Broken Infinity

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/38064064.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandoms: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga), 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime)
Relationships: Getou Suguru/Gojo Satoru, Getou Suguru & Gojo Satoru, Gojo Satoru &
Itadori Yuuji, Itadori Yuuji/Yoshino Junpei
Characters: Getou Suguru, Gojo Satoru, Itadori Yuuji, Yoshino Junpei, Mahito (Jujutsu
Kaisen), Sukuna | Ryoumen Sukuna, Minor Characters
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence,
Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-Shibuya Incident Arc (Jujutsu
Kaisen), Action & Romance, Getou Suguru Does Not Defect From Jujutsu
Society, Itadori Yuuji is a Ray of Sunshine, Cover Art, Time Travel Fix-It,
Some Humor, Multiple Timelines, Angst, Slow Burn, Destroying Lives in New
and Exciting Ways, Mutual Pining, It Gets Worse, Role Reversal, Plot Twists,
Hallucinations, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of Broken Infinity
Collections: my heart is here, JJK Fics That Need Rereading
Stats: Published: 2022-03-30 Completed: 2023-11-01 Words: 242,644 Chapters:
53/53
 Broken Infinity
by EnigmaticInsignia

Summary

Sometimes, all it took was one thing. The flip of a coin could change your whole existence.
Suguru Geto had no way of knowing he was in that moment right now.

“Did you know Jujutsu Sorcerers don’t give birth to curses?”

As a teenager, Suguru Geto faced a decision between hatred and duty. In one world, Geto chose the
path of a curse user. In another, Suguru chose love.

When the Satoru Gojo and Yuji Itadori of the first timeline are thrust into the second, Gojo and Yuji
both find temptations that shouldn’t have been possible—Suguru Geto and Junpei Yoshino, alive.

Gojo’s own world is waiting, but this one needs saving, too.

Translation into Русский available: Broken Infinity by a_libertine

 Choice
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Suguru Geto

August 2007

Sometimes, all it took was one thing. The flip of a coin could change your whole existence.

If someone were to lay out a map of the moments in their life, what they named as changing it all
would be a dramatic gesture. Proposals. Graduations. The birth of a child. Their first kill. So often,
that wasn’t the truth of what changed things. A single whisper could start an avalanche. After all,
the only thing more fickle than fate were the monkeys who believed in it.

Suguru Geto had no way of knowing he was in that moment right now.

“Did you know jujutsu sorcerers don’t give birth to curses?”

On the outside, Suguru hadn’t looked interested. This woman, Yuki Tsukumo, was admonished by
the establishment as a good for nothing bum. The last thing the special grade slacker should have
had to say was something Suguru had never heard before.
Yuki’s fingers tapped together, excitement drawing her to lean forward. She went on.

“Of course, that’s excluding cases where sorcerers become curses after death. The amount of cursed
energy that leaks from sorcerers, compared to non-sorcerers, is extremely low. There is a difference
in how much we consume and use cursed energy because of our profession. But the real reason lies
in how it flows through us.”

There was also a difference between being the quiet type and speechless. The past year, after
watching Riko Amanai die, most people assumed Suguru had become the former. This wasn’t a
silence of reservation. It was one of curiosity.

“For sorcerers, cursed energy flows heavily within us. It doesn’t escape to form curses.” Yuki
explained, giving him a friendly wink as if this were the most casual chat in the world. “If we’re
talking in general terms… if every single human became a jujutsu sorcerer… no curse would ever
be born again.”

Suguru felt the quiet plummet into something else entirely. His hands drifted together, clutching for
a stability he couldn’t find. Yuki, too, went quiet.

Suguru knew better than to talk about something like this. Hell, anyone should have. This entire
idea was absurd. It was proof why Yuki Tsukumo was supposed to be a good-for-nothing.

Then again, if she was so good for nothing, who would she tell?

“Then…” The words caught in Suguru’s throat. He swallowed the tension. It was easier than
swallowing a curse. “…why not just kill every non-jujutsu sorcerer?”

Suguru looked to the ground, his eyes staying there in shame. Surely, she’d argue. It was insane.

“Geto… that is an option.”

“What?”

A cold sweat rolled across Suguru. The idea swelled to a lump in his throat; the biggest, most
tasteless mass of nothing he’d ever felt.

Yuki tucked a hand beneath her chin, casual as ever. “In fact, that might be the easiest route.”

The hum of an “um…” Suguru barely managed to utter was eclipsed by the speed of her words.

“We weed out non-jujutsu sorcerers and make them adapt to a jujutsu sorcerer-based society. In
other words, forced evolution. Kinda like how birds grew wings. Using fear and danger as a
catalyst.”

Suguru heard that idea so loudly in his head, he might as well have screamed it. The fact that it
came so easily to him made him press his hands together all the more tightly. The whole thing
rotted his mouth with the taste of a curse. When had he become this way?

“But…” Yuki raised her hands into the air. The whole time, she was still smiling. Her eyes closed
in contentment. “…I ain’t that crazy. Do you hate non-jujutsu sorcerers… Geto?”

There was only so much shock someone could feel. That initial panic gave way and in the end, it all
felt hollow.
Suguru leaned into his hands, his shoulders slouching forward into the confession. “I don’t know.”

In some version of the world, Geto had elaborated on that thought. He’d allowed himself to openly
debate the selfishness of non-sorcerers. He resented the fact that their lack of self-control became
his burden, one that scarred and sacrificed sorcerers who simply wanted to help.

But not here. Here, he ignored the question completely to follow a different train of thought.

“If you were crazy, it would be temporary.” Suguru let his hand slide up his face, pushing through
the lock of his bangs. Setting his hand somewhere else helped him hide that it was trembling. “The
solution, not the insanity.”

Suguru let his hand fall back to his lap. His eyes stayed on the floor. It was easier to picture what he
meant if he didn’t look at Yuki.

“The second a non-sorcerer is born to sorcerers, it goes back where we started. Bloodline isn’t
ability. You’d be better off creating events of mass exposure, to forcibly awaken awareness. Then
do it again on a smaller scale when kids are born.”

Again, there was quiet. Suguru didn’t dare look up. Somehow, she’d come here raving about how
to make curses stop existing, and yet Suguru had managed to sound like the one who’d gone
insane.

Suguru was so busy looking down, he couldn’t see Yuki turn to him. What he could tell, even
without looking, was that she’d started to laugh.

“Non-sorcerers don’t start sensing cursed energy when it’s a sorcerer’s curse technique they see,
you know,” she said. He had, in fact, not known that, but he didn’t bother to say. “They only get
awareness if it’s a curse. Most sorcerers can’t control curses.”

Suguru’s expression leveled off, the panic turning cold, and the discomfort to certainty. “I could.”

“I know you could. That’s why I said most, curse eater.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you what? What you are?”

With a satisfied sigh, Yuki stood up from the bench. She raised her arms in a stretch. “You should
hurry up and graduate, Geto. No one higher-up gets this stuff. It sounds to me like you’ve got a
future as a no-good special grade.”

Suguru hadn’t known what to say to that. So, he’d said nothing. He walked Yuki to the front gates
in silence.

Unbeknownst to Suguru, there was a list of things they could have discussed but didn’t. He was so
sure he’d already said too much, it hadn’t seemed worth it to consider.

Yuki stepped onto her motorcycle. She wrapped herself around it while Suguru stayed at a distance.
As physically apart as they were, he could still see a glint in the red of her eyes.

“You know, I came here to meet Gojo. Tell him I said hi and all, but, I’m sorta glad it worked out
like this instead. Thanks to you, I've got a new theory to study."
“You’re welcome.”

“Just one last thing.” Yuki leaned against the handlebars of the motorcycle, swaying back towards
him again “And I’m not leaving until you answer. What kind of woman IS your type?”

Suguru's eyes shut with annoyance. “I told you before. You answer first.”

“I did answer.” Yuki shrugged. "I told you my name. That was your question. This one’s mine.”

Suguru stood there, his hands still in his pockets, staring her down as blankly as possible.

“Wait…” Yuki squinted at him, her eyebrows narrowing with suspicion. “I’m asking you the wrong
question, aren’t I?”

“You’re asking everyone the wrong question.”

“No, it’s usually the right question. Just not for you.”

Suguru answered with silence.

“So, Geto,” Yuki stretched across the bike to try and catch his eye all over. “What’s your type in
men?”

Just like that, the curtain of Suguru’s composure came crashing down. He stepped forward before
he knew he’d even moved. “What—“

Despite all that alarm, Yuki hadn’t shifted an inch. “Your type. Sorry I assumed you were straight
before. I should’ve known from the hair. It’s too stylish.”

“I haven’t brushed it in a week."

No amount of joking seemed to shake her from staring at him. Being put on the spot like this was
enough to make Suguru lower his head again. He pressed a hand against his forehead to shield his
eyes.

“If I tell you, will you go away?”

“Sure. I’ve got a plane to catch, anyway.” She raised an eyebrow. “It’s that kinky, huh?”

Suguru’s other hand pressed over his face, too. He let out a groan.

“Oh,” she raised on the motorcycle, swinging a leg back around so she was resting on the edge
instead of straddling it. The result let her face him. “I’m leaving, remember? I’m not gonna tell
him.”

“A caterpillar curse will eat you alive if you tell anyone.”

“Bold to think you can beat me. We might have to test that.” Yuki inched forward on the bike. Her
voice firmed. “I’m not going to tell. Promise. ‘What’s your type’ is way too important for that.”

The fact that sentence had very little sense in it would be a question for another time. It wasn’t
worth arguing now.
 Suguru took a long breath, one deep enough to feel his chest deflate. If the no-good special grade
could hear him talk about exposing billions of people to curses on purpose, she could hear this, too.

“He's loud. Obnoxious. Annoying,” he said through a sigh. “Tall, with pale hair. Won’t take
anything seriously if it can’t kill him, and nothing can kill him. He has strength he doesn’t know he
has. Something I never will. He's... outgrown me.”

“You know, whoever mister annoyingly obnoxious is?” Yuki stopped wagging her finger to point it
in Suguru’s face. “You should tell him how you feel."

"Annoyed."

"Nah. How you really feel. Take it from a senpai.”

“Ugh. He’d never shut up.”

“Does he ever? He’s obnoxious.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

Maybe it was that Suguru had already gone past shame with Yuki, or the fact he knew he wouldn’t
see her for a long time. Whatever the case, Suguru let his hands fall enough to stare back one last
time. He didn't bother to deny it.

“You think he outgrew you? You’re a special grade, kid. How much more than that can he be?
Don’t cockblock your own chance to be happy.”

“I—“ For the second time today, Suguru felt his words freeze. “What.”

Yuki grabbed the strap of her helmet, adjusting it one last time. “Like I said. Go tell Gojo I said hi.”

