroundings with a satisfied grin. "Seeing as our mission revealed absolutely zero imminent threats, we might as well stay for the fireworks."

Megumi opens his mouth to protest, but Satoru is already steering you away from the main throng, leading you towards a slightly less crowded spot on a small bridge with a perfect, unobstructed view. Megumi takes his hat off so as to not block the show for the people behind him.

"Perfect," Satoru declares. 

As the first warning chimes echo through the park, signaling the start of the show, he casually puts an arm around your shoulders, pulling you slightly closer. With his other arm, he reaches over and ruffles Megumi's spiky hair, pulling the boy in slightly against his side. 

Megumi stiffens for a moment, his usual instinct to pull away clearly warring with something else, but then he just... stays. He doesn't lean in, but he doesn't pull away either, just stands there under Satoru's arm.

Then, precisely timed with a crescendo of music, the first of the fireworks explodes.

A brilliant, glittering shower of gold bursts high above the castle, painting the sky in dazzling light and eliciting a collective gasp from the crowd. It's followed by another, a vibrant crackle of blues and reds, perfectly synchronized with the dramatic beats of the soundtrack. The music washes over you, a wave of familiar, engineered magic you recognize from another life, as bursts of color bloom and fade in perfect time above the castle silhouette.

Satoru looks at the exploding colors in the sky, perfectly timed to the music, then down at Megumi, a soft fondness in his expression. Then, his gaze finds yours. The usual mischievous sparkle is there, but underneath it is something warmer, deeper. The smile on his face as he looks at you isn't for the crowd. It's genuine and warm and it’s just for you. 

And in the light of a thousand exploding stars, accompanied by the soaring music, it feels like a promise.

Chapter Text

It's been a few days since Disneyland, and the evidence is currently taking up approximately half of your bed. The giant Stitch stares blankly at the ceiling, its fluffy blue presence an oversized reminder of the day.

You flop down onto the bed next to him, burying your face in his soft, synthetic fur. It was such a nice day. Stupidly nice. Satoru was in peak chaos mode, the mission premise was paper-thin, and yet… it worked. 

It felt normal. It was fun.

Megumi was a real sport. 

You know he’s got it hard with his sister and everything. You still can’t remember her name, but something definitely happened to her. And for whatever reason, your gut is telling you whatever it is, it’s jujutsu related.

You sigh into the plushie. He tries so hard to maintain his grumpy facade, but you could see right through it. He's got that prickly exterior, but underneath it all? He really is just a big, grumpy teddy bear. Just… you would never tell him that to his face. He'd probably sic one of his dogs on you.

And Satoru.

Okay, brain, shut up. Just… shut up for five seconds. Stop replaying it.

But it won't. It keeps flashing behind your eyelids. Him, standing there on the bridge, the castle exploding in pinks and golds, the colors reflecting off his face. 

And the way he looked at you. Not the usual teasing smirk or anything, just like he was actually seeing you, right there in the middle of all the noise and the lights.

God, the feeling. It still makes your stomach do that stupid little flip-flop thing. It makes you want to bury your face in a pillow and just… squeal? Ugh, gross. You are not the squealing type. 

But also… maybe a little bit?

Was it a date? Could it count as a date if he brought along his pseudo-adopted teenage son? Probably not, right? That feels like a violation of some unspoken date code. 

But also… he totally ditched Megumi for like, half the day. And bought your ears. And cheated at darts to win you a giant Stitch. And that look… That look felt very date-like.

Okay, maybe it was a date disguised as a fake mission chaperoned by a grumpy teenager. Which is, honestly, very on brand. Yeah. Okay. You’re counting it. Semi-date. Chaperoned semi-date. With fireworks.

God, you are so fucking whipped.

–

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: guess what guess what guess what!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: megumis going on his first solo mission today!!! 🥺

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: my boys all grown up 😭 so proud!!! 

You: lol wow thats great good for him 

You: youre totally gonna hover nearby the whole time arent you 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: wHATTT??? me??? hover??? neverrrr 😇😇

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: im just gonna b in the general vicinity u know for moral support 😉 totally casual observation 

You: youre such a goose just let him do his thing 

You: since youll be out anyway bring me back some omiyage something good 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: OOH yes!!! 🫡

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: ill get u the best sweets they have wherever this super important totally not hovering observation takes me 😘😘 ttyl

–

The rhythmic, meditative thump-thump-thump of your knife hitting the cutting board is the only sound in the apartment. You're chopping potatoes for dinner, the setting sun casting long, golden streaks across the kitchen countertops. 

This is your routine now. You cook, you clean, you organize your notes, and you try to ignore how much you might be into your roommate. It’s a strange, liminal existence, suspended between a past that no longer exists and a future that feels like a gathering storm. But in the quiet moments, like this one, it’s peaceful.

The air distorts.

You don’t even jump anymore. You just pause, knife held steady over the cutting board. He’s back. 

But this time, there's no loud greeting, no teasing comments. Satoru appears in the middle of the living room with the silent weight of exhaustion. His shoulders are slumped, the usual spark in his posture completely gone. He looks like a puppet with its strings cut.

He doesn’t say a word, doesn't even look at you. He just walks with a slow, heavy shuffle to the living room sofa and faceplants directly onto it, his limbs sprawling across the expensive leather. He lets out a long, muffled groan into a cushion and then goes completely still.

You put the knife down, your concern immediately overriding any other emotion. This is new. You’re aware that he typically only sleeps three hours a night, and you've seen him tired before, but this is different.

He’s been gone a full week this time. Since that time you first met Megumi way back at the dojo, he’s been making a real effort, showing up every few days even if it’s just for a couple of hours. A week-long absence definitely counts as a regression into the old pattern, but instead of the familiar sting of annoyance, worry settles in your stomach. Something must have kept him away.

Wiping your hands on a kitchen towel, you pour a tall glass of cold water. You pad softly into the living room, your footsteps silent on the rug. He hasn't moved an inch, still face-down on the sofa, his white hair a stark mess against the dark leather. He looks almost asleep, but you know better.

You place the glass on the coffee table beside the sofa and kneel on the floor next to him. 

"Satoru?" you whisper, your voice filling the quiet room.

There’s no response save for a muffled groan. His breathing is a slow, even rhythm against the cushion. Hesitantly, as if you’re not sure you’re allowed, you reach out and peel his blindfold off. You gently brush a few stray strands of white hair from where they're trapped underneath his head. It's soft, like fine silk, and the sensation sends a jolt of warmth through your fingers.

Without thinking, you begin to slowly, gently card your fingers through his hair, the repetitive motion meant to be a soothing comfort. It's something you wouldn’t have dared to do a couple months ago, but now, it feels natural.

He stirs at your touch, a low groan rumbling in his chest, and shifts his head just enough to look at you, his one visible eye hazy and unfocused. He doesn't say anything.

He lets out a long, shuddering breath into the sofa cushion. Your fingers pause in his hair. For a long moment, the only sound in the apartment is the quiet hum of the aquarium filter.

When he finally speaks, his voice is muffled.

"It happened anyway."

You feel a coldness snake its way into your stomach. "What happened?" you ask, your own voice barely a whisper.

He’s silent for another long moment, as if gathering the strength to say it out loud. "The finger," he says, his voice flat with defeat. "Another one popped up in Sendai. I was needed for an emergency situation in Niigata and…I didn't get there in time."

Your hand rests in his hair, gently rubbing against his scalp.

"The kid," he continues, the words a low, frustrated rumble. "The pink-haired kid. His name is Itadori Yuuji. He was just a normal high schooler." He shifts his head, turning it just enough so he’s no longer speaking into the cushion. "He found it and he ate it."

Your heart sinks.

Does your future knowledge not even matter? This is the start of the story, and it’s looking like it might be pushing forward like an unstoppable train.

"Why’d he do it?" you ask, the question feeling small and useless.

A short sound that might have been a laugh escapes him. "To save his friends, of course. The kid’s a bona fide idiot." There's no heat in the insult. "By the time I arrived, it was already done. The finger was gone."

He finally pushes himself up, just enough to roll onto his side and look at you properly.

He scrubs a hand over his face. "Megumi was there," he says, his voice flat. "Got himself beat up pretty bad trying to deal with it before I arrived. It wasn’t anything Shoko couldn't fix, and he's fine now, but…" He trails off.

"And Yuuji?" you ask softly.

A dark, humorless smile touches his lips. "Yuuji's a bit fucked, not that I would tell him that to his face," he says with a bluntness that makes you flinch. "He can suppress Sukuna, for now. It’s a one-in-a-million talent, honestly. But he’s still a walking time bomb with a death sentence hanging over his head."

He shifts again, finally pushing himself into a sitting position on the edge of the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees as he stares at the floor. "I had to put on the usual show for him, of course," he continues, his voice tired. "Smiled, told him everything would be okay. No need for the kid to freak out more than he already was. He just watched his grandfather die, after all."

A memory pops into your head of a grumpy old man in a hospital bed. This poor kid's life has been utterly destroyed in the span of a single night.

"The higher-ups wanted him executed on the spot," Gojo says, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. The exhaustion is still there, but it's now laced with a sharp-edged anger. "They tried to classify him as a curse, not a human. Said it was too risky to let a vessel live, which is a load of crap."

He finally looks down at you, and the exhaustion in his eyes is gone, replaced by a cold, defiant fire.

"And of course," he says, a hint of something a little deranged starting to spread across his face, "there's no way in hell I'm going to let them get their hands on him."

Satoru looks ready to wage a one-man war against the entire Jujutsu establishment, and you know, without a doubt, that he would win that fight.

You reach out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. The muscle beneath his sleeve is tense, coiled like a spring.

"Hey," you say softly, trying to pull him back from the edge.

He looks away, his eyes falling back down to the rug. You give his arm a small squeeze. "I’m not gonna lie and say it’s not a shit situation, but I'm pretty sure he has plot armor."

Satoru’s gaze shoots back up to meet yours, his angry expression shifting to one of confusion. "Plot what?"

"Plot armor," you repeat, a small smile on your face. "In the story… in my memory… he's the main character. He's the one the story is about. It doesn't mean he's gonna have a good time, not by a long shot. But it means he's resilient. He has to be, because the story literally can’t happen without him."

You're trying to explain a literary trope as if it’s a law of reality, and it sounds ridiculous, but it's the only comfort you have to offer. 

"You couldn't have stopped him from eating that finger," you continue, your voice earnest. "That was up to him. Just like it'll be up to him to survive this. You can't carry all of it on your own."

You look at him, at the strongest man in the world who has taken on the burden of everyone's fate time and time again. "We can only do our best, Satoru. That's all anyone can do."

He stares at you for a long moment in shock. He’s probably never had anyone talk to him like this, you realize. No one has ever tried to share his burden or tell him that just doing his best was enough.

A short, choked sound escapes him. He shakes his head, a look of wry, weary amusement in his eyes. He covers your hand with his own, his thumb gently stroking the back of your knuckles.

"Plot armor," he repeats, the words a quiet marvel. "You're really something else, you know that?"

His thumb continues its slow, hypnotic path. The amusement in his eyes is gone, replaced by something else entirely, something softer, more serious, and infinitely more dangerous. The air in the room grows thick, charged with all the things you haven't said, with all the moments that have led to this one.

Slowly, he releases your hand, but only to move his own to the side of your face. His fingers are warm as they slide into your hair just behind your ear, his palm cupping your jaw, his thumb gently stroking your cheekbone.

There is no time to process, no time to ask him what he's doing, no time to even breathe.

Suddenly, his mouth is on yours.

His lips are soft. So soft, and warm, and hesitant for only a fraction of a second before they settle against you with a gentle pressure.

Your mind goes completely blank and simultaneously explodes into a thousand frantic thoughts. 

What. Oh my god. What. This is happening. 

His other hand settles on your jawline, a firm, grounding pressure. His thumb is stroking your cheek, a slow, soothing rhythm in the middle of it all. And his lips… they aren't demanding, not forceful like you might have imagined. They are just… there. Present. And so, so soft.

This is Gojo Satoru. The Strongest. The infuriating, childish, powerful man who holds your life in his hands. And he is kissing you with a tenderness that makes your knees feel weak. You probably would’ve collapsed if you weren’t already kneeling on the ground.

The part of your brain that was screaming in confusion finally goes quiet. The frantic thoughts dissolve, leaving behind a single, profound realization that blooms in the sudden stillness.

Oh.

Does he… like you back?

Your eyes flutter shut, and your hand comes up to rest on his chest, the fabric of his jacket soft under your palm.

He pulls back just as slowly as he’d leaned in, his lips lingering for a moment before parting, leaving yours feeling cold in their absence. He doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, his hands still cupping your face. You open your eyes to find his own, up close and sparkling blue.

You couldn't have formed a word if your life depended on it.

Then, as if the reality of what he just did hits him, he jolts back. He scrambles away from you, pressing himself against the back of the sofa, his eyes slowly widening in a dawning horror.

"I–" he starts, then stops, stumbling over the words. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have–I didn't ask. I'm so sorry." He looks panicked, and you laugh at the thought of the all-powerful sorcerer completely undone by a single, impulsive kiss.

Seeing him so flustered, so unlike himself, gives you a surge of courage you didn't know you possessed. You start to inch up toward him, intending to close the small gap between you. For a split second, you feel it, the invisible wall of his infinity pushing against your hand. But just as quickly as it appears, it pulls back, retracting like a startled breath, leaving nothing between you.

You place your hand on his knee. "You don't need to apologize," you say, your voice soft but steady. "I really liked it."

His breath hitches. Before he can respond or retreat further, you act. You climb from your spot on the floor onto the sofa, moving directly into his space and settling onto his lap, straddling his legs. His hands come up, hovering awkwardly in the air for a second before they find your waist, his touch hesitant.

You’re taller than him like this. You look down at him, at his wide, stunned eyes, and a slow smile spreads across your face. You lean in close, your lips just brushing against his.

"What was that thing you said way back when?" you whisper against his mouth, your voice low and teasing. "Something about me needing to use more tongue?"

You see his eyes go comically wide as he remembers exactly what you’re talking about. Before he can say anything though, you kiss him again. This time, there is no hesitation. It’s not a question, but an answer. You feel a low groan rumble in his chest.

You pull back just a fraction of an inch, your lips still ghosting over his. Then, with a boldness that feels both foreign and intoxicating, you gently lick at the seam of his lips. He gasps, and his mouth opens for you. 

And this time, when you kiss him, it’s a collision of all the unspoken tension, all the quiet moments, all the fear and comfort and chaos that has been building between you for months. It’s not soft. It’s hungry, and desperate, and it’s absolutely perfect.

He tastes faintly of the watermelon gummies that had recently appeared in the pantry, a lingering sweetness, but underneath it is a warmth that is just… him.

It’s like a revelation. This is Gojo Satoru and you are mapping out his surrender. You learn him in this new, silent language. You discover that a slow, deliberate trace of your tongue along his lower lip makes him gasp in a sharp, surprised intake of breath. You learn that when you nip gently at that same spot, a low, guttural groan rumbles in his chest, a sound of pleasure that vibrates through your entire body.

His hands, which had been hesitant on your waist, are no longer passive. They tighten their grip, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you closer until there is no space left between you. He’s meeting the kiss now, answering it with a desperate hunger of his own.

Your hands slide upward from where they've been resting on his chest, tangling in the soft, white strands of his hair. You tug gently, tilting his head back to deepen the angle, and his groans grow louder, a raw sound he can’t hold back. 

His tongue dances with yours, and it's a duel that quickly becomes a duet.

It’s too much, a sensory overload that leaves you both breathless. He is the one to finally break away, tearing his mouth from yours with a ragged gasp, his chest heaving. He doesn’t push you away, though. His hands are still clamped firmly on your waist, his forehead now resting again against yours. You can feel his heart hammering against your own, a wild, frantic beat.

He’s the one to finally break the silence.

"On the bright side," he says, his voice still a little rough, still a little breathless. "Your intel on the other one was spot on."

You pull back just enough to look at him properly, your mind still hazy and blissed-out.

"Huh?" is all you can manage to say.

"My other student," he clarifies, a smile touching his lips. "The third first-year. The girl."

"Huh," you say again, your brain slowly rebooting. 

And in that moment of returning clarity, you become acutely aware of your current position. You are still straddling his lap, your hands tangled in his hair, your bodies pressed close together. The realization sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

You try to push against his shoulders and make a move to scramble off him, but his hands on your waist tighten, holding you in place. He clearly doesn't seem to share your sudden self-consciousness. And so you try to relax and settle back into his lap.

"What are they like?" you ask, seizing the change of subject like a lifeline, a desperate attempt to steer your thoughts away from the fact that you are currently straddling Gojo Satoru after just having had your soul so thoroughly kissed out of you.

His expression softens, a fond light entering his eyes. "They're a handful," he says, and you can hear the pride in his voice. "Yuuji is a bit of an idiot, but you know that already. He seems to have no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. But he’s got a good heart. He’s sincere in a way you don’t see much anymore."

He shifts slightly beneath you, getting more comfortable. "And the girl, Nobara, she’s got a bit of a feisty side. Confident. Loud. A little crazy," he says with a grin. "She’s got a fire in her I haven’t seen in a long time. I gave them a bit of a pop quiz, and they both passed. Barely."

Satoru says that last bit with a snicker. He then looks up at you, his blue eyes clear and serious for a moment. "They're a mess. But they have so much potential. Both of them."

The soft, fond look in his eyes as he talks about his students makes your heart ache. You're seeing a side of him that you're sure very few people ever get to witness.

He lets out a slow sigh, the pleasant energy of the conversation deflating slightly as the weight of his reality seems to settle back onto his shoulders. He leans his head back against the sofa cushion, his gaze drifting to the ceiling.

"Speaking of which," he starts, his voice quieter now, more serious. "I should probably apologize in advance."

You shift slightly on his lap and adjust your grip on his shoulders, your brows furrowing in confusion. "For what?"

"I have to go away for a while," he says, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. "A week, maybe longer." He finally looks down at you, a tired smile on his lips. "A special grade cursed womb showed up in South Korea. The sorcerers there aren't equipped for it, so The Strongest has been summoned to take care of it before it pops. I’ll have to do some general cleanup across the country while I’m there as well." 

The way he says his own title sounds less like a boast and more like a burden.

The words hit you with a cold, jarring spike of anxiety. It's not a memory, not a clear scene playing out in your mind. It's more like a feeling. A faint, frustrating inkling of dread, like the phantom itch of a forgotten warning.

Why does this feel so wrong?

Your mind frantically scrambles, trying to catch the tail end of the thought, but it's like trying to grab smoke. There’s nothing there, just a hollow, echoing sense of danger. 

His absence. 

His absence is important. Something bad is supposed to happen while he's away.

You try not to let the panic show on your face. He has enough to deal with. You force a small, tight smile. "Oh. Okay," you say, your voice sounding remarkably steady. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning," he says, his thumb stroking your hip in a slow, comforting gesture. He seems to sense your sudden quietness, misinterpreting it as simple disappointment. "I'm sorry. The timing sucks."

"No, it's okay," you lie, placing your hand over his. "You have to do what you have to do." You lean in and give him a quick, soft kiss in an attempt to ground yourself. "Just… be careful."

He smiles again at you, and leans in to kiss you back, lingering for a moment. "Always am," he murmurs against your lips.

But as he pulls away, the smile on your face feels brittle. Your mind is screaming, a silent, frantic alarm you can't decipher. Something is coming. Something big and terrible is on the horizon.

And for the first time, he won’t be here to stop it.

Chapter Text

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: just thinking abt u 🥰🥰 hope ur having a nonboring day! 

You: aw thanks you too 

You: dont blow anything up unnecessarily okay? 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: me????? neverrrrr 😇

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: miss uuuu SK is so boring without u ❤️❤️❤️ c u in a week!

–

The penthouse is quiet. 

You listen to the gentle burble of the aquarium filter. It’s been nearly two weeks since Satoru left on his business trip and the quiet has started to feel a little too loud.

Your morning starts, as it always does, with the fish. Kingyo-chan and her two tankmates, who you’ve since named Sarasa-kun and Hige-kun, swim lazy circles in their 500 liter tank. You sprinkle in their food and watch as they dart to the surface. It’s a peaceful ritual. 

Later, you’re curled on the sofa, controller in hand, deeply focused on your latest digital monster. It’s a scruffy, blue wolf creature thing, and you don’t even remember what it’s called. It doesn’t really matter, though, because its name is now Agumon 3. 

It’s a stupid, private joke. You’ve nicknamed every Digimon you’ve raised Agumon. It’s something you imagine the resident man-child would like. The thought of his reaction if he ever found out makes you smile.

Your real project, however, is in the kitchen. 

For the past week, you’ve been trying to perfect a single recipe and today is batch number four. You carefully pipe a sweet, light green filling into the center of a vanilla cupcake. It’s a whipped cream and zunda mixture, because, and you quote, how dare anko sully his delicate tastebuds. You’ve painstakingly blended the paste to the perfect consistency. 

The goal is to make them reminiscent of kikufuku. It’s an absolutely ridiculous amount of effort, but the thought of the look on Satoru’s face when he finally comes home and tries one has become your sole motivation. You just want to do something nice for him, something small for the man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

You’re just placing the last one onto a cooling rack, admiring the perfect swirl of zunda-cream frosting, when you hear it.

It’s not a loud noise. It’s a soft, muffled thud, and it comes from down the hall. 

From Satoru’s room.

Your blood runs cold. The apartment is supposed to be protected by layers upon layers of barriers. Nothing should be able to get in. Nothing. Your mind immediately leaps to the worst-case scenario. 

A curse. A curse that was smart enough, or strong enough, to bypass the strongest sorcerer’s defenses. Was it drawn to his residual energy, lying in wait for him?

Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic, panicked drumbeat. But underneath the fear, resolve takes hold. You are not the same person who freaked out in a back alley months ago.

You move silently, abandoning the cupcakes. You go to the large decorative vase in the entryway, reaching deep inside past the artificial flowers to a compartment Satoru had shown you. Your fingers close around the cool, smooth hilt of what looks like a chef’s knife, its blade imbued with just enough cursed energy to be a threat. 

He’d called it a "just-in-case" measure, something you could use to keep yourself safe from a particularly stubborn grade 4, and that’s if you could even see it in the first place. Anything stronger than that and you wouldn’t stand a chance regardless of weapons.

The weapon feels heavy and unfamiliar in your trembling hand. You creep down the hallway, your socked feet making no sound on the polished wood floor. You press your ear to his closed door, straining to hear anything, but there’s nothing.

Taking a deep, steadying breath that does little to calm yourself, you wrap your free hand around the cool metal of the doorknob. You hold the knife in a clumsy, one-handed grip, just like he’d shown you, but it’s so different from the grip you use for cooking. You turn the knob slowly, carefully, and push the door open, ready to face whatever monster lay in wait on the other side.

But the monster you are expecting isn't there. The room is simply dark with heavy blackout curtains drawn against the morning sun, plunging the space into a gloomy twilight.

And on the large, unmade bed, sprawled under the covers, is Satoru.

His blindfold is off, tossed carelessly onto the nightstand. He's on his side, staring blankly at the wall, his expression so utterly wrecked it makes your breath catch in your throat. His eyes, usually so bright and full of life, are dull and unfocused. They're rimmed with a raw, swollen redness that tells you he’s been crying. For how long, you can't even guess.

You’ve never seen him cry before. You didn’t even think he could. In your mind, Gojo Satoru was a being of laughter, arrogance, and overwhelming power. You’ve seen him tired, annoyed, even serious, but never this.

He looks completely, utterly broken.

All thoughts of curses evaporate in an instant. The knife clatters from your fingers onto the floor. You don't even watch it fall.

You rush to his bedside, your heart aching with a pain that is entirely for him. You don't say anything. You just kneel on the floor beside the bed and place a gentle hand on his arm.

He turns his head slowly toward you, his gaze unfocused at first, as if he's looking right through you. Then, his eyes seem to register your face, a flicker of recognition in their depths. A shudder runs through his entire body.

With surprising strength, he reaches out, his hand tangling in the front of your shirt, and pulls you into the bed with him. You land clumsily on the mattress beside him, and he immediately wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair. He holds on to you like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood, his body trembling against yours in the dark room.

You lay there, tangled in the sheets with him, for a long time. You don't move, you barely breathe. You just let him hold you, your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt, his arms a desperate, trembling cage around you.

He's not okay. That much is clear. He is so, so far from being okay. You can feel it in the way he clings to you. There’s a continuous, fine tremor running through his entire body.

What the hell happened? 

The question screams in your mind. You feel his face press further into your hair, his body curling tighter around yours as if to draw on your warmth. His breath, which had been slow and heavy, suddenly hitches. It’s a small, choked sound, one he tries to swallow down, but you feel it resonate through his chest. And then another. 

He's crying again. It’s nearly silent, but the tremor in his body is all the confirmation you need.

Your heart aches with a fierce, protective pain. You can't fix this. You don't have the power to turn back time or fight his battles for him. You can't offer empty platitudes or easy answers. There is absolutely nothing you can do to take his pain away. There is nothing you can do for him, other than be here.

So you do just that. You relax in his embrace, your own arms coming up to wrap around his back.

He holds you like that for a long time. Eventually, the tremors running through his body begin to subside, replaced by a heavy stillness. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his grip on you loosening slightly. His eyes look haunted.

Then, he leans in, and his mouth finds yours.

It's nothing like the kiss you shared just before he left for his trip. That had been hesitant, then hungry, like a discovery. This just feels like sadness. It’s frantic and messy and desperate. It’s the kiss of a man trying to outrun his own heart. It’s something born not of passion, but of a desperate attempt to feel something, anything, other than the suffocating agony that is clearly consuming him.

He pushes you back against the pillows, his body suddenly a heavy weight on top of yours. He’s all frantic energy and desperate searching, and you let him, because you don’t know what else to do. If a heavy, emotional makeout session is what he needs, you’ll give it to him.

But then you feel it. 

There’s a subtle shift in his weight, a sudden friction against your thigh that is both unintentional and unmistakable. You try not to panic, try to tell yourself it’s a perfectly normal biological response to intimacy and closeness. But it’s there, pressing against you, and it changes things.

Nope. That’s not happening right now.

The thought is like a sobering splash of cold water.

You know where this is probably going. And as flattered as you want to feel, it's not about you, not really. It's a desperate, human attempt to replace emotional pain with physical sensation. And you know, with a certainty that cuts through your own swirling emotions, that you can't let it happen. Not like this. Not when Satoru’s so emotionally compromised. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be for you, and it wouldn't truly be for him, either.

