Chapter Text
June sat heavy over Tokyo, damp and grey and clingy.
It was not raining hard enough to be dramatic, which Satoru Gojo thought was rude. If the sky wanted to sulk, it could at least commit. Instead, humid drizzle clung to the eaves of Tokyo Jujutsu High and made the stone pathways slick, the trees glossy, and the air feel like someone had draped a warm wet towel over the entire campus.
Naturally, Satoru was thriving.
“Good morning, my adorable first years!”
“No."
“Don’t say no to a greeting, Megumi. That’s how your heart wrinkles.”
Fushiguro Megumi gave him the sort of look most people reserved for mold growing in their kitchen. Beside him, Kugisaki Nobara had both arms crossed and the expression of someone already considering violence before nine in the morning.
Itadori Yuuji, four days into life as a jujutsu sorcerer and currently sitting cross-legged on the engawa outside one of the classrooms, looked up with a grin bright enough to make the weather seem personally embarrassed.
“Morning, Gojo-sensei!”
There it was.
Satoru hummed, delighted. “See? Yuuji understands manners. Yuuji understands joy. Yuuji understands the delicate ecosystem of respecting his beautiful teacher.”
Kugisaki pointed at him. “I will respect you when you start acting respectable.”
“Impossible standards from the countryside girl.”
“I’m from Morioka, not the moon!”
“That’s what all moon people say.”
Yuuji laughed, loud and open, because apparently no one had gotten around to teaching the kid that Satoru Gojo should not be encouraged. He rocked back on his hands from where he sat cross-legged, still grinning, pink hair damp from the misty morning. His red hoodie under his uniform jacket was buttoned wrong, somehow, despite only having two buttons. One cuff sat crooked against his wrist, folded in a way that suggested he got dressed too quickly too notice, and there was a small square bandage on the side of his jaw.
Satoru’s gaze caught on it.
Again.
It was the third bandaid in as many days. One on the knuckle yesterday, one across his shin the day before, and now this. Nothing serious. Nothing that Shoko could not fix with one bored look and two seconds of reverse cursed technique if she felt like it, but Yuuji kept showing up with tiny evidence of existing too hard.
The kid was a cheerful, natural disaster.
“Did you fight the breakfast table?” Satoru asked.
Yuuji blinked. “Huh?”
Satoru tapped his own jaw.
“Oh! That.” Yuuji rubbed at the bandage, sheepish. “I dropped my chopsticks and hit the counter when I bent down.”
Kugisaki stared at him. “How do you even survive day to day?”
“I’m pretty sturdy!”
“That’s not an answer!”
“It’s kind of an answer.”
“Itadori.”
Yuuji rocked back forward and saluted. “I’ll be more careful.”
Megumi made a quiet sound that might have been disbelief. Nobara rolled her eyes, but there was no bite in it. Not really. She had known Yuuji for only a handful of days and was already yelling at him like he was a younger brother who had eaten glue.
Good, Satoru thought.
He liked that.
He liked the strange little shape the three of them were beginning to make. Megumi, dark-eyed and sharp-edged, already tired of everyone in a ten-mile radius. Nobara, bright and fierce, refusing to be impressed by anything except a good sale and her own reflection. And Yuuji, their newest impossibility, sitting between them like a lit match cupped in both hands.
Sukuna’s vessel.
The higher-ups’ current favorite excuse for sharpening old knives.
Satoru’s student.
The last part mattered most.
“Anyway.” Satoru clapped his hands together. “Today’s schedule has undergone a beautiful, last-minute transformation.”
Megumi narrowed his eyes.
Nobara immediately looked suspicious. “What did you do?”
“What did I do? Hurtful. Accusatory. Wounding.”
“You did something.”
“I have a mission” Satoru said cheerfully.
Megumi’s expression flattened. “You knew that before you came here.”
“Technically, yes.”
“And you waited until now to tell us?”
“Also technically yes.”
Kugisaki threw one hand into the air. “So what are we supposed to do all day?”
“Bond. Flourish. Develop your youthful spirits. Perhaps write me a letter about how much you miss me.”
“I’ll write you a letter with a brick.”
“How thoughtful," Satoru said. "Heavy with feelings."
Yuuji perked up. “Is it a big mission?”
Satoru turned his head toward him. Yuuji asked questions like he was collecting shiny bottle caps. What’s a veil feel like when it goes up? Can curses smell fear? Does cursed energy have a taste? Do all sorcerers get paid? Why are talismans written like that? Could a cursed spirit haunt a vending machine? Have you ever punched one into space?
