Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The cafeteria of the Tokyo Jujutsu Technical College was as noisy as always — trays clattering, training complaints, Nobara grumbling about the soy sauce, Yuji trying to balance three buns at once, Megumi pretending he didn’t hear anything, and Maki arguing about training with Panda.
It was a familiar chaos. A comfortable chaos.

But there was something… missing.

Yuji was the first to notice.
He looked at the empty spot beside him and frowned.

— “Huh… where is she? She never misses lunch.”

Megumi kept chewing without lifting his eyes from the plate.
— “She’s probably just late.”

— “Late for lunch?” Nobara slammed her tray on the table, outraged. “That’s suspicious! I bet it’s a secret boyfriend!”

— “Nobara, please…” Megumi sighed, defeated.

Panda scratched his chin.
— “Maybe she’s sleeping. It happens.”

Maki immediately shook her head.
— “No. She was here this morning. Made the rice, complained about my seasoning, argued with me — everything normal. Then she vanished. I checked the dorm: empty. Completely empty.”

The small, comfortable chaos suddenly felt incomplete.

The truth was that your absence was loud.
You filled spaces — with laughter, with voice, with presence.
And now, something was missing in the air. Something that left the group uneasy.

Yuji looked at the empty seat, feeling a strange anticipation… as if something inside him was listening. Waiting.

He didn’t know it, but he wasn’t the only one.

In some dark corner of Yuji’s soul, Sukuna opened one eye — just one — annoyed at missing a particular tone… a presence that, theoretically, shouldn’t matter.

But it did.
And a lot.

— “ENOUGH!” — Nobara stood up. “I’m going after her now! I’ll bet a thousand yen she’s hiding something!”

Just as she raised her hand to slam the table again, a voice came from behind them:

— “Looking for MC?”

Everyone jumped. Panda literally bounced.

Gojo Satoru was there, smiling as if he had been watching everything from the start.

— “SENSEI!” — Nobara pointed at him, already ready for interrogation. “Where is she?! Tell us NOW! I know you know!”

Gojo tilted his head, smiling that sunny and irritating smile of his.

— “Of course I’m not hiding anything. She’s just busy with her little hobby.”

Absolute silence.

— “H-hobby?” — Yuji blinked, as if this were the most shocking information in the world. “She has… a hobby?”

— “That can only be dangerous.” — Megumi murmured.

— “If it’s a ‘little hobby’ in Gojo’s words, it’s special grade.” — Maki crossed her arms.

Panda made a battle-ready panda sound.

The whole group started to stand up — until Gojo raised a hand, stopping everyone with the authority of a teacher who’s dealt with too many teenagers.

— “I know where she is,” he said, as if it were obvious. “And I’ll take you there.”

Nobara narrowed her eyes.
— “And why would you let us see?”

Gojo gave a small smile — almost imperceptibly genuine.

And then — his expression changed. Soft. Rare.

====

The truth was simple:

He had heard you sing.

And it had struck him like few things in the world ever had.

Gojo Satoru was not a fan of music.
He never had time for it, never understood the emotional value people placed in melodies. He grew up without lullabies, without musical memories of childhood. For him, music had always been something distant… and sometimes dangerous.

Songs could carry emotions so dense they became curses.
Requiems could guide souls — or drag them away.

Music was power.
Emotional power.
Spiritual power.

And yet—

The first time he heard you sing in the old school music room, something inside him simply… disarmed.

That room was a forgotten relic.
Created in the early days of the school for heirs of clans to learn etiquette, arts, and music — before being thrown into the brutal world of sorcery.
Over time, it fell into neglect. It received minimal maintenance.
It was forgotten.

And that day, it was not silent.

Gojo had gone there out of curiosity — one he would pretend he didn’t have.
He had heard rumors that you would spend the day there, and something about that pricked the part of him that paid far too much attention to you.

He finished his mission early (to the despair of whoever kept track of his delays) and arrived fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

He didn’t expect to hear anything.

Much less… that.

Your voice filled the hallway before he even touched the door.
Pure. Clear. Deep.
Hitting notes that seemed to cut through the air and lodge directly in the soul.

The melody was gentle and devastating.
Love and loss woven into every verse — as if you were singing memories from a distant life.

He stood frozen.

The music was beautiful.
Astonishingly beautiful.
And so sad that he almost saw light and shadow bend around him — because that is the curse of seeing too much: even sound takes shape.