Gently, but firmly, you place your hands on his chest, creating a small, definitive space between you. The frantic motion stops. He looks down at you, his blue eyes hazy and confused, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his lips still parted.

You look up into his eyes, your own full of empathy.

"Satoru," you whisper, your voice a stark sound in the quiet room. "What’s wrong? What happened?"

Your question hangs in the air. He collapses against you, the last of his energy gone, and tucks his face into your shoulder. His voice, when he finally speaks, is a broken whisper against your skin, raw with grief.

"First Suguru… and now this."

The name hangs in the air.

He takes a ragged, shuddering breath. "The plot armor," he whispers, the words laced with a bitter, self-deprecating irony. "It didn't work."

At your confused silence, he lifts his head, his expression grim, his red-rimmed eyes locking onto yours. "Itadori Yuuji is dead."

The words are a punch to the gut. No. He can't be. He’s the main character…

"He died yesterday during a mission," Satoru continues, his voice flat and hollow. "Sukuna killed him." He looks away, his gaze becoming distant. "I have to be back at the school in an hour. Shoko… has to perform the autopsy. But I just… I needed a minute first. I needed to come home."

He leans in to kiss you again, a desperate gesture, a blind attempt to stave off the crushing reality. But the words hit you like a lightning strike, unlocking a memory with sudden, brilliant clarity. 

The deal.

"Wait," you say, your voice suddenly sharp, your hands coming up to frame his face, stopping his advance. "Wait, wait, wait. Yuuji's not dead!"

Satoru’s eyebrows scrunch together, his expression a mask of weary confusion. "What… do you mean?" he asks, his voice rough and filled with emotion. "I saw him. He didn't have a heart."

"It's only temporary!" you insist, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush as the memory solidifies. "He made a binding… deal? A binding pact?" You struggle for the word, the specifics still fuzzy.

His eyes widen fractionally, a flicker of something other than grief in their depths. "A binding vow?" he supplies the word, a quiet, hopeful question.

"That's it!" you cry, latching onto the word. "A binding vow! With Sukuna! I don't remember what exactly happens, or what the terms are, but I promise you, Satoru, he comes back."

You’re clinging to a half-remembered plot point like a lifeline, but you’ve never been more certain of anything in your life. Satoru goes still, his blue eyes wide, searching your face. He’s hanging on your every word, a flicker of hope dawning on his face.

You lay like that for a minute or two in the dim light of his room, with him just hovering above you, processing what you’ve just given him. 

Eventually, a new resolve seems to settle in his shoulders. He gets off of you without a word, his movements stiff. He walks to the nightstand and picks up his blindfold, hiding the raw emotion you could see in his eyes. 

He gives you one last, unreadable look, and then he's gone.

You don’t know how long you lie in his bed.

–

For hours, you’ve been forcing yourself to just breath.

Satoru’s been gone dealing with Yuuji's body. And the image of him looking like a shattered mirror is burned into your brain.

You've never seen him like that. His eyes were the worst part. Instead of being bright and dazzling, they just looked empty, like looking into the deepest of trenches instead of the endless sky.

Haunted is the only word that comes to mind. Haunted by the ghost of a kid he couldn't save.

You hope you’re right. God, you hope you’re right about the vow. The memory feels so clear, so certain. Sukuna brings him back. He has to. Because if you’re wrong... if you just gave Satoru that sliver of hope only for it to be ripped away again, you don't know if he could take it.

Please be right. Please let Yuuji come back. Not just for Yuuji's sake. But for Satoru’s, too. Because you don't think you can stand seeing him look that lost ever again.

Later that evening, you’re in the kitchen, numbly going through the motions of making dinner. The rhythmic chop of a knife against a cutting board is the only sound filling the room.

You hear nothing, see nothing, but suddenly, you feel a pair of strong arms wrap around you from behind. Satoru's chin rests gently on the top of your head. You flinch, a startled gasp escaping your lips, but his hold is firm and steady.

"You were right," he whispers, his voice thick with relief. He’s trembling slightly, but this time, it’s not from grief. "He's back. Sukuna healed him. I've stashed him away, somewhere nobody can find him."

You lean back against his chest, a wave of your own relief so strong it makes you dizzy. The memory was real. You were right. It makes you almost want to cry.

"Officially, Itadori Yuuji is dead," Satoru continues, his voice a low rumble above your head. "He'll need to train in secret for a while, get strong enough to defend himself before the higher-ups find out I lied to them."

"He's going to be lonely," you say with a pang of sympathy. "Stuck in hiding with no one to talk to."

"He won't be that lonely," Satoru says, squeezing you gently. "He'll have me, of course. The best teacher in the world." He pauses, and you can practically hear the beginnings of a grin in his voice. "And maybe I can even rope Nanamin into helping me out."

The name makes you smile. "Nanamin?" you question.

"Yeah, you know," he says, his voice taking on a silly, descriptive tone. "Super serious, blond hair, always looks like he's doing his taxes in his head. Wears a weird tie with spots on it. Hates overtime with a fiery passion."

The name and description don’t ring a bell.

Doesn’t matter.

You point a thumb over your shoulder towards the counter, where the fruits of your labor from the past week are still sitting on the cooling rack. "Before I forget… I made you something."

"Oh?" His interest is piqued.

And damn his long arms. Without letting you go, he stretches one arm out, his fingers plucking a cupcake from the rack. He brings it to his mouth and takes a large bite, his eyes closing in concentration.

A filthy groan rumbles in his chest, a sound of bliss that vibrates right through you. "Oh, wow," he murmurs, his voice thick. "You make the best sweets." He finishes the cupcake in another bite.

Then, the pieces in your head suddenly click together. Blond hair. Serious. Professional. The bread.

"Wait," you exclaim, twisting around in his hold so you can look up at his face. "Wait! I've met him before! Nanamin!"

Satoru looks genuinely surprised, his eyebrows raising. "Huh? When?"

"Way back at the konbini!" you say, the memory now crystal clear. "Before any of this, before Shinjuku! He came in and was really upset about some special bread? He looked so weirdly serious about it, I guess it made an impression."

“No way," he laughs at that. "You met Nanamin before you even met me? I'm almost jealous."

The laughter subsides into a comfortable silence, the relief still a palpable, happy buzz in the air. You turn back around to continue working on the vegetables and let yourself relax back against his chest, the tension from the day finally melting.

"Maybe I can meet them sometime," you say, your voice a soft murmur. "Yuuji and Nanamin. I'm kind of in the same boat as Yuuji, after all. Secretly not-dead and all that."

Gojo hums, a low, thoughtful sound. His chin is back to resting on your head, and you can feel the vibration of the sound through his chest. "We can probably make that happen," he says. "He could use a friend who gets it. We'd have to think of a cover for who you are, though. Can't exactly tell them you're a 'spoiler alert' isekai from another dimension."

You smile, a teasing grin spreading across your face as you shake off his chin and tilt your head back to look up at him. "Anything but your girlfriend."

His expression shifts. The playful glint in his eyes softens into something warmer.

He disappears from your line of sight and you feel his breath, warm and soft, against the side of your neck just a second before you feel his lips. It’s not a kiss, not really. It’s just a soft, lingering pressure that sends a dizzying shiver straight down your spine.

You put the knife down so you don't have to worry about cutting yourself by accident.

"And what's wrong with being my girlfriend?" he murmurs against your neck.

Your breath catches. The playful banter has suddenly become very, very real. You manage a shaky, breathless laugh.

"Other than the fact that I'm not?" you reply, the words coming out a little weaker than you intended.

He chuckles at that and pulls you a little tighter, nuzzling his face further into the crook of your neck.

"Seriously, though," he says as you feel him reach for another cupcake, "these are incredible. You might have to make a batch for Yuuji. And Nanamin. As a bribe, of course."

You laugh softly. "I'll add it to my list of duties as your… whatever I am."

"My co-conspirator," he supplies immediately, squeezing you gently. "My secret weapon. My personal baker." He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his blue eyes soft and sincere. "My whatever-you-want-to-be."

The earnest way he says it makes your heart skip a beat. The second cupcake he plucked from the cooling rack is still in his hand. But instead of eating it himself, he holds it up to your mouth.

You look from the cupcake to his expectant eyes, and a warm, happy feeling blooms in your chest. You take a bite, the sweet zunda cream a small explosion of flavor. He grins, then pops the rest of the cupcake into his mouth.

The setting sun fills the penthouse with a warm, golden light. In the quiet of the kitchen, with the scent of sugar in the air and the strongest sorcerer holding you like you're something precious, you feel a sense of peace. Right here, in his arms, you feel like you’re at home. 

And for the first time, it feels like Satoru might be, too.

–

The next day, you’re in the kitchen, meticulously chopping vegetables for a stir-fry when Satoru appears, leaning against the wall. He looks considerably less like a walking wreck than he did yesterday, though the emotional exhaustion still clings to him like a shadow.

"Just finished getting Yuuji settled," he announces, running a hand through his hair. "Got him a nice little setup. Bed, kitchen, TV… even set him up with some homework to keep him busy."

You pause, knife hovering over a leek. You have a sneaking suspicion of something, and you just need to dig a little deeper. "Kitchen?" you repeat. "Does he have, you know… food?"

Satoru blinks, his expression going blank for a fraction of a second. "...Food?"

"Yes, Satoru. Food," you say, your voice dangerously level. "The stuff people eat to stay alive. Did you buy him any groceries?"

He has the grace to look a little sheepish. "Well, I made sure the vending machine downstairs was stocked with sodas?"

"What the fuck do you mean you didn't buy him any food?!" you exclaim, dropping the knife onto the cutting board with a clatter. "You have a traumatized teenager recovering from the literal brink of death, stuffed him in a secret basement somewhere, and didn't think to get him anything to eat?"

Hey, I was busy!" he defends weakly. "There’s a lot of stuff going on behind the scenes!"

"Unbelievable," you mutter, already untying your apron. "Don't even take your shoes off. We're going grocery shopping. Right now."

–

The brightly lit aisles of the supermarket are a stark contrast to the cozy lighting of the penthouse. Satoru, clearly recovered from an exhausting couple of days, is already back to his usual self, attempting to sneak a giant bag of limited-edition gummies into the cart.

You immediately snatch them out. "No."

"Aw, but Yuuji likes gummies!" he protests, having the audacity to pout.

"Yuuji is a growing boy who just came back from the dead," you retort, grabbing a package of chicken breasts and tossing them into the cart. "He needs actual nutrients, not processed sugar."

You start moving down the aisle, purposefully grabbing bags of spinach, broccoli, onions, potatoes. Satoru trails behind you like a sulky child denied candy, though he does dutifully grab anything that's on a high shelf and places the items you point at into the cart.

In the relative quiet of the produce section, a thought occurs to you. "Hey," you start, your voice softening. "How are the other two holding up? Megumi and Nobara?"

Satoru's playful energy deflates instantly. He stops, leaning against the cart, his expression turning somber. "They don't know," he says quietly. "As far as they're concerned, Yuuji is still dead."

Your heart aches for them.

"They're taking it hard," Satoru continues, his voice low. "Especially Megumi. He feels responsible." He lets out a sigh. "The school’s been pretty gloomy. But the second years have been a big help. They’ve been keeping them busy with extra training and sparring sessions, just trying to keep their minds off it." He looks at you, a flicker of the earlier weariness returning to his eyes. "It's still kind of a mess."

The weight of his words settles between you. They’re really just a couple of high schoolers, grieving for a friend who isn't actually dead. Of course it's cruel, but it’s also necessary. The thought of their pain makes your own heart ache. Satoru is doing his best, of course, trying to make sure the kids are all taken care of… but who’s taking care of him?

You look at him, at the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes visible beneath his sunglasses. The second years might be keeping Megumi and Nobara busy, but someone needs to take Satoru's mind off everything, too. 

And that someone, apparently, is you.

A slightly mischievous idea sparks in your mind, a way to inject some levity back into the heavy atmosphere. You turn to him, deliberately brightening your voice.

"Well," you start, pushing the now overflowing grocery cart forward. "Sounds like a good meal might be in order. And lucky for you, I've been practicing."

He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of his usual curiosity returning. "Practicing?"

"My cooking, obviously," you say, trying to sound mysterious. "And tonight, I'm feeling rather adventurous. So, here's the deal. You get to choose one secret ingredient. Anything in this entire store." You gesture grandly around you. "And whatever it is, I'll use it to make you dinner tonight. Challenge accepted?"

You know exactly what he's going to do. His eyes light up, the earlier gloom completely vanishing. "Anything?" he asks, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Anything," you confirm, bracing yourself.

"Okay, don't move!" he says, and vanishes in a flicker.

You just stand there, shaking your head with a fond sigh. You remember those early, pre-phone days in the penthouse, back when you were trying to create something edible out of soda and pocky out of boredom. You've had practice. You're ready for this.

He reappears a moment later, right beside you, holding up his prize with a flourish. It is, predictably, absurd. It’s a jumbo-sized, brightly colored bag of some limited-edition, radioactive-looking cream filled hard candy you've heard of before. It looks like it might even glow in the dark.

He holds it out to you, a ridiculously proud, expectant grin on his face. You can tell he's waiting for you to freak out and call the challenge off.

But you don't.

If he wakes up and decides to channel his energy into being a little shit, who are you to stop him?

You just look at the ginormous bag of candy, then back at his eager face, and calmly take it from him, adding it to the cart on top of the vegetables. "Okay," you say, your voice completely neutral. "Challenge accepted."

His grin falters, replaced by a look of surprised confusion, maybe even a pinch of regret. This clearly wasn't the reaction he was expecting. "Wait, what?" he asks, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s sounding a little nervous. "You're joking, right? You can't actually make dinner out of that!"

But you're already running through recipe ideas in your head. 

Okay, maybe melted down into a sweet and sour glaze for some chicken? Or crushed up as a crunchy, tangy topping for a salad? The filling could be interesting…

You start pushing the cart towards the checkout lanes, a determined glint in your eyes. "I said anything," you call back over your shoulder. "Don't underestimate my desperation-fueled culinary skills."

He just stares after you for a second, completely thrown, a look of bewilderment on his face, before scrambling to catch up. 

Oh, you've got this.

Your self-imposed mission to improve Satoru’s emotional wellbeing is a go!

Chapter Text

The weeks after Yuuji’s death and subsequent resurrection settle back into a bit of a mind numbing routine. The cicadas are out in full force, but the penthouse is quiet. Too quiet. Satoru is gone more often than not, dealing with missions and secret training on top of his usual teaching. 

And when he does appear, he’s in a bit of a mood.

Satoru finds you in the living room, sketching the skyline idly in a spare notebook you'd found. He doesn't flop onto the couch or announce his presence dramatically, just walks over and sits beside you.

"Hey," he says, though it's a bit more like a groan. "Just checked in on the students at school."

You put your pencil down, turning to give him your full attention. "How are they doing?" you ask softly.

He lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. 

"Not great. Megumi's just kinda shut down. Nobara's angry. They're both taking Yuuji's death really hard." You can hear a smidge of real concern in his voice, and you wish you could see his eyes behind his blindfold. "I get it though. They lost a friend and I can't even tell them the truth!"

He's quiet for a moment, staring out the window. "I was thinking," he says, turning back to you, "Maybe some sweets might help cheer them up a little?" 

You can’t believe his go-to solution for something like this is more sugar.

"Not the worst idea," you concede gently. "But maybe not the usual Gojo-special five-pound bag of limited-edition candy?"

A small, weary smile touches his lips. "Yeah, probably not." He looks at you, a hesitant, almost pleading expression on his face. "Look. I'm not always the best at this stuff. Emotions and everything. It's too messy." He gestures vaguely. "You're good at all the people stuff. Could you come with me? Help me pick something out? Something… appropriate?"

His request is so earnest that you can't possibly refuse. "Okay," you agree immediately. "Yeah, let's go."

Within the hour, you find yourself in the quiet hallway outside the first-year dorms. The air here feels heavy, subdued. Satoru takes a deep breath, plasters on his usual wide, slightly manic grin, and knocks on the first door. He’s holding a simple, elegantly wrapped box of traditional wagashi you'd helped him pick out.

Megumi opens the door. He looks awful. His usual sharp focus is replaced by a dull, hollow-eyed exhaustion, and he seems smaller, somehow, hunched in on himself.

"Megumi!" Satoru booms, his voice far too loud and cheerful for the situation. He shoves the box into Megumi's arms with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Your favorite sensei brought you some top-tier pick-me-ups! Nothing like some anko to mend a broken heart, right?"

Megumi just stares blankly at the box, then up at Satoru, then at you, his expression unreadable. He gives the smallest of grunts, takes the box, mutters something that might be a "thanks" and then quietly closes the door in Satoru's face.

Satoru stands there for a second, his forced smile faltering slightly in the corners. You place a gentle hand on his arm. "Maybe," you suggest quietly, "you should be a little more gentle with them? They're hurting."

"Nonsense!" Satoru declares, instantly puffing his chest back out. "Megumi might be a bit broody," he adds, recovering quickly, his voice still overly bright, "but he took the box, and that’s progress! He totally loves me." He all but sprints down the hall to the girls’ side of the dorm, taking another deep breath and radiating forced cheer. "Okay, round two!"

He knocks on Nobara's door and it swings open almost immediately. Nobara stands there, and if Megumi looked hollowed out, she looks ready to burn the world down. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but they blaze with a furious energy.

"What do you want?" she snaps, her voice rough.

"Nobara!" Satoru tries the same overly bright approach, holding out an identical box with a flourish. "I brought sweets, because your amazing sensei knows exactly what you need after a tough time!"

Nobara glares at the box as if it personally offended her. Then, her sharp, suspicious gaze lands squarely on you, standing slightly behind Satoru. She looks you up and down, her eyes narrowed.

"And who the hell are you?" she demands, her voice sharp and accusatory.

"Ah! This is my super-secret special assistant!" Satoru jumps in quickly, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "She's helping me with... uh... very important, top-secret work. I’m afraid it’s classified!"

You choose that moment to give his shoulder a firm, forceful push.

He lets out a yelp and stumbles sideways, completely caught off guard. He looks back at you, a look of bewildered betrayal on his face, but you pay it no mind. You just grab the box from him while he’s down.

Nobara completely ignores him as well, her eyes still fixed on you. "You look sketchy," she says bluntly, crossing her arms. "Why are you here? You didn't even know him." Her grief isn't sad, it's sharp-edged and looking for a target. And right now, that target is you.

You step forward slightly, meeting her hostile gaze with sincerity. "No," you say softly. "I didn't know him. But… I know loss can make you angry. It can make you feel like lashing out." You hesitate, thinking of your own past, the memories you have of before. "It's okay to be angry."

Your words seem to catch her off guard. For a split second, her furious mask cracks, revealing a flicker of pain underneath. Her shoulders slump almost imperceptibly. But just as quickly, the defenses snap back up. She scoffs, snatching the box from your hands.

"Whatever," she mutters, avoiding your eyes now. "Get lost." And she slams the door shut.

You're left standing in the silent hallway, the echo of the slamming door ringing in your ears. Satoru lets out a long, heavy sigh, his cheerfulness finally crumbling completely. He leans back against the wall, resting his palm on his forehead. You can’t help but notice he looks tired and lost. 

Comforting grieving teenagers is definitely not his strong suit. And navigating the current situation is harder than either of you had anticipated.

–

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: emergency!!!!! 🚨🚨🚨 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: code red!!!

You: what is it??

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: need sugar ASAP 😩

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: do u have more of those zunda cupcakes???? 🙏

You: omg

You: thats not an emergency you goose

You: but no you ate the entire batch yesterday remember 

You: i might make more later if you promise not to inhale them all in under 60 seconds this time 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: PROMISE!!!!!! 🤞 ur the best baker ever

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: ALSO

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: just beat up some weird volcano head curse 🌋🌋 kinda grumpy dude 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: u know anything abt him?? seem familiar??? 🤔 

You: oh yeah volcano head hes definitely working with evil brain 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: ahhh knew it!!! 😂 figures lol 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: he was weak af tho 💪 total pushover 😂😂😂😂

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: b home soon!!! 😘

–

After what you’re dubbing the Great Wagashi Disaster, you think it’s for the best that Satoru doesn’t bring you back to the school anytime soon.

For you, that means another thrilling day of… nothing. You cook for one, clean an apartment that’s already spotless, and try to wring new information from your spotty memories. You’re tired of the isolation.

You’re in the kitchen, starting to pull ingredients from the fridge for another solitary dinner, when suddenly Satoru is there. He’s leaning against the counter as if he’s been there all along. His easy smile makes him look younger.

"I’m back!" he announces, his voice bright and cheerful. "Hope you don’t mind, but I told Yuuji we’re coming over for a movie night!"

The words are like a splash of refreshing water. Trying to cheer up Megumi and Nobara was a bit of a bust, but you were beyond excited to finally meet Yuuji.

"Really?" you ask, unable to keep the eagerness out of your voice. "Okay, what does he like to eat? I can make a big batch of curry, and maybe some onigiri, and–"

Actually," Satoru interrupts. He pushes off the counter and comes to stand beside you, stopping you with a light touch on your arm. "Yuuji really likes cooking. It’s one of the things keeping him sane down there." He looks at you, a thoughtful, considerate light in his eyes. "I was thinking… maybe the two of you could make something together?"

The suggestion is so unexpectedly sweet that it takes you by surprise. It wasn't just a chance to see another person, it was a chance to do a normal activity with them.

"Oh," is all you manage to say, a warmth blooming in your chest. "Yeah. Okay. I’d really like that."

"Great," he says, his smile widening. He holds out his hand. "Ready?"

You take it, and the world dissolves. You land in a room that is instantly, jarringly familiar from your memories. It’s a cozy, well-furnished basement room, with a large TV, a comfortable looking couch, and a small, functional kitchen area off to the side.

Sitting on the floor in front of the TV is Yuuji himself. He’s wearing a simple hoodie and sweatpants, his pink hair a bright splash of color in the dingy room. He looks up at the sound of your arrival, his expression initially one of focus.

Then, his face breaks out into a huge, radiant grin. He scrambles to his feet, his energy so bright and welcoming it fills the entire room.

"Gojo-sensei! You're back!" Yuuji exclaims.

Satoru matches his excitement, throwing his arms out in a grand gesture. "Of course I am, Yuuji-kun~! And I've brought along a guest for dinner and a movie!"

Yuuji lets out an audible gasp, his full, undivided attention snapping to you. He gives a short, formal bow, his back ramrod straight. 

"It's nice to meet you!" he says, his voice full of earnest sincerity. "My name is Itadori Yuuji, and my type is tall girls with big butts like Jennifer Lawrence!" He pauses for a fraction of a second, a look of mild panic on his face before he quickly adds, "Although, you're very pretty, too!"

You are rendered completely speechless, your mouth hanging open slightly as you try to process what’s going on.

Before you can even form a coherent thought, Satoru claps his hands together once, a loud, sharp sound that makes Yuuji jump to attention. "Alright! Yuuji-kun! New mission!"

Yuuji immediately snaps into a serious, determined stance, all business. "What is it, Gojo-sensei!"

Satoru points a dramatic finger towards the small kitchen area. "You are in charge of dinner! I," he says, tapping his own chest proudly, "get to choose the movie!"

Yuuji's entire face lights up, his eyes sparkling with more excitement than if he'd just been told he was going to DisneySea. He pumps a fist in the air. "Yes! Leave it to me! I won't let you down!"

Satoru turns to you, a ridiculously smug grin on his face as Yuuji practically sprints to the kitchen to see what ingredients are available. 

"See?" he whispers. "I told you he's got potential."

The small kitchen is very well-stocked, no thanks to Satoru, and Yuuji attacks the ingredients with the unrestrained zeal of a puppy being let off its leash. He finds a package of ground meat and his eyes light up. "Okay!" he declares, tying a dishtowel around his waist like an apron. "I'll make my specialty: Yuuji's Super-Special Ginger Meatballs!"

You can't help but laugh at his infectious energy. "Okay, Chef Yuuji. What can I do?"

"You're on pasta and veggie duty!" he says, already cracking an egg into a bowl with more force than necessary. "Every good meatball needs a sidekick."

You fall into an easy, comfortable rhythm. Yuuji, true to his word, is all in on the meatballs, mixing the ingredients with his bare hands and humming to himself. He's a little clumsy, sending a cloud of flour into the air when he tries to add a pinch, but his enthusiasm is so strong it's impossible to be annoyed.

Satoru, meanwhile, has taken up a supervisory role, which seems to consist of lounging dramatically on the couch just outside the kitchen, his long legs propped up on the coffee table.

"A little more ginger, Yuuji-kun!" he calls out, despite being unable to see the mixing bowl. "And don't forget the secret ingredient!"

"What's the secret ingredient, sensei?" Yuuji asks, his expression serious.

"Love, of course!" Satoru announces proudly.

Yuuji nods sagely, as if this is the most profound piece of culinary wisdom he's ever received. "Right! Love!"

You roll your eyes, a fond smile on your face as you chop carrots and broccoli for a simple stir-fry. The difference in Satoru's behavior with his student is so stark. With you, he’s a whirlwind of intensity, teasing and possessive one moment, shockingly vulnerable and sincere the next.

But with Yuuji, he's different. He's still goofy, still an agent of chaos, but it’s a controlled, supportive chaos. He’s the cool teacher, patient and endlessly encouraging, maintaining a careful distance that allows Yuuji to be the star of his own show. Seeing him in this role, so dedicated to nurturing this bright, energetic kid, is… It makes the warmth in your chest bloom a little brighter.

"Hey!" you yelp, as a long arm snakes past your shoulder. Two long fingers dip straight into the small bowl of sugar you'd set aside to thicken the sauce before he quickly warps away. "I need that! Keep your fingers out of my ingredients!"

"Quality control," Satoru says from the couch, completely unrepentant as he brings his sugar-coated fingers to his mouth with a satisfied hum. "Gotta make sure it's sweet enough. Very important."

You and Yuuji finish dinner and tidy up the small kitchen. Satoru, in his official capacity as Movie Chooser, makes a grand production of filtering through the collection of DVDs before selecting a film with a triumphant "Aha!"

Yuuji scrambles onto the floor in front of the couch, grabbing a strange, lumpy stuffed bear thing with boxing gloves that you vaguely recognize. Satoru sprawls out on one end of the couch, taking up far more space than one person should, forcing you to tuck your legs up on the cushion next to him.