Most of the questions were ridiculous. Some were clever. All of them were asked with the same hungry, earnest curiosity.
“Special grade” Satoru said with a grin.
Megumi’s shoulders stiffened.
Kugisaki’s brows jumped.
Yuuji’s eyes went huge. “Whoa.”
“Exactly. Whoa. Very scary. Very ugly. Probably very rude.”
“Are you gonna be okay?” Yuuji asked.
The question landed lightly.
It should have bounced off.
Satoru was asked a lot of things in his life. Could he handle this special grade? Could he take this mission? Could he fix whatever corrupt system the jujutsu world had going on? Could he kill the boy when the time came?
Are you gonna be okay? was not usually one of them.
For half a second, Satoru watched Yuuji’s face. No fear for himself. No calculation. No polite obligation. Just concern, as natural as breathing.
Then Satoru grinned wider.
“Yuuji-kun, I’m wounded again. Of course I’m going to be okay. I’m the strongest.”
“Oh, right!” Yuuji said, immediately reassured. “That’s good, then.”
Megumi looked pained. “Don’t just accept that.”
“But he is, isn’t he?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s a little bit the point” Satoru said.
“It is not.”
Satoru drifted closer, because annoying Megumi was one of life’s reliable pleasures. He draped himself over his sea-urchin haired student's shoulder, all loose limbs and expensive cologne. Letting his weight settle just enough to be bothersome.
Megumi froze.
“Sensei.”
“Yes, Megumi?”
“Move.”
“But you’re so supportive.”
“I will summon Nue indoors.”
“Cruel child.”
He slipped away just before Megumi could make good on the threat and dropped an elbow onto Nobara’s shoulder instead. Nobara’s response was immediate and beautiful. She drove her fist into his ribs- or she tried to. Her knuckles slowed down until it stopped millimeters short, almost frozen by his infinity while Satoru just grinned down at her.
“Don’t touch me!”
Satoru gasped. “Violence against the faculty?”
“Self-defense.”
“Witnesses? Anyone?”
Megumi looked away.
Yuuji raised his hand. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Betrayal” Satoru whispered.
“You’re really bad at picking witnesses, Sensei.”
“I give and I give.”
He pivoted toward Yuuji last.
Yuuji, unlike the other two, did not tense. He did not dodge. He did not swat him away or tell him to stop being weird. He just looked up, still smiling, as if being used as a human leaning post by his teacher was a perfectly reasonable Tuesday morning development.
Satoru draped himself across Yuuji’s back.
Yuuji made a small oof sound, then laughed and leaned back harder onto his hands, enough that Satoru had to adjust his balance.
“Wow, you’re heavy.” Yuuji said.
“I’m not heavy. I’m emotionally significant.”
“You’re crushing my significant organs.”
“Those grow back.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Not with that attitude.”
Yuuji laughed again, warm and helpless, and Satoru reached down to hook a finger in his hood. “Your hoodie is buttoned wrong.”
“Huh? Oh.” Yuuji looked down. “Whoops.”
“How do you weaponize cursed energy but lose to buttons?”
“I was in a hurry!”
“You live on campus now.”
“I can still be in a hurry on campus.”
Satoru clicked his tongue and, because he was generous and majestic, began fixing the buttons himself. Yuuji let him, blinking down at Satoru’s hands like the action was interesting rather than invasive, a small flush gathering high on his cheeks.
Most kids his age would have protested. Megumi would have bitten him. Nobara would have made a legal case for manslaughter.
Yuuji simply sat still.
Too still, maybe.
Satoru finished with the buttons and gave a satisfied little pat. "There, a miracle."
Yuuji huffed a laugh, still leaning back on his hands.
"Don't look so relieved," Satoru said, already reaching down again. "You're not done being a tiny disaster."
Before Yuuji could ask what that meant, Satoru caught his wrist and lifted it from the floor, already fussing with the crooked fold of his cuff.
Then his fingers touched Yuuji's skin.
Cold.
Not cool from the rain. Not the temporary chill of damp sleeves or morning air. His skin was cold in a deep, settled way, like the temperature had taken up residence in his bones and started paying rent.
Satoru paused.
Yuuji noticed the pause before anyone else did. “Sensei?”
Satoru took Yuuji’s hand in his own.