There was a version of the world where this conversation was the one Geto was left to consider
how he felt about non-sorcerers. That world wasn’t here. In this one, he was just a teenage boy,
faced with the weight of an entirely different kind of choice.

Chapter End Notes

Welcome! Thanks for coming to my fic. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, and that whatever you
guess is coming next, you’re still surprised.

Unless noted elsewhere, all art in the fic was created by me.

Comments and kudos are both very motivating, so if you’re feeling inclined, please leave
them. Hope to see you in the coming chapters!
 Divergence

Suguru Geto

It was an unusual day. For once, against most expectations, all three third years were in class.

Only by the standards of Jujutsu High would this classroom have been considered full. The three
desks, perfectly aligned at the front of the room, each held one second year. To the left was Shoko
Ieiri. A pen tapped at the edge of her mouth, angled down like a cigarette. To the right was the most
infuriating person possible, Satoru Gojo. He leaned into his hand, staring at something no one else
could spot.

Suguru sat in the middle. He hunched over his notebook, pen in hand. A lock of his hair dangled in
his face, the blur blocking his view of the letters.

“I need you all to pay attention. Even you, Gojo,” their teacher, Yaga, said. To most people, he’d
have looked intimidating. Most people weren’t Jujutsu Sorcerers. Even fewer were Satoru.

“What else would I do, Yaga-sensei?” Satoru asked back, sounding far too innocent to mean it.
“Aren’t you thinking of Ieiri?”

Shoko plucked the pen out of her mouth and pointed the tip at Satoru. “He said you. He meant
you.”

“Hah. Why wouldn’t I pay attention?” Satoru tilted in his chair, leaning so that he was resting only
on the back legs. “My attention has full pay with benefits.”

Their sensei slammed a hand against the table. “Stop goofing around!”

Satoru's glasses slid up the bridge of his nose, nearly falling from his face. His chair rocked forward
enough to hit Suguru’s desk. Suguru grabbed his notebook by the corner, pulling it towards himself.

A stillness settled back into the room. Yaga closed his eyes in frustration. He tapped at the
chalkboard. “Does anyone know why we don’t send any sorcerers below grade two on solo
missions?”

The room was silent. Shoko coughed into her sleeve.

Suguru stopped his pen. He didn’t look up from the page. “Because of potential errors in curse
classifications,” he said. “If a curse was graded incorrectly, it puts the sorcerer and non-sorcerer
bystanders at risk.”

Satisfied with the answer, Yaga looked to the rest of the class. “Why does that put the sorcerer at
risk?”

This time, Shoko answered. “Because they could die.” The “Duh,” that followed was much quieter.

“Why else?”
The silence continued. Shoko tried again. “If non-sorcerers become more frightened, it makes more
curses…?”

Suguru’s pen returned to the page, examining the words he’d written for the header. ‘Best Options’.
They’d been sitting in a lecture for half an hour already, and Suguru hadn’t taken a single note on
what Yaga had said. Instead, he’d made a list.

An apple pie from Aomori.

Strawberry daifuku from Osaka.
Mizu Manju from Gifu
Tokyo Banana in Marunouchi

At the base of the list, Suguru scrawled a new item. Sweet potato cakes from Amendoro, Sendagi.
He stared at the words between the lines. If he watched them long enough, maybe one of them
would start to stand out.

If Suguru was going to humiliate himself and confess his feelings, that was supposed to mean a
gesture. Not that Suguru was convinced he was going to confess to anything, but, in the very
hypothetical instance where he did try to talk to Satoru, it didn’t feel right to show up empty
handed.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

The class kept talking. Suguru hadn’t heard. He’d been off in his own world until he felt a warm
breath in his ear.

Suguru’s head snapped to the side, his whole body turning towards it. A pair of bright blue eyes
took him in. He didn’t need to look down to tell Satoru was smirking.

“I think Suguru can tell you,” Satoru teased. “Right? He took so many notes. The answer’s gotta be
in there.”

Suguru shifted his arms across the notebook, blocking the pages from sight. He smiled through his
concern. “I think Satoru can answer. He’s not that modest to keep ideas to himself.”

Yaga turned his back to everyone, then wrote on the board a few kanji in big, impossible-to-miss
letters. ‘Vengeful Curse Spirit’.

“What makes these different from other curse spirits?” Yaga asked, pointing aggressively at the
‘vengeful’ character on the board. “Don’t make it sound like we haven’t taught you.”

The silence stretched long enough for Suguru to feel Satoru look away. The tension washed out
enough for Suguru to piece together an answer.

“Non-imaginary vengeful curse spirits are born from people who are cursed when they die,” he
said. “They’re the only curses that were once alive. If a non-sorcerer is killed by a curse, they could
create a curse that wasn’t graded.”

Suguru expected a smile or at least some relief. Instead, the look he got was just as harsh as before.

“None of you see what I’m getting at, do you?” Yaga picked up his piece of chalk. He threw it
towards Satoru’s head, trying to catch his attention.
Knowing full well what was coming next, Suguru ducked in his seat. Sure enough, the chalk
bounced right off Satoru’s force field and jetted sideways. It hit Shoko in the side of the face.

The chalk plopped down to Shoko’s desk. Shoko snatched it in her fist and raised it like a threat.
“Gojo!”

Satoru raised a hand over his head and pointed to the front of the room. “Sensei! How could you
throw things at Shoko? So rude.”

Shoko balled her hand into a fist around the chalk. She wound up a pitch. “Stop being a jerk, we’re
in class!”

Again, Suguru slid back in his chair and ducked down. The chalk flew past his desk. At least Shoko
had the sense to aim her throw at Satoru’s desk instead of him directly. The chalk banked off the
wood, landing by Satoru’s arm. Satoru picked up the chalk, tossing it into the air and catching it
with an oblivious smile.

“All of you, stop!” Yaga smacked his hands into the desk again, forcing their attention forward.
“Think who turns into vengeful curse spirits most. Or did you all sleep through first year?”

Suguru’s hands folded across the page. He looked from one side to the other. For a second, even
Satoru wasn’t joking.

Satoru stood up from his chair. He stretched his arms over his head, cracking his neck to the side.
“There’s no way I’m gonna turn into a curse, so… class dismissed?”

Yaga crossed his arms. “Sit down, Gojo. This is serious.”

Suguru looked at Shoko. After all, she was the only one here that wasn’t classified as a special
grade. If Yaga had meant to call someone out, it was her.

“Are you okay?” Suguru whispered.

Shoko gave a pat to the edge of her hair. “Yeah. It’s not like chalk stains. I’m good.”

“Good.”

Knowing that, at least, was alright, Suguru faced the front of the room. His expression went cold
with comprehension. What a horrible lesson this was.

“The cursed energy a sorcerer keeps within them can transform them into a curse at death,” Suguru
explained as if reciting it from a book, “A sorcerer must be killed by Jujutsu. Failure to do so may
result in a vengeful curse spirit. This curse is often, but not always, the grade of the sorcerer from
which it was born.”

“There. That’s the answer.” Yaga crossed his arms, finally looking, if not satisfied, at least a little
less grumpy. “There’s a greater danger the lower your rank is, even when a mission’s for a lower
grade curse. When you die, another sorcerer has to perform jujutsu to end you. Once you can use
cursed energy, there’s no natural death. THAT is why we send lower ranks in pairs. If something
goes wrong, and cursed energy isn’t directly responsible for that death, someone else is there to
finish them.”
There was quiet in the room again, save for wind whistling through the cracks in the window
frame.

Shoko leaned to Suguru, her words lowering to a whisper. “That’s kind of awful, isn’t it?”

Suguru closed his eyes, blocking the other thoughts out. “It’s the duty of a sorcerer.”

“There you go, being reasonable again,” Satoru whispered from the other side. “Can’t you ever
just…”

Satoru’s voice trailed off. It gave Suguru time to lean in, raise a hand to his mouth, and whisper
“Not all of us are Satoru Gojo.”

In raising his hand and trying to lean in, Suguru didn’t realize what he’d left open to see until
Satoru’s glasses tipped down. Satoru let out a snicker, his nose wrinkling as he tried to stifle the
sound. “You’re missing Yoshino Kudzu mochi.”

The “what,” that came out of Suguru’s mouth was practically involuntary.

Satoru inched forward in his seat, leaning deeper over the edge of the desk. He pointed to the list,
using the chalk to make a mark on the second line from the bottom. “But the Tokyo Bananas are
great! Last time I got some, I saw one with a leopard print.”

“Gojo,” Shoko looked at him unamused. “Stop talking about food. This is serious.”

“I know,” Satoru reached for the corner of Suguru’s notebook, suppressing another snicker. Just as
his fingertip brushed the corner, Suguru slapped his hand down to shut the book on his hand.

“Gojo,” Yaga glowered. “You’re on cleaning duty. You’re making a mess of class, so you get to
clean it up.”

“That’s not a good idea, sensei.”

The audacity of it all was enough for Yaga to respond. “That’s not your call.”

Satoru spread his arms out and waved them across the classroom. “You know someone’s going to
pull me out with a mission. And then, while I’m away doing whatever, you’ll have to clean
instead!”

In most cases, it should’ve been easy to shut down. The problem with talking back to Satoru was
that he was right way too often. This was included. There weren’t a lot of times Satoru stayed on
campus for long.

Suguru looked back to the closed notebook. The facts were simple.

One, Suguru needed to talk to Satoru in private. Two, the opportunities to get private time with
Satoru were unpredictable and limited. Three, if Satoru was on cleaning duty, then, at least for the
next half an hour, his whereabouts were fixed.

Suguru raised a hand. He spoke before he was called. “I’ll join cleaning duty.”

Yaga squinted at Suguru.

Suguru lowered his hand, flattening it against the notebook. “I failed to de-escalate the situation
with my inattentiveness. I would like to take responsibility for that.”

Satoru stuck out his tongue in disgust, straight at Suguru. “Gross. Goody two feet. Here I thought
you were getting fun.”

As tempting as it was to point out the saying was ‘goody two shoes’, Suguru kept that to himself.
Somehow, it felt like that would’ve proved Satoru’s point.

“If the classroom isn’t clean, no missions for a week,” Yaga told them both. “You understand?”

As if that wouldn’t have been a relief.

“Yes, sensei.”

”Whatever.”

As if on a cue, a bell rang. What was left when the room went quiet was a glint in Satoru’s eye that
said if one of them was doing the work, it wasn’t going to be him.

True to the end-of-class bell, Shoko made short work of getting out of there. She’d left in such a
blur, that there’d been no chance to say goodbye. Yaga, for his part, made sure to find a mop, a rag,
and a bucket.

“Windows. Floor. Desk. Chalkboard. Clean everything.” Yaga dropped the bucket directly at
Satoru’s feet. A few drops of the water splashed off the invisible barrier back onto Yaga. “I mean
it.”