"You're gonna love this one," Satoru says, pointing the remote at the screen. "A true masterpiece of cinema. It’s such a shame they all die in the end but at least it’s dramatic."

"Is this part of my cultural education, sensei?" Yuuji asks, suddenly focusing on the stuffed bear in his hands.

"The most important part," Satoru confirms gravely. "We need to get through the rest of the Star Wars Mega Movie Marathon before the end of the month! Tonight: Rogue One."

The familiar, rousing score of a Star Wars movie fills the room, the blue text scrolling up the screen. You settle back, a feeling of surreal contentment washing over you.

You ignore the subtitles, weirdly enjoying listening to English for the first time in what feels like forever.

As the movie starts introducing its characters, a familiar face appears on screen and a thought pops into your head. You lean over to Satoru, your shoulder brushing against his as you whisper.

"Wait, I don’t remember, has Andor come out yet?"

He turns to look at you, his usual smirk replaced by a confused stare. His eyebrows scrunch together. He has absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.

A small, weary sigh escapes you, a quiet puff of amusement at your own strange existence. "I guess not," you whisper back, settling into the cushions.

He just shrugs, a silent acknowledgment of one of your weird memory things, and turns his attention back to the screen. 

Yuuji is completely engrossed, his grip on the toy slowly loosening as he gets drawn into the story.

You’re not even really watching the movie. You’ve seen it before, in another life. The plot is a familiar background hum. Instead, your attention is fixed on the man beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Satoru.

His long legs are stretched out and his usual manic energy is settled into a rare, quiet stillness. The glow from the screen flickers across his face, illuminating the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the indent of his blindfold where it covers his eyes.

He’s probably not even watching, you realize. He’s just resting, a faint, relaxed smile on his lips. It’s the most peaceful you have ever seen him. You watch the steady, slow rise and fall of his chest, a quiet rhythm in the darkness.

And then the moment is shattered by a loud yelp from the floor.

"OW!"

Your head snaps forward just in time to see Yuuji’s stuffed bear, which had been sitting placidly in his lap, suddenly rear back and deliver a powerful punch directly to his face. The force of the blow sends the poor kid flying, a tangle of flailing limbs, up onto the couch. He lands in a heap directly on top of Satoru with a startled "Oof!"

Satoru’s jolts, his peaceful rest now completely ruined. He looks down at the pink-haired teenager sprawled across his torso, then at the innocent-looking stuffed bear now sitting on the floor, and a low snicker escapes him.

"Yuuji-kun," he says, his voice laced with amusement as he easily pushes the boy off him and onto the floor. "What have I told you about letting your cursed energy fluctuate? You have to maintain a steady output. Stay focused."

Yuuji sits up, rubbing his jaw with a groan. "But the movie got so sad! I wasn't expecting–"

"No excuses!" Satoru interrupts, wagging a finger at him. "A curse won't wait for you to get over a sad scene in a movie before it attacks." He grins, a flash of white in the dim light. "Better luck next time. Now pay attention, this is the best part."

Yuuji just groans again, but he settles back onto the floor, his eyes once more fixed on the screen. Satoru leans back, that relaxed, easy smile returning to his face as if nothing had happened. You just stare at them both, a fond smile of your own spreading across your face.

–

The movie ends and the credits roll. 

Yuuji is still on the floor, his head now resting on the stuffed bear with heavy-lidded eyes. Satoru is in much the same state, his long limbs sprawled across the couch.

A huge, jaw-cracking yawn escapes you, so wide it makes your eyes water. The long day has finally caught up with you. You feel boneless and the thought of moving, let alone teleporting back to the penthouse, feels like too much.

Satoru lifts the edge of his blindfold up and cracks one eye open, an amused smile on his face. "Tired?" he asks.

You just nod, too tired to form a coherent sentence.

"Don't worry about it," he says, giving a wave of his hand. "There’s a spare room down the hall. Just sleep here tonight. It’s too late to go anywhere."

He pushes himself up from the couch and nudges Yuuji with his foot. "C'mon, Yuuji-kun. Bedtime."

Yuuji groans but jumps up, rubbing his eyes like a little kid. As Satoru leads you a few steps down a short, dark hallway to a guest room, Yuuji stops at the door.

"Hey," he says. "Thanks for coming tonight. Both of you." He gives a small, shy smile. "I had a lot of fun."

"Anytime, Yuuji-kun," Satoru says, ruffling his pink hair.

"It was fun," you agree. "We should do it again."

Yuuji's face lights up at the promise of a next time. He gives you both a final, sleepy wave before disappearing into his own room.

You turn to the spare bedroom, and when you look back, Satoru is gone. He’s simply vanished, as is his habit, disappearing to parts unknown.

You step into the dark, quiet room and close the door, the sound of Yuuji’s words still echoing in your ears. For a night, you'd gotten to be part of their strange little family. And as you crawl under the cool, clean sheets, you realize that you can't wait to do it again.

–

You wake up to the muffled sound of voices from the other room. For a moment, you’re disoriented, the unfamiliar ceiling and the simple, clean scent of the room throwing you off. Then the events of last evening come rushing back.

You slide out of bed, still in the comfortable sweats you found in one of the drawers, and pad silently down the short hallway. In the main room, Satoru is lounging on the couch, looking as relaxed as he was last night. Yuuji is standing at attention, looking bright-eyed and ready for the day. And standing opposite them is a man who makes your breath catch in your throat.

He’s tall, blond, and impeccably dressed in a suit, looking completely out of place in the cozy, lived-in basement. It’s him. The man from the convenience store. Nanamin. 

He looks just as serious and professional as you remember. His mouth is pulled into a frown of weary annoyance.

"I don't understand why Itadori-kun couldn't have met me at the usual rendezvous point," he says. "This location is needlessly complicated."

"Nanamin! Perfect timing!" Satoru exclaims, his face breaking out into a ridiculously excited grin. He spots you hovering in the hallway and gestures you forward with a grand, sweeping motion. "There's someone I want you to meet!"

You step tentatively into the room, your heart hammering. 

Nanamin’s gaze shifts to you, and you’re met with a polite but otherwise blank look. There’s not a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

It’s a wild, dizzying, full-circle moment. The man who had been the first to unknowingly shatter your carefully constructed reality is standing right in front of you. And he has no idea.

"This is my lovely assistant," Satoru announces proudly, conveniently ignoring your previous protests. "She's helping me out with some… special projects."

Nanamin gives you a curt, professional nod, his expression unchanging. "A pleasure," he says, his tone making it clear it is anything but. He then turns his full, unimpressed attention back to Yuuji. "We'll be late."

Nanamin and Yuuji then head out, the door clicking shut behind them. Satoru watches them go with an amused look on his face.

"Don't mind him," he says, flopping back onto the couch. "Nanamin's always a bit of a grump before his morning coffee."

You just shake your head with a laugh. Satoru stretches his long limbs out, propping his head up with his hands.

"He agreed to take Yuuji out on a couple missions, and I need to make sure he’s ready," he says with a sigh, "Yuuji’s official re-introduction to the Jujutsu world will be at the Goodwill Event with the Kyoto school after all."

The phrase hits you like a blow. Goodwill Event.

It’s not a gentle memory. It’s a violent, frantic flood of images and feelings. 

A forest. Curses. Boogie woogie? A fight that isn’t what it seems.

"No," you whisper, your previous calm completely gone.

Your eyes dart around the room, landing on a notepad and pen left on the small kitchen counter. You move automatically, grabbing them, your hands trembling as you click the pen. You need to get this down before you forget any details.

You barely hear Satoru say, “No, what?” before you start scribbling. Words start tumbling out of your mouth as you write, a frantic, disjointed stream of consciousness.

"It's a diversion," you say, the words sharp and urgent. "The Goodwill Event! The whole thing is a distraction." You pause, trying to grasp the next piece. "There’s a big fight, but the students… I think they're all okay. None of the main ones die at least, I'm sure of it. But he's there. The evil brain parasite. He shows up to steal something."

Satoru is off the couch in an instant, his expression now deadly serious. He’s standing in front of you, his gaze sharp as he watches you, listening intently. "Steal what?"

"I don't know, something powerful, something he needs–"

"The school currently has seven of Sukuna's fingers in its possession, including the one from a couple months ago," Satoru supplies. The pieces click into place. That has to be it.

You look down at your frantic scrawl, and then you think back to the man who just left. Another memory, darker and more specific, surfaces with a lurch.

Your eyes snap up to meet Satoru’s. Your voice is a low, intense whisper. "The curses that attack… Has anyone seen a special grade with a patchwork face? Stitches all over?"

Satoru’s eyes narrow, his brow furrowing in concentration. After a moment, he shakes his head. "No. Nobody's reported a curse that looks like that. Not to my knowledge."

The fact that nobody’s seen it yet only makes your unease worse. "If you do see it," you say, your gaze unwavering, pleading with him to understand the gravity of your words, "Don't let Nanamin fight it. Promise me. Don't let him fight it alone. Just kill it, Satoru."

His gaze is fixed on you for a moment.

"Well, that's unnerving," he says finally. His usual smirk is gone. Satoru reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin in a soothing gesture. "But I promise. If I see a curse that looks like that, I'll handle it myself. Nanamin won't ever go near it."

He lets out a slow breath. "This is a lot to process," he says, his tone softening. "Probably not the best environment for it. Come on, let me take you home."

You nod, a wave of exhaustion washing over you now that the adrenaline has faded. The thought of the penthouse, of being back behind his numerous barriers, is suddenly the most appealing thing in the world. You just want to be somewhere safe. Somewhere with him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Okay."

He doesn't let go of your cheek, just slides his hand to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you gently closer. The world dissolves without as much of a lurch this time, a relatively smooth transition from room to room.

You're a little shaken by the image of a patchwork face. You don't even know why that specific curse is so dangerous, just that it is, and that its path is meant to cross with Nanamin's in the worst possible way.

Satoru seems to sense your lingering unease. He doesn't let you go, just guides you over to the sofa, sitting down and pulling you with him so you're tucked against his side. His arm is a warm, solid weight around your shoulders. You lean your head against him, a shudder running through you.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice soft against your ear. "I've got it. Let me handle it."

With his arm around you, with the steady, reassuring presence of him right there, you can finally relax. You close your eyes, letting the quiet of the apartment settle around you.

And in that moment of safety, you never even realize that you left a sheet of scribbled notes lying on the kitchen counter back in the hidden basement room.

Chapter Text

The minimalist luxury of the penthouse is gone, buried under an avalanche of paper. 

The sleek, low-profile coffee table has become a makeshift command center of sorts, its polished surface invisible beneath stacks of notes, half-empty coffee mugs, and the scattered remains of several takeout meals. The air is thick with the scent of old coffee and a palpable, focused energy.

"Okay," Satoru says, his voice all business as he drops another thick file onto the table, adding to the clutter. "I had Ijichi pull some strings. These are the official rosters for the Goodwill Event. It includes every student, every teacher, every supervisor from both Tokyo and Kyoto who will be on the grounds."

He begins laying out the files, each one a neatly printed dossier with a name and a photograph. It was a sea of faces, some familiar to you and others completely blank.

He looks up from the papers, his expression grim, but still with the usual sparkle in his eyes.

"The Goodwill Event starts in two weeks," he says. 

“Then that’ll be our deadline,” you respond. “Let's get to work."

–

The process is grim and methodical. 

Satoru slides a file across the table, you look at the face, and then you speak, your voice a low, steady monotone as you dictate the future. You feel less like a person and more like an oracle, a reluctant mouthpiece for a tragedy that has already been written.

Seeing all their faces together triggers something. It’s not a memory of the Goodwill Event. It’s a memory of the next time these students and staff are all supposed to be together. You start listing out a Now and a Later for each of the faces, the Later representing some far off event that might not actually be so far off after all.

He passes you a picture of Zen'in Maki, her face set in its usual confident scowl. You pick up your pen, the scratching sound loud in the quiet room, and write on the paper: Okay for now. Gets very burned later. Lives.

Next is a smiling boy with a distinctive haircut. Todo Aoi. Okay for now. Loses his hand later. Lives.

Then, a picture of a man you’ve only just met. Nanami Kento. Satoru said that he’s not expected to actually attend the event, but he included him just in case. Your hand freezes for a second, a cold dread washing over you. Okay for now. Fights the patchwork curse later. Dies.

And so it goes, a litany of death and dismemberment scribbled onto official school documents. You move through the files and dole out pronouncements of doom. Satoru is quiet. He just listens, his blue eyes sharp, absorbing every word.

Itadori Yuuji. Okay for now and fine enough later. Gets emotionally scarred to hell and back. Lives.

Fushiguro Megumi. Okay for now. Gets super injured later. Lives.

Kugisaki Nobara. Okay for now–

Your hand freezes over a picture of Nobara and her confident smile. 

Your breathing hitches. It’s a chain of memories, a series of violent, chaotic images crashing into your mind with the force of a tidal wave. A massive, dark curtain falling over a city. A train station packed with screaming civilians. Humans that look like curses. The volcano head curse. A stitched-up face laughing. And Satoru in the middle of it all.

You look up from the photos, your eyes wide with a dawning, abject terror.

"Satoru," you whisper. "You remember how I said the Goodwill Event is just a distraction for something?"

He goes still, his full attention fixed on you.

"The real attack," you say slowly, "is whatever this later event is. I don't remember when exactly, or where, but it's bad. He… The brain… he traps a crazy number of civilians under a massive veil, in a huge, crowded station, somewhere in Tokyo…"

You look at him then as the most terrible bit of the memory comes to you.

"He wins, Satoru. He succeeds because his entire plan, all of this, is about getting rid of you. It all leads up to him sealing you in the cube."

Satoru attempts a smile, but it's a weak, brittle thing that doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. In fact, it's the most miserable failure of a smile you've ever seen. 

"Well," he starts, his voice a little too loud, a little too bright. "Can't say he's not ambitious." 

He looks down at the files, at the faces of the friends and students he is destined to fail. "And just so we’re on the same page, the 'he' in question," he says, "is the evil brain thing that’s wearing my best friend like a meatsuit."

You close your eyes and imagine the image of Geto's smiling face, twisted into something wrong. You just nod. "Yeah," you whisper. "He nabs you on a packed subway platform."

Satoru lets out a low, thoughtful hum. He starts pacing the small space between the sofa and the coffee table, a restless energy coiling in his movements. "That's pretty gutsy," he muses. "Trying something like that with so many civilians around. The potential for collateral damage is insane."

"That's the whole point," you say, looking up at him.

His gaze snaps to yours. "For them all to die?"

"No," you say, shaking your head. "For you to exhaust yourself trying to keep them all alive."

He stops pacing.

"It's a proximity thing, I think," you say, the memory still a hazy, frustrating thing. You press the pads of your finger tips to your temples, trying to force the details into focus. "If you see your friend’s body or if you see a weird-looking cube, you can't even give yourself time to think. You need to get away and keep your distance. Promise me."

He stares at you, his gaze unwavering. He doesn't question how you know, doesn't ask for more information. He just trusts you.

"That's weirdly specific," he says. "But I'll take your word for it." He looks you in the eye, a silent vow passing between you. "No evil brains, and no cubes. Got it."

Satoru lets out a long, slow breath and then, to your complete surprise, lets out a low chuckle. He sits down and leans back against the sofa cushions, a flicker of his old, familiar self returning to his eyes.

"You know," he says, a confident smirk spreading across his face, "if you think about it, this is all actually a huge compliment."

You just stare at him, not really understanding what he's getting at. "A compliment? Satoru, they have a detailed, multi-stage plan to incapacitate you and destroy the world. How is that a compliment?"

"Because it's complicated," he explains, gesturing grandly to the scattered papers. "They have to infiltrate the school, orchestrate a major disaster, manipulate thousands of civilians, and use a super specific, one of a kind cursed object just to get me off the board." 

He leans forward, his eyes sparkling with confidence. "It means none of them, not the evil brain, not the patchwork curse, not one of them can beat me in a fair fight, so they have to cheat! Sounds like a major skill issue on their part."

You can't help the reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. 

"Ooh, all this doom and gloom gives me an idea!" he says, stopping in front of you and snapping his fingers. "A brilliant, Gojo-sensei original idea. You have to come to the Goodwill Event with me!"

"What? Why?" you ask, reeling from his suggestion. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"It'll be perfect!" he exclaims, ignoring your question. "Your memories are like a little spoiler-filled popcorn machine. They only pop when things get hot! And I’m gonna need my popcorn machine on-site for live commentary, just in case something comes up!" He leans in, his eyes radiating mischief. "We'll need a cover story, of course. Something cool. How about… you're a potential Window I discovered recently."

He starts to act it out in a deep, dramatic voice. "Behold! This unassuming civilian has the rare gift of sight! I, the greatest teacher in the world, have taken her under my wing to see if she is cut out for our glamorous, high-stakes lifestyle!" He strikes a pose, one hand on his hip.

His energy is so infectiously positive, you feel a bubble of hysterical laughter escape you. But you see through it.

His act is a ploy. It’s incredibly kind, but still. You can see the faint, lingering tension in his shoulders, the way his smile doesn't quite banish the seriousness from his eyes. He isn't being flippant because he doesn't care. He's being flippant because he thinks you're terrified. 

He's taking the key to his own defeat turning it into a fun, secret game. For you. To make you laugh, to chase away the dread that’s threatening to swallow you both whole.

You realize then that Satoru’s probably just as nervous as you are, deep down. He's just better at hiding it. He's carrying not only the weight of his own future, but the weight of everyone else’s as well, and he’s choosing to carry it with that ridiculous smile of his.

"Okay," you say, a soft smile finally breaking through, one that feels like it’s meant just for him. "I'll be your Window."

"Excellent!" he declares. "Operation: Prevent Gojo-in-a-Box is officially a go!"

At that, you push yourself off the sofa, your muscles stiff from sitting in one position for so long. You stand and stretch, reaching your arms high above your head, a groan escaping your lips as your back pops.

The war room is still a mess, and the deadline is still ticking, but for a few minutes, you could just be two people, taking a much needed breath.

–

The sun has long since set, and the city outside the windows is a glittering sea of lights.

You both move through the motions of an evening routine. You gather the empty takeout containers and coffee mugs. The mundane act of cleaning feels a small victory against the mess spread across the coffee table. You make a simple dinner of instant ramen, neither of you having the energy for anything more, and eat quietly, the grim dossiers of Satoru’s friends' fates sitting just a meter away.

After dinner, you go to the aquarium. Kingyo-chan and her companions swarmed to the surface as you sprinkled in their food. Their bright colours are a stark contrast to the dark mood that has settled over the penthouse.

When you return to the living room, Satoru is sitting on the sofa, surrounded by your notes. He’s quiet now, his earlier playful facade completely gone. He’s holding one of the files, Nobara’s, and stares at her confident, smiling face. You can see the weight of the future in the tight set of his jaw. He isn’t just looking at a student. He’s also looking at a casualty, a child he’s supposed to protect. It must hurt already knowing he’s supposed to fail her.

You can’t stand to see him like this. You walk over and sit down beside him, placing a hand on his arm in a gesture of support.

He turns to look at you, the full weight of the coming apocalypse heavy in his gaze. The space between you feels charged.

Slowly, deliberately, he leans in and rests his forehead against yours. His breath warm against your lips. The air is thick with something deeper, something raw.

"We'll stop him," you whispered. Your words are a fierce, desperate promise.

His hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. He looks at you, and in his eyes, you see not just the strongest sorcerer, but a partner. Your equal.

"We will," he says. His voice is a low, certain rumble that you feel deep in your chest. 

And in that moment, surrounded by the ghosts of a future you’re determined to change, you believe him.

–

This becomes your life every day for the next two weeks.

-

The morning sun streams into the penthouse, bright and deceptively cheerful. It’s the day before the Goodwill Event. You’ve been staring at the same page of notes for the past hour, the faces of the students swimming in front of your eyes. You’ve done all you can. You’ve wrung every last drop of useful information from your memory. Now, all you can do is wait.

Then you hear the quiet sound of shuffling footsteps. You look up as Satoru emerges from his room, looking weirdly relaxed, considering. He’s wearing a pair of faded blue pajamas covered in what looks like… digimon? You don’t know what their names are; the only one you know is Agumon. His white hair is sticking up in every direction, and he yawns, stretching like a cat.

He pads over to the kitchen, starts the coffee machine, and then wanders over to where you’re sitting, peering over your shoulder at your grim notes.

"Still stressing?" he asks, his voice husky with sleep.

"Wouldn't you be?" you respond, not looking up. "Tomorrow's the day."

He hums thoughtfully, then straightens up, clapping his hands together once with a loud crack that makes you jump. "Exactly! Which is why today," he declares, pointing at you with vigor despite the digimon pajamas, "is hereby declared a Mandatory Day Off! Effective immediately!"

You just stare at him. "A day off? Now? Satoru, the event is tomorrow."

"Precisely!" he says, beaming. "We did all the hard work. Crammed for the test, made the cheat sheets," he gestures to your notes, "Now it's time to relax the brain before the big exam! No missions, no training, no calls from stressy managers, and absolutely no thinking about evil brain parasites." 

He pulls his phone out of his pajama pants pocket and dramatically turns it off, tossing it onto a sofa cushion. "See? Unreachable. The Jujutsu world can survive without me for 24 hours. Probably."

You look from his cheerful face to the ominous notes spread across the coffee table. A day off sounds insane. It sounds irresponsible. It sounds… wonderful. 

The knot in your stomach loosens just a fraction. Maybe he’s right. Maybe a day of ignorance is exactly what you both need before everything goes sideways.

"Okay," you say, a small, weary smile finally touching your lips. "Okay, sure. What did you have in mind?”

–

"Behold!" Satoru announces proudly, gesturing with a spatula towards a pan filled with something vaguely circular and slightly… smoking? "Breakfast of champions!"

You peer into the pan. "Is it supposed to be that black?"

"It's just a little caramelized," he insists, though the acrid smell suggests otherwise. He then leans in, holding up a small bag of gummy bears he’d been steadily munching on. "Think we should add these? For extra energy?"

"Absolutely not," you say, gently taking the spatula from his hand before he could commit further crimes against breakfast. "Go sit down. I'll handle the non-caramelized bits."

Breakfast, once salvaged, is a lazy affair eaten at the kitchen island. It’s punctuated by Satoru stealing pieces of fruit off your plate and complaining that your pancakes aren’t ‘structurally optimized’ for syrup absorption.

After the plates are cleared, Satoru surveys the vast, sunlit living room with a critical eye. "You know what this space needs?" he declares suddenly, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, dangerous spark of childish inspiration.

"Tasteful decor? A sense of restraint?" you offer dryly.

"No, silly, a pillow fort!" he announced, already grabbing cushions off the sofa.

What follows is pure chaos. Blankets are procured from closets, dining chairs are dragged across the floor, and sofa cushions become structural supports. Satoru, naturally, takes the lead, directing the construction with the misplaced confidence of a master architect. 

You notice, with amusement, how a particularly precarious tower of cushions seem to defy gravity and blankets don’t sag as they should. He’s definitely cheating, you’re sure of it, using Infinity in at least some capacity to hold the whole thing together.

The resulting fortress is less a cozy nook and more an sprawling, multi-room monstrosity that takes up half the living room, complete with tunnels made from draped sheets and windows fashioned from gaps between cushions.

"Behold, Fort Gojo!" Satoru exclaims in front of the lopsided entrance. "Impregnable! Luxurious! Stocked with vital provisions!"

He crawls inside and you follow, finding him already arranging snacks on the blanket-covered floor. There’s a bowl of apple slices and peanut butter sitting right next to a mountain of pocky, several bags of chips, and a truly alarming assortment of gummies. He pats the space beside him.

"Now," he says, grabbing a remote and pointing it towards the giant TV just visible through the main archway of the fort. "For the official christening ceremony. Prepare yourself for a cinematic masterpiece!"

He hits play, and the opening credits for what looks like a truly terrible, low-budget monster movie from the 80s fills the screen. You sigh, grab a couple sticks of pocky, and settle in beside him in the dim, blanket-filtered light of Fort Gojo.

–

The movie finally reaches its cheesy conclusion, leaving you both blinking. Satoru lets out a dramatic groan. "Okay, even I have limits. That was objectively terrible."

"You said it was a cinematic masterpiece!" you remind him, laughing as you crawl out of the fort's main archway and stretch.

"It was! A masterpiece of bad special effects and questionable acting!" he defends, following you out. "Truly iconic."

Feeling restless after sitting for so long, you pick up the controller for the gaming console. "Alright, my turn for entertainment," you declare, sinking onto the bit of the sofa that was saved from the pillow fort. "Time to check on Agumon 7 and see if he's finally figured out how to digivolve without my direct intervention."

You boot up Digimon World: Next Order, the familiar music filling the room. You're immediately engrossed, initiating a training session for one of your digimon. After a few minutes of quiet, you hear Satoru clear his throat behind you.

"So," he starts, partially draped over you with his chin gently resting on your shoulder. "You're just... making him lift weights? Seems inefficient."

"It raises his strength stat," you explain, trying to concentrate on the timing minigame. "It's important for..." You mistime a button press, and the training result is only 'Good' instead of 'Great'. You let out a small sigh of frustration.

"You gotta hit it right when the bar hits the green," Satoru says casually. "Anticipate the rhythm. Like this." He leans around you slightly, his fingers hovering near the controller. "Try matching it to the background music beat."

Slightly annoyed but intrigued, you try his suggestion on the next round. Tap-tap-tap... Perfect. 'Great!' flashes on the screen. You glance back at him, surprised. "How did you know that?"

"It's just pattern recognition," he says with a shrug, a smug grin spreading across his face. "My turn."

"No way," you say, instinctively pulling the controller closer. "You'll mess up my training schedule. I'm trying to get a specific digivolution."

"I won't mess it up! I'll optimize it!" he insists, his competitive streak clearly kicking in. He reaches around you, trying to grab the controller.

"Hey! Get off!" you half-yelp half-laugh, twisting away and trying to shield the controller with your body. "Go play with your candy wrappers!"

"Just one battle!" he insists, his attempt becoming more determined. "I bet I can beat that boss you were stuck on faster than you did!"

"You don't even know its attack patterns!"

The argument quickly devolves from verbal to physical. He tries to pry the controller from your hands, you try to elbow him in the ribs. It’s a flailing struggle that somehow results in both of you tumbling off the sofa and onto the soft rug below in a tangled heap of limbs.

The controller skitters away, forgotten. Now it’s just wrestling. 