Small calluses, mostly along the palm and fingers. Old little marks from cooking knives, cheap pens, maybe sports equipment. A healing scrape across one knuckle. His nails were short and uneven, bitten or broken. His hand sat trustingly in Satoru’s palm.
His fingers were freezing.
Satoru squeezed them once. “Yuuji.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you part lizard?”
Yuuji blinked.
Kugisaki leaned over. “What?”
“His hands are cold,” Satoru announced gravely. “Tragically cold. Unseasonably cold. A public health concern.”
Yuuji looked at his own hand like this was new information. “They are?”
Nobara grabbed his other hand without asking. “Ew! They are!”
“Ew?” Yuuji repeated, offended in the mildest possible way.
Megumi frowned. “Are you sick?”
“No?” Yuuji said. “I don’t think so.”
“Anemia?” Nobara guessed.
“What’s that?”
“How do you not know what anemia is?”
“I know, like, the word. I just don’t know if I have it.”
Satoru turned Yuuji’s hand over, thumb resting briefly against the inside of his wrist. Pulse steady. Skin pale where the rain-cooled light touched it. No tremor. No obvious cursed energy irregularity. Sukuna’s presence was there, of course, a second set of teeth behind a paper wall, but quiet for now.
Yuuji watched him, curious but unconcerned.
“Are they always like this?” Satoru asked.
“Like what?”
“Cold.”
“Oh.” Yuuji shrugged. “Yeah, kinda.”
Nobara made a face. “That’s not normal.”
“It’s not?”
Megumi’s frown deepened.
Yuuji laughed, bright and dismissive, as if they had discovered something funny rather than something strange. “It’s fine! My hands just get cold. Even in summer sometimes. Grandpa used to say I had corpse fingers.”
“That’s awful,” Nobara said.
“He said it funny.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He was a grumpy old man, so everything sounded kind of funny.”
There it was again. Grandpa, said with a smile that knew exactly where to stand so the ache did not show.
Satoru looked at the hand in his.
The higher-ups had looked at Yuuji and seen a vessel. A walking death sentence. A problem to postpone until the paperwork got convenient.
Satoru had looked at him and seen power first. Then potential. Then the immediate, reckless, infuriating instinct to put himself between danger and everyone else.
Four days was not enough time to know a kid.
It was enough time to notice that Yuuji always gave away the bigger portion at meals. Enough time to notice he thanked vending machines when they worked. Enough time to notice he watched people when they were tired, when they were hurt, when they were trying not to show either.
Enough time to notice he never seemed to expect anyone to look back.
Satoru let go of Yuuji’s hand and flicked his forehead.
“Ow!”
“Good news,” Satoru said. “Sensei has diagnosed you.”
Yuuji rubbed his forehead. “With lizard?”
“With a tragic lack of mittens.”
“It’s June!”
“Medical emergencies do not check calendars.”
Kugisaki snorted.
Megumi looked like he wanted to object on principle, but perhaps even he knew that arguing with Gojo Satoru over mittens was a pit with no bottom.
Yuuji grinned. “I don’t need mittens, Sensei.”
“You need adorable mittens. Maybe with little tiger paws.”
“I’m not wearing tiger paws.”
“You’re right. Frogs.”
“No!”
“Bunnies?”
“Gojo-sensei!”
Satoru straightened, grinning. “After my mission, I’m taking you all out.”
Nobara’s suspicion returned instantly. “Out where?”
“That depends on my mood.”
“Somewhere good?”
“All places I choose are good.”
“Liar.”
“Somewhere with food?” Yuuji asked.
Satoru pointed at him. “See? This is why you’re my favorite.”
Megumi and Nobara both reacted at once.
“Excuse me?”
“Gross.”
Yuuji gasped. “I’m the favorite?”
“No,” Megumi said.
“Don’t look so happy about it,” Nobara snapped.
“I’ve never been a favorite before!”
The sentence came out laughing.
Satoru hated it.
Just a little.
Just enough that something in his chest tightened behind the blindfold, there and gone in the space between one raindrop and the next.
He slapped his hands together. “All right, tiny terrors. I’m off to save the world from a curse with bad skin and worse manners. Try not to miss me too much.”
“We won’t.” Megumi said.
“Already forgot you.” Nobara added.
Yuuji waved with both hands. “Good luck! Bring back snacks!”
“That’s the spirit.” Satoru turned, lifted two fingers, then glanced back at Yuuji. “And mittens.”