At the sight of it all, somehow, Satoru had decided to put on his biggest smile. “Then, I nice it!
Bye, sensei.”

Under his breath, Suguru whispered, “When are you nice?”

Despite the sour looks, the door still closed. In the end, it was just the two of them.

Suguru could imagine the things that he was supposed to say. He could see, so clearly, just how the
sunlight poured through the paper walls to highlight Satoru’s hair. The strands had a silver lining,
just like a raincloud. There was something so majestic about it. About him.

Suguru picked up the mop. He put his head down. “You can start with the window.”

Quietly, Suguru put the mop into the bucket. He turned the pole a few times. Each motion felt like a
reminder to himself of why to keep his mouth shut after all.

The person who’d brought this whole thing up had only known him for a day. Realistically, he and
Satoru were a terrible match. If Suguru put the slightest bit of thought into his situation, he had no
reason to even like Satoru. There was no good reason that the smile of a man who had just called
him ‘gross’ should make his heart stop.

A hand brushed over his, batting the mop. Suguru barely moved his foot in time to keep the bucket
from tipping. When he looked, he saw Satoru holding his notebook open to the list.
“Or… better plan! You can start by explaining what you’re doing with this!” Satoru turned the page
to show the list of options, his expression beaming with either joy or mockery. “What’s the
shopping list for?”

The question was sudden enough that Suguru shoved the mop against the floor. He pushed it
aggressively against the ground, turning his back to Satoru.

Watching or not, Suguru could hear the footsteps behind him. Satoru was following Suguru through
the room as he cleaned. Naturally, Satoru made no effort to clean himself.

“I’m surprised. It’s a pretty good list,” Satoru turned the corner. He grabbed a hand for the top of
the mop, which Suguru had to move away before he could tip it again. “...you missed a spot.”

“You missed the whole class.”

Suguru planted the mop in place. He turned around to look at Satoru head-on. Immediately, the
notebook was shoved into his chest.

“When did you get taste, huh? Did the expertise of Satoru Gojo finally rub off on you?” Satoru
picked a pen off his desk and added the Yoshino Kuzdu mochi to the list. “Sheesh… you’re making
me hungry."

Suguru stroked the mop against the floor. He looked away again. “Yuki Tsukumo came to see you.
You weren’t here. She sends her regards.”

“Tsukumo… Tsukumo…” Gojo leaned back against his desk, failing to remember.

“The special grade overseas.”

“Oh…” Satoru tilted his head. He looked down to the sheet, then back across the classroom. “...oh!
I see.” He hopped up on the desk, sitting along the ledge. “Impressing an older woman. Nice. Like
a “Stacy’s Mom” thing.”

Suguru felt a twitch in his eye. He turned back. “This isn’t about–”

“This isn’t about a love confession?” Satoru shook the notebook, rustling the pages dramatically.
“Because I saw the page before this one. There’s a lot about chocolate… and the closest thing I’ve
seen you eat to a truffle was a cursed slug!”

The mop fell straight out of Suguru’s hands. It hit the floor.

“You–”

“You should stop cleaning. Talk,” Satoru swung his legs at the edge of the desk. “Who’s the lucky
girl? Shoko? I’m not sure she’s into dudes, though.”

It almost felt worse that this wasn’t judgmental. So much of the time, Satoru sounded like he was
kidding about everything. This was sincere.

Suguru picked up the mop and propped it up against the wall. He stepped forward.

There was something vulnerable about it when there shouldn’t have been. Suguru stood at the edge
of Satoru’s desk and waited for a sign that would never come. His hand brushed the edge of the
wood. “Move over.”

“Psh.” Satoru shifted, balancing just enough to avoid knocking himself off the desk. “Come on,
bossy pants. Get.”

Suguru planted a foot on the open chair. He nestled himself up into the narrow space, joining him.
It took an odd twist to position himself so that they could both face each other.

Suguru let out a breath like a sigh. “There’s no girl.”

“Sure, sure,” Satoru reached over. His hand brushed Suguru’s shoulder, then pulled the tie out of
his hair bun. Before Suguru could make any effort to grab the tie, Satoru had bobbed back. His
hands clapped together in excitement. “Whoa! You’ve got so much of this stuff. Are you sure you
didn’t eat Sadako? It’s like the Ring back here.”

Suguru tried not to groan. “If I find Sadako, you’ll know.”

“So…” Satoru brushed through Suguru’s hair, drawing the stroke out along with the word. “This
girl.”

“There isn’t a girl.”

Suguru felt the brush of hands against his scalp. His now loose hair was pulled up into the sky as
Satoru made a sound effect. “Super Saiyan Suguru is here to claim his girlfriend!”

Suguru twisted around, reaching back to swat Satoru’s hand down. “There’s no girl!”

Satoru leaned back, sprawling across the desk comfortably to stare at the ceiling. “Okay! Sorry! I
got it. Woman. Older woman.”

“No. Stop thinking it’s Tsukumo.”

“Then tell me! Come on. I’m not going to care.” Satoru’s hands stroked through Suguru’s hair once
more. This time, it wasn’t a tug, just a gentle stroke of someone untangling the snarls. “Hm. How
about… Iori Utahime! She’s cute.”

“It’s not Iori,” Suguru insisted. “There’s no girl.”

“Mei Mei?” Satoru tipped his glasses, letting him stare openly back from over Suguru’s shoulder.
There was so much depth in that blue that it was unfair. “God, I hope it’s not Mei Mei. Your bank
account won’t survive.”

It wasn’t going to stop. That much was clear. If left on his own, Satoru was just going to keep
guessing. This moment, which had somehow already gone this wrong, was spiraling completely out
of control.

Suguru clutched the edge of the desk. He felt the surface shake in his grasp. In the end, he couldn’t
help but shout “You!”

The force of the one-syllable made Suguru quiet. Satoru, too, had shut up. It didn’t last for long. He
was still smiling, still oblivious.

“You, Satoru,” Suguru repeated, this time at a hush. “Idiot. You.”

 Turning Point

Suguru Geto

“You, Satoru. Idiot. You.”

Suguru wished he hadn’t said it. Not just to Satoru. To Tsukumo. To anyone.

The silence had a sting. Satoru’s hands, the ones that had been stroking his hair so absentmindedly
just seconds ago, went stiff. Suguru could still feel his fingertips at his scalp.

“Duh!” Satoru shook with a laugh. “My bad.”

Satoru slipped back off the desk, leaving Suguru to stand alone. The distance between them was so
short, just a few steps away, yet it was so much longer than just a second ago.

“Who wouldn’t love me? I love me, too! I’m the strongest, best dressed, coolest sorcerer there is.
Kachow!” Satoru snapped his fingers, then pointed them ahead, wielding dual finger guns in
Suguru’s direction. He winked.

This, Suguru realized, was the worst moment of his life. Of all the times Satoru had managed to
annoy him, not one of them had been quite this level of humiliating.

“Fine! Fine,” Satoru raised both hands into the air in mock surrender. “I give up. It’s your loss,
though. I’m a real hit with the ladies.”

It was the perfect moment to walk it back. Satoru was already joking. It should have been so easy
to come up with a lie. That was what Suguru should have wanted, wasn’t it? To spare himself the
shame?

In the end, Suguru said nothing. As he stood in that nothing, Satoru saw enough. A slow
understanding crept in.

“Oh.”

Exactly what you wanted to hear at the end of a love confession. Oh.

Somehow, for some reason, the first thing out of Suguru’s mouth was “sorry.”

Suguru looked down at the desk. His eyes settled on a carving in the top right corner. A smiley face
with sunglasses had been scratched into the wood. Even that looked like Satoru.

Suguru slapped his hand against his face and sighed. “Don’t mention this again.”

“Again?” Satoru’s voice spiked, excitement raising it so high that he squeaked. “How is it again? I
didn’t mention it yet!”

“You just did.”

“No, no, wait! What if I want to mention it?”

Suguru couldn’t bring himself to look. The best he could do was roll his eyes. “I know you do.
Don’t.”

All of the sudden, that distance between them had felt appealing. That, naturally, was the moment
that Satoru came charging right back in. He tipped his sunglasses off his face, sliding them into his
hair so he could look at Suguru straight on.

“But I want to know you love me!”

Satoru planted a hand on either side of the desk and leaned straight into what could have been
personal space, but was now anything but. The force of Satoru’s grip nearly knocked the desk over.
The best Suguru could do was shift on the desk, stuck there.

It was rare for the mess Suguru was in to be so clearly his fault.

“Stop.” Suguru still hadn’t looked. His eyes squinted shut, wincing with frustration.

“Wait, was this why you looked sick before?”

“I mean it. Stop.”

The hand on Suguru’s leg moved up. Satoru brushed at the stray lock of Suguru’s hair, batting it
aside. “That’s a thing, right? Lovesickness? Like cooties.”

“Satoru.” Suguru’s expression darkened with the start of a glare. “If sorcerers made new curses, I’d
have made one right now. Let it go.”

For all of the warnings Suguru was trying to give off, there was nothing but a challenge in Satoru’s
stare. “If you want me to shut up, kiss me,” Satoru said. “Otherwise… nah. Not feeling it.”

A sudden awareness of exactly how they’d been sprawled out came back to mind. In Satoru’s
efforts to crawl on the desk, and Suguru not to have himself fall off, Satoru was one slight shift
from straddling Suguru.

The trouble wasn’t just that. It was that mischief in Satoru’s eyes–the uncertainty that even this
might be a joke. In the end, the best counter to Satoru was pure logic.

“Your limitless is on. I would bounce off your face.”

“Bet?”

Somehow, that didn’t help. It just sounded like a trap.

Satoru’s hand strayed. His fingers pinched at one of Suguru’s earlobes, running a thumb across the
black bead of his gauge. They were touching. Satoru’s infinity was down.

That realization had just entered Suguru’s mind when he saw Satoru close his eyes. His lips
brushed against Suguru’s, the approach so quick that Suguru’s eyes were still open to see. At first.

Suguru reached out, hands gripping quickly for Satoru’s back. He angled his head, turning to create
space to breathe. Though Satoru had stopped talking, this wasn’t silence. The movement of his lips
had something else to say.
Suguru leaned back against the desk, making room for Satoru to invade. He did. They pulled
together until they’d run out of air. Even when they parted, the distance stayed close. Satoru’s hand
lingered, cupping his cheek.

The breathless rush left Suguru gaping, undignified, stunned at the aftermath of something that
shouldn’t have happened. At the very least, it shouldn’t have happened in this order. His hair had
found new tangles, sticking up oddly at the back.

Satoru pulled at a rogue curl on Suguru’s hair, lifting it. “Look! Sexy porcupine.”

Of all the things Suguru should have said, for some reason what came out was a baffled “thank
you.”