He tries to pin your arms and you squirm away in a fit of laughter. He’s obviously not using his full strength, not even a fraction of it. At one point, you manage to get on top, pinning his wrists to the floor with surprising success.

"Ha! Pinned ya!" you declare, breathing heavily from exertion and laughter.

He just grins up at you, his blue eyes sparkling, completely unbothered. "Impressive," he concedes. "Didn't know you had it in you."

You're suddenly very aware of your position, straddling his hips with your faces inches apart.

Before the moment can become too heavy, he flips you easily, reversing your positions so he's pinning you beneath him, though his weight is carefully balanced on his elbows. “I win," he whispers, his grin softening into something else.

"Okay, okay, truce," you gasp out, your heart hammering for an entirely different reason now. Your breath catches in your throat as you look up into his ridiculously blue eyes.

He doesn't move immediately. Satoru hovers over you for a second longer, his gaze searching your face, the laughter fading from his expression. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers his head, giving you ample time to turn away, to protest.

You don't.

His lips meet yours, soft and warm. It’s not a demanding kiss, just a gentle, tentative pressure at first. It’s slightly breathless from the exertion, and flavored from the snacks you’d both been eating. You feel his hands on the floor beside your head relax slightly as you instinctively respond, your own hands coming up to rest lightly on his waist.

He lingers for a moment, the kiss deepening ever so slightly, and your hands graze the skin not quite covered by his pajamas. Then he pulls back just as slowly, his forehead resting against yours for a beat, his breathing a little uneven. He looks down at you, a soft, almost shy smile touching his lips, a stark contrast to his usual overwhelming confidence.

He stays like that for a second longer, his gaze taking in your face, before pushing himself up and offering you a hand. You take it, letting him pull you to your feet.

"Rematch later," he says, his voice still a little breathless. He retrieves the controller, but instead of handing it back, he holds it thoughtfully. "Maybe after the next terrible movie?"

You nod your head, the adrenaline fading, leaving you feeling warm and pleasantly exhausted. "Deal," you say. "Back into Fort Gojo?"

–

As evening approaches, a comfortable silence settles, broken only by the soft sounds of the video game. Satoru, having finally admitted defeat after you expertly trounced him in a battle, is just watching you play, his head resting on your shoulder.

Eventually, hunger makes itself known. 

"Okay," you say, saving your game. "Time for actual sustenance."

"My favorite," Satoru murmurs, stretching languidly. "What culinary masterpiece are we creating tonight, Chef?"

"Tonight," you say, heading towards the kitchen, "we conquer the art of gyoza."

His eyes light up. "Ooh, dumplings! Can I help?"

You eye him skeptically. "Can you promise not to caramelize anything or stuff any gummy bears where they don’t belong?"

"Hey!" he protests, feigning offense as he follows you. "I swear I've been practicing! My skills have leveled up significantly."

"We'll see about that," you say, starting to pull out ingredients. You’re pretty sure you have premade wrappers around here somewhere. "You're on filling duty. Try not to, you know, attack them or something."

This time, the cooking goes a bit differently. You patiently show him how to finely chop the cabbage and mix the ground pork with garlic, ginger, and soy sauce. You’re a bit surprised that he actually listens for the most part, his usual boundless energy channeled into a focused concentration that’s surprisingly endearing. He’s still a little clumsy and makes a bit of a mess of his delicate task, but at least he’s trying.

You set up an assembly line of sorts at the kitchen island including wrappers, a small bowl of water, and the bowl of filling. You show him how to place a small amount of filling in the center, wet the edge, and pleat the wrapper closed. Your first few are neat and uniform. His… are not. One looks suspiciously like a lumpy Agumon. Another has far too much filling and is threatening to explode.

"It's abstract," he insists when you raise an eyebrow at his creations. "Avant-garde gyoza."

You just laugh, shaking your head as you work side-by-side. The repetitive motion is soothing, the easy banter flowing between you. He asks about your Digimon strategy, you tease him about his questionable gyoza-folding technique. At one point, your hands are covered in flour and he leans in, ostensibly to inspect your pleating technique, but instead steals a quick, soft kiss, leaving a faint dusting of flour on your cheek. You just roll your eyes, a warm blush creeping up your neck.

You finish folding the last of the dumplings and start arranging them in the frying pan.

"So," Satoru starts. You can see him leaning against the counter, watching you. "What did you actually do in your old life? Not like your previous life with all the memories, but before you got roped into this whole mess."

You pause, carefully adding water to the pan and covering it with a lid. "Worked too much, slept too little. Worried about bills," you say with a small, wry smile. "Glamorous, I know." You glance over at him. "Before all this, I didn't have to worry about evil brain parasites, just really bad reality TV. Honestly, some days it's hard to tell which is worse."

He lets out a laugh at that. "I dunno, some of the clan elders could give any reality TV villain a run for their money." 

You look up at him. "What about you? What was it like growing up in the Gojo clan? Was it just politics and expectations?"

He leans back against the counter, watching the gyoza steam. "Pretty much," he says with a shrug, the lightness in his tone not quite masking something heavier underneath. "Born with the Six Eyes and Limitless? I never really got to be a kid, I was more of a weapon. Everyone either wanted something from me or was afraid of me." He makes a face. "Lots of bowing. Very boring."

"Sounds lonely," you say softly.

He doesn't answer immediately, just watches the steam rise from the pan. "It was, until I met Suguru," he says finally, his voice quiet. "He made it all bearable." He quickly shakes off the melancholy, forcing a brighter tone. "Okay, hypothetical! What if you suddenly developed a Cursed Technique? What would it be?"

You pause, considering, as you carefully flip the steaming gyoza onto a plate. "Maybe something that involves making perfect gyoza instantly," you say, nudging the plate towards him. "Or maybe the ability to make annoying sorcerers be quiet on command."

He just grins, stealing the first dumpling. "Too late," he says around a mouthful. "You already have that one."

You just laugh at that and give his shoulder a light punch.

–

Dinner is a surprisingly successful affair. You eat at the kitchen island, laughing and talking, feeling miles away from the looming threat of the Goodwill Event. Afterwards, neither of you has the energy to tackle the mountain of dishes or dismantle the sprawling pillow fort that still dominates the living room.

Instead, you find yourselves back on the sofa, nestled amidst the slightly deflated cushion walls of Fort Gojo. The city outside is a glittering tapestry of lights, the view endlessly fascinating. You’re leaning against Satoru’s side, his arm draped comfortably around your shoulders, your head resting against his chest. The exhaustion of the day is pleasant.

"You know," you murmur, tracing a pattern on the soft fabric of his pajama pants, "this place… it doesn't really feel like a glass tower anymore."

He hums softly, his hand gently stroking your hair. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, a soft smile on your face. "It feels more like a home."

Your word hangs in the air. He doesn't reply immediately, just pulls you a little closer, resting his cheek against the top of your head.

You stay like that for a long time, just watching the city lights twinkle below, the soft rhythm of his breathing a soothing counterpoint to the distant city hum. The anxieties about tomorrow, about brains and curses and potential disasters, feel muted like this.

Eventually, the comfortable silence starts to lull you towards sleep. Your eyelids grow heavy. Satoru shifts slightly, his arm tightening around you.

"Tired?" he whispers.

You just nod and burrow a little closer, letting out a little, “Mhm.”

He doesn't suggest you go to your separate room. Instead, he gently maneuvers you both until you're lying down more comfortably on the enormous sofa, still tucked against his side. He pulls a stray blanket from the fort's collapsing walls over both of you.

"Okay," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, lingering kiss. "Sleep. I'll make sure you’re up in the morning."

And wrapped in his arms, surrounded by the ridiculous, comforting remnants of your pillow fort, you drift off, feeling safer and more at home than you ever thought possible.

Chapter Text

The morning of the first day of the Goodwill Event is tense. 

The air in the penthouse feels electric with a nervous, humming energy. Satoru is already dressed in his usual teaching uniform, but the lazy, relaxed posture he usually carries himself with is gone. He moves like a coiled spring. 

You’re dressed in a simple but professional-looking blouse and slacks he’d pulled out of a closet. It’s an outfit that screams "competent but unassuming" and it’s your costume for the day.

Before you leave, he does a final check-in, stopping you in the middle of the living room. He’s uncharacteristically serious, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by a hard, focused light.

"Okay, one more time," he says, his voice all business. "What's your cover?"

"I'm a potential Window," you recite, the words feeling both practiced and absurd. "You're bringing me here as a trial run to see if I can handle the lifestyle."

"And if things go sideways and I'm not right there?" he presses.

"I find Mei Mei and I stick to her like glue."

"And why Mei Mei?" he quizzes, a hint of the teacher in his tone.

You take a shaky breath. "Because… she's pragmatic?"

"Close enough," he says, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. He reaches out and adjusts the collar of your blouse, his fingertips brushing against the bare skin of your neck. He leans in close, his voice just a low murmur now.

"Seriously, though. She's the most reliable person there in a crisis because she's only motivated by one thing," he whispers.

"What's that?" you whisper back.

"Money!" he says then with a huge grin to break the tension. "And I’m loaded, which makes her super predictable! Now, you ready for your big debut?"

"Wait, so the emergency plan is to just throw your credit card at the problem?" you retort, a small, nervous smile of your own forming.

"Exactly!" he says, beaming. "See? You're a natural at this. You'll fit right in."

Before you can answer, he takes your hand, and the world dissolves.

You don't arrive on the main grounds amidst the students and staff. Instead, you materialize in a quiet, secluded hallway. The air here is different. It's the ambient cursed energy of the school, you realize, a place saturated with power, curses, and sorcerers. The distant, muffled sounds of cheerful greetings and excited chatter create a buzz of anticipation.

He gives your hand a final, reassuring squeeze before letting go. "Showtime," he says with a wink, and strolls towards the door to the monitoring room as if he owns the place.

–

Satoru doesn't knock. He slides the door to the monitoring room open with a loud, cheerful "Honey, I'm home!" and strolls in as if he's just arrived at his own surprise party. You follow a half-step behind him, feeling a half dozen pairs of eyes land on you instantly. 

The room is dark, lit only by the glow of multiple large screens, and it’s filled with a tense, professional energy that Satoru has just shattered.

He is immediately met with a furious outburst.

"GOJO!" The voice belongs to a large, imposing man with sunglasses and a mustache, who you instantly recognize from your notes as Principal Yaga. He slams a hand down on the console in front of him, his face a mask of pure rage. "What is the meaning of this? You are late, and you’ve brought an unregistered civilian onto high-security grounds during a major event! This is an unacceptable breach of protocol!"

You instinctively flinch, wanting to shrink behind Satoru's tall frame. You are acutely aware of everyone else in the room. 

A woman in a traditional Miko outfit, Utahime, stands to the side. Her arms are crossed and she’s radiating a palpable aura of annoyance and animosity towards Satoru. Another woman, Mei Mei, lounges in a chair nearby, looking detached and even amused. She assesses you with an unreadable gaze, as if calculating your potential net worth. 

And from the back of the room, an elderly man with a long, white beard, Principal Gakuganji from Kyoto, glares at you with open suspicion and disdain.

You recognize all of them from the photos.

Satoru is completely, blissfully unfazed by Yaga's yelling. He throws a casual arm around your shoulders and grins. "Relax, Yaga-sensei! You'll give yourself a heart attack," he says, his tone infuriatingly light. "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, you know? Besides, she's already here, so what are you gonna do? Kick her out? That's not very hospitable."

He gestures to you with a proud, sweeping motion of his free hand. "Everyone, this is my new protégé," he announces to the room of scowling sorcerers. "She’s a potential Window I've taken under my wing. I thought today would be a perfect, low-stakes opportunity for her to see if she's cut out for our glamorous lifestyle."

The lie is delivered with such breezy confidence that for a second, you almost believe it yourself. Yaga looks like he’s about to explode, but he seems to realize it’s a losing battle. With a final, sputtering sound of rage, he turns back to the monitors. 

You are unceremoniously parked in a spare chair between a still-fuming Utahime and a quietly amused Mei Mei. You feel like an unwelcome guest at the Jujutsu world's most dangerous sporting event. Satoru, having successfully caused the maximum amount of chaos, saunters over to the main console to supervise, leaving you in the lion's den.

The silence from your immediate neighbors is heavy. You sit ramrod straight, staring at the blank screens, wishing you could become invisible.

Suddenly, Utahime leans in close, her expression a perfect mixture of annoyance at Satoru and weird kindness towards you. "Hey," she whispers, her voice low. "Blink twice if you're here against your will."

All you can manage is an incredulous, "Huh?"

A loud, indelicate snort comes from your other side. You turn to see Mei Mei covering her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking with laughter. "Oh, I like her," she says, her voice a low, purring drawl. She turns her gaze on you, a flicker of interest in her eyes. "Don't mind Utahime. Her personal vendetta against Gojo makes her a bit overprotective of anyone he brings around."

"I do not have a vendetta," Utahime hisses, her cheeks flushing a faint pink. "I have a very reasonable and well-documented list of grievances. There's a difference."

"Of course, dear," Mei Mei says, her tone patronizingly smooth. She looks back at you, her expression unreadable. "So, a Window, he says. An interesting and potentially lucrative skill set. Tell me, can you see the flow of money as clearly as you can see curses?"

You have no desire to tell her that you can’t really see curses at all, not since

Before you can even begin to answer her bizarre question, a loud buzzer sounds through the room, and the screens flicker to life, showing a dozen different perspectives from within a dense, forested area. Principal Yaga's voice booms into intercom microphone on the desk in front of him.

"The Team Battle of the 30th Annual Kyoto Sister-School Goodwill Event... will now begin!"

The feeling is so surreal it makes you dizzy. 

You're watching the opening scenes of a fictional story, but it’s not a drawing on a screen anymore. It’s real. It’s live. The grainy camera footage is all happening right now.

The teams scatter and the first major confrontation appears on a central screen. Todo Aoi, his massive, scarred frame radiating an intimidating aura, cornering an overly enthusiastic Yuuji.

"Ooh, a tough matchup right out of the gate!" Satoru cheers loudly from the front of the room, completely invested. "C'mon, Yuuji, show him what you've got! Don't let him get in your head!"

"He's going to get pummeled," Utahime mutters under her breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

Her prediction proves unfortunately correct. 

Todo is a monster, his movements a blur of overwhelming power. The screen shows a close-up of his fist connecting with Yuuji's face, the sickening crunch of it making you physically flinch. You have to look away, your stomach churning. But when you look back, to your absolute astonishment, Yuuji is getting back up. He spits a bit of blood onto the grass and gets back into a fighting stance. 

Todo lands another devastating blow, and another. Each time, you expect Yuuji to stay down, but he just keeps getting back to his feet, a stubborn, almost unnatural resilience shining in his eyes.

"He's durable, I'll give him that," Mei Mei comments, a flicker of genuine interest in her analytical gaze.

The fight between Yuuji and Todo rages on, and it’s a battle of wills between Todo's overwhelming power and Yuuji's frankly insane durability. At the same time, other confrontations are breaking out across the forest. On one of the smaller screens, you watch as Megumi is drawn away from the main group by the Kyoto third-year, Noritoshi Kamo. They disappear into a thicket of trees, their feed cutting out as they move beyond the sight of the cameras.

Just as they vanish, the main screen flicks to a new battle. Zen'in Maki, wielding a massive polearm, versus Miwa Kasumi, who has drawn her katana.

"Ooh, now this is a good one!" Satoru says, leaning forward with a grin. "Maki's got this in the bag. No cursed energy, sure, but when it comes to pure weapon mastery? She's the best of her generation. A real prodigy."

"She's certainly efficient," Mei Mei comments, her gaze analytical. "Wasting no movements. That kind of skill is a commodity."

"She's just bullying Miwa," Utahime complains, looking genuinely offended on her student's behalf. "This is hardly a fair matchup."

Satoru just laughs. "Don't be a sore loser, Utahime! Your girl should've trained harder!"

He's not just bragging. You're completely astonished as you watch Maki fight. She's a whirlwind of controlled, graceful violence, dancing around Miwa's sword strikes. In a final, lightning-fast move, Maki disarms her, sending Miwa's katana flying before catching it neatly in her free hand. With a triumphant smirk, Maki turns and runs off, leaving a stunned and weaponless Miwa behind.

The screen immediately flips again, this time to another promising battle: Panda versus Mechamaru. You can see Principal Yaga, out of the corner of your eye, physically tense up, his hands gripping the console in front of him. You find yourself leaning forward, a ridiculous, giddy feeling bubbling in your chest. Come on, Panda, you cheer internally, You're a panda! You have to win!

"Now this is what I'm talking about!" Satoru exclaims with glee. "Smash 'em up, Panda!"

The main screen unfortunately doesn’t stay on that fight for long, and you almost want to yell at whoever's controlling the feed. But then it flips to the inevitable, tense confrontation between the Zen'in sisters, Maki versus Mai. It's a standoff. At the same time, on one of the smaller side screens, you see a shot of the forest where Miwa Kasumi was. She's standing there for a moment on her phone, looking confused, and then she suddenly collapses in a heap.

Utahime lets out a long, pained groan, burying her face in her hands in secondhand embarrassment. "That idiot," she mutters. She stands up, her expression one of resignation. "Inumaki got her," she announces to the room. "Excuse me, I have to go collect my student." 

"Well," Satoru says, far too cheerfully. "Looks like your team’s dropping like flies."

She gives Satoru a withering glare.

You're so focused on the simmering conflict between Maki and Mai on the main screen, on the cruel words being exchanged, that you barely process anything else happening in the room. You're completely engrossed, waiting for blows to land.

You vaguely remember watching this fight in another life, but seeing it play out on a grainy monitor feed is weird. Obviously, you’re rooting for Maki. Satoru's clearly got a soft spot for her, and she deserves to win, especially with all the crap her family gives her.

And damn, she's incredible with that polearm. It’s amazing to watch the pure physical power and skill.

But you have to admit, Mai looks cool with her gun and everything. She’s got that whole elegant sniper vibe going on. It's a totally different kind of fighting style, and even though you want Maki to wipe the floor with her, you can't deny Mai's got a certain badass aesthetic.

But suddenly, a series of soft whooshing sounds fill the room. You look away from the screens to the back wall, which is covered in dozens of white paper talismans. Each one, which had been inert just a moment ago, is now lit with a flickering, crimson flame.

"What the...?" Utahime says, having returned from her jaunt into the forest, her eyes wide.

"All the curses have been exorcised," Mei Mei says, her voice sharp as she stands up, her interest seemingly peaked.

"Impossible," Yaga growls, his gaze snapping from the flaming talismans back to the main monitor, where Maki and Mai are still locked in their standoff. "Zen’in is still right there. There's no way she could have taken out the grade two and all the others at once."

Gakuganji gets to his feet. "This is not the work of a student."

The entire room erupts.

"An intruder!" Yaga roars, slamming his fist on the console. "Someone has infiltrated the grounds!"

"Let’s go!" Satoru announces, his voice cutting through the noise with a sharp authority. He's already moving towards the door. Yaga, Gakuganji, and Utahime storm out right behind him, a flurry of grim faces and urgent, muttered plans.

But Mei Mei stays put.

She doesn't move from her chair, her posture relaxed, a single finger tapping thoughtfully against her lips. She is an island of calm in the middle of a hurricane. 

Pragmatic. Motivated by money. Reliable in a crisis. 

Satoru's words echo in your mind. He knew the others would run headfirst into the fire. He also knew she would stay wherever she could gather the most information.

You stay with her, just as instructed, your heart hammering against your ribs. The silence she leaves in the wake of the others' departure is unnerving.

"Aren't you worried?" you ask, your voice a little shaky. "Shouldn't we... do something?"

Mei Mei turns her head slowly, a small, amused smile on her face. "There's no need to run into the fire when you can see everything from a safe distance," she says cryptically. She gestures vaguely towards the ceiling. "My crows are my eyes. They can see everything."

You feel like you should’ve understood that, but it was a touch too cryptic to make any sense. Probably related to a cursed technique or something.

You sit there in awkward silence for another five minutes.

You run the plan through your mind again, just to help yourself keep calm. Once shit starts to go down, Satoru would start to go after the students with the others. But they would be fine, if your memories were to be believed. So instead, he would pivot and set up an ambush in the warehouse where the fingers are kept while clearing out the weaker managers. There, he would be able to catch the Brain and its Murder Gang in the act and, well, murder them.

"So," Mei Mei says, pulling you out of your thoughts. Her voice is a low, purring drawl as she turns her full attention to you. She gives you a slow, deliberate once-over, her gaze so sharp it feels like she's peeling back layers of your skin to see what lies beneath. "A Window."

She leans back in her chair, a smug, knowing smile playing on her lips. "Who are you, really?"

You just stare back at her, your mouth dry, your mind racing. You don't answer. You can't.

She lets out a soft, amused chuckle, as if your silence is the most interesting answer you could have given. "Don't worry," she says, turning her attention back to the screens. "Your secret is safe with me, I promise. For the right price, of course."

You choose again to stay silent.

The wait is agonizing, but the silence is almost worse.

Tense, fragmented reports from frazzled managers start trickling in. The barrier is down. The students are safe and accounted for. No sign of the intruder.

More waiting.

The way Mei Mei is staring you down is starting to feel targeted and uncomfortable.

Wait. It’s still 2018. Bitcoin.

Oh my god, it's still pretty low, isn't it? If you tell her to get in now and hold it for a few years, what would that be? Like, until 2021? 2024? If you remember correctly, the price went absolutely insane. A 2000% gain? More? She'd be filthy rich. Rich enough to maybe stop giving you side eye?

Shit. Maybe you should invest in Bitcoin if you ever get out of this evil brain mess and just, you know, get access to your bank account again.

No. Bad idea. Terrible idea. You shouldn’t say anything. How would you even explain knowing something like that? Oh, just a hunch! Yeah, right. That would just make her more suspicious, not less. Best stick to the silent, mysterious act. Definitely safer. Less chance of accidentally revealing you might know a weird amount of details about the future.

Just gotta keep your face blank. Don't look scared. Don't look like you’re calculating potential cryptocurrency gains. Just… blank. 

Easy, right?

You’re snapped out of your thoughts as a frantic manager runs in with the final report.

The inventory from the main cursed object warehouse is secure. All seven of Sukuna's fingers are accounted for. 

But a secondary storage unit, one with a lower security level, was breached. Three Cursed Womb: Death Paintings were stolen. And a handful of the managers assigned to guard that location were found dead.

Your heart drops.

Wait, what?

That can’t be right.

Does that mean… the brain’s plan worked?

It worked, just not in the way you expected. They weren't after the damn fingers after all. They were after something else entirely, and they fucking got it. Because these painting things were left wide open. Because of you and your intel.

And then Satoru is suddenly there, appearing beside your chair. Without a word, he places a hand on your shoulder, and the world dissolves.

You're back in the familiar, quiet living room of the penthouse. The contrast is jarring. Satoru looks emotionally exhausted and irate, a dangerous combination.

"I’m sorry, I have to go back," he says, his voice tight. "There’s going to be a lot of damage control." He looks at you, the weight of the day heavy in his eyes. "Stay here and keep the doors locked."

And then he vanishes without another word, leaving you alone in the oppressive silence of the penthouse.

No hug or kiss or even a goodbye or a see you later.

You stand right where he left you, still shocked at the abruptness of it all. The adrenaline from the day is beginning to drain away, leaving dread in its place.

You feel a little useless.

You were there. You were right there. And what happened? Curses invaded, people died, and the brain got exactly what he came for.

Your gaze drifts across the living room, landing on the collapsed remnants of Fort Gojo. It was just yesterday, but it feels like forever ago. Blankets sag limply over chairs and cushions lie scattered on the floor.

You can't just sit here. You can't just marinate in guilt. You need to do something. Anything.

With a surge of frustrated energy, you get up and start cleaning.

You attack the fort with a methodical fury, pulling down blankets, folding them with angry creases and throwing them back in the closet. You retrieve the dining chairs, pushing them back into their rightful places around the table with unnecessary force. You gather the scattered cushions, fluffing them aggressively before arranging them back on the sofa as they should be. You collect the empty snack bags, shoving them into a trash bag with a satisfying crinkle.

And when there’s nothing left for you to do, you stare out at the city, into the sea of lights, and replay the final report in your head. 

Three Cursed Womb: Death Paintings were stolen. 

Whatever they are sounds grotesque and ominous, but a name is just a name. There’s a piece of lore you can’t quite place. What are they? Why would the evil brain risk a direct confrontation at the school, no doubt crawling with sorcerers, to get three of them?

Why ignore the fingers?

You close your eyes, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to force a memory, any memory, to the surface.

Death Paintings.

And then, an image flashes behind your eyelids with an unwelcome clarity. 

It’s a face. Pale, almost unnaturally so, with dark, shaggy hair tied up into two strange pigtails on either side of his head. The most distinct feature is a dark, solid mark running horizontally across the bridge of his nose. He looks young, but his eyes are sunken and rimmed with red. You see him with a red sword? fighting Yuuji in a station.

That’s him, the thought is immediate and certain. That’s one of them.

You can’t remember his name, but that doesn't really matter. You know that the face in your memory belongs to one of the stolen wombs.

A question begins to form in your mind. Was he the objective all along? Was the entire, elaborate invasion with the veil, the risk of facing Satoru, really all orchestrated just to retrieve these death paintings? If so, how powerful are they?

Or was it something else?

You stare out the window, your mind racing through the strategic possibilities.

Because of your warning, Satoru stayed hidden, waiting by the fingers. Did the evil brain somehow know that? Was this a pivot? Were the fingers the real prize, and when they realized Satoru was playing defense, they grabbed the Death Paintings as a consolation prize?

You have no way of knowing.

The ambiguity is the most terrifying part. You don’t know if your warning saved the day or if you just witnessed the enemy achieve their primary objective without a hitch.

You let out a long, frustrated groan. You flop back onto the sofa, staring up at the ceiling.

How long would Satoru be gone this time? An hour? A day? You had no way of knowing. The thought of waiting up for him, of having to rehash the day's events and explain the new face that was now burned into your memory, was completely exhausting. You were too tired for another world-altering conversation tonight.

But the information is too important to wait.

With a final, resigned sigh, you push yourself off the sofa. You grab a fresh sheet of paper from the cluttered coffee table and a pen. You don't bother with pleasantries or explanations. You just write down the stray intel as it exists in your head, a message for him to find whenever he finally drags himself home.

Death paintings are people, I think. Pretty strong. At least one will be at the station of doom. He fights Yuuji, but is probably part of the main ambush too.