Yuuji laughed. “It’s June!”
“And yet your corpse fingers persist.”
“They’re not corpse fingers!”
“Evidence says otherwise.”
Then Satoru was gone, space folding neatly around him.
For a few seconds, the engawa was quiet.
Rain pattered softly along the roof.
Nobara looked at the empty place where their teacher had been standing. “I hate when he does that.”
Megumi exhaled through his nose. “You get used to it.”
“No, I won’t.”
Yuuji was still looking at his hands.
Megumi noticed.
“Do they hurt?”
“Hm?” Yuuji flexed his fingers. “No. They’re just cold.”
“Maybe you should ask Ieiri-san.”
“She already gives me bandaids all the time. I don’t wanna bother her.”
“That’s her job.”
“Yeah, but…” Yuuji rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s fine. Really.”
Nobara watched him for one more second, then clicked her tongue and grabbed his sleeve. “Come on. If Gojo ditched us, I’m not wasting my freedom sitting outside like some abandoned houseplant.”
“Where are we going?”
“To see if this school has anything fun.”
Megumi stood. “It doesn’t.”
“Then we’ll complain about it.”
“That tracks,” Yuuji said, and followed.
Their freedom lasted seven minutes.
Masamichi Yaga found them in the hallway outside an unused classroom, where Nobara had discovered a storage cabinet full of cursed training tools and was loudly arguing that if the school did not want students touching them, the school should have invested in better locks.
Megumi stood nearby looking unimpressed.
Yuuji, holding a wooden practice dagger in each hand, turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and beamed.
“Principal Yaga!”
Yaga stopped.
He took in the open cabinet. Nobara’s hand still on the handle. Megumi’s refusal to be involved. Yuuji’s two stolen practice weapons.
His mouth set into a line.
“Where is Gojo?”
The first years looked at each other.
“Mission” Megumi said.
Yaga’s eyebrow twitched. “He left you unsupervised?”
“He said we should bond and flourish.” Nobara said.
“That sounds educational” Yuuji added.
Yaga closed his eyes.
In the small, private theater of Satoru Gojo-related headaches, this was a familiar production. Same script, new victims.
“He did not give you lessons?”
“Nope” Nobara said.
“He promised food after.” Yuuji offered, as if this might improve matters.
It did not.
Yaga opened his eyes. “Then I will handle today’s instruction.”
Nobara groaned.
Yuuji perked up.
Megumi looked resigned in the manner of a boy who had been alive for fifteen years and tired for forty.
Yaga’s gaze settled on Yuuji. The boy stood straight almost immediately, practice daggers still clutched in his hands, expression eager and attentive. Too eager, maybe. Like a child hoping to be useful before anyone could decide he was in the way.
Yaga held out one hand. “Those are not for field use.”
Yuuji handed them over. “Sorry.”
“Do not apologize. Learn.”
“Yes, sir!”
Nobara muttered, “Teacher’s pet number two.”
“I heard that.” Yaga said.
“I meant it respectfully.”
“No, you didn’t,” Megumi said.
Yaga turned away before the conversation could deteriorate further. “There is a low-grade curse reported in an abandoned building not far from campus. Grade three. Simple manifestation, likely residual fear from repeated trespassing and rumors.”
Yuuji’s hand shot up.
Yaga stared at him. “You do not need to raise your hand.”
“Oh. Right.” Yuuji lowered it. Then raised it halfway again, thought better of it, and clasped both hands behind his back. “What kind of rumors?”
“Local children believe the building is haunted by a woman with broken legs.”
Nobara wrinkled her nose. “That’s gross.”
“Fear feeds curses.” Megumi said.
Yuuji nodded seriously. “So if enough kids scare each other with the same story, it can make something?”
“Sometimes,” Yaga said. “Sometimes it only feeds what is already there.”
Yuuji absorbed that with wide-eyed fascination.
Yaga continued. “Fushiguro will take point. Kugisaki will support at medium range. Itadori, you will observe first and engage only when instructed.”
Yuuji deflated a little.
Yaga saw it. “You are still learning cursed energy control.”
“I know.”
“Your physical ability is impressive. That does not make you invincible.”
A strange silence followed.
It lasted barely a breath, but Yaga felt it catch.
Yuuji smiled.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Yaga did not like that smile.
It was too practiced for a boy who tripped over unfamiliar hallways and asked whether cursed corpses needed to brush their teeth too. Too easy. Too neatly placed.