“You’re welcome.” Satoru gave a pat to the curl, flattening it. “Any time.”

A sense of self-consciousness started to rise, and with it, the realization of something else. Suguru
didn’t know he was going to say it until he already had. “I must taste like a curse.”

Satoru flicked at his ear. “But a good curse! Like fuck.”

“What–” Suguru pulled back just enough to try and look Satoru in the eye in confusion. “What
would ‘fuck’ taste like?”

“I dunno. You?”

“I meant a cursed spirit,” Suguru corrected. “Not a curse word.”

“Mmmm… I like mine more,” Satoru grinned proudly. “It made mister righteous say fuck.”

If only he knew. The way Satoru had been growing, off on his own, had made him miss the rest of
what had changed. Suguru let his head fall, his shoulders shifting down with shame. No matter
what admiration was in that joke, it left Suguru with the weight of doubt.

“I’m not as infallible as you think. Some moral pillar for sorcery. That’s not me.” Suguru’s hand
crept across the table. His fingers brushed the skin on top of his friend’s. “I miss you. Satoru.”

“What’s there to miss? I’m right here.”

It was another innocuous question where the answer felt heavier than it should have. “...Working
together, for one,” Suguru let himself return the hold, their fingers intertwining. “Being on
missions. You’re off on your own, all the time. So am I. It just keeps going. Endless.”

Satoru didn’t say anything. The silence was permission to talk. Suguru felt the words twist. This,
not some mention of love, was the real confession.

“I used to think our duty was like a marathon. You trained. Paced yourself to the finish line. Except
there is no finish line. I can’t see it anymore,” Suguru admitted. Each word felt heavier than the
last. “Like, is being a sorcerer even what I want? Or is it just what I was told I was supposed to
do?”

“Oh, it’s definitely what you were told to do,” Satoru said. “You’re always talking just like the
bigwigs. It’s annoying.”
“You’re annoying.”

“Oh, thank God!” Satoru’s fingers wove between Suguru’s. For all of the joking words, his hands
were warm, firm, and steady. “You’ve gotta be selfish, Suguru. It’s your power. Use it how you
want. Not how some old windbags think we’re supposed to.”

Suguru turned his hand against Satoru’s. Whatever thoughts came to mind of pulling away, they
twisted in consideration.

“Maybe,” Suguru whispered. “She acts like that, too.”

“She?”

“Yuki Tsukumo. The one who doesn’t take missions.”

“Ah! So that’s what the Tsukumo talk was about!” Satoru nudged forward on the desk, deeper into
Suguru’s personal space. “She beat me to ruining you!”

Of all the things he should have said, or done, the most Suguru could muster was a bow of his head.
“I think there’s plenty left to ruin.”

“Gotcha. Gotcha. Well, then, if we’re on this road trip to ruin town, let’s start with slacking off.”

Satoru let go of Suguru’s hand, allowing Suguru to finally put it back down. Just as Suguru’s hand
found a spot to settle in his lap, Satoru’s touch slid up. His classmate’s hand nudged his shoulder to
turn him. Before long, they were facing in the same direction.

It was such an odd feeling. Suguru couldn’t place the last time he’d sensed this. No urgency, no
place to be, just adrift in the touch of someone he trusted.

Satoru’s hands raked through Suguru’s hair. “I could bleach this.”

“Satoru. I didn’t mean ruin my hair .”

“That’s your fault you weren’t specific! I’m thinking… hm… how about pink?”

Though he could have looked back, could have argued, instead, Suguru let his hands stray to the
edge of the desk. He leaned back to Satoru’s touch and watched the ceiling. He felt the rhythm of
Satoru braiding his hair lull him back to calm.

“Do you ever think back to what you asked me?” Suguru asked, “At the Time Vessel Association?”

Satoru shrugged. “Eh… nah. You know me. Why spend time thinking? I wait enough, you’ll do it
for me.”

“You asked me if I wanted to kill them. The cultists. I’m… not sure I gave the right answer.”

A weight pressed into Suguru’s shoulder. Satoru had set his chin there, using Suguru’s body to rest.
He deflated with a sigh. “I bet that’d mean a lot more if I over-thought things like you. But–”

Footsteps raced down the hall. A hand slammed against the door. “GOJO–”
Suguru’s skin went pale, his hands breaking into a cold sweat, at the horror of who had just walked
into this room. It was an open door, after all. Shoko was marching inside.

Suguru slid off the desk as quickly as possible, disentangling himself with a rigidity that was
clearly guilty. Satoru, for his part, had just folded his legs on the desk, looking casual as ever. He
raised a hand to wave. “Hey, Shoko. What’s shaking?”

Suguru had expected to see anger from Shoko, or maybe some kind of shock. But, now that he was
watching Shoko directly, he could spot that there was a lit cigarette tucked behind her ear. The
volume she’d first shouted with wasn't from annoyance. It was urgency.

“Yaga needs you! Us!” Shoko marched over, reaching for Gojo. Her hand opened wide, yet, she’d
only been able to snatch air. The infinity was back up, but that hadn’t stopped her from trying. “Get
off your butt and get here, now!”

“Us?” Satoru climbed off the desk like he was dismounting a horse. “Class is over. He shouldn’t
need you.”

“It’s not for class, stupid,” Shoko snapped. Satoru grabbed his sunglasses off the floor, seemingly
ignoring her. “It’s Nanami and Haibara! You have to take their mission–”

While Shoko was busy watching Satoru, Suguru drew close to Shoko. He took the cigarette from
behind her ear and held it away from himself. The smoke still rose between his fingers. It wasn’t
until Shoko spotted the blur beside her face that she realized he was there.

The look she gave him was enough for Suguru to whisper in concern. “I didn’t want it to burn
you.”

Pausing, even for that second, made Shoko’s expression twist. “Haibara is dead. They need Gojo to
take the mission. I don’t have time to argue. I have to heal Nanami before– So just…”

Shoko snatched the cigarette back from Suguru’s hand. She took a drag in a huff.

Pressure slipped around his fingers. The hand Suguru had left extended, where Shoko’s cigarette
had been, was snatched from the air. Satoru’s grip pulled Suguru forward through the hallway.

“Let’s go.”

Suguru could hear Shoko behind them, now, her footsteps close to matching pace. “Yaga-sensei
didn’t ask for Geto!”

The squeak of their school shoes scraped at the floor. Satoru raised his free hand wide and signaled
back in a wave.

“It’s a two-for-one sorcerer sale today!” Satoru shouted back. “He gets both or nothing!”

The thought of where they were going should have been first. Whatever curse was out there, it had
killed Haibara. This wasn’t a random assignment. It was an emergency that had already taken a
classmate’s life. There was no reasonable justification to run through this hallway, heart racing,
with anything but dread or mourning. Yet, despite reason, anger, or loss, the first thing Suguru felt
wasn’t the sadness of an underclassman stolen too soon. What Suguru felt first was Satoru’s pulse
through his hand.
“You don’t get to miss me today. You got that, Suguru?” Satoru asked over his shoulder, a grin on
his face.

Suguru lengthened his stride. He charged ahead, pulling himself to run not behind, but beside,
Satoru.

“Okay.”

“Oh, and when we get back, you owe me those Tokyo Bananas! Extra filling.”

With Satoru’s hand gripping tight to his own, Suguru rushed to a new unknown. Whatever it was
that had taken Haibara from the world, they would face it together.

That was the answer that Suguru Geto chose. He could dislike non-sorcerers, maybe even hate
them, but that hatred could be eclipsed by the sorcerers he cared for.

Little did this Suguru know there was another version of his universe. In that world, the legacy of
Suguru Geto was little more than a desecration. What Suguru knew even less was what his own
choice had done. By taking Satoru’s hand–by choosing to care–Suguru had created a new path.

In seven years, Kyoto, Japan would no longer exist as a holy land for sorcerers. It would be a
wasteland, rendered near uninhabitable for reasons science could never explain. The person
responsible was special grade curse user Satoru Gojo.

The flip of a coin. The turn of a hand. Sometimes, all it took was one thing.
 Normal
Chapter Notes

Please note that while the Shibuya incident is canon to the “first timeline” for this fic,
everything immediately after Shibuya is not. I follow the English manga release in the graphic
novel format, and it hadn’t gotten that far at the time this was written.

Yuji Itadori

March 2019

Grand Cinema Sunshine, Ikebukuro, Tokyo

Yuji had lost track of how many people were gone. The months since Shibuya had all been foggy.
The Jujutsu world had been in disarray since Gojo’s disappearance in the prison realm. Despite that
feeling that everything should have stopped when Gojo was captured, there wasn’t time to stop.

No matter how many people Yuji saw die, or how often he wondered why he was still here, in the
end, there was only one thing Yuji could tell himself. No matter what, Yuji had to keep going. He
had to be normal. Positive. Okay.

It had been easier when that list of the dead was as short as his grandfather’s name. Every day,
there was another person on the list, another friend gone.

‘Be normal,’ Yuji repeated, a mantra in his head, ‘Keep going. They’ll be mad if you mope around.’

As far as Yuji knew, no one was trying to kill him that day, so Yuji had asked an old friend to hang
out. His old classmate, Ozawa, had been happy to meet up with him.

First—with some persuasion on his part—Yuji and Ozawa snuck into a pachinko parlor. Then,
they’d grabbed some grub at a diner. Now, they’d made it to the movies. As far as descriptions
went, it was exactly the kind of day Yuji had been looking for.

A few bags of prizes rest under the seats. A bucket of popcorn was nestled between their arm rests.
Spider man was moving across the screen, chasing villains through the animated streets of New
York.

Yuji peeked across the popcorn, away from the screen, to Ozawa. What he expected was to see her
watching the movie. Instead, she turned to him. When she caught his eye, her expression shifted
from pleasantly happy to concerned.

Suddenly embarrassed, Yuji started to pull back in his seat. He could only hope his nervous laugh
sounded like a regular one.

Despite his attempt to shrink away, Ozawa leaned towards Yuji. “Do you not like the movie…?”

“Yeah–” Yuji had started to answer, only to realize what he’d said. He pointed up towards the
screen. “I mean, no, no, it’s awesome.”

“You’re sure?,” Ozawa whispered. “You look upset.”

“No, it’s really cool, I swear,” Yuji forced his smile just a little bit wider, as if that would prove he
meant it. “Do you like it?”

Ozawa bobbed her head. They both went quiet. They turned to the screen.

The colors from the projector cast over their faces in the dark room. Yuji reached his hand back
down, to grab a handful from the popcorn bucket. Ozawa did, too. He felt their hands brush under
the surface of the popcorn.

Just as Yuji was finally settled in his seat, a tingle burned beneath his right eye. A set of teeth
forged out of nothing as a second mouth sprouted over his cheek to mock him. “Your friends
deserved to die.”