You look at the note. Station of doom. It’s a stupid, childish name for a place you can’t quite remember, but you feel like it captures the right vibe. You sign your initials at the bottom and then, on a whim, you add one more line. Ask me in the morning if this doesn’t make sense.

You pad silently down the hall to his room, the door slightly ajar. You push it open and slip inside. His room is unsurprisingly messy, with sheets and pajamas haphazardly piled on top of the bed. It’s clearly a space for sleeping and nothing more.

You place the note on his bedside table, right next to his sunglasses and an empty candy wrapper, somewhere he couldn't possibly miss it. The small, white piece of paper looks almost insignificant.

That was it. You’d done your part. If he had questions, he could ask them tomorrow. You were too tired for this. You retreat to your own room, closing the door behind you, and collapse into bed, leaving the ghosts of your failure and the future for morning you to deal with.

Chapter Text

The morning is quiet.

It’s the deep silence of a place that exists outside the normal rules of the world, a silence you’ve come to associate with the soft glow of the rising sun over the Tokyo skyline. You’re in the kitchen, shuffling through the motions of your morning routine. Feed the fish. Grind the coffee beans. Wait for the water to boil. It’s a peaceful existence.

Satoru disappeared back to the school yesterday for damage control.

Dealing with the mess you failed to prevent.

You rest your head on the countertop for a moment, but it offers no comfort. Your body aches with exhaustion, but your mind is racing, replaying the events of yesterday.

Three death paintings stolen. Multiple assistant managers dead.

And it’s your fault.

The thought is a cold, sharp spike through your chest. It’s all your fault.

You were supposed to see this. You’re the one with the cheat codes to the future. You warned him about the fingers and you’d felt so useful, thinking you’d given Satoru the key. But you didn't see the real target.

What good is this stupid, broken memory? What good is seeing fragments of a disaster if you can't see the right fragments? You saw Nanami’s death, you saw Satoru being sealed, but you didn't see this?

People died. People died because you didn't remember enough, because you didn't look hard enough, because your memory is a pathetic joke. Satoru trusted you. He put his faith in your warnings and built his strategy around them.

And now he’s doing damage control.

It’ll probably a multi-day headache at least. He definitely won't be back anytime soon. Probably not today. Maybe not even tomorrow?

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The sound is so loud, so out of place, that you yelp and drop the coffee scoop, sending dark, fragrant grounds scattering across the pristine white countertop. You freeze, your heart instantly jackhammering against your ribs. The banging comes again, insistent and aggressive.

The front door? The thought is so absurd you almost laugh. Do we even have a front door?

In all the months you’ve been living here, you have never once used it. You’ve only ever entered and exited via Satoru-Airlines, the first-class teleportation service that comes with a high chance of nausea. You don’t even know what the hallway outside looks like. For all you know, the door opens directly into the stratosphere. What floor are you on? The 10th? The 100th? What building are you even in?

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Okay, think. Your pre-caffeinated mind struggles to catch up, cycling through a frantic, ridiculous list of possibilities. Who could it be? The police? Oh god, did Satoru not pay his taxes? Do ridiculously powerful sorcerers pay taxes? A neighbor? Do you have neighbors? Is there another bazillionaire living in the sky next door who wants to borrow a cup of sugar? Or maybe they’re here to complain about the noise? What noise? The occasional boss-battle music from your Digimon game?

The banging is really, truly annoying, and your exhausted, curious brain can't resist a mystery. You find yourself walking towards the entryway, a part of the apartment you’ve never had any reason to visit. It’s like exploring a new country.

This is a terrible idea, you think, your hand hovering over the sleek, modern handle. This is how the person in the horror movie dies. The coffee isn’t even brewed yet. You’re going to die pre-caffeinated. What a tragedy.

But the banging is incessant, and the stupid, primal curiosity wins out. Acknowledging the absolute, grade-A foolishness of your next action, you take a deep breath, and you open the door a half-formed "Can I help you?" on your lips.

And your brain just… takes a couple seconds.

Standing there is a man in traditional monk's robes. Your eyes, blurry with sleep, struggle to focus, but they snag on two, immediate, horrifying details. Fox-like eyes, narrowed in a gentle, knowing smile. And a grotesque, jagged line of stitches running horizontally across his forehead.

Nope.

The thought is a primal, singular scream in your skull. You react without thinking, throwing your entire body weight into slamming the heavy door shut. It connects with a satisfying thud, but doesn't latch. Something is blocking it.

A single zori sandal is wedged in the gap.

Before you can even process this, the door is pushed open again with an easy, unhurried strength that sends you stumbling backward into the entryway. The man steps inside. He doesn't lunge or attack. He just lets himself in, and with a soft click, he gently closes the door behind him, as if he lives here.

"My, my. So hostile," he says. His voice is a smooth, gentle baritone. He looks around the penthouse with a proprietary, almost nostalgic air. "Satoru is a bit of a dunce, isn't he? So brilliant in so many ways, but so sentimental. He never thought to remove this body's access credentials from his precious little barriers."

Your eyes dart wildly around the entryway, your sleep-addled brain finally catching up to the mortal peril you are in. Your gaze lands on the large decorative vase next to the door. 

The knife. The anti-curse knife is in the vase.

The man, the evil brain parasite wearing Satoru’s dead best friend's skin, a fact your brain is unhelpfully screaming at you, takes a slow, deliberate step in your direction. He’s still smiling that horrible, gentle smile. 

"Don't be alarmed," he says, and his calm, creepy presence is making the hairs on your arms stand up.

You immediately backpedal, putting as much distance between you as possible, your bare feet slapping against the cold, polished floor. Your back hits a wall, somewhere between the entry and the living room. You have nowhere else to go. He has you cornered. And Satoru is nowhere to be seen.

He holds up his hands in a placating gesture that is anything but. "I'm not here to hurt you. Not yet, anyway. I'm just… so very interested in your Cursed Technique."

Your brain, which is still about 90% asleep and 10% screaming, stalls out. 

Cursed Technique? 

You don't have a Cursed Technique. Your only special skill is being able to perfectly microwave a frozen burrito and, apparently, having memories of a fictional world that turned out to be real.

"What technique?" you manage to ask, your voice a pathetic, trembling squeak.

He smiles, a slow, knowing expression. "The one that allows you to see the future, of course. A little oracle, aren't you?"

Oh, god, no. The thought is a fresh wave of panic. That's what he thinks? He thinks you're some kind of prophet? That's… so much worse. If you tell him the truth, Hi, yes, in my past life you were all just a really popular anime and I'm just a walking spoiler alert, he would probably lock you in a basement and force you to binge-watch your own memories for the rest of your life. 

No. Nope. The oracle story is definitely the lesser of two evils here. You say nothing, letting him believe his own assumption.

"I must thank you, by the way," he continues, strolling casually past you into the living room as if he’s here for a book club meeting. "I stumbled upon some of your work during my little jaunt at the school yesterday. Satoru wasn’t as preoccupied with his students as I'd expected, you see, so I did a little digging to see what he’s been up to.”

Oh, god fucking damnit.

The notes. He means the notes. You must’ve left some of them back in Yuuji's basement room. Shit.

You were only down there the one time, for that movie night. But you remember that epiphany you had about the Goodwill Event.

And of course you wrote it down. You grabbed that stupid notepad and just started scribbling, trying to get it all out before it all vanished. You didn't even think about it afterwards. You just left them there, just sitting on a counter for anyone to find.

And he found them. Of course he did. Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

The evil brain looks at the coffee table, where your newer, more detailed notes about his future plans are still spread out. "You threw a bit of a wrench into my initial plans, I'll admit. Not having the fingers makes things a little more complicated, but it’s nothing I can’t work around."

He walks over to the table and picks up a sheet, his fox-like eyes scanning your frantic scribbles, and you don’t dare move from your spot against the wall.

"I’m rather fond of 'evil brain parasite.' So wonderfully dramatic. It has a certain flair to it." His commentary is so calm it makes your skin crawl.

He places the paper down gently. "But you can call me Kenjaku."

God, this is so much worse in person. He was freaky on screen, sure, with all his classic villain stuff. But this? This is different. He's not just ink and animation anymore. He's real. He's standing right here, breathing the same air, and radiating this calm wrongness that makes your skin crawl and your bones feel cold.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It's the smile of a predator looking at its prey. He looks like he wants to peel your skin back, layer by layer, just to see what makes you tick.

"What do you want?" you finally manage to ask, fear starting to leak out through your voice.

He then turns to you and takes a step, his gentle, horrible smile never wavering. "Simple, really. I want you out of the way."

This is it. This is how you die.

Of course. You’re the idiot in the horror movie. The one who hears a noise and goes to investigate. The one who opens the door when they're home alone. After they’re told to keep the door locked. And now you’re going to be murdered by an ancient, evil brain parasite wearing the skin of a man who died years ago. Your obituary is going to be a mess.

Your face must be doing something truly spectacular, a gape-mouthed expression of terror, because the gentle, horrible smile on his face widens.

And then he starts fucking cooing.

It’s a soft, gentle sound, the kind you might make at a startled kitten. "Aw, look at that face," he says, his voice dripping with a creepy, patronizing sympathy. "Did I frighten you? Poor little thing."

Is he making fun of your misery? Yes. Yes, he is. This is the single most humiliating and terrifying moment of your entire life, and he is enjoying it like a fine wine.

He takes another slow, deliberate step towards you, and you press yourself so hard against the wall you think you might phase through it.

Your eyes dart wildly around, frantically searching for anything. A weapon. Something heavy. Something sharp. Anything you can use to hit this fucker over the head with and maybe, just maybe, buy yourself a second. 

But there's nothing. 

No coat rack. No shoehorn. Not even a goddamn umbrella leaning against the wall. Nothing. You are trapped, defenseless, backed against a wall with absolutely nothing but your rapidly fading composure.

"Oh, no, no," he clarifies, waving a dismissive hand as if swatting away your silly, mortal fear. "I'm not going to kill you." He lets out a soft, appreciative chuckle. "You're far too interesting for that. A genuine oracle, right here in Satoru's little nest. Killing you would be a terrible waste of a good opportunity."

A tiny sliver of relief tries to break through the panic, but it’s immediately crushed by his next words.

"But," he says, his smile turning sharp and predatory, "I am going to take you." He spreads his hands, a gesture of faux generosity. "It is, of course, your choice how violent that gets."

Your mind is a static-filled mess. 

The choice is laughably simple: get taken violently, or get taken less violently. 

The vase with the knife is four meters away. Four meters. It might as well be on the moon. Can you make it? No. Of course not. But you have to try something. You can't just let him take you.

You feint to the left, a clumsy, telegraphed move, and then pivot, lunging for the vase.

You don't even make it a single step.

He moves with a speed that doesn't seem possible, closing the distance in an instant. There’s no time to scream, no time to even gasp. A hand clamps over your mouth, stifling any sound. His other arm wraps around your waist like a band of steel, lifting you off your feet with ease.

"Tsk, tsk," he murmurs, his voice a low, condescending rumble right next to your ear. "A shame. I was hoping you'd be more cooperative."

He easily overpowers and manhandles you, turning you back towards the door. Your struggles are completely useless, like flailing against an immovable object. He pulls the door open and drags you out into the hallway. It’s a pristine, empty corridor with an unmarked door and a single elevator at the end.

"Don't worry," he says, his tone infuriatingly calm as he starts walking you forward. "Satoru will be upset, of course. But he'll get over it. Eventually."

With a flick of his wrist, something grotesque shimmers into existence around you. It’s not a solid creature, but a translucent, gelatinous-looking blob, like a living cloak of invisibility that warps the air. The pristine, modern hallway outside the apartment is suddenly viewed through a wavering, distorted lens, like looking through thick, rippling water.

"Don't struggle," Kenjaku murmurs, his voice a calm, infuriating purr right next to your ear. "No one can see or hear you now."

His hand finally leaves your mouth. You gasp, sucking in a lungful of air that tastes of his dusty scent and your own panicked breath. You don't scream. You don't say a word. You don’t do anything but attempt to process what the fuck is happening right now.

He drags you into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft, final ding. 

It is, without a doubt, the most awkward elevator ride of your entire life. You’re pressed against his side, your cheek squished against the rough, heavy fabric of his robes, his arm unyielding around you. The elevator music, a soft, generic jazz tune, plays cheerfully as you descend to your doom. It’s all so horribly surreal.

The doors open into a bright, luxurious lobby, and he walks you straight out onto the street, invisible to the bustling morning crowds. 

The pavement feels rough and cold beneath your bare feet. Each step is a small shock, the gritty texture scraping against skin. Little bits of gravel and debris bite at your soles. You wince, realizing your feet are going to be scratched and raw by the time you reach wherever you’re being taken.

Your phone flashes in your mind. It’s sitting uselessly on the bedside table back in the penthouse, plugged in, fully charged, and completely out of reach. There's no way to call Satoru, no way to contact anyone. You are completely cut off, tethered only to the evil brain currently steering you through the side streets.

You’re like a ghost, a helpless passenger in your own abduction. You watch people walk by, sipping their morning coffee, completely oblivious to the monster in their midst. He leads you down a clean, quiet side street, stopping abruptly in a small, deserted alleyway. Before you can even question why you've stopped, he summons something else.

With a low, guttural croak, a truly enormous transparent blob manifests before you. It vaguely resembles a some sort of bird, but twisted and wrong. Its feathers are greasy and matted, its eyes are milky-white orbs that roll independently, and its massive throat looks like a pulsating sac that seems to contain dark, swirling shapes within. It reeks of stagnant water and decay.

"Transportation's here," Kenjaku says cheerfully.

Before you can process, he gives you a firm shove forward, directly towards the creature's gaping beak. You stumble, crying out, but there’s nowhere to go. The bird opens its horrifying mouth wider, and you’re pushed inside, into the slick confines of its throat.

It’s disgusting. The air is thick and foul, the walls of its throat are slimy and pulsating around you, and the swirling shapes you saw from the outside bump against your body. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately not to vomit as the creature lets out another croak and launches itself into the air.

You have no sense of direction, just the sickening, lurching sensation of flight, the wind whistling faintly outside your new prison. It feels like an eternity, trapped in the belly of a monster, flying over a city you can't see.

Just as suddenly as it began, you feel a jarring descent. You hit the ground inside the pouch with a thud, and then you’re being unceremoniously regurgitated, spat out onto cold, hard concrete. You land in a heap, gasping for fresh air, disgusting slime clinging to your clothes and skin.

You’re at a sewer entrance. The bird curse dissolves into nothingness above you. Kenjaku lands softly beside you, looking completely unfazed.

He pulls the heavy grate off with one hand, the sound of scraping metal loud in the relative quiet. He gestures with his head for you to go down first. 

Your eyes sting from the sudden transition from bright daylight to darkness. You find the first rung of the ladder with your hand, then tentatively place a bare foot onto it.

It’s cold, more so than you were expecting. The metal bites into the soft arch of your foot. And it’s wet. Not just damp, but coated in a thin, slick layer of something indescribably foul. You suppress a gag, the smell of decay and stagnant water suddenly much stronger now that you’re descending.

Once on the ground below, you can feel the cold, viscous grime squishing between your toes, clinging to the soles of your feet. It's a deeply uncomfortable, violating sensation.

"You know," he says, his tone conversational, as if he's discussing the weather, "once Satoru is out of the picture, you'll need a new patron. Someone who can appreciate your unique talents." He lands softly on the grimy floor behind you. "I'd much rather see you as an asset than an enemy. Think about it."

You really don’t want to think about it. You want to think even less about the possibility that Satoru might not even want you anymore after what you did. Or failed to do. Whatever.

"I'll pass," you manage to say, the words coming out as a reedy whisper that doesn't sound nearly as brave as you intended. "I think I'll take my chances."

He doesn't get angry. He doesn't even seem to register the defiance. He just laughs. It’s not a loud, booming laugh like Satoru’s. It’s a soft, gentle chuckle. It’s a sound of condescending amusement, as if a kitten had just tried to bite his finger.

"So spirited," he coos, his voice dripping with that same creepy, patronizing tone from before. "Cute."

His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you against his side in a gesture that is no longer about restraint, but about possession. It feels as if he’s guiding a new pet. He starts walking you forward again, his pace unhurried, his arm a warm weight against you.

The sewer is a maze of darkness and filth. The only light comes from grates high above, casting long, distorted shadows on the damp brick walls. Your feet continue to squish with every step.

Every sound is magnified, echoing in the enclosed space. The steady drip… drip… drip… of water from an overhead pipe. The distant, unsettling scuttling of something unseen. A sudden, loud splash in the darkness ahead makes you jump violently, a strangled sound escaping your throat.

Kenjaku doesn't even flinch. He just glances down at you, his fox-like eyes glinting in the dim light. "Relax," he says, his voice a calm, soothing murmur that only makes everything worse. "The rats in here are quite harmless. It's the curses you have to worry about. But don't worry," he adds, giving your waist a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "You're with me."

You don’t respond.

He walks you through the dark, damp tunnels for what feels like an eternity. The only sounds are the echo of your reluctant footsteps, the steady drip of unseen water, and Kenjaku’s infuriatingly calm breathing.

Just when you think you can't take another second of darkness, he stops. Ahead of you, set incongruously into the curved, grimy brick wall of the sewer, is a door. 

It doesn't belong here. It’s an ancient-looking thing, made of dark, weathered wood and bound with thick, rusted iron hinge straps. There’s no handle and no lock that you can see. It looks like something ripped from a medieval castle and dropped into the filthiest part of the city.

You stare at it in confusion. What is that? Where does it go?

Kenjaku doesn't offer an explanation. He releases you, and for a hopeful second, you think he might be letting you go. But he just steps in front of you, placing a hand on the surface of the ancient door. With a low, grinding groan of stone against stone, the door swings inward.

It doesn't reveal more darkness. It instead reveals light. A brilliant, blindingly white sunlight that spills into the sewer tunnel, so intense that it makes you flinch and throw a hand up to shield your eyes.

"Don’t look like that," Kenjaku says. "I promise you will be quite comfortable here."

Before you can react, he shoves you.

It’s not a violent, aggressive push, but a firm, unceremonious one that sends you stumbling forward over the threshold. You trip, your bare feet catching on the lip of the doorway, and you fall, bracing for the impact of a hard floor.

But the impact never comes. You land on something soft, and warm, and yielding. You push yourself up onto your hands and knees, blinking against the light. Under your palms is not wet stone, but fine, warm sand.

You look up, your eyes slowly adjusting to the brilliance. 

You’re on a beach. 

A pristine, perfect beach of white sand. A gentle, turquoise ocean laps at the shore, the water so clear you can see the shells on the seabed. Above you, a cloudless, perfect blue sky stretches to a horizon dotted with palm trees. It's the most beautiful place you have ever seen.

The heavy door clicks shut behind you. Kenjaku steps past you, his robes a dark blot on the landscape. He walks a few paces further into the sand, towards four cheap-looking plastic lounge chairs, each under its own white and blue striped umbrella. They look like they were stolen from a public pool.

He settles down and gestures to one of the empty chairs, a picture of unconcerned leisure. "Come, relax," he says, his voice as calm and gentle as the lapping waves. "Or stay kneeling in the sand, if you prefer. Whichever works for you."

Your bare feet are now half-buried, and it’s a weirdly grounding sensation. You are acutely aware of two facts.

Behind you is the door. It’s still there, a dark scar on the edge of this perfect, sun-drenched paradise. It’s a way out. An escape.

In front of you is Kenjaku.

There is no real choice.

You know with certainty that if you so much as turn towards that door, he would be on you in an instant. An escape attempt wouldn't even be a struggle.

But the alternative… to stand up and walk over to one of those ridiculous plastic lounge chairs… feels too much like surrender.

So you stay right where you are. Kneeling in the sand, halfway between a futile escape and a complete surrender.

You watch as Kenjaku, with a sigh of contentment, begins to disrobe. 

In a single, fluid motion, he rips the heavy monk's robes from his body, casting them aside onto the sand. Underneath, he's wearing a pair of simple, black, knee-length swim trunks. He reaches over to the back of the plastic lounge chair and grabs a brightly patterned tropical shirt, slipping it on and leaving it unbuttoned. He then sits on the edge of the chair, methodically removing his socks and sandals, placing them neatly underneath.

The transformation is bizarre. The ancient, menacing body snatching brain is gone. In his place is a man dressed for a day at the beach. He looks like a totally different person and it makes your stomach churn.

He finally settles back into the lounge chair with a satisfied sigh, propping his bare feet up. He looks at you, still kneeling in the sand.

You try your best to not look at him, instead focusing on the gentle, turquoise waves lapping at the shore. The silence stretches, broken only by the sound of the ocean and the faint, rustling whisper of the palm trees.

"So," his amused drawl cuts through the peaceful sounds of the beach. "The defiant prisoner. It's a classic, I suppose. A bit cliché, but a classic nonetheless." He lets out a soft, appreciative chuckle. "Take all the time you need."

–

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: hey!!! FINALLY done w damage control 😫😫😫 the higher ups r the biggest pain ugh 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: hope u saved me some food 😉 be there tonight! 😘

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: ??? 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: helloooo??? u there??? 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: asleep already? 😴 or just ignoring me cuz im so annoying? 😂 lol jk jk 😉

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: ok seriously tho where r u? 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: not answering is kinda freaking me out a little 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: hey?

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: okay this isnt funny anymore 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: are u okay? 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: answer me pls

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: im back home 

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: sugurus residuals r everywhere

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: idk where u r but dont worry

✨🌟💖 Satoru 💖🌟✨: ill find you

Chapter Text

Kenjaku finally settles back into the lounge chair with a satisfied sigh, propping his bare feet up. He looks at you, still kneeling in the sand.

You try your best to not look at him, instead focusing on the gentle, turquoise waves lapping at the shore. The silence stretches, broken only by the sound of the ocean and the faint, rustling whisper of the palm trees.

"So," his amused drawl cuts through the peaceful sounds of the beach. "The defiant prisoner. It's a classic, I suppose. A bit cliché, but a classic nonetheless." He lets out a soft, appreciative chuckle. "Take all the time you need."

You kneel there in the warm, fine sand as minutes stretch into what feels like an hour. 

The perfect, cloudless sun beats down on your back. You can feel the beginnings of a sunburn on your shoulders. Your knees are starting to ache. 

Kenjaku's clearly not bothered. He's just lounging. He could probably sit there for a thousand years, looking perfectly content, while you slowly fossilize in the sand. You hate this. You hate him. You really, really need a cup of coffee.

With a deep sigh of defeat, you give in.

You push yourself to your feet, brushing the fine white sand from your pajama pants with as much dignity as you can muster. You walk, stiff-legged, over to the small setup of chairs. You pointedly ignore the one next to him and choose the one on the farthest end. You sit on the edge of the plastic lounger.

You’re beginning to hate Kenjaku’s face even more. "I knew you'd see reason," he says, his voice dripping with amusement. "Now, as much as I'd love to spend my entire day watching you, I have important business to attend to. So I won't be your permanent keeper."

Keeper. The word makes your stomach turn.

"That honor," he continues, "goes to someone else."

As if on cue, a new figure emerges from the line of palm trees at the edge of the beach, walking towards you with a silent, gliding grace. You don’t immediately recognize them. Small, androgynous, with pale skin and silvery-white hair styled in a traditional cut.

Their presence is a wave of pure, unnatural cold that seems to suck the warmth from the air.

You watch as they approach, their movements a silent, gliding grace that is deeply unsettling. You know this person. You’ve seen their face before in the chaotic jumble of your memories, but for the life of you, you can’t place a name or a significance to them.

They stop a couple meters from you, their dark pink eyes locking onto yours. The gaze is cold, hostile, and utterly unimpressed. You glare back.

Kenjaku breaks the tense silence with a theatrical sigh. "Oh, dear," he says, his voice dripping with amusement. "Such a serious face for paradise. You two look like you're about to have a staring contest to the death." He chuckles. "Do try to get along."

He gestures from you to the new face. "This is Uraume. They'll be your... host, while you're here. They will provide you with anything you need. Within reason, of course."

The words ‘within reason’ are a challenge. You’re reminded that you are still pre-caffeinated, barefoot, and wearing pajamas. Your simmering irritation finally boils over.

"I want coffee," you demand. "And I want a change of clothes."

Uraume's cold, impassive expression finally breaks. A slow, deliberate sneer curls their lip. They look at you as if you are the most presumptuous piece of garbage they have ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

Kenjaku just laughs again. "Ah, wonderful! I'm so glad you two are getting along already."

He leans in and says something hushed to Uraume, his back to you, their conversation a series of low, sibilant whispers. Then, he straightens up. He sheds the ridiculous tourist persona and pulls his dark monk's robes back on over his swim trunks.

With a final, infuriatingly pleasant smile in your direction, he turns and walks back towards the weird door. He opens it, steps through into the grimy darkness of the sewer, and is gone. The door clicks shut.

Just as you're about to ask Uraume what happens now, they simply… walk off, leaving behind only an empty patch of sand.

And then, you were alone. Presumably, they were off to fetch your much needed coffee. It was the most hollow victory you could possibly imagine.

–

You're alone.

The realization hits you after ten minutes or so. Kenjaku is gone, back to his evil plotting in the real world. And Uraume has vanished, off on an errand to fetch you coffee and clothes.

It's just you. And the door.

It just sits there against the bright blue of the sky. It's taunting you. A way out, sitting right there. If nobody's here, then who's to stop you from just waltzing right through it? It can't be that easy. It has to be a trap.

But what if it's not? What if they're just that arrogant? What if they think you really are just that helpless?

It takes a moment to build up the courage. You scan the beach one more time, from the line of gently swaying palm trees to the glittering expanse of the ocean. Nothing. Just sand and sea and silence.

Okay. You can do this.

You get to your feet, the warm sand a pleasant sensation on the soles of your bare feet. You start walking towards the door, your heart hammering against your ribs. Each step feels monumental. Three meters away. Two meters. You can almost feel the grimy, familiar air of the sewer on the other side.

Splash.

The sound is soft, but on the beach it sounds as loud as a gunshot. You whip your head around, your eyes scanning the edge of the turquoise water. Nothing. Just the gentle, lapping waves.

You turn back to the door.

And you freeze.

Between you and the door, where there was only empty sand a second ago, is a creature. It's not big, maybe the size of a large dog, and it looks like a weird, blood-red cuttlefish thing, with two big beady eyes and small, writhing tentacles. It has to be a curse. It hasn't moved, hasn't made a sound, but it's there. Blocking your path.