Yaga went to the locked equipment room himself.
When he returned, he carried a short blade wrapped in cloth. Plain hilt. Simple sheath. Nothing fancy.
He held it out to Yuuji.
“This is a basic cursed tool. The blade carries enough cursed energy to harm low-grade curses. Do not swing wildly. Do not throw it. Do not attempt anything Gojo would call fun.”
Yuuji accepted it with both hands. “Got it.”
“I am serious.”
“I won’t throw it.”
“Or anything else.”
Yuuji opened his mouth.
Yaga narrowed his eyes.
Yuuji closed it again.
Nobara laughed. “He was totally about to ask if he could throw a rock.”
“I wasn’t!”
“You were.”
“I was thinking about it, but I wasn’t gonna ask.”
“That’s worse” Megumi said.
By the time Ijichi arrived with the car, the drizzle had thickened enough to dot Yuuji’s hair with tiny beads of water. He shook his head like a dog before climbing into the backseat, and Nobara shrieked when droplets hit her cheek.
“Animal!”
“Sorry!”
“You are not sorry!”
“I’m a little sorry!”
Megumi got in on one side, Nobara on the other, and Yuuji ended up wedged between them, knees pulled close and cursed tool resting carefully across his lap.
Yaga sat in the passenger seat.
Ijichi glanced at him, then at the three teenagers in the rearview mirror, then back at the road with the expression of a man who had already written his own will three times that morning.
“Everyone buckled?” Ijichi asked.
“Yes!” Yuuji said.
“No,” Nobara said, still fighting with the seatbelt.
Megumi silently reached over Yuuji and yanked it free for her.
“I had it.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You were losing to it.”
“I’ll kill you.”
Yuuji leaned forward between the seats. “Ijichi-san, how do you put up veils? Is it hard? Can anybody do it? Does it feel like stretching a blanket over everything, or is it more like turning a bowl upside down?”
Ijichi’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Um. W-well. It depends on the conditions and the caster. The wording is important. The barrier must be precise.”
“Can I learn?”
“Eventually, perhaps.”
“Cool.” Yuuji looked delighted. “Can veils be different colors?”
“No.”
“Can they have patterns?”
“No.”
“Can you make one that only keeps out, like, mosquitoes?”
Ijichi hesitated. “I… don’t think that would be useful.”
“It’d be super useful in summer.”
Nobara pointed at him. “That is the first smart thing you’ve said all day.”
“Thank you!”
“That was not a compliment.”
“I’m taking it as one.”
Megumi leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Yaga watched them through the mirror.
Yuuji talked nearly the entire drive. Not in a way that demanded attention, exactly. More like his thoughts were birds startled from a tree, fluttering in every direction at once. He asked about cursed tools. About missions. About whether curses could hide in convenience stores. About whether cursed corpses counted as siblings if they were made by the same person.
Yaga answered only some of it.
Megumi corrected what was wrong.
Nobara complained, but kept responding.
The car smelled faintly of wet pavement, vinyl seats, and the convenience store curry bun Yuuji had apparently bought before anyone else woke up.
At one point, Nobara asked, “Do you ever stop talking?”
Yuuji considered this sincerely. “When I’m eating.”
“That’s not true” Megumi said.
“Okay, when I’m sleeping.”
“Maybe.”
Yuuji grinned.
The abandoned building sat between a closed-down pachinko parlor and a narrow side street where weeds grew through cracks in the pavement. It had once been some kind of small office complex, three stories tall, with cloudy windows and a rusted sign that had lost most of its letters. Rainwater gathered in the broken places along the roof and dripped steadily onto the concrete below.
The air tasted stale.
Yuuji stepped out of the car and immediately looked up. “Creepy.”
Nobara rolled her shoulders. “Finally. Something to hit.”
Megumi scanned the windows. “Stay alert.”
Ijichi set the veil with practiced nervousness, voice steady despite the way his shoulders crept up toward his ears.
“Emerge from darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure.”
The curtain fell.
The world dimmed.
Yuuji stared openly, mouth slightly parted. “Whoa.”
Nobara jabbed him in the side. “You’ve seen this already.”
“It’s still cool!”
Yaga stepped past them, broad and steady. “Formation.”
That snapped them into motion.
Megumi moved first, shadows pooling beneath his feet. Nobara slid her hammer free. Yuuji drew the short blade carefully, fingers firm around the hilt, then almost immediately adjusted his grip when Megumi glanced back at him.