Yuji snapped his hand out of the bucket. The pull was so quick that it sent popcorn flying into his
face. His palm smacked over his cheek to block Sukuna.

Ozawa turned in her seat, again, towards Yuji. Her hand, too, pulled away from the popcorn. She
reached towards him. “Itadori–”

Yuji turned into the headrest, facing away from Ozawa.

“It’s nothing…!” Yuji tried to insist. “I– ow–” The feeling of very sharp teeth sinking into his hand
made him wince. Still, he kept his palm pressed over Sukuna’s mouth.

The tingling feeling shifted. The dorsal side of Yuji’s hand started to burn as a pair of lips began to
form there, next.

Yuji stood up. The bags of prizes crumpled as he almost tripped over them. In the end, the only
excuse he could come up with was “bathroom–”

When Yuji looked back, he saw Ozawa start to stand, too. “I’ll come–”

“No! No, it’s–” Yuji grabbed his right hand with his left, covering Sukuna’s new mouth. Though he
could muffle any physical sound, that didn’t stop the words in his head.

“You brat, do you still not understand? All you’ve done is find new victims. If not for me, then for
the curses you fight.”

“You’ve gotta tell me what I miss, okay?” Yuji whispered between the taunts, more strained than
before. “Be right back…!”

With that, Yuji ducked his head down. There was no time to think. The best he could do was run.

With Yuji’s speed, it was barely a second for him to reach the exit. In that second, he had already
felt the tingling shift. His game of whack-a-curse on his own face ended with a miss as Sukuna’s
voice sounded right beside Yuji’s ear.

“When she dies, maybe this one can scream.”

Yuji didn’t answer. He just shoved his way into the hall.

The light of the theater lobby washed over his face. The faces of wandering theatergoers blurred
together in a mass. Those normal, wandering people, having their normal lives, couldn’t be Yuji’s
concern anymore. All he could do was avoid them in his sprint out.

The men’s bathroom had been close enough so that he managed to make it without hitting anyone.
Yuji let out a breath as he locked himself in a stall.

His reflection shone off the metal doors. The look on his face was one he would have rather not
seen. Despite the fact they’d been nowhere near a battle, or anything truly strenuous at all, a layer
of sweat had formed over his forehead. Sukuna’s mouth had receded. Still, Yuji heard him cackle.

“I thought the girl had more spunk. I should know better. In the end, they’re all pathetic, those
jujutsu sorcerers.”

“Shut up,” Yuji mumbled to the reflection.

The laugh spiked in his head. “Why would I?”

Yuji’s hand balled into a fist. He smashed the metal door. The force of his hand left an indent,
distorting the reflection of his face into a crumpled smudge. He looked down at the toilet.

Well. He was in here. He might as well go.

With another breath, Yuji unbuckled his pants. He situated himself above the standing toilet. For all
the other torment he’d been put through, at least even Sukuna had the decency to shut up when Yuji
was taking a crap.

He was pulling his boxers back into place when he heard something on the other side. A faucet
turned on. Another toilet flushed. At first listen, it was all just part of the stunning ambiance that
was a public toilet. Between all the other sounds, Yuji almost didn’t notice the last one.

A pointed whisper, not quite masculine or feminine, trickled between the pulses of water from the
sink. “Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure.”

Yuji wasn’t sure if Sukuna had spoken, or if Yuji had imagined it. He only heard the words in his
head. “It’s all your fault.”

The sound of the water flowing started to slow. A flicker passed across the overhead lights, the
whites and grays of the bathroom tinted with splotches of green, then a rich purple, so pure and
deep that it was almost black. In the time it took for Yuji to process what he was seeing, the
smallest curtain he had ever seen encircled the bathroom.

The fluorescent lights overhead struggled against the forced darkness. A strobe effect cast across
the space. A few round spheres with wings that ended in talons crawled across the top of the stall,
watching Yuji.

As soon as Yuji spotted one of the curses, it scurried to the other side of the wall. He could hear the
metal of the adjacent stall start rattling. Not only were there curses, but they were hiding.

Yuji leaned against the stall door. Both eyes on the right side of his face stared through the crevice
between the door and the wall, looking for something.

Before Yuji could process that there was a light charging towards him, a translucent blue glow
pierced through that crevice, straight into his eye. The blue flashed across his vision as he flinched
back. The burst of cursed energy had sunk into his eye.

Light spots started to form his eye. Still, sight or not, Yuji only saw one option. He shoved through
the door.

“Hey!” Yuji tried to open his eyes in a squint. The blue light of the blast was still warping his sight.
“I’m a sorcerer, too! Don’t–”

Whatever it was Yuji expected to see between the blurry spots, it wasn’t what was there.

A pair of scarlet martial arts slippers curled over the ledge of the sink. One foot tapped across the
edge. He looked up.

The figure before Yuji stood tall in a long Tang suit, a deep scarlet with ivory trim. Long black hair,
tied in a loop, draped over their right shoulder. Their eyebrows had a peculiar notch, one that made
them look almost like how a child would draw a bird in the distance. On each side, the back of their
hands bore a tattoo of an eye.

And none of that mattered, because from what Yuji could see, they were holding Ozawa by the
neck, strangling her.
A flare of cursed energy balled in Yuji’s hand. He leapt forward, first first, and jumped the distance
from the floor to the counter to slug the stranger in the face. In the time it took to blink, Yuji’s fist
plunged into the surface of what should have been skin.

What should have been. It wasn’t.

The blue spots in Yuji’s eyes warped. The overhead lights flickered. A shower of glass burst out
from the bathroom mirror, leaving fragments where his fist plunged through. Specs of drywall
fluttered into the still running water in the spot where Yuji now stood, alone, with one foot on either
side of the sink.

The other person wasn’t there. Yuji couldn’t see them or Ozawa in the shattered reflection. He
clenched his fist and turned into the darkness.

“Ozawa!” Yuji shouted. Nothing answered.

The stream of running water spilled over the edge of the sink, dripping like a small waterfall. Yuji
stepped off the edge of the counter, landing on the floor. Glass shards crunched under his feet.

“Ozawa!”

The metal hinge squeaked on a door. The sound came from the same stall Yuji had been in.

Yuji pivoted towards the noise. The lights flickered back on just in time to see both Ozawa and the
stranger between the walls of an open stall. Ozawa’s body lay limp in the stranger’s arms. The
tattoo on the back of the stranger’s hand seemed to glow green from the glove of cursed energy
surrounding it.

“You may want to spare the shouting,” the stranger spoke. “It’s kinder she’s asleep.”

Yuji didn’t let them finish the thought. Instead, Yuji rushed them. He kicked low to hook his leg
around the stranger’s feet and knock them over from behind.

The momentum of Yuji’s kick should have hit. Yuji never saw the stranger move. Yet, somehow, at
the second when Yuji should have hit a leg, his kick kept going. Yuji’s leg smashed into the tile. He
caught his balance on the back of the toilet.

Yuji snapped his head from side to side, looking for the target. Again, he saw spots of blue in his
eyes. He blinked past them and squinted towards the wreckage. Though he couldn’t find a specific
point to focus on, he shouted into the room anyway. “You’re not going to hurt Ozawa!”

“I have no intention of hurting Ozawa-san,” the stranger answered. “I have no intention to harm
anyone who does not themselves cause harm.”

As striking as those words could have been, it wasn’t just the tone of voice Yuji picked up on. It
was the direction. That sorcerer was on the other side of the wall.

On instinct, Yuji jumped. He grabbed the top of the wall on the stall he was on, angled himself, and
vaulted to the other side. As soon as he’d crashed into the space, he aimed a kick in mid-air,
angling his heel into the stranger’s head. The tattooed sorcerer slipped aside. Their back pressed
against the stall door.
It wasn’t until Yuji landed that he spotted not just what he’d missed hitting, but what was missing
completely. Ozawa wasn’t in the stall.

Yuji’s eyes sharpened to a glare. “Where’s Ozawa?”

The curved eyebrows of the stranger’s face lay flat, in flawless composure. “Perfectly safe, so long
as you remain calm.” The strange sorcerer’s eyes slanted down so far that they nearly closed. Under
this light, their eyes looked green, but a sickly reflection of the shade that made it clear that wasn’t
their true color. “Itadori Yuji. Vessel of Sukuna. I regret to inform you that the stay on your
execution has been rescinded.”

“My– what–” Yuji’s words and his fury paused, if only out of confusion. “What does that have to
do with Ozawa?”

“For Ozawa, it means nothing.” The strange sorcerer in front of Yuji raised their hand. The same
thin glove of cursed energy rippled across their fingers as their hand reached for his shoulder. “For
you, Itadori, it means this is where you die.”

“No.” Yuji stepped back. His hands raised again, bracing to fight. “We’re not done. I’m not done.
We haven’t gotten all the fingers. Sukuna can come back.”

The other sorcerer stepped forward, matching Yuji’s pace. “Your continued existence is a far
greater threat than the remaining appendages, Itadori-san.”

“No–” Yuji stuttered, scrambling to catch up with himself. “Fushiguro. Okkotsu. Everyone. They
wouldn’t agr–”

Whatever words Yuji meant to voice next turned to a wheeze. In the time Yuji spent trying to talk
his way out, a knife pierced through his back.

Yuji’s posture collapsed. His eyes snapped shut. There was no cursed energy in this wound. The
impact made him stumble, nearly crashing to the floor.

The stranger’s voice still sounded. Each word still rang with a chill of conviction. “The wills of
stray children have no sway on me.”

Only now, when Yuji’s eyes were closed and the room had gone dark, could he see what had
happened from the beginning. The cursed energy of this stranger wasn’t standing near him at all.
The stranger’s energy was at the other side of the room, at a distance. Each time Yuji failed to land
a blow, it was because he’d watched where to move instead of trying to sense it. That blue flash
must have been a cursed technique.

The knife lay still in Yuji’s back. There was still weight on it. A new, jabbing pain pressed in as the
blade twisted. Someone’s hand was at his back. The stranger had finally moved to stand behind
Yuji.

And that meant, for the first time in this whole fight, Yuji knew where to aim.

As the knife twisted, Yuji twisted, too. His left leg hooked below, entwining himself around the
stranger. His foot smashed into their ankle with as much force as he could muster, knocking them
off balance.
The stranger’s hand tightened around the knife, extracting it. The air hitting the open wound, and
the blood that followed, was a different kind of pain. Yuji was bleeding. He didn’t care.

While the stranger’s hands were occupied, and more importantly, raised, Yuji had an open shot. He
let himself start to fall, adjusting the angle he was standing at to a crouch. His other leg launched up
while his hands pressed against the ground, giving Yuji just enough momentum to smash the
stranger in the side of the chest.