There, alone in the forgotten corridor, he understood something:

It was not just a voice.
It was power.
It was truth.
It was you.

And Gojo, for the first time in a long while, felt something that did not come from a curse, nor a threat, nor a duty:

He felt beauty.

And he supported you immediately — instruments, technology, access — everything.
Because this was not a weakness.

It was your most human weapon.

======

Before they had even taken two steps, Itadori blinked — as if, finally, what Gojo had said truly sank in.

— “Hobby? She… has a hobby?”

Gojo tilted his head, his tone soft, almost proud.
— “Let’s go. She’s in the club room. And… she’s not hiding anything bad. Just something too beautiful to ignore.”

Yuji frowned.
— “Beautiful… how?”

Gojo’s smile shone from behind his blindfold — mischievous, but sincere.
— “You’ll hear for yourselves.”

He made a dramatic gesture, as always.
— “And yes, she participates in that international theater group. The people who live for mythology, Greek tragedy… those wonderful things that make Megumi depressed.”

— “Hey.” — Megumi grumbled.

Nobara’s eyes went wide.
— “International theater group?! Since when does that exist?!”

Panda let out an impressed “ohhh.”
Maki already wore the expression of someone preparing a professional interrogation.

And then — very subtly — Toge lifted just his eyes.
A curious glint crossed them.

— “Salmon.”

A short, subtle word, but everyone understood:
He wanted to go too.

Nobara slammed her hand on the table.
— “See?! Even Inumaki wants to know! That means something big is going on!”

Toge just tilted his head, as if to say: “Obviously.”

Gojo laughed, satisfied with the group’s reaction, and gestured for them to follow.

— “Come with me, my dear little students. I’ll show you.”

And so they went.

(.....)

The club room was located in one of the side buildings — a space that, in the past, had been nothing more than a forgotten storage room, smelling of old dust and stacked boxes reaching the ceiling. But after Gojo had one of his “brilliant ideas,” the place had been reborn.

Light-colored wooden shoji filtered the soft light from the garden outside, where sakura petals fell slowly, as if drawn to the melody drifting through the air.

Because yes — they could already hear it.

A sweet, melodious voice poured into the hallway, singing in a foreign language — unfamiliar to some, hypnotic to all. Even without understanding every word, they felt everything.

The voice, soft as silk:

“ Waiting, waiting…”

A distant chorus — coming from the vocals themselves — responded harmoniously:

“Penelope…”

The voice returned, more laden with emotion:

“Waiting, waiting…

....Ohhhh.”

The notes echoed through the walls like threads of light, guiding the group forward. It was impossible not to follow. Impossible not to be drawn in by that melody, which seemed to carve a path, note by note, straight to the heart of the room.

The sound led the group down the hallway, as if each note were a luminous trail, carrying them to its source. And when they stepped through the door, they understood: the lighting was a spell of its own.

The club room, before the renovation, had been identical to any other traditional classroom at Tokyo Jujutsu High: simple wooden floors, tatami mats worn by time, large windows framed by straight, classic mullions, letting light in evenly. Everything had that slightly austere, slightly old-fashioned atmosphere — functional, yet without charm — a place clearly made for ordinary lessons, not for art.

But now… now it was something else.

Discreet acoustic panels blended with hanging Japanese lanterns, casting soft shadows across the walls. Modern instruments — professional microphones, gleaming interfaces, digital keyboards — shared space with restored kotos and shamisen, all arranged with a care that spoke of affection, not obligation. Cables were aligned like lines of ink, reinforcing the room’s elegance.

It was an unlikely hybrid — tradition and technology coexisting in perfect harmony.

And it was, definitely, the kind of place no school for exorcists should have.

Unless Satoru Gojo had decided that his student deserved not just something good…
But the best that any world could offer.

Inside, you were there, large headphones over your ears, a professional microphone in front of you, several instruments carefully arranged behind you — and yet, the first thing that caught their attention was not the flawless studio Gojo had created, but the outfit.

The rehearsal outfit of the theater group transformed you completely.

You wore a light Greek tunic, draped softly over one shoulder, cinched at the waist like the queens of Ithaca depicted in ancient tragedies. Your hair was tied in long, elaborate braids, with a few loose strands framing your face delicately; a simple crown of intertwined threads adorned the top, evoking nobility without ostentation.