“Too tight,” Megumi said.
“Huh?”
“You’re choking the handle.”
“Oh.” Yuuji loosened his fingers. “Thanks.”
“Don’t cut yourself.”
“I won’t.”
“You probably will.”
“Wow, so much faith.”
Yaga followed several paces behind, close enough to intervene, far enough to let them work. His presence filled the hallway as they entered the building, a quiet wall at their backs.
Inside, the air was colder.
Dust clung to the floor in pale sheets. Old flyers had melted into the walls from moisture. Somewhere deeper in, water dripped with the slow patience of a clock.
Megumi lifted his hands, fingers shifting into the familiar shape.
“Demon Dog.”
The shikigami slipped from shadow, white fur stark in the gloom. It sniffed the air, ears pricked, then padded down the hallway.
Yuuji watched it with poorly concealed awe. “So cool,” he whispered.
Megumi did not smile, but his ears went faintly pink.
Nobara saw and smirked. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m not encouraging him,” Yuuji whispered. “I’m appreciating.”
“Appreciate quieter.”
They found the documented curse on the second floor.
It clung upside down in a stairwell, its body twisted into too many joints, hair hanging in wet ropes. Its legs bent backward with a crackling sound as its head rotated toward them. It made a thin, giggling noise.
“Yep,” Nobara said. “Hate that.”
Yuuji swallowed. His fingers tightened, then loosened again, remembering.
Megumi moved.
The fight lasted less than a minute.
For all his gloom, Megumi was efficient. Demon Dog snapped at the curse from below, driving it toward the landing. Nobara’s nails struck hard and clean when it tried to skitter across the wall. Megumi’s cursed energy flared, shadows opening like dark water.
The curse shrieked once.
Then it was gone.
Yuuji stood with his blade raised, having not swung once.
He blinked. “That was fast.”
“Grade three” Megumi said.
Nobara flicked her hair back. “Try not to sound disappointed.”
“I’m not! I just thought…” Yuuji lowered the blade. “I dunno. Good job!”
Nobara preened. “Obviously.”
Megumi glanced toward the windows.
Yaga did too.
The curtain had not lifted.
The hallway remained dim beneath the veil’s blackened sky.
Nobara noticed their expressions. “What?”
“There is another curse,” Yaga said.
Ijichi’s report had been incomplete.
Yaga’s shoulders squared.
“Stay close.” he ordered.
The three first years obeyed.
Mostly.
They searched the second floor first, then the third. The building seemed to narrow around them, every doorway opening into another damp, stale room. Yuuji pressed himself against the wall outside one office and peered dramatically around the corner, blade held upright beside his cheek.
Nobara stared. “What are you doing?”
“Being stealthy.”
“You look like an idiot.”
“I’m in spy mode.”
“There is no spy mode in jujutsu.”
“There could be.”
Megumi reached out and lightly smacked the back of Yuuji’s head.
“Hey!”
“Your elbow was visible.”
Yuuji pulled his elbow in, scandalized. “You could have just said that.”
“I did.”
“With violence.”
“It was barely violence.”
Yuuji pouted.
Yaga sighed.
He should have told them to stop. He should have sharpened the lesson, cut away the ridiculousness, reminded them that curses killed the careless.
But they were children.
Even here, under a curtain, in the belly of an abandoned building soaked with fear, they were children.
So Yaga let Yuuji pout for three seconds.
Then the air changed.
Every sorcerer felt it at once.
The pressure slid into the room like a hand under a door.
Demon Dog growled.
Megumi’s posture dropped.
Nobara raised her hammer.
Yuuji stopped pouting.
“Behind me.” Yaga said.
The wall at the end of the corridor bulged.
It did not break, it regressed.
The paint loosened first, color paling as it bubbled backward into wet primer. Beneath it, the plaster sagged and softened, undoing itself layer by layer until the corridor stank of damp cement and old dust. Hairline cracks sealed, then split open again in reverse, the whole surface shuddering as if the building were being dragged through every year it had ever survived.
A shape emerged from the other side.
At first, Yuuji thought it was an old man.
A hunched back. Thin arms. Loose, spotted skin, white hair. A hospital gown hanging off narrow shoulders.
Then it lifted its face.
The features shifted.
For one terrible heartbeat, it looked like Wasuke.