That first hit could, and even should, have sent the stranger flying. Before that could happen, Yuji
grabbed them with his other hand. He didn’t open his eyes to punch. All he did was aim. Yuji’s fist
connected, and then, a fraction of a second later, his cursed energy did the same. The rip of a black
flash’s impact was enough to knock the stranger straight into the back wall.

Only after the hit had landed did Yuji feel the glass still embedded in his fist. He pressed his other
hand over the top, brushing shards and debris from the back of his hand.

Even with his eyes closed, Yuji could see the light stop flickering. The curtain gave way, the
unnatural but stable, fluorescent lights of the bathroom pushing through Yuji’s eyelids. Something
else was coming in.

A new burst of cursed energy reinforced Yuji’s hands. He raised his fists and slid into a stance to
parry. Whoever this new sorcerer running in was, Yuji wouldn’t let them take him by surprise.

Except he was surprised. That burst of cursed energy didn’t run at him at all. They sprinted straight
past him to the other side.

“Yun!” It was a girl’s voice. Not a woman, even. A girl.

Yuji opened his eyes.

The stranger in scarlet was sprawled across the floor. What state they were in was mostly obscured
by the girl kneeling next to them. The new arrival had long, wildly curly brown pigtails, and
bandages wrapping her legs. The coverings were spotted with blood. Not only was her back turned,
she was trembling.

“Yun. Stay conscious. Yun,” The girls’ hand reached towards the crumpled figure of that other
sorcerer, brushing their hair from their face with care. “I’m here, Yun. I’m right here. Please…”

Yuji raised a foot over the rubble. What little he could have seen of himself in the mirror was an
obvious mess, but he was alive. No one was attacking him. This should have been over. It was
over… except for the part where he could still hear the pleading on the other side of the bathroom.

A faint glow reflected in the mirror from the back of the room. The sorcerer who had attacked Yuji
was writhing on the floor. They were trying to apply cursed energy to something. It looked like
some attempt at a reverse curse technique. It wasn’t working.

The sorcerer who had attacked Yuji bobbed their head through the strain. The girl shook hers, the
wild curls of her hair scattering.

“No… no,” she whimpered, wiping the side of their face with a gloved hand. “Grandfather will
understand. The important thing is that you come home.”
“Remember your duty, Riku. All clouds fade,” the stranger–Yun–groaned, forcing the words
despite their weakness. “All rain falls. We do as we are called.”

“Then you’re called to stay. You stay.” The girl’s voice cracked, growing weaker, softer. “Don’t do
this, Yun.” She bowed into Yun’s form, her hair draping across them. The brown of her curls
stained red with Yun’s blood.

There shouldn’t have been a reason to feel guilty about this. Yuji had been the one attacked out of
nowhere. He had every reason to leave.

Yuji stifled a groan of his own as he stopped at the door. Despite himself, he did exactly the thing
he knew better than to do. He looked over his shoulder to the girl.

“Sorry.”

The sound of Yuji’s voice made Riku jolt upright. She pushed her hands against the floor, obviously
startled. The same curse mark on Yun’s hands was embedded on her forehead. Her silver eyes had
reddened with tears.

Again. Someone was crying because of Yuji. Someone was dying because of him.

“He was going to hurt my friend,” Yuji said. Whether he meant to convince Riku, or himself, he
wasn’t sure. “I can’t die yet. When I do, I’m taking Sukuna with me. That’s how I save people. So.
I can’t.”

Riku had looked up towards Yuji, yet she didn’t speak. All she did was stare in pain.

The body beside Riku continued to writhe. The last glow of Yun’s trying to piece themselves
together faded from their hand in favor of something else. They pushed a cube across the ground.

“Riku,” they whispered. “Plan B.”

With his head held low, and a new throb through the wound in his back, Yuji headed for the door.
He wondered how he was supposed to explain this to Ozawa. If what that Yun person had made
Yuji see was all a curse technique, then Ozawa was probably safe back in the theater.

Yuji’s foot hit the border between the bathroom and the hall, where the curtain had once been. Just
as he was going to step past it, he heard a voice. A voice he hadn’t heard in a long time.

“Sheesh! Who knew a hellscape could be this boring?!”

There was no face, no blindfold, but Yuji knew who that voice was. He turned. “Gojo-sensei–?”

A part of Yuji expected to see the smiling face of his overconfident teacher right next to him. He
wasn’t. There was no other sign of Gojo.

What was in sight, instead, was the pigtailed brunette with blood stains in her hair. Riku was
cradling a cursed cube in her gloved hand. The bare fingertip of her other hand brushed across the
stitching on the side.

“That’s… the thing Gojo-sensei’s inside.” Though Yuji didn’t know the name, that didn’t stop the
flash of excitement from taking over his face. “Where did you get that? How–?”
Whatever the answer should have been, Yuji didn’t get one. Instead, Riku looked down. She
blinked the tears from her eyes, then set them firmly ahead.

“The back gate of the Prison Realm. If I ask, it will open for me.”

“You– what–” Whatever pain Yuji was in was eclipsed by that sudden rush of surprise. “You can
talk to it? Like it chats and stuff?”

“Not talk, no,” Riku shook her head lightly, her eyes never leaving Yuji’s as she did, “But I may
disrupt its bindings to disable it.”

“And…! And that’ll let Gojo-sensei out, right? … But that cube thing was supposed to be locked
without some cursed tool, or… something...”

“I’m a nullifier,” though Riku’s words were weighed with sadness, she sounded genuine. “My
technique would break the seal.”

“Wow!” Yuji exclaimed. “Wow, that would help so much! You’ve gotta do that—“

It was like seeing the answer to a question you didn’t know you had. For months, the Jujutsu world
had been in chaos. Most of that chaos could be connected to the disappearance of Satoru Gojo. The
fact that chaos could end like this, between two bloodied sorcerers in a public men’s toilet, didn’t
matter as long as it was true.

“Gojo-sama would be a great help to the community,” Riku noted quietly, “To all non-sorcerers, as
well.”

“Yeah!” Yuji agreed, still in awe. “Obviously. So you should do it. I mean, even if you stole that
box thing, no one’s gonna care once he’s back…!”

“Then you understand the value of this proposal?”

“Uh-huh,” Yuji nodded. “Totally.”

Yuji put a hand on Riku’s shoulder. His thumb brushed bare skin on her neck. The cursed energy
he’d been keeping ready at that hand extinguished at the touch. He closed his eyes. The feeling
didn't change. This, unlike that fight, seemed real.

“Whoa–” Yuji took his hand back towards himself, and watched the inverse happen. His cursed
energy welled right back up again, steady as ever. The blue glow of his energy bounced off the
silver of her eyes.

Riku’s bare hand extended, the way someone might offer a shake. “Then I offer a trade, Itadori-san.
The life of the Sukuna vessel for the release of Satoru Gojo-sama.”

And just like that, as quickly as the cursed energy had turned off at her touch, Yuji’s excitement
vanished, too.

“But,” Yuji stepped back. He pointed to himself. “ I’m the Sukuna vessel.”

Riku nodded.

“You…” Yuji’s face went blank. “You still want me to die?”

 Prison Realm Super-Collider

Yuji Itadori

“But,” Yuji stepped back. He pointed to himself. “I’m the Sukuna vessel.”

Riku nodded.

“You… you still want me to die?”

Riku lowered her head. Her hair draped down in such a way that it covered the back of the gate.
“Any presence of Sukuna is too dangerous to leave unregulated. The aftermath of Shibuya should
serve proof of that.”

“But–” Yuji stammered. “But then Sukuna just comes back, right? Seals don’t work forever.
Besides, if Gojo’s around, he can totally take out Sukuna!”

“With due respect, were Gojo-sama alone capable of regulating your vessel, you would not stand
here while he rests beyond.” Riku curled forward, her posture moving into a mournful bow. “If
saving lives is what you seek, then this is the clearest path.”

The way Riku spoke was so sad, like even she didn’t want this to be true. Despite the pain in his
back, her presence and posture made Yuji go still.

“Is that really how I save the most people?” Yuji meant the question for himself, yet, he got an
answer. Riku nodded solemnly.
“Would I get to say goodbye?” Yuji asked, his voice growing softer. “Fushiguro would be alone.”

Riku said nothing.

“I–” Yuji clenched his fist again. A few shards of glass shone beneath the overhead lights. “Why
can’t you just open the box? Let Gojo-sensei out? He really can help! I swear!”

It was the girl’s turn to step away. Her silvery stare went cold, sinking into Yuji. It was less like he
was being watched by a person than by a porcelain doll.

“Gojo-sama has shown far too much favoritism,” she said. “He will spare you despite the risk. Is
that truly the existence you want, Itadori-san, for others to lose their lives in your name?”

“I–”

Yuji didn’t know how to argue that. The most he could do was go silent.

That was the first problem. There were two.

In how intently Yuji had been watching Riku, something else had fallen to the wayside. For as long
as Yuji had been watching the back of the prison gate in Riku’s grasp, Yuji hadn’t been watching
Yun.

The reversed curse technique, mangled as it may have been when they'd first tried, had been just
effective enough that it allowed Yun to stand. Their curse marked hands pulled together, their
fingers twisting into shape as they started the mantra again. “Emerge from the darkness, blacker
than darkness. Purify that which is impure.”

In seconds, a curtain covered the door. Yuji’s shoulder bounced off the edge, shoved back into the
bathroom. He barely had time to register what had happened when a strip of blue light the size of a
needle shot towards his head.

Yuji ducked against the floor, covering his face. The glass of the broken mirror slid across the floor
as his leg outstretched. He could register, however faintly, that the sliver of cursed energy had come
from Yun.

The blue light of Yun's curse technique ricocheted. A ripple cast across the curtain, sending the
light right back into Yun’s palm. The curse mark at the back of Yun's hand seemed to glow from the
impact.

Yuji followed his own momentum to land against the wall into a crouch. His cursed energy raised
along his fist, bracing for the next onslaught. He had just found a stable spot when the light, and
Yun’s cursed energy, vanished.

It wasn’t as if it was impossible to mask yourself. The fact it had happened so quickly, however,
was strange. It made more sense if it was “Riku–”

Yuji had just managed to process that Riku must have intentionally suppressed Yun's energy when
he heard the glass crunch. The hazy glow of Yun’s cursed energy came flooding back. Yun had
perched themselves on the top of a trash can, out of reach, with their curled hand braced to strike.

Though Yuji’s eyes were now closed, that stable, stationary cursed energy let him know right where
to turn to find Yun.
“What’s wrong with you?” Yuji snapped. “I’m not trying to–”

While Yuji had tried to talk, something else had moving. Yuji felt the shift in the broken glass
against his feet. He raised his arms just in time to block a strike.

The glow of Yuji's own energy extinguished with the impact of another arm smacking his own.
Yuji’s flow of cursed energy washed away as a hand pressed over his fist. This wasn’t Yun
attacking. It was Riku.