You take a stumbling step back. You don't say anything, your throat suddenly too tight to make a sound. The creature tilts its strange, bulbous head, its eyes blinking at you.

"Bwoo-hoo?" it says, the sound a wet, inquisitive gurgle.

You don't understand the word, but you understand the message. Whatever this thing is, it’s fast enough to appear in front of you without you even seeing it move. Leaving through the door is not, and was never, in the cards.

A low, frustrated grumble escapes you. 

You turn your back on the door, on the cuttlefish thing, and trudge back to your plastic lounge chair. You climb onto it, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. You try to get comfortable in the shade of the cheap umbrella.

You glance back towards the ocean just in time to see the red curse skitter back to the water's edge and leap in, disappearing beneath the waves with a quiet splash.

And then, you’re alone again. But this time, you know you’re being watched.

–

The first few days are a blur of heat, sand, and suffocating boredom.

Uraume is a near constant presence. They make themselves known three times a day at the edge of the sand, a tray of food in their hands, and watch you as you eat. They don't speak unless absolutely necessary, but their voice is like a soft whisper that is somehow more unnerving than nothing at all. 

Uraume is brutal in their efficiency. The food, you hate to admit, is incredible. It’s always perfectly prepared, a mix of traditional Japanese dishes that are leagues better than what you can do yourself.

On the second day, you find a neatly folded pile of clothes on your lounge chair. Your pajamas are comfortable, of course, but not quite appropriate for endlessly sitting on a beach. The new wardrobe is an array of swimsuits, light sundresses, linen pants, and other tropical vacation clothes.

There’s a yellow sundress in particular that makes your stomach churn with a complicated mix of emotions. It's simple, with thin straps and a light, airy fabric. It’s actually, objectively, kind of cute. And you hate it. You hate it because, after a full two days of sweating in your pajamas, you started wearing it. You hate that you pair it with the wide-brim straw hat that was also provided. You hate that when you catch your reflection in the calm, turquoise water, you look like a tourist on vacation.

But there’s nothing you can do about it.

So you sit on the lounge chair, wearing the stupidly cute yellow sundress with a plate of expertly grilled fish on your lap with a fancy glass of ice tea and watch the perfect, cloudless sky. This is your life now. You are a well-fed, well-dressed prisoner in a monster's tropical paradise.

On the fourth day, two new figures appear through the door.

They walk across the sand with a casual air, as if they've just clocked out for their lunch break. One is a hulking, white creature wrapped in bandages, with tree-like appendages sprouting from its eyes. The other is short, with a single, large eye and a head shaped like a volcano. You recognize them both instantly, though you can’t think of their names.

They pay you absolutely no mind, which is probably for the best. 

They walk past your chair as if you are a piece of driftwood, grab two of the empty lounge chairs, and drag them closer to the water's edge. Volcano Head immediately conjures a small, bubbling pool of lava next to his chair, the heat shimmering in the air. Tree Eyes just stands there, seeming to be content basking in the sun.

You sit there, frozen, for a full ten minutes before you work up the nerve to speak. Uraume is standing in their usual spot in the shade of a palm tree.

"Who are they?" you ask in a low whisper.

Uraume’s eyes flicker towards the newcomers, then back to you, their expression one of disdain, as if you are too stupid to even be breathing the same air. "Jogo," they say, gesturing with their chin to the volcano-headed curse. "And Hanami."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Jogo lets out a loud sigh. "This place is insufferable," he grumbles to no one in particular, his voice a gravelly, impatient sound. "The air is too wet."

"It is a place of recuperation," Uraume replies, their voice flat and cold. "Be grateful for the respite."

Jogo just scoffs, sinking lower in his chair. They continue to ignore you completely. It's somehow more unnerving than open hostility. You are so beneath their notice you don't even register as a living being. You're just a piece of scenery.

And then there’s the other one. The one you met first. The cuttlefish. You ask Uraume who that was.

"Dagon," they say, their gaze shifting to the endless, turquoise ocean.

As if on cue, his head breaks the surface of the water about fifteen meters out. His beady eyes fix on you for a long, unsettling moment. He doesn't move, just watches. Then, just as quietly, he submerges again, leaving no trace he was ever there.

You learn to pay Dagon no mind. You learn to ignore Jogo and Hanami, too. You learn that your prison is actually a breakroom for some of the most powerful curses in existence.

And it makes you want to scream.

–

You think it’s been nine days now, but it’s hard to keep track in an environment that never changes. 

Jogo and Hanami are gone now. The beach is quiet, a sun-drenched paradise shared only by you and Uraume. You’re sitting on your lounge chair, wearing the stupidly cute yellow sundress, trying to read a book Uraume had provided. It’s a dry, uninteresting history of the early Heian period.

The squeaking sound of the wooden door opening makes you jump, your heart leaping into your throat. You look over, expecting to see Kenjaku finally returning.

But it’s not him.

A young man with long, greyish-blue hair styled in braids and a patchwork of stitches across his face practically bounces through the doorway. He’s grinning, a wide, childish expression of pure delight as he takes in the beach.

"Wow!" he exclaims in a light, cheerful voice. "I always love Dagon's domain! It's so bright and warm!”

He spots you and his mismatched eyes light up with an unnerving curiosity. This is the one. The patchwork curse from your notes. 

Mahito.

He doesn't walk towards you. He skips.

His demeanor is so at odds with the primal terror that floods your veins that your brain stutters. He comes to a stop right in front of your chair, his lack of respect for personal space immediately apparent. He leans in close, his face just centimeters from yours, and tilts his head like a curious bird.

"And who are you?" he asks, his grin never wavering. He doesn't wait for an answer. "Ooh, I see. You're the human Kenjaku was talking about. Wow, you're so weird!" He leans in even closer, his mismatched eyes seeming to look right through you. "The shape of your soul is all twisted and bright. It's so interesting!"

You have no idea what that means, and you don't want to find out. You press yourself back into the plastic lounge chair, trying to put as much distance between you as possible. "Get away from me," you manage to say.

His grin just widens. "Why? We're just getting to know each other!" He claps his hands together with a childlike glee. "I have an idea! Let's go swimming!"

Before you can react, his hand darts out and grabs your wrist. His touch is unnaturally cold, like a thing that’s been dead for years.

"Come on!" he says, his voice full of cheerful excitement as he starts to drag you out of your chair. "The water's great! We can see if humans really float!"

You try to pull back, your heels digging uselessly into the sand, but he’s too strong. Mahito finds your resistance amusing, stopping to pull you around so you’re facing him again. He leans in, his stitched-up face filling your vision. "Why are you fighting? Don't you want to play?"

And in that moment, looking at his smiling, patchwork face, a scene keeps playing through your mind.

You’re not on a beach. You’re in a brightly lit subway station. And in front of you stands Nanami.

Then, Mahito’s hand, the same unnaturally cold hand that is gripping your wrist right now, lands gently on Nanami’s shoulder. And Nanami’s torso explodes. And through it all, Mahito is smiling. That same, stitched-up smile that is looking at you at this very moment.

You yelp as you wrench your arm back, falling backward into the sand.

Mahito just crouches down to your level, his smile unwavering. He seems utterly delighted by your reaction. "Oh, what a fun noise! Do it again!"

He takes a step towards you, but a flash of white intercepts him.

Suddenly, Uraume is there, standing between you and the patchwork curse. They bat Mahito’s questing arm away with a sharp, definitive slap. The sound is shockingly loud.

"Mahito," Uraume says, their voice as cold as ice. "She cannot go in the water in a dress, lest she get sick."

You stare, a little baffled. For a wild, irrational moment, you think they're protecting you. The thought is so contrary to every cold glare they've ever given you. Why would they care if you got sick? You don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but this feels wrong.

Then you see the dangerous glint in their dark pink eyes.

"Allow her to change first," Uraume continues, their voice smooth and cruel, "into something more appropriate."

God damn it.

Mahito’s face breaks out into a huge, childish grin. "You're so right, Uraume! How thoughtful!"

Uraume picks you up and gives you a sharp push towards a nearby palm tree, where a large piece of fabric has been strung up to create a pathetic, makeshift changing screen. "Don't dally," they command, their voice leaving no room for argument.

You stumble behind the screen, your body trembling. On a small stool are the swimsuits they’d provided over the past few days. All of them are bikinis. Skimpy, revealing bikinis. You feel a fresh wave of rage. There is no one-piece, no shorts, nothing that offers any real coverage.

Your fingers shaking, you quickly strip off the stupidly cute yellow sundress and pull on the least offensive option, a simple black bikini. Every second feels like an eternity. Finally, taking a deep, shuddering breath, you step out from behind the fabric.

Mahito claps his hands together, laughing like a child on their birthday. He immediately grabs your wrist again and his cold touch feels like a violation against your bare skin.

"Remember," Uraume says. "Kenjaku says she is not to be harmed."

Mahito just rolls his mismatched eyes, completely dismissive. "Kenny's got nothing to worry about!" he chirps, his grin widening into something sharp. "We're just gonna play!"

And with that, he starts dragging you, half-naked and terrified, towards the endless, turquoise water.

You aren’t given much of a choice. On the way to the water's edge, he uses his free hand to carelessly strip off his own shirt, dropping it onto the sand without breaking stride.

He hits the water with a gleeful splash, and the momentum yanks you in right behind him. The sudden shock of the cool, salty water takes your breath away. You stumble on the sandy bottom, the water swirling around your waist. In the distance, you see Dagon's head break the surface, his eyes watching the scene with a shy curiosity.

You hate it. You hate this entire situation. You hate the cold, dead feeling of Mahito's hand on your skin. You hate the vulnerability of being half-naked in front of him. And you absolutely, positively hate that the water is actually infuriatingly refreshing.

Mahito lets go of your wrist and starts swimming lazy circles around you like a shark. You notice his feet have extended to resemble flippers, and you really don’t like the way his eyes are suddenly alight.

"So," he starts as he paddles closer. "If I touched your soul, do you think it would feel all bright and twisted like it looks? Or would it be soft? I bet it's soft."

You just stare at him. What kind of question is that?

Splash.

A wave of saltwater hits you directly in the face, making you sputter.

"Hey! I asked a question!" he says, pouting like a petulant child. He swims another circle. "Okay, new question. What's the saddest you've ever been? Like, so sad you thought your soul might just melt and leak out of your ears? Have you ever felt that? I wanna know what it feels like."

You remain silent, standing on the sandy bottom, your arms crossed over your chest in a futile attempt to cover yourself.

Splash. This time it's bigger, a full-body wave that makes you lose your footing.

"You're no fun," he complains, his grin never wavering. He submerges, and for a terrifying second, he's gone. You whip your head around, frantically scanning the clear turquoise water. Suddenly, his hands grab your ankles from below, and he yanks, pulling you under.

Panic seizes you as Mahito’s cold hands keep you below the surface. Your lungs are burning for air. You struggle, kicking and clawing at him, but it’s like fighting a creature made of rubber.

Suddenly, two strong, warm arms wrap around your torso from behind, pulling you up with a powerful, steady force. You break the surface with a sputtering, gasping cough, sucking in a lungful of air. You’re held securely against a solid chest, steady on your feet in the waist-deep water.

"Mahito," a familiar, calm voice says, right beside your ear. "That's no way to treat a guest."

You don’t even want to look over your shoulder, but you do anyway. You already know it’s Kenjaku. He’s in the water with you, unfortunately shirtless. His long hair tied up in a messy bun at the back of his head, revealing the horrifying stitches across his forehead.

Mahito surfaces a few feet away with a petulant, childish pout on his face. 

"Whatever," he whines, sounding bored. "She's not very fun anyway. All she does is scream and try to get away." 

With a final, dismissive splash, his lower body contorts and elongates, scales shimmering into existence as he transforms into a mermaid. He gives a flick of his new tail and swims off towards the deeper water.

And then you're alone. You’re waist deep in the turquoise ocean, being held in the arms of the man who kidnapped you. He’s warm, and solid, and you don’t like this one bit.

Kenjaku eventually lets you go, and with a detached, almost gentlemanly courtesy, he helps you wade back to the shore. By the time you reach your lounge chair, a large, fluffy towel is already lying on it, courtesy of Uraume. You snatch it up, wrapping it tightly around your body, and sink into the chair.

Kenjaku retrieves his own towel from his chair, draping it casually around his shoulders. He looks at you with an infuriatingly calm smile on his face.

"Don't mind Mahito," he says conversationally. "He's still just an infant, really. All impulse and curiosity. He doesn't understand the concept of personal boundaries."

You don't say anything to that. You just glare out at the ocean, where the mermaid version of Mahito is now happily splashing in the distance. Kenjaku just laughs softly at your silent, angry reaction.

You hate it. You hate him. But as long as Kenjaku is here, Mahito stays away. And right now, as much as it makes your skin crawl, that feels like the lesser of two evils. You pull the towel tighter around yourself.

–

The sun beats down as usual on the perfect white sand. The water laps gently at the shore, a sound that should be peaceful but only serves to emphasize the unnerving silence of your prison. You sit near the water's edge, letting the warm foam wash over your bare feet, staring out at the endless, empty horizon.

Your mind, however, isn't here. It's stuck in a loop, replaying the last few seconds you had with Satoru.

I’m sorry, I have to go back. There’s going to be a lot of damage control. Stay here and keep the doors locked.

The words echo in your head, over and over. You pick them apart, searching for a nuance, a hidden meaning that wasn't there. Was his voice tight with worry for you specifically? Or just the general stress of the situation and the dead managers? Did he hesitate before he vanished? Did he look back? 

You try to conjure the image, but it's a blur, lost in the haze of your own adrenaline at the time.

He told you to stay. He told you to lock the doors. You had one job and you failed and then you were gone. Snatched right out of the penthouse he’d kept you in, the one place you were supposed to be safe.

You dig your fingers into the damp sand. Does he know? Does he know you were taken? Or did he come back to an empty apartment, the door unlocked, and think you'd just… left? That you got scared and ran away? 

The thought is like a twisting blade of guilt. He trusted you. He finally, truly trusted you, and now he might think you’ve abandoned him.

You wish you could have said something, anything, even if it was just his name.

Splash.

You look up. Dagon's head has broken the surface a little way out, his unblinking eyes fixed on you. He just floats there, a silent observer. He offers no answers, no comfort, just the unsettling presence of another being who exists outside the realm of human understanding. 

And the silence stretches on, punctuated only by the gentle sigh of the waves.

Chapter Text

Life in paradise is a masterclass in cognitive dissonance. The sun is always warm, the water is always a perfect turquoise, and the food is always delicious. And you are always a prisoner.

The silence is the loudest thing on the beach. 

It presses in on you, thick and heavy, broken only by the gentle, rhythmic lap of the waves and the occasional cry of an unseen tropical bird. You've lost track of how many days you've been here, lost in this beautiful, empty prison.

Even if you ignored Uraume, as you were prone to do, you haven't been entirely alone as of late. Dagon has taken to spending more time out of the ocean. He'll emerge silently, dripping seawater onto the pristine sand, and just… settle. A few meters away from your lounge chair, he’ll just sit there, unmoving for hours.

He doesn't talk, not really. Sometimes he makes noises, soft, wet, gurgling sounds like "Bwoo-hoo?" that seem inquisitive but offer no real communication. Mostly, he's just there. A silent, weirdly calming presence.

Today, the silence feels particularly suffocating. 

The weight of your unspoken fears and the endless loop of worry about Satoru is becoming unbearable. Driven by a desperate need to hear a voice, even if it's just your own echoing back at you, you turn towards the silent red lump on the sand.

"Can you even talk?" you ask, the words feeling rusty in your throat.

Dagon just blinks his eyes, slowly, out of sync. No response.

You try again, a little louder this time, the futility of the exercise making your voice shake slightly. "Do you know what's happening out there? In the real world?" You gesture vaguely towards the impossibly blue sky.

He tilts his head slightly, a small, curious gesture. Maybe a soft, wet clicking sound emanates from somewhere within him. Still no answer.

A wave of helpless frustration washes over you. You hug your knees tighter to your chest. "Is he looking for me?" you whisper, the question raw and vulnerable, addressed more to the empty air than to the creature beside you. "Does he even know why I'm gone?"

Dagon makes another soft, gurgling sound. "Bwoo-hoo?"

It's useless, like talking to a wall. A strange, slightly slimy, cuttlefish-shaped wall. His silence isn't hostile or anything, it’s just… weird. It offers no comfort and no answers. 

It leaves you feeling smaller and more alone than ever in the vast, beautiful emptiness of your prison.

–

Kenjaku, like Satoru, is a bit of a ghost. He would disappear for days, sometimes a full week at a time, leaving you to the silent company of Uraume and Dagon. Mahito, thankfully, had decided you were too boring to play with after his last visit and has yet to return. The quiet is a relief, but you spend most of your time waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It’s a full week after your encounter with Mahito. You're sitting on your lounge chair, staring out at the horizon, when Kenjaku appears, walking out from the line of palm trees as if he’s just returning from a casual stroll. He's back in his tourist attire, with his tropical shirt unbuttoned and his hair pulled up in a messy bun.

He doesn't greet you. He just pulls up the chair next to yours and sits.

"You look well," he eventually says. "The sea air agrees with you." He smiles, a slow, knowing expression. "It seems Satoru is terribly worried. A missing person always does cause quite a stir."

You stay silent, your gaze fixed on the ocean. You refuse to give him a reaction.

"Still so quiet," he muses, undeterred. "Let's try a more direct approach, shall we? You’re aware of my plans in Shibuya to some extent. I’m sure it’ll prove to be a fine choice for a stage. Tell me, what do you think of my opening move? I'm always open to constructive criticism."

So the big event takes place in Shibuya Station. That’s good to know

"No? Nothing?" he asks. His voice is still light, but with an underlying edge of impatience. "What about Itadori Yuuji, then? What's the nature of his pact with Sukuna? I'd love to know the fine print."

You don't even look at him. You just continue to stare at the horizon, your jaw tight.

The smile drops from his face. "You're being very rude," he says, his voice flat and devoid of its earlier amusement. "I've provided you with food, shelter, and a beautiful view. And this is how you repay my hospitality? By refusing to engage in simple conversation?"

He reaches into folded robes under his chair and produces an awfully familiar small cube, placing it on the edge of the chair with a sharp click. The eyes on its fleshy surface are all open and moving and you can feel them watching you.

"I have been very patient," he says, his voice now a low, dangerous threat. "Satoru is sentimental. He sees you as a person. I, however, am a pragmatist. To me, you are a tool. And tools that do not perform their function are to be fixed."

But you barely hear what he’s saying. You can only watch the cube with wide eyes.

It’s the box from your nightmares, the weapon that succeeds where every other curse and sorcerer has failed. It’s the end of Gojo Satoru.

You try to school your face, but it’s too late. Kenjaku has already seen it. His gaze, which had been cold and threatening, changes when he sees the flicker of recognition in your eyes.

His mood lightens instantly.

A slow, deeply satisfied smile spreads across his face. "Ah," he says with a soft, appreciative hum. "I had a feeling you'd recognize this."

He picks up the cube, turning it over in his hand as if admiring a precious gem. 

"You're a wonderfully expressive person, did you know that? Even when you're trying so hard to not give anything away." He looks at you and you hate the glint in his fox-like eyes. "That single look tells me more than an hour of conversation ever could." He leans forward, his voice now a low purr. "So tell me, little oracle. Does it work? Does my plan succeed?"

You flinch. The image of Satoru, trapped and helpless, flashes in your mind. You meet his gaze and try to force a steady look onto your face. "No," you say. "It fails. Everything you do fails. You can’t trap him, and he kills you. No matter what you do, you lose."

Kenjaku just laughs and you can tell he doesn’t believe you for a second. "Such fire," he says, shaking his head. "So loyal. Satoru would be touched."

He stands up. "Well, as much as I'm enjoying our chat, your time in this lovely little resort is soon coming to an end." He looks out at the ocean. "The 31st is fast approaching, and Dagon is needed for the upcoming battle, so I'm afraid I have to move you to a new location."

The 31st? The words echo in your mind. October 31st. It feels significant. It has to be the date. The planned date for Shibuya.

Is it October already? You try to count the days, the weeks. How long have you been here? The Goodwill Event was in September, so a month? More? The passage of time in this prison has been meaningless.

Kenjaku leaves shortly after, disappearing back through the weird door. As the hours pass, you sit there, wrapping your arms around yourself. 

Your thoughts drift again to Satoru. 

As you’ve been doing a lot these days, you think about your last real interaction in the aftermath of the Goodwill Event. What did he think when he returned to the penthouse and found you gone? He probably returned to the penthouse after a long, exhausting day, expecting to find you asleep on the sofa or waiting in the kitchen.

You didn’t even get a real goodbye. It was a rushed departure after the chaos of the Goodwill Event. There was no gentle touch, no soft kiss. Just a hurried explanation and then he was gone.

You clutch onto your desperate hope. 

You hope he found that last note you left him. You hope that, combined with everything else you've told him that you’ve given him enough. Enough of a warning for him to survive what you now know is coming for him on October 31st.

You stare out onto the horizon of your beautiful prison, and you hope. It’s the only thing you have left to do.

–

Days pass and nothing changes and nobody comes to save you.

–

Going by your meal schedule, you think it might have been around four days since you saw the cube.

Kenjaku is back. He’s lounging in the chair next to yours, dressed in his ridiculous tropical shirt and swim trunks, sipping on a coconut with a tiny paper umbrella in it that Uraume must have procured for him. 

Two chairs over, Mahito is sitting, happily sipping his own colorful, umbrella-topped drink, humming to himself. He keeps glancing over at you, his mismatched eyes sparkling with that look of playful curiosity. You’re only tolerating Kenjaku's presence because you’re pretty sure he's the only thing keeping Mahito in check.

Kenjaku seems to be in a chatty mood, which is in and of itself a form of psychological torture.

"The sun here is lovely, isn't it?" he muses, staring out at the perfect, cloudless sky. "So bright and predictable."

You stay silent, your gaze fixed on the endless ocean, your knuckles white on the armrests. You can feel Mahito watching you.

"Still so quiet," Kenjaku muses, undeterred. "This future sight of yours. Is it inherited? A family trait? Or did it manifest suddenly, perhaps during a moment of high stress in your childhood?"

You refuse to give him anything.

"No? Hmm," he hums. "What about the scope? Do you just get... vague feelings? Or are they clear, open visions? Like watching a film play out in your mind?"

His words are so dangerously close to the truth that you flinch. Over on his chair, Mahito notices. "Ooh, I bet it's like a movie!" he chirps. "A really sad one! Can you see how I die? I bet it's super cool, like in a giant explosion or something!"

You look over at Mahito, at his bright, childish, expectant face. A surge of pure, cold spite cuts through your fear. You give him a flat, mean, teasing smile. "Oh, you? You don't get to die. You get eaten."

Mahito’s smile falters. He physically droops, his whole body slumping in his chair. "Whaaaaaat?" he whines, his voice a disappointed wail. "Eaten? By who? That makes no sense! I'm way too strong to get eaten!"

"By him," you say, jerking your chin towards Kenjaku, who is watching your exchange with a look of detached amusement. You then turn your head to look the evil brain right in the eyes and sneer. "It's actually pretty gross, to be honest."

"Impudent child!" a voice snaps from the shadow of the trees. Uraume takes a single, menacing step forward, their dark pink eyes flashing with cold rage.

"No, no, Uraume. It's quite alright."

Kenjaku raises a single, lazy hand, silencing them instantly. He turns back to you, and the patronizing smile is still there, completely untroubled by your outburst. "She can be as spirited as she likes," he says, as if you're not even there. "It doesn't matter."

He leans in a little towards you then, his voice dropping down to a purr. "You see, your immediate cooperation was always just a potential bonus. Your real value was as an unknown variable on Satoru’s side of the board."

He gestures with his coconut to the endless, beautiful prison around you. "And now, you're not. Having you here, safely out of the way, is enough. You're no longer on the board." He takes another long, slow sip of his drink. "So please, refuse to converse. Glare all you want. Spin whatever fanciful tales you like. It changes absolutely nothing. I’ll have plenty of time to break you in after Shibuya."

He leans back in his chair, like he’s without a single care in the world, and closes his eyes to enjoy the sun.

You’re left there, your snarky jab feeling pathetic and useless. The conversation leaves you feeling sick to your stomach. He's not mad. He's not even frustrated. It’s like he didn't even care that you just spoiled the fate of one of his primary allies. 

He's so confident in his own plan, in his own victory, that he finds your knowledge nothing more than an amusing, childish outburst. 

You're not even a threat to him and he knows it.

You look up at the sky.

Please, Satoru. For once in your life, don’t be cocky. Don’t be sentimental. Don't look at his face or listen to his voice. Whatever you do, don't fall for his tricks.

–

The air in paradise is different today.

It’s October 31st. You know this because Uraume told you this morning. The date is a cold stone in the pit of your stomach.

They appear at your side now, not with a tray of food, but with a small duffel bag. Inside, you see the neatly folded tropical clothes you’ve been living in for the past month. Uraume wordlessly hands you a new outfit: a warm jacket, a plain long-sleeved shirt, dark jeans, and sturdy boots. 

The message is clear. Vacation time is over.

As you change behind the flimsy privacy screen, they begin to emerge from the line of palm trees. Hanami and Jogo. Dagon hops out of the water. Mahito is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with glee. And finally, Kenjaku, looking as calm and serene as ever.

He gathers them in a small semi-circle at the edge of the sand.

"Tonight," Kenjaku begins, his voice carrying across the beach, "is the culmination of a thousand years of planning. We do not just capture a man. We shatter an era. This will be the catalyst for a new age."

Mahito claps his hands together, his mismatched eyes sparkling. "And we get to play with so many new souls! All those humans in Shibuya… their shapes are going to be so much fun to change! I can’t wait to see what they can become!"

Kenjaku’s smile widens, placing a hand on Mahito’s shoulder. "Exactly. A grand experiment on a scale never before seen. The beginning of the true age of curses."

It’s so weird to witness. It feels a bit like a pep rally for the apocalypse, and Kenjaku and Mahito keep amping each other up for the main event. Jogo just grumbles impatiently while the others choose to remain quiet.

They begin walking towards the door. Kenjaku pauses at the threshold, turning to give you one last deeply unsettling smile. Then he and the four special-grade curses step through the threshold.

The moment Dagon is gone, the world fractures.