Not perfectly. Not really. The eyes were wrong, too deep and too wet, and the mouth stretched wider than a human mouth ever should. But the angle of the brow, the sunken cheeks, the stubborn downturn of the lips, the frail fury of a body that had spent too long fighting itself…
Yuuji froze.
The curse smiled with his grandfather’s mouth.
“Brat” it rasped.
Yuuji’s hand went slack around the blade.
Megumi saw the opening and moved, shadows surging. “Itadori!”
The curse’s smile widened.
Not at Megumi.
At Yuuji.
Its head tilted, wrong and listening, as if it had heard something inside him answer. The cursed energy around it warped. Not sharp. Not heavy. Wrong. The air rippled around its hand, dust lifting from the floor for half a second before dropping again.
Yuuji couldn’t move.
The curse lunged.
Yuuji’s body moved too late, or maybe only just in time. His mind was still caught on that dead man’s face, on the shape of a mouth that had once called him brat with warmth instead of rot. One second he was frozen there, blade loose in his hand. The next, the curse was already on him.
Its palm struck his chest.
It stuck there.
Yuuji gasped.
“ITADORI!” Nobara screamed.
The hallway bent.
For a moment, the rain outside stopped falling.
Yuuji felt something hook into him.
Not into his skin. Deeper. Beneath muscle, beneath bone, beneath memory. It pulled backward, not away from the curse but away from now. His breath punched out of him. The world flickered. The hallway stretched taller, then smaller, then taller again. His uniform sleeves slipped loose around his wrists.
The curse shuddered against him, almost gleeful.
He heard Megumi shout.
He heard Nobara curse.
He heard Yaga move.
The principal crossed the distance like thunder given a body.
His fist hit the curse before any of the students could blink.
There was no elegance in it. No elaborate technique. Just brute force, cursed energy, and fury packed into a single devastating strike.
The curse released Yuuji.
Its borrowed face caved in.
Yaga struck again.
The curse burst apart, screaming in the voice of an old man, a child, a broken door, a hospital monitor, all tangled together until the sound snapped.
Silence slammed down after it.
Dust drifted.
The curtain lifted.
Grey daylight spilled weakly through the windows.
For one second, nobody moved.
Then Megumi said, “Itadori?”
No answer.
Nobara spun around. “Itadori!”
The blade lay on the floor.
Yuuji’s uniform lay in a heap beside it.
Dark blue jacket. Red hood. Pants.
Empty.
Megumi’s face went white.
Nobara took one step forward, then stopped. “No.”
Yaga’s heart dropped with such force that it felt physical.
Then the pile of clothes moved.
A small hand pushed out from under the red hood and jacket combo.
Tiny fingers. Round knuckles. Pinkish from cold.
A head emerged next.
Fluffy pink hair, mussed wildly. Big brown eyes, dazed and blinking. Soft cheeks. A little mouth parted in confusion.
The child sat up in the middle of Yuuji’s clothes.
He could not have been older than four.
For a moment, no one breathed.
The boy looked up at them.
His eyes were Yuuji’s.
“Eh?” he said.
His voice was higher. Softer.
Nobara’s hammer slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.
Megumi stared.
Yaga did not move.
The little boy looked around the hallway, then down at the enormous jacket pooled around his waist.
His little brows knitted.
“Why’s everyone so tall?”
No one answered.
The boy blinked again, then looked at Megumi. “Fushiguro?”
Megumi flinched.
Then at Nobara. “Kugisaki?”
Nobara’s hand flew to her mouth.
Then at Yaga. “Principal?”
Yaga forced air into his lungs. “Itadori.”
The little boy looked relieved. “Okay. So I’m not, like, dead.”
His gaze drifted down.
He noticed his bare stomach. His bare legs. His much, much smaller hands resting on top of fabric that no longer fit him.
He lifted both hands in front of his face.
Turned them over.
Flexed his fingers.
They were still cold.
“What,” Yuuji said slowly, “the heck.”
Nobara made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh if it had not been so close to panic.
Yuuji looked down at himself again, more baffled than embarrassed. “Um.”
Megumi whipped around so fast his hair nearly smacked his own face. “Don’t look!”
“I’m not looking!” Nobara snapped, also turning around.
Yuuji tilted his head. “Why?”
“You’re naked!” Nobara shrieked.
Yuuji looked at his body again.
“Oh,” he said.
A pause.
Then, with the same earnest confusion he had brought to veils and mosquito barriers, he asked, “Why am I tiny naked?”