Riku’s hand tightened around Yuji’s, trying to push him back. Yuji twisted his wrist towards
himself, planted a foot on top of Riku’s and used his other arm to jab into her back. The impact
forced them both to turn until Yuji trapped Riku between his body and the wall.

Yuji tried to reach towards Riku’s sleeve. Not only did he want to hold her in place, but he was
looking for something. She’d punched him, which meant her other hand had to be holding the
prison realm.

Riku tried to slide a leg between Yuji’s. He let her hit him. Though Riku tried to twist him off
balance, Yuji jabbed an elbow into her side and just kept reaching. Sure enough, when he stretched
down the length of her arm, he could feel the corner of a box. The back gate of the prison realm
was clutched in her gloved hand.

“Help me!” Yuji screamed. “Riku, right?”

That shout seemed to make Riku pause. That split second of hesitation was enough. Yuji closed his
hand around the other side of the gate, pulling it towards Riku. He didn’t have the specifics, but it
felt to him like all he had to do was shove the box against Riku's face or something.

Yuji had just changed angles for his own cursed energy to reactivate when Yun shot an attack. The
thin strip of Yun’s energy vanished, absorbed into the overwhelming current already around Yuji.
Then, Riku turned. Her open hand brushed Yuji’s neck, erasing both his and her energies at once.

Yuji jerked back from Riku's touch. He slid away to the right, clinging to the gate.

The fact Yuji had to pick a direction to move telegraphed where he was going. While Yuji was
bracing himself for Yun, Riku turned herself, too. She raised to the ball of her foot and spun herself
around Yuji. Had Riku’s angle been different, the gesture may have been a spinning kick. Instead,
the inside of her knee locked against Yuji’s back, anchoring around him.

Against what should have been any kind of balance instinct, the second Riku’s first leg had locked,
she jumped off the floor to wrap her other leg around Yuji, too. The end result left both of them to
crash against the tile, trapping Yuji on the floor.

“Agh–”

Most of the time, at this impact, Yuji’s eyes would have snapped shut. Instead, instinct snapped
them open just in time to see a flesh colored cube start sliding from his and Riku’s hands.

In the time Yuji could have used to free himself, he didn’t. Instead, he stretched his free arm as far
as he could to snatch the gate. The cube tucked under his arm, secure.
Something–maybe a foot, maybe a knee–pressed into Yuji’s back. Riku’s bare hand pinned his arm
at the wrist, forcing him down. What Riku may not have spotted was that in doing so, she’d pinned
the gate down, too.

Yuji could have tried to move. He had a free arm, and his feet were still secure. All he had to do
was tuck in his legs to force his way upright, then either grab Riku to gain leverage or roll himself
over. It was all easy to save himself…

…but it wasn’t about saving himself.

Maybe the deal had been a lie, but Yuji knew what he’d experienced. Whether or not the offer had
been a bluff, there was potential for her to follow through.

The effort that Yuji should have put into escaping, he used to shout. “Riku! You’ve gotta do it,
okay? Free Gojo!”

Something brushed at Yuji's back, tickling his neck. Maybe it was the bottom of Riku's hair.
Whatever it was, he didn't get an answer... but he hadn't gotten a no.

“That was the deal, right? Me for him?” Yuji cried out. “Fine! If that’s who I save, then I saved
someone!”

A voice answered, though it wasn’t Riku’s.

“Thank you for your sacrifice,” Yun spoke, their words oddly serene. “Both of you.”

Yuji repeated “Both–?”

Yuji didn’t know what Yun had fired until he’d already been hit.

An immense wave of pressure burned against Yuji’s back. Though Yuji couldn’t see it, he didn’t
need eyes to feel. The temperature in the bathroom had plummeted so far down that the air felt like
it both froze and burned. Every pain receptor in his body was firing at once as a thousand tiny dots
of cursed energy struck him.

A sequence of faces flashed before Yuji–things that no one could have told him to see and knew
what they meant. The face of his grandfather mixed with Nanami’s, and Nobara’s, and Gojo’s, too.

The image of that last face brought Yuji’s hand to twitch. Despite the pain, he could still feel the
gate. He could feel the pressure of someone limp across his back. That girl, Riku, must have fallen
on him.

Yuji tried to move his arm, to throw the box away. It didn’t work. His hand wouldn’t budge. His
eyes shut into the pain as he let out a retaliatory cry.

If there were any more pain left to feel, Yuji triggered it by forcing himself to move. He twisted his
shoulder, bucking Riku from the blunt of the blast. At least, if she made it, maybe she’d consider
his last wish.

Whatever hope that idea brought Yuji, it pulled away when Yuji felt something else slip. The cube
slid from his arm. It skidded across the floor, just out of his reach.
“No–” Yuji let out a breath, straining himself. He writhed across the tile, trying, and failing, to
move towards the cube he could barely see. A foot stomped into his back.

“May the afterlife show kindness I won't,” Yun spoke. Though Yuji couldn't see clearly behind his
back, Yun was holding a long shard of the broken mirror, brandishing it like a knife. They plunged
the shard down, stabbing towards Yuji's neck.

The blade stopped short. Millimeters short. So short that the glass looked like it should have struck
Yuji, except there was no wound.

Yun turned the glass in their palm. With a huff, they tried again. “May the–”

A vibration passed through the shard as it was repelled, this time a full foot from Yuji’s face. The
shard of glass shot out of their grip. It embedded into the ceiling, sticking out from the drywall. A
few new odd dots of light reflected across the tile.

With the last bit of strength he had, Yuji turned towards the light. He opened his eyes.

Now that Yuji had turned to check, he could see what had changed. The light wasn’t from the
ceiling or the broken mirror. The light was coming from the stitches on the prison gate. Yuji was
twisted up with Riku, and Riku’s bare skin was touching the box. That meant this wasn’t some
random barrier around Yuji. This barrier was limitless.

A sudden wave of adrenaline let Yuji start to shout. “Gojo!”

Yun backed away. They folded their hands together, intersecting their fingers into a new attack
stance. For how composed they’d looked before, their amber eyes were shaking. “Domain
Expansion, Collision Kaleidoscope–” they tried to cast.

At the same time, Yuji climbed over Riku. He reached out to nudge the box directly against her
hand.

“Gojo!” Yuji shouted so loudly he made himself cough. “Hey, Gojo! Over here!”

Riku’s eyes snapped open. Yuji could barely register the lack of color in her stare when the
attempted domain from Yun, the inverted energy from Riku, and the burst from the limitless from
Gojo collided, all at once.

For a split second, the energy of Gojo’s technique had been both impossible and possible. At the
instant when Riku had touched the gate while Gojo passed through halfway, Gojo had been both
capable and incapable of summoning the limitless. The result was a paradoxical state of quantum
superposition--a mathematical impossibility of dual states, at once both imaginary and all too real.

Yuji didn't know a thing about what happened. All he knew was when it did, something was
wrong.

Yuji heard an echo in his breath. It felt like his soul had just been ripped from his body. Every part
of the room saturated in a different, impossible hue. An array of fragments, shapes in every color,
danced around the circumference of the curtain. Within seconds, the purples turned to crimson, the
browns maroon, and, right before the color could be clearly called red, the shapes burst forth into
an overwhelming pitch of black.
Yuji couldn’t see anything. There was both nothing and everything. The fabric of time itself gave
way. One universe opened, and, in a blink of an eye, another spit them out.

A dull pain shot through Yuji’s shoulder. His legs felt heavy against the ground. For all the fighting
that had just happened, now, it was quiet.

That quiet was stopped by the loudest, most enthusiastic shout possible. “HAH! GOTCHA!”

Yuji’s eyes snapped open in alarm to take in the sight of… a completely normal and not at all
destroyed public bathroom.

“Back from the almost dead, it’s the greatest sorcerer, Satoru Gojo!” Gojo waved in front of Yuji,
flapping his arms for attention. His smile was as wide as could be. “And soon we’ll fix global
warming!”

For all the physical pain he was currently in, Yuji couldn’t help but stare. His mouth stretched to the
side.

“Wow…” Yuji marveled, a realization long suppressed sinking in. “Pretending to be dead really
wasn’t funny.”

“What are you talking about, dead? I–” Gojo scrunched his shoulder to the side and stretched his
neck. It popped. “That was just a zero star vacation! Note to everyone ever, Prison Realm? Worse
than actual prison. I think.”

Gojo tilted his head down to Yuji. “To be clear, I haven't been to prison.” He paused. “Except
yours. And Okkotsu’s.”

Gojo raised his fingers in front of himself to count, lowering a third. “Okay, to be clearer, I have
not been arrested. I’ve been to prison a lot. Visiting. Man, why does everyone I know keep getting
put in prison? What's the deal, there? Are you all really bad at crime?”

“Uh… Gojo-sensei…”

Yuji tried to look around from his spot sitting on the bathroom floor. The fluorescent lights swayed
from side to side. An automatic faucet was running. There was no sign of a girl with pigtails, or a
creepy sorcerer with bird shaped eyebrows. The only other living person here was some poor
theater employee at a urinal trying to pee.

“Gojo. I really don’t think that’s the problem.”

“It’s not? Great!” Gojo bowed down at the waist, leaning into Yuji’s face with a grin. He put a hand
on Yuji’s shoulder, helping him to stand by force. “Is it the weekend? If it’s not, I could go for
Taiyaki Wakaba.”

It was, as far as Yuji knew, a Saturday, but that wasn’t what Yuji brought himself to say. Yuji
pointed towards his injured hand. “Gojo-sensei… I’m kind of bleeding. Can we see Shoko? Or a
doctor?”

“Well…” Gojo drew out the word with consideration. In the end, he went right back to beaming.
“You are a precious student! So. Sure! School it is! We can surprise the higher-ups, next. Oh, that’ll
be fun.”
Gojo offered a hand out to Yuji. Yuji pulled himself up to his feet. He bent forward with a wince.
Though it must not have hit anything vital, the stab wound still hurt.

“Gojo-sensei–”

Gojo sniffed the air. “Mmm. Hey, is that popcorn? I haven't eaten in months."

“It’s a theater. So. Yeah.” Yuji almost shrugged, only to stop himself from the pain. He blinked it
off, then let himself just stare around in confusion. “Gojo-sensei, are there other sorcerers who
disappear? Like, teleport and stuff. There were other people here before. They’re not here.”

“I can disappear, sure. Other people? Usually, not so much.” Gojo looked around, or, at least, he
turned his head. There wasn’t all that much looking when his blindfold was on. “Oh, did you mean
bird brows and pigtail girl? Cause I thought they were part of the whole prison realm thing.”

“No…” Yuji’s eyes went blank. “No, they were outside the prison.”

Gojo tucked his hand under his chin, thinking it over. Though he looked concerned for a second,
the next, he waved it off. “Well, it’s probably fine. Don’t worry! I don’t sense anything here. There
aren’t even any residuals. Not even yours.”