The serene beach setting all dissolves like a mirage, shimmering and breaking apart like a film melting in a projector. In a disorienting flash, you're back. The warmth is gone, replaced by a biting cold. You’re standing in the middle of the cold, damp, and grimy sewer tunnel.

Uraume is beside you, their expression as cold and impassive as ever. You look down the dark tunnel and watch the five of them walk away. Their silhouettes look like some kind of evil boy band on their way to a gig. They don't look back.

You pull the jacket Uraume gave you tighter around yourself, a shiver running through you. You're thankful for the practical, warm clothes, but you would die before you ever admitted that to the person beside you.

You glance over at Uraume. They are standing perfectly still, like a statue carved from ice and disdain. They are wearing their usual traditional, layered robes, but you wonder if they feel the cold at all. With a personality that already operates at absolute zero, maybe they don't even notice.

You stand there for a full minute. You have no idea what the plan is now. You are just a package, waiting to be delivered to your next prison.

Finally, Uraume breaks the silence.

"Your new accommodations are ready," they say, their dark pink eyes finally turning to you, flat and devoid of any emotion. "We are leaving."

Then Uraume turns and starts walking down the dark tunnel. There’s a clear, unspoken command for you to follow. You don't even know where you are, just that you're in a sewer, hopefully still somewhere under Tokyo.

You know you stand zero chance of physically overpowering them. Uraume moves with a grace that speaks of power, ignoring the fact you already know they’re strong enough to be Sukuna’s second in command.

Your only weapon is your mind, the patchy knowledge that has gotten you into and out of so much trouble already. You have to try something.

So you decide to play the role Kenjaku assigned you.

"You know I'm an oracle, right?" you start, your voice steady, echoing slightly in the damp tunnel.

Uraume doesn't stop walking and doesn't even turn their head. They give no indication they've heard you at all.

You press on, walking a few steps behind them. "Kenjaku believes it. That's why he took me in the first place. He knows I can see the future." You let that hang in the air for a moment. "That's why he's making sure you’re busy right now."

That makes them pause. They stop and turn slowly, their eyes narrowing. "Explain," they command, their voice as cold as ice.

Ok, you have their attention. Now for the real gambit. "This whole thing, this 'new accommodation' thing is just a diversion. He's sending you away on a pointless errand to keep you away from Shibuya. He doesn't want you there when it all goes down."

A flicker of something, annoyance?, crosses their cold features. "My orders are my own concern."

"Are they?" you counter, taking a bold step closer. "Or are they his? Kenjaku knows what's going to happen tonight, and he knows that Sukuna’s gonna be a part of it. And he is making sure that you," you say, pointing a trembling finger at them, "are kept as far away from Sukuna as possible."

And the name hits its mark. Uraume goes still for just a second before taking their next stride. Their attention is now fully on you and the air seems to grow colder.

"I do not care for Kenjaku or his convoluted plans," they hiss. "My loyalty is to Sukuna-sama, and him alone."

A slow, calculating look crosses their face. 

You can see the gears turning. They realize the truth in your words. Letting you go and letting you potentially interfere with Kenjaku's meticulously crafted plan… would be a problem for Kenjaku. And anything that hinders Kenjaku is, by default, a potential benefit to Sukuna.

Uraume makes a decision and stops walking.

"It would be… disadvantageous… to give Kenjaku more of a leg up than he already has," they state emotionlessly. They turn to look at you. "Go. Make yourself sparse. Do not let me see you again."

And with that, Uraume turns and simply vanishes, leaving you alone in the darkness.

You’re free.

You wait for a second, then another, standing in the sewer. You’re waiting for Uraume to reappear, for Mahito to jump out of a side tunnel, for someone to yell "Surprise!" But the punchline never comes. The only sound is the steady drip... drip... drip... of water.

Oh my god, you can’t believe that actually worked.

You let go of the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You’re actually, truly alone for the first time in what feels like ages. Alone and completely lost. You have no phone, no wallet, no idea where in the sprawling metropolis of Tokyo you are. Or if you’re even still in Tokyo at all. You have nothing but the clothes on your back and the knowledge of the coming apocalypse.

But you could just... leave.

The thought is almost intoxicating. Make yourself sparse. That's what Uraume said. That's the smart move. The sane move. Just run. Find a police station, find a hole to crawl into, and just... disappear. Let the sorcerers handle the sorcerer problems. You're a normie. You have no business being there.

But... it's today. It's the 31st.

It's all happening right now. While you're standing here, safe in the filth, Satoru is walking into a trap.

What are you supposed to do? What can you possibly do? You're just... you. If you go to Shibuya, you’re just another civilian to protect. You’re just another liability. You'll get in his way. You'll die.

But... you can't just run. You can't.

You’re the only one who knows. The only one. Satoru's probably walking in there thinking he's prepared. He's got your notes, he knows about the brain, he knows about the patchwork curse... but is it enough? Is it really enough to stop him from hesitating for that one, fatal second when he sees Geto's face? Is it enough to make him see the cube before it springs?

No. You can't just hide. You wouldn't be able to live with yourself knowing you had the chance to do something, even if it was just to be there, to scream a warning at the last possible second.

This isn't just a story anymore. It's your life. It's his life. And you are not going to be a useless, terrified captive anymore. If you're going to be in this world, you're going to fight for it, even if all you can fight with is what you know. You have to go. You have to give him the best shot he can get. Even if it kills you.

You have to try.

There’s a grimy ladder a few meters away, leading up to a grate. It’s the only way out you can see. With a surge of adrenaline, you scramble up the cold, slick metal rungs. You push against the heavy grate with all your might, your muscles straining, until it finally gives way with a loud, grating screech.

You haul yourself out, emerging into the chilly, early evening air of a quiet residential neighborhood. The sun has already begun to set, coloring the sky a deep purple. The street is lined with neat, two-story houses, and to your surprise, a group of small children dressed as tiny, adorable fruits are running down the sidewalk. They have plastic buckets full of candy in their hands. 

It’s Halloween. Of course it is.

Your eyes desperately scan the street for any clue, any sign of where you are. There. A street sign, illuminated by a nearby lamppost.

Heiwadai, Nerima Ward.

You… actually know where that is! Nerima… You’ve been under Nerima this whole damn time? Your mind races, frantically trying to pull a mental map of Tokyo’s subway system. 

Okay, think. Nerima. How do I get from Nerima to Shibuya? Without a phone. Without a map.

You start running, your boots pounding against the pavement. You don't know where you're going, just that you have to move. You need a station.

The Fukutoshin line! The thought suddenly pops into your mind. It cuts through Nerima and it goes straight to Shibuya. It should be a direct shot.

Shibuya’s not exactly close, but it’s not super far either.

You quickly find Heiwadai Station and rush down the stairs. The bright fluorescent lights are blinding, the tiled floors echoing with the distant rumble of a train. 

Step one, complete.

Step two… oh, right. The part where you pay.

You stop in your tracks, staring at the wall of fare gates. Your hands fly to your pockets. No wallet. No phone. No money. Of course not. Why would your kidnapper let you grab your wallet before kidnapping you?

How are you, an upstanding citizen of Japan, supposed to pay for your subway fare?

The answer is a simple slap of reality. You aren't.

You have to do it. You have to break the law. It almost makes you laugh. 

Your brain, still foggy from a forced month-long beach vacation from hell, weighs the options. On one hand, petty theft via fare evasion. On the other, preventing a city-wide supernatural disaster orchestrated by an evil brain parasite that will result in the sealing of the world's strongest sorcerer and the deaths of countless people.

Okay. The choice is pretty clear.

You take a second, trying to look casual, but your heart is pounding against your ribs. You scan the gates, looking for a blind spot, maybe? There isn't one. The station is crowded, but not packed. It doesn't matter. You can't wait. 

Channeling your inner anime protagonist, you take a deep, shuddering breath and sprint. It’s a desperate, clumsy run, and you hitch your leg over the gate in a less-than-graceful vault, landing with a jarring thud on the other side.

You freeze, waiting for the shouts of the station attendants or the firm hand of a policeman on your shoulder.

Nothing.

No one even seems to notice. You glance around. The station is a chaotic sea of costumes. A group of witches are laughing next to a vending machine. A man in a ridiculously detailed vampire costume is checking his phone. On a night like this, a single person hopping a turnstile is just another drop in the ocean of Halloween weirdness.

Relief washes over you. 

Okay. Next step. 

You look up at the signs, your mind racing to remember the subway map. Heiwadai. Two lines. You scan the colors, your eyes landing on the familiar brown of the Fukutoshin line. You just need to make sure you’re going in the right direction. You find the platform for trains bound for Shibuya and practically fly down the escalator.

The platform is packed. It’s a river of costumed adults, all laughing and talking, all clearly heading to the same place you are. The annual unofficial Halloween street party in Shibuya.

And that’s when it hits you.

If all these people are still trying to get to Shibuya for the party… that means the party hasn’t been replaced by a city-wide supernatural disaster yet. The curtain hasn't dropped. It hasn't started. You still have time.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. But the relief is immediately replaced by a fresh wave of urgency. You pace back and forth on the yellow line, tapping your foot, clenching and unclenching your fists. 

Why can't it just be here already?

Finally, you hear it. The roar of the train approaching. It pulls into the station, and the entire platform seems to surge forward as soon as the doors slide open. You're swept up in the tide of bodies, a chaotic crush of people that pushes you deep into the crowded car. You manage to grab a strap hanging from the ceiling, your knuckles white as you grip it.

The doors slide shut with a soft hiss, sealing you in with the pulsing, vibrant energy of the crowd. The train lurches forward, and you try to prepare yourself for what you know will be the longest thirty-two minutes of your life.

Chapter Text

The train is a vibrant tube of humanity. 

The air is thick with the scent of cheap hairspray, sugar, and the low-level hum of a hundred different conversations. A guy dressed as a surprisingly detailed zombie is pressed against your back, and a girl with glittery devil horns keeps accidentally poking you in the arm. It’s loud, it’s hot, and it’s the most alive you’ve felt in a month.

The automated voice announces your passage through Harajuku station, and a fresh wave of excitement ripples through the car. “Next stop, Shibuya!” someone shouts, and a cheer goes up. You can feel the anticipation. It's like a palpable, thrumming energy. You’re so close you can almost feel it.

Then, with a long, deafening screech of metal on metal, the train lurches to a violent halt.

The sudden stop sends a wave of bodies surging forward. You’re thrown against the person in front of you, a quiet salaryman in a surprisingly well-made Jack Sparrow costume. The main lights in the car flicker and die, plunging you into darkness. A moment later, the dim, eerie glow of the emergency lights kicks on, casting long, distorted shadows across the train car.

The festive mood evaporates instantly, replaced by a wave of confusion and annoyance.

"What the hell?" the devil-horned girl next to you says, her voice a mixture of surprise and irritation. "Did we hit something?"

"Probably just a signal delay," Jack Sparrow says, adjusting his tricorn hat. "Happens all the time. We'll be moving in a minute."

But a minute passes. Then five. Then ten. Then twenty. The initial annoyance dissolves into a buzz of anxiety. People start sitting on the floor, a collective sigh rippling through the car. You slide down a pole you had been leaning against and join them.

You know, with a sickening certainty, that this isn’t a signal delay. You have to be inside the perimeter, but there’s no way to know if the curtain’s fallen yet or not. You see the people around you try to use their phones, but there's just sometimes no service this deep in the tunnel in between stations.

Jack Sparrow lets out a long-suffering sigh and adjusts his fake beard. "Well, this is one way to get marooned, eh?" he says to you, his voice lacking the pirate's swagger and sounding more like a tired accountant.

You manage a small, tight smile. "Yeah, something like that."

"Ah, but don't worry," he says, trying to be more reassuring. "We'll be moving soon. Worst case, we have to walk the tracks to Shibuya. It would be an adventure, right? A tale to tell."

"I guess," you say, your voice barely a whisper. The thought of walking down the dark, monster-filled tracks makes your blood run cold.

He seems to notice your subdued mood and gestures at your clothes. "Not a big fan of the holiday?"

"Not usually," you admit.

He lets out a short laugh. "Me neither, to be honest. I'm usually buried in paperwork this time of night." He smooths a hand over his elaborate costume jacket. "But my wife… she said I've been working so hard lately, I deserved a night off." He gestures to himself with a flourish that is pure Jack Sparrow, even if his voice isn't. "She even rented the costume. Said I had to 'let my inner pirate out' or something."

You look at him, at this kind, normal man with his tired eyes and his loving wife who just wanted him to have a little fun. A pang of sadness hits you.

"That's... really nice of her," you say, the words feeling heavy and inadequate.

"She's the best," he says with a genuine, fond smile. "Well, hopefully, my night off doesn't involve spending the whole night in a tunnel. I was promised rum!"

You just hum in response.

Talking to him is too depressing. It’s like making friendly conversation with a man on death row. He has a wife waiting for him and he has no idea that he’s probably just a background character walking into a massacre.

You look around the dimly lit train car. All of them. The laughing witches, the vampire still trying to make his phone work, the group of friends dressed as superheroes. They are all just cattle being led to the slaughter, completely, blissfully unaware. And you’re the only one on this whole damn train who knows.

The only one.

The weight of the secret is like a physical weight. What are you supposed to do? Stand up and start screaming about curses and curtains? There is nothing you can do. You are utterly, completely useless.

Your foresight, your memories all feel like a bit of a cruel joke right about now. They’re less like a weapon and more like a ticket to a private screening of the apocalypse.

The cheerful, drunken chatter of the costumed crowd no longer sounds like a party. It sounds like the final, oblivious moments of a world that is about to end.

And then you hear a single, high-pitched shriek.

It cuts through the low, cheerful chatter of the passengers. For a moment, everyone freezes. The witches stop laughing. The vampire looks up from his phone.

"What was that?" the devil-horned girl, her voice suddenly small.

Then another scream joins the first, and another, and another. It’s coming from the cars further up the train. It’s not a fun, party scream, but a blood-curdling sound of terror and pain. The wave of screaming gets closer, louder, a wave of something washing down the length of the train.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stops.

The silence that follows is a thousand times more terrifying than the noise. The air in the car is thick with a heavy sense of waiting. No one is talking. No one is moving. The only sound you can hear is the frantic, panicked beat of your own heart.

Hisss.

The connecting door to your train car slides open.

For a split second, there is nothing. Then the screaming starts again, but this time, it’s not a distant echo. It’s right here, in your car.

Pandemonium erupts.

People jump to their feet, a tidal wave of panic and confusion. There’s a desperate surge towards the back of the car, a frantic attempt to press themselves away from whatever is coming through the door. You’re swept up in it, your feet stumbling as you’re pushed backward.

And then you see them.

They’re not curses in the traditional sense. They’re not the monstrous shapes you’ve seen in your memories. They’re still people, but their bodies have been twisted, their limbs elongated into grotesque, fleshy weapons, their faces melted into permanent, silent screams. They are malformed, lurching puppets made of meat, and they are moving up through the car.

Your heart doesn't just drop, it plummets. A white-hot spike of adrenaline shoots through you, so intense it makes you feel like you're going to vomit.

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck!

The thought is a silent, frantic scream in your mind. There is nowhere to go. You are trapped in a metal tube with monsters, a can of sardines being opened directly into the depths of hell.

This is it. This is how you die.

The chaos is a thick, screaming wall of sound and motion. 

You’re pressed against the side of the train car, the terrified Jack Sparrow trying to shield you from the lurching advance of a creature that used to be a woman. There is nowhere to run.

And then, through the writhing mass of creatures, he appears.

A familiar, stitched-up face with a casual, cheerful smile. 

Mahito moves with a light, skipping step, patting one of the transfigured humans on its newly formed, misshapen head as he passes. His mismatched eyes scan the car, a child looking for a new toy in a room full of them. And then they land on you.

His smile widens. He walks right up to you, completely ignoring the screaming, panicked bodies around him.

"What the fuck!" you shriek and try to scramble back into the side of the car when his face suddenly appears centimeters from yours.

He just tilts his head, his expression one of genuine, childlike confusion. 

"Huh? What are you doing here? This is a private party." He puts a finger to his chin, tapping it thoughtfully. "Kenny said you're totally off-limits. Hands off the merchandise, he said. No touching, no changing, no nothing."

He looks you up and down, a new mischievous glint in his eyes. "But that was back in the domain," he muses. "Am I still not allowed to do anything?”

Oh god. Oh god, he's thinking about it. Don't think. Just obey. Please, for once in your miserable existence, just do what you're told. 

He’s looking at you with that same curious expression he probably had right before he made this… this thing next to you, right before he blows Nanami’s torso apart later tonight. He’s looking at you and wondering. Wondering what shape your soul is, wondering if he can touch it. 

Satoru isn't here. Kenjaku isn't here. It's just you and him and a train car full of his screaming, dying toys. You’re trapped, and the only thing keeping his cold, dead hands off you is a second-hand order from a boss he probably doesn't even respect, and he is re-evaluating the terms.

Mahito then lets out a huge, theatrical sigh with his cheeks puffed out. "What a shame. And I'm having so much fun, too!" He gestures around the car, at the lurching, malformed bodies of his victims. "Isn't this great? I think this one's my favorite," he says, pointing to a creature with way too many legs skittering across the ceiling. "He's got so much potential!"

He looks back at you, his grin returning, reaching all the way up to his mismatched eyes. "But rules are rules, I guess! Kenny said I'm not allowed to hurt you. But he didn't say I couldn't get a little creative…"

Before you can react, he reaches past you. His cold, pale hand gently touches the shoulder of the man in the Jack Sparrow costume who’d been trying to shield you just a moment before.

"Don't worry," Mahito chirps, looking the man directly in his unseeing eyes. "This won't hurt a bit!"

The man’s body convulses. His screams, and what had started as a terrified shriek melts and distorts into a wet, fleshy, gurgling sound that will haunt your nightmares for the rest of your life. His limbs contort, his torso elongates, his skin and bones reshaping themselves with a series of sickening, wet cracks and pops.

The transfiguration is over in a second. Where a man once stood is now a living, sentient suit of fleshy armor. And it wraps itself around you.

It's not tight or painful. It’s just… heavy. It’s a deeply traumatizing cage made of the warm, still-living remains of a person. You can feel the faint, rhythmic pulse of its circulatory system against your skin. 

The horror of it is too much. A raw, ragged sob tears itself from your throat, and then another, and another, until you are just standing there, encased in the body of a man you were just talking to not that long ago, sobbing uncontrollably.

"There!" Mahito chirps, immensely pleased with his work. He pats your new, fleshy shoulder. "See? Now you're protected! And just hang tight, okay? I'm gonna program all the other transfigured humans to ignore you. You're a VIP! Isn't that nice of me?"

He gives you a final cheerful wave, as if he's just done you the biggest favor in the world. He then turns and moves on to the next car, the chorus of fresh screams following in his wake.

You're left standing there, encased in the too-warm too-fleshy armor, shoulder-to-shoulder with monsters who no longer see you. You are technically safe, you admit. But you have never been more terrified in your entire life.

Don't think about it.

That's the only rule. Don't think about the fact that this heavy, warm armor is the man who was just telling you about his wife. Don't think about the fact that his name was probably something normal like Kenji or Hiroshi. Don't think about the fact that you can feel his fucking heartbeat. If you think about it, you’ll shatter. You’ll come apart at the seams, and there will be nothing left.

So you think about Satoru.

What are you going to say to him?

What are you going to say to him, assuming you survive this. Assuming there is an ‘after this’. What's the first thing you want to say when you see him again? 

Hi, sorry I disappeared for a month, I was kidnapped by the evil brain parasite disguised as your dead best friend and held captive in a pocket dimension with a bunch of special grade curses. How was your week?

No, that's not right. You’ll have to be calm. He'll probably be a wreck, thinking you were dead. You’ll need to be the strong one. 

You'll say, I'm okay. I'm safe. 

And then you'll let him hold you, and you'll tell him everything, and he'll make a stupid joke about how they should have known better than to mess with his stuff. And then you'll laugh.

The flesh around you pulses.

Don't think about it.

You focus on the conversation running in your head. You'll tell him everything you learned. About Kenjaku's weird tourist dad disguise. About the cube. About how he thinks you're an oracle. You'll plan your next move together. 

You are a team, after all. Co-conspirators. He said so himself. You just have to get through this, and then you can go home. Home to the quiet penthouse and your stupidly expensive fish tank and the man with eyes like the sky who is probably, hopefully, still looking for you right now.

Planning a conversation for a future you have a near-zero chance of reaching is the only thing keeping you sane right now. It's a pathetic little bubble of denial, but you are clinging to it with everything you have.

Somehow, another thirty minutes pass. You can tell from a phone abandoned on the floor with an Always On display, probably from the vampire that now more resembles a weird lizard-eel thing. It’s already 9:10, and you’re already waiting for this night to finally just be over. 

And then, with a loud, jarring lurch, the train starts moving again. You feel the forward momentum, the gentle sway of the car as it picks up speed.

You have a really, really bad feeling about this.

–

The train emerges from the blackness of the tunnel into the bright, chaotic lights of Shibuya station. And through the windows, you see hell.

The platform is a warzone. 

The festive Halloween crowd has been transformed into a panicked, screaming mob, scrambling over the still bodies of the less fortunate. Corpses, some horribly mangled, others untouched but lifeless, litter the ground. A massive dent is smashed into a concrete wall above the opposite set of tracks, stained with a sickening purple. Below it, people are running for their lives in a desperate stampede.

You see everything through a strange, detached haze. Your mind is already strained to its breaking point and you can't fully process the new added layer of horror. Being encased in warm, pulsing remains has shattered something inside you. The screams from the platform sound distant, the sight of the bodies unreal. 

It’s like watching a movie, but you are wrapped in a heavy blanket that won't let you feel anything but its rhythmic pulse against your skin.

It’s all just… noise. Another scene in a story you can't escape.

You see Jogo running in a blur of motion. He isn't just killing people, he's throwing them like dolls, their bodies arcing through the air before exploding into flames.

And then you see him.

He is not the man you know. He is not the goofy, playful teacher or the quiet, sincere man who’s taken to kissing you sweetly on the sofa. He is a whirlwind of incandescent blue light, an afteraffect of motion that seems to exist everywhere at once. 

Satoru.

He moves like he’s a one-man emergency response team. You see a group of three people thrown from the platform by Jogo, and in a flicker, Satoru is there, a net of his Infinity catching them. He cradles them in the air for a moment before setting them down on the opposite tracks with a hard thud. He’s trying to save everyone. Every single goddamn person.

This isn't the graceful dance you witnessed in the alley that day during the festival. That was a performance, a demonstration of untouchable power. This is a frantic, brutal fight against the tide. 

His face, when you can catch a glimpse of it, is not the one you know. It’s a mask of crazed energy. His teeth are gritted into a terrifying grin, his eyes wide and burning with a terrifying light. He is The Strongest, pushed to his absolute limit, trying to solve an equation where every human life is a variable.

Your gaze scans the platform, past the blur of Satoru’s light, past the chaos of Jogo’s attacks. It’s a searching gaze, a part of your brain that is still connected to the story, to the plot, looking for the main players.

And then you see him.

He’s almost invisible, a quiet shadow in a world of screaming color and motion.

Kenjaku.

He’s standing behind a thick concrete pillar, completely out of Satoru’s line of sight. He paints a picture of unconcerned patience. In his hand, held casually at his side as if it’s a simple paperweight, is the cube.

He's not fighting. He’s not running. He’s just watching Satoru burn himself out, watching him try to save everyone, watching him get stretched thinner and thinner. He is a predator waiting for its prey to exhaust itself, to make a single mistake. He is waiting for the perfect moment.

Hisss.

The train doors slide open.

For a moment, there is just a wall of costumed people. Their faces are a mixture of confusion, transforming into terror as they see the forms inside the train car. 

Then, the floodgates open.

The transfigured humans pour out onto the platform. They move with an unnatural, jerky speed, a tide of misshapen flesh and screaming faces. They don't hesitate. They immediately begin attacking the nearest people. Their elongated, twisted limbs act as brutal weapons. The screaming on the platform, which had been a panicked roar, intensifies into agony.

The carnage is immediate. The scene is a blur of colors, of monsters and victims, of blood and terror. And through it all, you see a familiar face.

Mahito is elsewhere on the platform, not fighting, just… watching. He's jumping up and down on the balls of his feet, clapping his hands together with a childish joy, his eyes wide with delight.

The flesh armor doesn't force you off the train along with all the other transfigured humans. It's a cage, sure, but it seems it’s a passive one. Mahito said all of his creations were programmed not to hurt you, which means you might be able to get out of its grip. Underneath the layers of shock, the sharp instinct to survive flares to life.

With a surge of adrenaline, you begin to fight.

You claw at the warm, pulsing flesh wrapped around you, your fingers digging into the soft, yielding tissue. It’s horrifying, like you’re trying to tear your way out of a living cocoon. A raw, ragged sob escapes your throat at the thought. The armor, true to its programming, offers no resistance. You rip and tear, and with a final sickening squelch, you pull yourself free.

You stumble out of the train car and onto the platform, your body trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You are surrounded by death.

The air is thick with the smell of burnt hair and cooked meat. A person just a meter away from you suddenly erupts into a column of fire, their screams silenced in an instant. Jogo’s attacks are everywhere. The ground is slick with blood.

You’re either about to die a painful death, or you’re about to save Satoru. You’re not quite sure which yet. The two outcomes feel inextricably linked.

There is no time to think, no time to weigh the options or give in to the overwhelming feeling that is screaming at you to run, to hide, to curl up into a ball and wait for the end. Your body moves before your mind can catch up, a single, desperate purpose overriding everything else.

Satoru.

Your feet are moving. You're running, stumbling over bodies, the heat from a nearby explosion scorching your cheek.

In the middle of it all, for a single, time-stopping second, his eyes find yours.

They widen. It’s not a look of recognition, not at first. It’s a look of shock, of confusion. You were not supposed to be here.

And in that moment of stillness, you see it. 

It’s a memory of the story you once watched, a scene from an anime replaying in your mind. The crowded station. The thousands of innocent lives. The reality of unleashing his full power without committing a massacre. The solution. The elegant, insane solution.

The anime had made such a big deal out of this moment, a testament to his absolute mastery. 

Domain Expansion. 

Long enough to stun the curses and transfigured humans, but brief enough that the ordinary people would recover. It was the only way to reset the field. The only way to stop the slaughter without adding to it.

You don't hesitate. There’s no time.

In a single motion, you raise your right hand. You cross your pointer and middle fingers, the gesture an unmistakable mimicry of his own.