Yaga removed his jacket.
His hands were steady because they had to be. Because three children were in front of him, and one of them had just been folded backward through his own life.
He stepped forward slowly and crouched.
Yuuji looked up at him without fear.
That, somehow, made it worse.
“Can you stand?” Yaga asked.
Yuuji nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
He pushed himself up.
The clothes shifted under his feet. His balance wobbled immediately, center of gravity unfamiliar, legs too short, body too light. Megumi turned back on instinct and caught him under the arms before he could fall.
Yuuji giggled, surprised. “Whoa. Fushiguro, your hands are huge.”
Megumi looked like he might be sick.
Yaga wrapped his jacket around Yuuji’s small body. It swallowed him completely, turning him into a bundle of black fabric and pink hair. Yuuji clutched the lapels automatically.
“Thanks” he said.
His tone was still Yuuji’s.
Too normal.
Too calm.
Yaga lifted him carefully.
Yuuji made another startled sound, then looked down at the floor, eyes wide. “Whoa. I’m really high up.”
Nobara turned back, face pale beneath her makeup. “Is he… is he really…?”
“We are leaving” Yaga said.
His voice left no room for argument.
Megumi picked up Yuuji’s uniform with stiff hands. Nobara grabbed the cursed tool and her hammer. Neither of them said anything as they followed Yaga down the stairs.
Yuuji, wrapped in Yaga’s jacket, peered over the principal’s shoulder.
The abandoned building receded behind them.
The drizzle had softened outside, misting the street silver. Ijichi stood beside the car, clipboard in hand, looking up as the curtain dissolved.
His anxious relief lasted exactly one second.
Then he saw Yaga carrying a small pink-haired child.
Ijichi’s mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Yuuji raised one hand from inside the jacket.
“Hi, Ijichi-san.”
Ijichi made a noise like a tea kettle being stepped on.
Yaga walked past him. “Open the door.”
“Y-yes! Yes, of course!”
Megumi climbed into the backseat first. Yaga handed Yuuji in carefully, and Megumi buckled him in the middle without being asked. The jacket bunched around Yuuji like a blanket. Nobara slid in on the other side, movements jerky and protective.
Yuuji looked from one to the other.
“You guys look really freaked out.”
Nobara’s eyes flashed. “Because you’re four!”
Yuuji blinked.
Then he looked down at his hands again, flexing his fingers slowly.
“I’m fifteen,” he said, uncertain.
Megumi pressed his lips together.
Yuuji frowned harder, like the math had personally betrayed him. “I’m pretty sure.”
Yaga got into the passenger seat.
Ijichi sat behind the wheel and did not start the car for three full seconds.
“Ijichi” Yaga said.
“Yes!” The engine turned over.
The drive back to the school was nothing like the drive out.
No one bickered.
No one asked about mosquito veils.
Yuuji seemed to notice the silence after a while. He swung his little feet, which did not reach the floor, and looked at Nobara.
“Are you mad?”
Nobara startled. “What?”
“Because I got hit.”
Megumi’s hands tightened around the bundle of Yuuji’s clothes.
Nobara stared at him.
Yuuji smiled, small and sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t move fast enough.”
Megumi’s jaw worked once. “It wasn’t because you were slow.”
Yuuji turned to him.
Megumi didn’t look up. “It went straight for you.”
Nobara looked like she might either yell or throw up.
Yuuji’s small fingers curled in the jacket bunched around him. “Then… I guess I’m glad it didn’t get anybody else.”
Megumi’s expression twisted.
“You’re glad?” Nobara demanded.
Yuuji nodded, simple as sunrise. “Yeah. You guys are okay.”
The car went quiet again.
Yaga closed his eyes.
Satoru was going to tear the world open when he found out.
Somewhere far away, probably standing over the ashes of a special grade curse and making jokes no one appreciated, Gojo Satoru had promised a boy mittens for his cold hands.
Yaga looked back once.
Yuuji sat between his classmates, tiny and bundled in a jacket much too large for him. He had gone quiet, tucked back against the seat with his legs sticking straight out in front of him, too short to bend properly over the edge.
His hands rested in his lap.
Small.
Bare.
Cold.
He kept looking at them, flexing his fingers once, then going still again.
And the worst part, Yaga thought, was that Yuuji did not seem afraid yet.
He only looked confused.
As if the fear was coming from somewhere far behind him, slow and patient, taking its time.