The soft light of the room renovated by Gojo — a precise blend of traditional Japanese architecture and modern technology — illuminated your figure as if you were Penelope herself, waiting by the sea: patient, strong, and untouchable.

It was impossible not to look.

It was impossible not to listen.

On the screen, a blond American, surrounded by acoustic foam, smiled as if he had just heard a masterpiece.

— “You nailed it, bro! Perfect endin’, Penelope’s verse soundin’ amazin’, y’know!” — praised a young Rivera-Herrans, eyes wide with excitement, his words carrying a slight Dorado, Puerto Rico rhythm.

You laughed, shyly.
— “Thank you… but I still need to fix my breath on the bridge,” — your English carried a subtle Japanese lilt, soft and careful.

It was at that moment that Itadori pushed the door — a little too hard.

Until then, everyone had been just peeking through the crack of the sliding paper door, the one with acoustic padding that Gojo had clearly forgotten to close all the way. Curiosity outweighed common sense, so the group huddled together, shoulders pressed, trying to figure out who the foreign voice was singing so softly on the other side.

But Itadori, being Itadori… put a little too much force into it.

The door slid with a soft shhhhk — and, in that moment, it sounded like the loudest noise in the world.

A silence as absolute as it was comical fell over the room.

You turned just in time to see half the school tumbling through the doorway like a disorganized herd — except Panda, who got spectacularly stuck in the frame with a thump so graceless that even the monitor wobbled.
(Luckily, the camera angle kept him out of view… but not out of hearing.)

With your soul trying to flee your body from embarrassment, you cleared your throat:

— “H-hey… everyone…”

The laptop screen, perfectly positioned to capture the disaster, framed everything: the hallway, the entire group frozen in expressions of pure guilt, and in the background, through the open glass doors, the garden translucent in natural light — the blooming sakura, the calm pond, a scene far too serene for the human chaos that had just occurred.

The American on the call blinked, clearly surprised by the unexpected audience.

— “Oh! Y’all got an audience, bro!” — he exclaimed, blinking in disbelief.

The silence that followed was so abrupt even the birds in the garden seemed to pause and watch.

And then, as always, Nobara “Climate Breaker” Kugisaki decided to speak.

— “So THIS is what you do at lunch?!” — she snapped, hands on her hips, outraged as if she’d caught a federal crime in the act.

You blinked.

— “…Yes?”

— “Unacceptable.” — Nobara declared dramatically, already advancing into the room like an explosive glitter storm.

At that moment, you realized — with growing horror — that Jorge Rivera-Herrans was still watching. And watching everything.

You took a deep breath, gathering the courage to save at least 2% of your dignity.

— “Hm… Jorge-san,” you began in English, trying to maintain a shred of composure as you gestured toward the human chaos behind you, “these are my classmates.”

Then, turning to the group, you switched back to Japanese:
— “Everyone, this is Jorge Rivera-Herrans. The composer and leader of the international music project.”

Jorge — the adorably clueless guy — waved with the utmost casualness, and you could clearly see the sparkle of amusement in his eyes.
He believed, without a shadow of doubt, that he had just met well-behaved students from an elite Japanese boarding school, not a bunch of walking disasters tangled up with each other.

And then, as if just waiting for his cue, Gojo appeared in the frame with the self-confidence of someone making the grand finale entrance on a Sunday talk show.

— “Hi! I’m her teacher. I pay for all this stuff.”

— “Nice to meet you, sir!!” — Jorge-san replied, a little uncertain. — “An’… thank you for that ?” —

Gojo smiled as if he had just received exactly the compliment he expected — and, honestly, thought he deserved.

— “Nobara.” — Megumi sighed, pulling her aside with the patience of someone scooping up a feral cat before it scratches anyone.

Toge, on the other hand, observed everything with his usual serenity. He pointed at the microphone with a precise gesture.
— “Shake shake.”

— “He said he wants to test it later,” — Maki murmured, without even lifting her head.
Toge nodded, satisfied, as if he had already received official approval.

Meanwhile, Itadori was still trying to process any part of the situation.
Trying… and failing miserably.

He raised his hand with a completely unnecessary solemnity, as if he were about to give a report at a multinational company:

— “So… this is like… a real professional musical? Online? With famous people? And you sing? And—”
He paused for a long moment.