You lock eyes with him across the blood-soaked platform. You mouth the words, pouring every ounce of your desperate conviction into them.

"Do it."

You see the conflict in his eyes. The crazed energy of the fight is suddenly eclipsed by human fear. A fear for you. He obviously knows what his Domain does to a normal human mind. Even for a fraction of a second, the infinite, unfiltered information of the universe could very well shatter you, leaving behind an empty shell. 

He shakes his head, an almost imperceptible gesture. No. I can't.

You don't have time for his hesitation. You don't have time for his fear. You have to make him understand. You have to give him a reason to trust that this insane, suicidal plan will work.

You offer him a small smile but it doesn't quite reach your eyes the way you want it to.

"It’s okay, I have plot armor."

And you really, really hope that you do. The words are nothing more than a joke, but seeing how this fight goes in canon, there might be a sliver of truth to them.

You don't have time to let him process it. His domain could wipe your mind clean in the next few seconds. Before you forget, before you are rendered unconscious or worse, you have one last piece of information to give him.

You subtly jerk your head in the direction of the pillar where Kenjaku is hiding in wait. Satoru's eyes follow your gesture for a fraction of a second. You lock gazes with him one last time, and you mouth the three words that will seal the deal.

"Evil parasite brain."

He understands.

There’s a flurry of motion as he dodges a whip-like appendage from a transfigured human. His head snaps back to you, and he gives a sharp nod. The conflict is gone from his eyes, replaced by resolve.

You can't see his hands, but you see his mouth form the words silently in the middle of the roaring chaos.

"Domain Expansion: Infinite Void."

There is a sudden brilliant, blinding flash of white light that consumes everything. The sounds, the screams, the explosions, all vanish in an instant.

And then, everything goes black.

Chapter Text

Antiseptic.

That’s the first thing. A sharp, clean smell that scrapes the inside of your nose.

A beep. Steady. Beep… beep… beep… A quiet, electronic heartbeat that is not your own.

Sheets. Crisp and cool against skin that doesn’t quite feel like yours.

Your eyes blink open. White. Just… white. A ceiling? A cloud? It’s all the same from here. It’s a blurry, meaningless expanse.

A kind face floats into view, blurry at the edges like a watercolor painting. It’s a woman in a pale blue uniform. A nurse. She’s saying something, her voice a soft, gentle murmur.

"…good to see your eyes open. You’ve been sleeping for a very long time."

You try to speak, but your throat feels like a desert and your tongue is a clumsy, foreign object in your mouth.

"It's January," she says, her voice impossibly gentle as she dabs a cool, wet cloth on your dry lips. "You’ve been with us for three months."

Three months? That’s a long nap. A very long, boring nap. Did you miss my shift at the convenience store? Probably. They’re going to be so mad. Your fish… Did anyone feed your fish?

The nurse’s words remind you of a dream you’ve been having. There were people. Weren’t there? At the edge of the long, long nap. Their faces are gone, their names are smoke, but the colors… you remember the colors.

It was like being visited by a rainbow. A sad, worried rainbow.

There was pink. A bright, cheerful splash of cotton candy pink, his face always crumpled in a look of earnest concern.

There was black. Spiky black, like a sea urchin. He never said much. He just stood there, a silent shadow in the corner of the room.

And sometimes, there was yellow. A tall yellow man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He looked familiar, but you couldn't place him.

They’d come and go, these colors, their voices a low, worried murmur, a river of sound you floated on but couldn’t understand.

The nurse is still talking, but you're not really listening. You just nod. Three months. A long nap. And a visit from a rainbow. It doesn't make any sense.

But then again, nothing has made sense for a very long time.

–

The fog in your mind begins to recede over the next day or two, like a slow tide pulling away from the shore. The world sharpens. The white of the ceiling is just a ceiling. The beeping is a heart monitor. The dream of the sad, worried rainbow feels more and more like a collection of visitors you couldn't quite see.

You're sitting up in bed, staring out the window at a gray, overcast January sky, when the nurse comes in. She’s the same one as always. Her face is kind and her movements are gentle.

"It's good to see you looking so alert," she says, checking the readings on the monitor beside your bed.

"My fish," you say, the words a little rough, your throat still scratchy. "I have three goldfish. A big fish tank."

The nurse gives you a warm, reassuring smile. "Your friend with the white hair took care of them. He brought them here, actually. He said you might worry." She gestures to the corner of the room, and for the first time, you see it. Your aquarium. It’s right there, with the light on and the filter humming. Kingyo-chan and her friends are swimming in lazy circles.

"My… friend?" you ask, the word feeling foreign.

"He's been here every day," the nurse says, her voice soft. "From morning until night. Your other friends, the students, they visit when they can, but he never leaves for long." She finishes her checks and gives you a knowing smile. "He’s very dedicated."

As if summoned by her words, the door to your room slides open.

It’s Satoru.

He’s not quite the man you remember. His playful energy is a bit lacking and he’s dressed in a simple black sweater and jeans, his sunglasses perched on his nose. He looks tired, and the dark circles you can see under his eyes are more pronounced than you’ve ever seen them. You realize then that he’s probably been holding a vigil for three solid months.

The nurse gives a small, respectful bow. "I'll leave you two," she says as she slips quietly out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Satoru doesn't say anything. He just walks over and pulls the visitor's chair up close to your bed. He sits down, his cerulean eyes fixed on you through the sunglasses, full of an emotion you can't decipher. 

He just… looks at you.

Finally, he lets out a long, shuddering breath. The tension that he’s been holding for the past three months starts to leave him. He slumps forward in his chair, resting his forehead on his folded arms on the edge of your hospital bed.

"Thank god," he whispers. His voice is muffled by his sleeve. "You're awake."

You can see his shoulders continue to hitch. It’s an almost imperceptible tremor that he’s trying and failing to suppress.

Every muscle in your own body feels like it's been run through a meat grinder. You’re filled with dull, heavy aches and pains that make even the smallest movement feel like a monumental effort. But you ignore it. You ignore the protest of your own tired body and slowly stretch out your arm. Your hand comes to rest gently on top of his head, your fingers sinking into the soft, white strands of his hair. It’s just as soft as you remember.

His breath hitches at the contact, a sharp intake of air. His head shoots up, his blue eyes wide and impossibly bright, shining with emotion.

And then he smiles.

It’s brilliant and blinding and full of soul-deep relief. It transforms his exhausted face, chasing away the shadows and the exhaustion, and for a moment, he is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

"Thank god," he says again, his voice clear and full of dizzying joy. "You're finally awake."

Your hand, feeling heavy and clumsy, falls from his hair to his cheek. He immediately covers your hand with his own, holding it there, his skin warm against yours. He leans into your touch, his bright eyes never leaving your face.

"What happened?" you finally manage to ask, your voice a scratchy whisper. "Shibuya… Did it…?"

He takes a deep, steadying breath. "It happened," he says, and his voice is a strange mix of joy and bone-deep weariness. "But it was different. Everything was different because of you."

He tells you everything then, the words starting to tumble out.

“Clearly he didn’t get me like he wanted," he says, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, his eyes shining. "Knowing where Suguru’s body was changed everything. He was waiting for me to get tired, just like you said, but I knew where he was before he even made his move. You have no idea what a difference you made."

You listen, a wave of relief washing over you. It worked. You can’t believe it actually worked. You changed the story and the thought alone makes you want to cry.

"I got to him before he could even activate the cube," Satoru says in a tone that makes you shiver. "And this time," he says, his blue eyes focusing on your face, "this time, I personally ensured Suguru’s body and the brain were completely destroyed. There's nothing left."

His words hang in the air.

A sense of relief washes over you, so potent it almost makes you dizzy. "Good," you whisper.

Satoru lets out a little laugh at that. "Good is one word for it," he says, a flicker of his old, mischievous self returning. "Shoko was pissed, of course. Threw a fit when she found out. Said I'd deprived her of the 'greatest research opportunity of the century'. She really wanted to get her hands on that brain before I turned it all to dust."

Satoru shakes his head, a look of fond exasperation on his face. He then looks back at you. "And the other one," he says. "The patchwork curse. I got him, too, just like you told me to. He won't be hurting anyone ever again."

You let out a long, shuddering breath you didn't realize you’d been holding. 

The image of Nanami’s death finally begins to lose its sharp, painful edges. The thought of never needing to see Mahito’s stitched-up, smiling face ever again… They’re just ghosts, now. You never have to see any of them ever again. 

"And the womb things...?" you ask carefully, the image of the pale, pigtailed man flashing in your mind.

Satoru’s expression flickers with something complicated, before he just barks out a short laugh. "Oh, that. Yeah, that was a whole thing. Turns out his name’s Choso, and, get this, he thinks he's Yuuji's older brother." He sees the look of confusion on your face and just waves a dismissive hand. "Don't ask. It's a long, weird, and honestly kind of gross story involving the evil brain. Point is, he's chill now. Switched sides and everything! He's stuck to Yuuji like glue."

You don’t know what to think of that last tidbit of information, but you do know that you’re finally safe. It’s over.

You see it in his eyes. The victory is real, but the risk of it all is just now catching up to him. He looks at you, and the last of his cheerfulness just… dissolves.

He honestly looks like he’s a second away from crying.

"I wasn't sure," he whispers in a raw, unsteady voice. "When you… when you told me to do it. I wasn't sure if your mind would survive."

The confession hangs in the air. "Even for just point-two seconds," he continues, his gaze dropping to your hand, still held in his, "the information overload for a normal person… it could have broken your mind, and I don’t know what I would’ve done if…”

He lets out a shaky breath, the sound of a man who has been holding himself together for far too long. "These last three months of waiting for you to wake up have been agony."

You can only imagine the agonizingly slow process of everybody affected by the domain waking up, one by one, over the weeks.

"Every time a nurse told me someone else was awake, I had this stupid, hopeful thought that you'd be next," he says, his voice thick with an emotion he can't hold back anymore. "But you weren't. Day after day, more people woke up, and you just… slept." He finally looks up at you, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears. "You were one of the very last. I thought… I thought I had saved all those other civilians, but that I lost you to do it."

He looks away then, his gaze snapping up to the sterile white ceiling. It genuinely looks like he's trying, with every fiber of his being, to suck the moisture back into his eyes.

"God," he whispers, the word a raw, frustrated sound. "I told myself I wasn't gonna cry."

A soft smile touches your lips. "No, crying's good," you say, your voice still a scratchy whisper, but gentle. "It shows vulnerability, or something. I read that in a book somewhere."

You ignore the screaming protest of your unused, atrophied muscles and slowly, painstakingly, hold out both of your arms.

He looks from your outstretched arms to your face, a fresh wave of conflict in his eyes. He mumbles, "The nurse warned me not to jostle you. She said you'd be weak."

"I don't really care," you reply, your voice soft but firm. "Come on over here."

That's all it takes for him to give in. He rises from the chair and delicately, as if he's afraid you might shatter, lowers himself into your embrace. He doesn't wrap his arms around you, just lets you hold him, his tall frame folded awkwardly to meet you.

His shoulders don't hitch. He doesn't make a sound. But as he rests his head in the crook of your neck, you feel it. A single, hot, wet tear, and then another, soaking into the thin fabric of your hospital gown. 

And you just hold the strongest man in the world in your arms as he finally, finally lets himself break.

–

"You got this!" Yuuji yells from the sidelines, his voice full of earnest, booming encouragement.

"Just a bit further!" Nobara shouts, cupping her hands around her mouth. "Don't give up now!"

"You're almost there!" Satoru cheers, the loudest of them all, lounging on the grass as if this is the most exciting sporting event of the century. 

Megumi just stands there, his hands in his pockets.

"Come on, put your back into it!" Satoru adds, far too cheerfully. "Think of all the sweets waiting for you at the finish line! I bought that fancy new parfait you like!"

That's it.

With a guttural, frustrated roar, you wrench your right arm back and hurl one of your crutches directly at Satoru’s smug, smiling face. It flies through the air, a perfect projectile of pure rage.

He just ducks.

The crutch sails harmlessly over his head and, with a sad bonk, connects squarely with Yuuji’s forehead.

"Ow!" Yuuji yelps, stumbling backward and holding his head. Choso, who’d been standing a respectable distance away at the edge of the field, is at his side in an instant with what looks like an ice pack. The half-curse hasn’t hurt anybody yet, but he refuses to allow his younger brother out of his sight.

You seethe at having missed your target. The momentum of the throw, however, completely throws off your already precarious balance. You start to topple sideways, a slow, undignified fall onto the rough gravel of the track.

But you don't hit the ground.

In a flicker, Satoru is there, his arm a firm, steadying band around your waist, catching you mid-fall. He looks from you to the crutch lying on the ground next to a groaning Yuuji, and a huge, delighted grin spreads across his face.

"Look at that throw!" he exclaims, his voice full of pride. "Your arm strength is definitely coming back! We'll have you back to exorcising curses in no time!"

You just hang there in Satoru's arms and glare up at him. "I never exorcised curses in the first place!" you yell as you hit his shoulder.

The physical therapist had called it ‘reconditioning’. 

Satoru calls it your ‘epic training montage’.

You just call it a special circle of hell.

As it turns out, three months in a coma had turned your muscles into jelly. The prescribed physical therapy routine for the muscles in your legs was simple. Walk two full laps around the school's outdoor track. Twice a day.

Satoru just laughs, bright and happy. "Alright, alright!" he calls out to his students on the sideline. "Break time!"

With your second crutch gone, you can’t really support yourself. He holds you steady for a moment, his arm a firm, warm band around your waist, before he simply vanishes with you. In a flicker, you're no longer on the track but sitting on the sidelines, deposited gently back into the wheelchair you’d started in. He's already lounging on the grass beside you as if he'd been there all along.

Yuuji is still groaning as he rubs a growing lump on his forehead, but he successfully shoos Choso off back to the edge of the field.

"Nice throw," Nobara says, a wicked grin on her face. "You almost had him. A little more to the left next time."

Megumi just sighs, jogs out onto the track to retrieve your discarded crutch, and silently places it against your chair.

"And now," Satoru announces with the flourish of a stage magician, "for the spoils of victory!" He reaches behind his back into what seems to be thin air and produces five beautifully layered parfaits in tall glasses, each one perfectly chilled and glistening with condensation. "Kept 'em on ice for you. See? Best teacher ever."

He hands one to each of you. You take yours with a grumble, but the sight of the fresh fruit, cream, and cake is too good to resist. You dig in, the cool sweetness a welcome relief after your workout.

"See?" Satoru says, nudging your wheelchair with his shoulder as he takes a huge bite of his own parfait. "All that hard work is paying off."

"A parfait won’t make my legs work any better," you mutter, though you can't quite keep the hint of a smile from your face.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Satoru holds up his own spoon, which is piled high with a perfect bite of parfait and cream. "Here," he says, offering it to you. "You earned a bonus."

You eye the spoon with deep suspicion. "What did you do to it?"

"Nothing!" he says, a picture of pure innocence. "It's just a little extra reward for my star player. Open up!"

Reluctantly, you lean forward and take the bite. It's delicious, but also… ridiculously sweet. "You added sugar or something!" you accuse, your mouth full.

He just grins, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Gotta keep your energy up," he says, just quiet enough for only you to hear.

You narrow your eyes at him, pointing your now-empty parfait spoon at his face. "I dare you to tell Shoko that," you say. "Tell her you're dosing a post-coma patient with extra sugar."

Satoru's eyes widen in an expression of theatrical horror. He clutches his chest as if you've physically wounded him. "Dosing?" he exclaims with a scandalized gasp. "I would never! This was a prescribed, high-energy, morale-boosting therapeutic supplement! It's for your health!"

"He calls it that when he puts three extra scoops in his coffee, too," Megumi says, his voice completely deadpan, not even looking up from where he's methodically finishing his own parfait.

Nobara snorts. "Yeah, right. Next you'll be telling us your daily cake intake is for research purposes." She leans forward, a sharp grin on her face. "Don't worry, I'll be a witness at the trial. We'll get him locked up for medical malpractice."

"You're all traitors!" Satoru declares, pointing an accusing finger at each of his students. "Ganging up on your beloved, hardworking teacher after I so generously provided you all with delicious treats!"

He looks at you, his eyes wide and pleading. But you just laugh, a real, genuine, happy laugh that echoes in the warm afternoon air. The sound is quickly joined by Nobara's cackle and Yuuji's good-natured chuckle. Even Megumi cracks the tiniest of smiles.

Satoru watches you all for a moment, his own expression softening from mock-outrage into a grin. He was an idiot. They were all idiots. But they were your idiots now.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

–

A couple months have passed since you woke up, and the seasons have started to turn. The cool gray of winter is beginning to give way to the first, tentative hints of spring. You’re still on the road to recovery, but the wheelchair is gone and the crutches are a distant memory. Your new best friend is a bedazzled cane.

It’s late. The city outside the massive windows glitters in the darkness. You’re curled up on the sofa, a thick blanket draped over your legs, a book resting in your lap. The only light comes from a single, warm lamp, casting a soft glow on the quiet living room.

There’s a pop of air distortion and Satoru is there.

He just looks tired, weary from a very, very long day at the office. He sheds his uniform jacket and his blindfold, tossing them carelessly over a chair, and without a word, he comes over to the sofa. He slumps down, resting his head in your lap.

It’s a familiar, comfortable weight. You close your book, setting it aside, and instinctively begin to card your fingers through his soft, white hair.

"Long day?" you murmur.

"The longest," he grumbles into the blanket. "The higher-ups were in a particularly bad mood. So many meetings. So much scowling. It was a whole thing."

You can't help the soft laugh that escapes you. "Poor thing," you tease. "Had to sit still for a whole hour? Must have been torture. Did they at least have snacks?"

"No snacks!" he complains. "Not even a decent cup of coffee. It was barbaric." He shifts, turning his head to look up at you, his blue eyes soft and unguarded in the dim light. "This is my favorite part of the day," he says then, his voice quiet and completely stripped of its usual bravado. "Coming home to you."

His words make your heart ache in the best possible way. You don’t say anything to that, preferring instead to sit in a comfortable silence.

"Oh," Satoru says suddenly. "Good news, by the way. Tsumiki is finally up and about."

You look down at him, continuing to stroke his hair. "Who’s Tsumiki?"

"Megumi’s sister," he says, a relieved smile on his face. "She woke up just after the whole Shibuya thing. She's been out for a long time, way longer than you were, so she's got a long road to recovery ahead of her, but she's finally starting to walk now. Megumi's been spending every spare minute at the hospital."

Tsumiki is awake. 

The words echo in your mind. A missing piece of the puzzle suddenly slams into place with a weird level of clarity. Your hand tightens in his hair.

Tsumiki was part of Kenjaku's plan. She's awake now because he's brain dust. 

But that wasn't the end of it.

Something to do with Sukuna?

Sukuna wants… Something. Something to do with Megumi. 

You see an image in your mind of black hair and tattoos and sharp eyes. Satoru in a muscle shirt. A really tight muscle shirt. Satoru vs. Sukuna? Satoru vs. Sukuna-Megumi?

And then you see a black and white drawing of legs. Just... disembodied legs. Standing. Why legs? 

And why is there... is that a bone? Like a cartoon bone sticking out the top? That's not... wait. 

Oh my god, it’s on a sticker. 

It’s on a stupid sticker you must’ve seen online ages ago in your previous life. It’s a joke about the scene, about whatever this fight is. That's where the bone came from. Not even from an actual memory? Ugh.

But does that mean the disembodied legs are real?

Wait, wait, brain, get back on track.

Sukuna wants… Megumi’s body? Gross. He somehow uses Tsumiki to get it. But he has to wait until he’s stronger, until Yuuji eats more fingers. And then…

The vow. The deal Sukuna made with Yuuji when he brought him back to life. The one you couldn't remember the details of... until literally right now.

You look down at Satoru, your eyes wide with a new, dawning horror. "I guess," you say, your voice trembling just a little, "we gotta worry about all that Enchain stuff now, huh."

Satoru looks up at you, his expression one of confusion.

"Enchain stuff?" he asks.

You take a deep breath. 

"Okay, so remember back when Yuuji sorta maybe died?" you start, trying to keep your voice steady. "If Sukuna says the word ‘Enchain,’ he can take control of Yuuji's body for one full minute. The condition is that Sukuna can’t hurt anyone during that minute. I don’t know who judges this kind of stuff, but apparently him stuffing his own finger down Megumi's throat during that time doesn't count as hurting. Then he uses Tsumiki to… break Megumi’s spirit? So that he can complete the body-hop? Something like that."

Satoru just stares at you, processing the chain of events you've just laid out. He runs a hand through his hair, looking only slightly dazed.

"Wait," he says, his blue eyes locking onto yours. "When did you remember all this? You didn't mention any of this before."

You just shrug helplessly, a small, bewildered laugh escaping you. "Literally just now," you say, gesturing vaguely between your head and him. "As we were talking. Don't ask. The timing is wild, I know. It just... clicked when you said Tsumiki’s name. Memory by association or something like that."

Satoru's expression then changes into something more thoughtful. Then, the characteristic, infuriating smirk returns. 

"Well, that's an annoying plan to work around, but hardly world-ending. One minute? Please." He scoffs, snuggling his head further into your lap with a dismissive wave. "If Sukuna decides to show his ugly mug, even for sixty whole seconds, I'll just have to beat him back into his cage. Easy."

"Oh, will you now?" you ask, arching an eyebrow.

"Yeah," he says, puffing out his chest slightly. "I'd totally win."

"Maybe," you concede, thinking back to the disembodied legs. "If you're not cocky about it. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t exactly work out that way in the book."

He frowns, the smirk faltering. "What do you mean?"

Now it’s your time to give him a smirk. "If what I’m remembering is right, he kinda… cuts you in half?"

"WHAT?!" Satoru jolts upright, his wide eyes looking right into yours. “No way!”

"Yup," you say nonchalantly, popping the ‘p’ with your lips. "Right through the torso. Upper half, lower half. It’s super dramatic, all drawn out like that, like your legs are still standing up and everything." You pause, then add with a little bit of humor, "At least he leaves your pretty face intact."

Satoru just stares at you, speechless for a moment. He runs a hand through his hair, looking only a little bit disturbed. 

"Okay," he says finally. "Okay. Cut in half. Good to know." He lets out a big sigh and shifts back into strategy mode. "So what's the play? Somehow keep Sukuna from ever saying the magic word? Make sure Yuuji and Megumi are never in a room together alone ever again?"

"That wouldn’t be a bad idea, but you should probably also just stalk Yuuji for the next little bit," you suggest. "Keep him close. My memory's fuzzy on the exact timing, but I'm pretty sure Sukuna only got that gutsy because he was, like, fifteen fingers deep and you weren't around. You were still stuck in the cube."

"Wait, wait, wait, fifteen?!" he exclaims, his voice cracking slightly. "When does Yuuji have the time to eat another eleven fingers?"

"Shibuya. Good thing the plot didn't happen like it was supposed to," you say, offering a small, pointed smile. “But as long as you’re still kicking, I don’t think it’ll play out the same way.”

The implication hangs in the air. His presence is the ultimate deterrent. As long as he's free, Sukuna might just stay put long enough for them to figure out a more permanent solution.

"Ah," Satoru says, a slow smile spreading across his face. "So I just need to be… myself. An ever-present nuisance. I can do that."

He leans back, the confidence radiating from him, momentarily banishing the shadows of the future. He seems almost energized by the challenge. Satoru looks over at you, his expression shifting to something softer.

"Okay," he says, his tone a bit lighter now. "Anything else? Any other super cheerful predictions I should know about? Anyone else get sliced in half? Exploded? Turned into a sentient meatball?"

You shake your head, a small, weary smile on your face. "Not really, I think dealing with Kenjaku actually took care of most of it," you say. "Uraume’s still a bit of a loose thread, but honestly? I think we've already messed with the plot enough that anything else specific I remember is probably irrelevant now. Who knows what ripples we've already caused."

"Hmm," he hums thoughtfully, accepting your point. "Fair enough. Less fun for my morbid curiosity, but probably better for everyone's long-term survival prospects."

Satoru's smile then fades slightly, replaced by a more thoughtful, somber expression. He looks down at your hand, now held loosely in his, and then back up at you, his blue eyes searching your face.

He pulls you a little closer on the couch, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, drawing you into his side. It’s both protective and possessive at the same time.

"You know," he says, his voice quieter again. "All this talk about future apocalypses and getting sliced in half… it kind of puts some things in perspective."

He tightens his hold on your hand. His gaze is now intense and serious, and he’s clearly thinking about something.

"Will you stay here with me?" he asks, his voice going a bit quiet and his cheeks flushing a faint pink. "Not as my co-conspirator. Ok, so maybe as my co-conspirator. But maybe also as… my girlfriend?"

You pause. The word hangs in the air between you.

The silence stretches for a beat too long, and a flicker of his old, flustered defensiveness appears. "I mean," he says, his voice a little too loud, a little too fast, as he straightens his back abruptly. "It's not like I haven't introduced you that way to literally everybody who matters already. Megumi thinks you're my girlfriend. Yuuji probably thinks we're married. And I'm pretty sure Nanamin thinks you're some kind of secret handler I have to report to assigned by the higher-ups or something. It just seems like the next logical step, you know? For efficiency's sake. Gotta streamline the narrative after all."

You just let out a soft, happy chuckle that makes the last of his nervous energy melt away. You lean forward, your free hand coming up to cup his cheek, stopping his frantic ramblings.

"Satoru," you say, your voice full of amusement.

"What?" he asks, looking like a deer in headlights.

"Yes," you whisper against his lips. "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend. For the sake of the narrative, or whatever, of course."

The smile that breaks across his face is brilliant, like a sunrise after a long night. He brings his other hand up to the back of your neck, gently pulling you in closer.

And he kisses you.

It’s the kiss of a quiet Tuesday night, of promises kept and futures unfolding. It’s the comfortable intimacy of knowing looks across a room, of shared laughter, of finding solace in the eye of a hurricane. It’s the feeling of finally, unequivocally, arriving somewhere you belong. It’s a kiss that tastes like coming home.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, a soft, contented sigh escaping his lips. You stay like that for a long moment, just breathing together in the quiet warmth of the penthouse, the lights of the city painting patterns on the walls around you.

The world outside, with its lingering threats and uncertain future, feels distant and muted. Right here, wrapped in his arms, the chaos fades away, leaving only peaceful and unshakeable certainty.

This, you think, feeling his thumb gently stroke your cheek, this feels like it’s the beginning of everything.