“Shouldn’t there be, though? Residuals? I mean, Yun kept attacking–”

“Yun?” Gojo asked.

Yuji looked back. “You called them bird brows?”

“Ohhh. Gotcha.” Gojo nodded. “Didn’t birdy boy just attack with chunks of glass? There’s no
residuals from that.”

“No. No, they had other attacks. They threatened Oza–” the name froze in Yuji’s mouth, “wa…”

All of the other confusing parts about waking up in a bizarrely clean men’s bathroom were washed
out by an epiphany. Before any of this mess started, Yuji had been watching Into the Spider-Verse
with Ozawa. And that meant… he’d just ditched her.

“Shit—“

”It’s a good place for it, the bathroom,” Gojo joked.

Without another thought to the state he was in, Yuji took off in a sprint. He shoved straight through
the bathroom door in a mad rush for the theater.

“Ozawa!” Yuji shouted, every other thought out of mind. “Ozawa!”

Gojo, too, stepped out of the bathroom. His hands tucked into his pockets as he strolled after him.

In Yuji’s dash through the hall, he didn’t notice that the posters hanging on the theater walls were in
different places. He also didn’t see that the showtimes on each door had changed. In fact, if he had
paid attention, Yuji would have seen that this was a completely different theater.

Yuji didn’t consider the details. All Yuji had done was charge through the doors and burst in where
he thought he was supposed to be, shouting. “Ozawa! Ozawa, I’m sorry! I–”
Yuji stopped mid-sentence. In all of his effort to get here, he realized he hadn’t bothered to consider
an excuse. His face went blank, his eyes turning to dots as he settled on the best he could come up
with. “I got the runs… so... I ran. Sorry.”

Only when he’d finished that did Yuji realize how dark the room was. The text of the credits was
rolling across a black screen. The room was almost empty. As far as Yuji could tell, there was only
one person left in the theater.

Hoping that the person in the back center seat was Ozawa, Yuji started to sprint up the steps. He
raised a hand to try and catch their attention.

“Hey, Ozawa? I’m feeling better now. It’s all good.” Yuji raised a thumbs up their way. “Next time,
we can do whatever you want, okay? But I kinda–”

Yuji stopped mid-step. Now that he was closer, he could see this person wasn’t Ozawa. They had
black hair. In fact, their hair was almost all Yuji could see. Their bangs cut diagonally, straight
across the right side of their face. From this angle, Yuji could barely see their profile at all. There
was so little to see, he shouldn’t have recognized it.

But he did. Inherently. And the sight of this barely visible face made everything else wash away.

All of fifteen minutes ago, Yuji had been hallucinating. He knew that. That didn’t stop Yuji from
sprinting up the steps twice as quickly as before.

“Hey!”

Yuji’s sudden run brought the other person to stand up. They turned their head away from the
screen, their one visible eye narrowing, as if trying to decipher if this was a joke.

“Hey, wait!”

“Can you be quiet?” the guy asked, irritation sneaking into an otherwise hushed tone. “I want to
watch the after credits. And I’m not Ozawa.”

The words were hostile, in a subtle sort of way. It should have been a sign to back off.

Yuji felt his throat tighten. He squeaked out. “I know.”

The screen turned colors one last time. The dialogue of the final scene started to run. Yuji couldn’t
see who was talking on screen… and frankly, even if he’d just seen the best movie of his life, he
wouldn’t care.

Every question Yuji should have asked faded. A warmth filled Yuji's chest that hadn’t been there in
a very long time. Hope.

“Junpei?”
Young Fish Respawn
 Junpei Yoshino

July 17, 2018

Kinema Cinema, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

A cluster of students were loitering at the concessions stand. None were in uniform, but Junpei
knew their faces. Their smiles twisted, their eyes wrinkling at the corners as they shared a joke.

“Look. Over there,” a girl pointed, pretending to whisper while being plenty loud to hear. “The
creep’s staring at us.”

“Ito’s ashtray? That guy?”

“Mhm. That’s the one.”

“You mean he hasn’t killed himself yet?”

“Apparently.” The girl folded her arms under her chest. Most of the time, the sentence would have
been across–but in her case, her hands tucked beneath, emphasizing her bust on purpose. “There’s
more than one theater here, right? I don’t want that in a room with me.”

One of the other guys leaned in, leering down her shirt. Obviously being stared at wasn’t what was
bothering her.

The four students were standing like a pack. Sadly, Junpei knew all of them. Sayama, Honda and
Nishimura were a sort of semi-circle, with Tsubasa across from all of them.

The one in the center kept his hair pulled back with a headband. He cupped a hand around his
mouth, barely hiding a cigarette. He swallowed a puff before speaking. “Aren’t you in his class,
Tsubasa?”

Tsubasa huffed. “Well, I don’t want to be in a room with him on purpose .”

Junpei knew what he was supposed to do. Keep his head down. Don’t engage. Anyone from school
was too stupid to reason with. The only choice with any real success rate was for him to make like
a Frozen reference and let it go.

Junpei tried to do that. He angled his phone to open his text messages. The camera shaped phone
charm tied to the case knocked against his hand. A new text from his mom flashed on screen.

'Lunch is almost over. Call soon. Love you!' it read.

“God,” Tsubasa’s stare lowered, the smug expression on her face turning to feigned disgust. “He
totally just took a picture.”

The hair on the back of Junpei’s neck stood up. Footsteps tapped across the lobby floor, shuffling
closer. This torment was the same old game.
“Even if I were a creep, you wouldn’t be worth it,” Junpei muttered towards the floor.

The three guys stood around, watching from a distance. Tsubasa nudged at the closest one with her
foot, prodding them to attention.

It was the one with the cigarette, not the one Tsubasa hit, that stepped forward. He hovered over the
wall, looking down over the bench.

“Shut up.” The splatter of the guy’s spit hit Junpei in the face. “No one’s talking to you.”

“Unless you want to practice offing yourself,” the second goon added. “I’d help.”

The first one to approach–maybe that was Honda–flicked his cigarette over Junpei. The ashes
building towards the top drifted off, white specks landing on Junpei’s sneaker.

For the first time, Junpei bothered to look up just enough that he could glower at Tsubasa. “If you
weren’t pushing your boobs up, no one would even talk to you. All you are to anyone is a rack with
a face.”

Honda turned his cigarette between his fingers. He jabbed the burning end towards Junpei’s face.
Junpei flinched.

When Junpei opened his eyes, he could see them still laughing. The end of the cigarette had
stopped just short of his hair.

“Who cares? It’s a good rack.” Honda dropped the cigarette. He pressed his foot over the top,
crushing the butt into the carpet. “How about you lick that off the floor? Ito said you liked that.
Hell, maybe you'll get lucky and a roach will crawl in.”

Junpei should have looked at the guys in front of him. Those were the real threat. He knew that,
yet, for some reason, Junpei turned to the side to keep glaring at Tsubasa.

As much as Tsubasa was trying to look superior, something was off. Her arms had crossed, but they
had moved down, settling in a more standardly hostile position of covering herself. Junpei had just
started to register the possibility that he’d actually gotten under her skin when the space around her
mouth started to stretch.

To anyone else in the theater hallway, it looked like Tsubasa had yawned. To Junpei, the sight made
him stop in horror.

A creature slithered from Tsubasa's mouth. At first, the substance looked like a furry tongue. It
writhed from her like a dying caterpillar. Though her face was still, her eyes looked almost dead as
the substance kept moving, stretching longer and longer as it coiled across her shoulders like a flesh
colored scarf.

Before Junpei could find it in himself to breathe, the snake-like being started to descend. Tsubasa’s
shoulders stiffened as the creature slid into her clothes. Its tail flailed out as it vanished into her
shirt collar, the wings at its base looking almost like a shrimp.

Junpei didn’t know what to call anything he was seeing. The most he could do was gape.

The amalgamation writhed down Tsubasa's back, then her leg, until it settled on the floor. Its mouth
opened. In the back of its throat, Junpei saw an eye.
Despite himself, and any sense of what else was happening around him, Junpei whispered. “What
is…?”

As he was speaking, an unlit cigarette was thrown into Junpei's mouth.

Junpei clutched his throat and stepped back, gagging. He spit the now-soggy cigarette into his
palm. He was still looking down at the cigarette in his hand when Honda smashed his foot into
Junpei’s thigh.

Junpei fell back across the bench. His hands clutched the seat to stay upright. That he’d swayed
down gave room for Sayama, Nishimura and Honda to all stare him down.

“Remember what we said about practicing. Got it, Yoshino?” Honda huffed. “And stay away from
Tsubasa. Freak.”

Whatever will Junpei had to argue was gone. He was too busy gazing at the nameless thing on the
movie theater floor. It was still there, watching him.

“What kind of ‘made-you-look’ shit do you think that was?” Nishumira asked the group as they
walked away. Sayama shrugged.

The creature rose from the ground, its long neck stretching. The eye at the back of its throat dilated
until the pupil was so dark, it was barely visible as an eye at all.

Junpei stayed perfectly still, returning the eye contact. Then, the creature lowered itself. It slithered
into Tsubasa’s shadow, trailing her into their theater.

In their absence, Junpei stood up. He stared where the creature had been. Nothing was there. There
was no sign of an explanation, nothing to turn to, and nothing to guess except, perhaps, that this
was the day Junpei had finally gone insane.

And so, Junpei stood up. He walked to the theater on the other side of the hall, alone, and he
watched a movie.

For the two hours Junpei could forget the rest of the world. It was safe in the theater. Quiet.

At least, it would have been quiet, were it not for some stranger barging in to start shouting for an
‘Ozawa’.

Junpei’s first instinct had been to lower his head and ignore the shouting. That plan had proven so
unfruitful that when the guy came up towards him, Junpei just straight up asked him to stop.

It worked. Weirdly. For how frantically the stranger had barged in here, he’d gone quiet when
Junpei asked.

The scene on screen came to a stop. The house lights went up. Only then did the stranger speak up
again.

“Junpei?” Yuji raised a finger, pointing ahead. He spoke slowly, like he couldn’t believe what he
was saying. “Junpei Yoshino?”

Junpei stood up. He didn’t start to move. He just looked down, trying to weigh the options.
Junpei had, beyond a doubt, never seen this guy before in his life. He would’ve remembered if he
had. This was probably some new way to mock him.

“Weren’t you looking for Ogawa?” Junpei asked, dumbfounded. The name had, in fact, actually
been Ozawa… but neither person involved knew or cared enough to correct this.

A sparkle seemed to form in the pink haired guy’s eyes. The awestruck stare gave way to a full on
smile. “Junpei…! You’re alive!”

Before Junpei could process what was coming, the stranger sprung off the ground to tackle Junpei
in a hug. Junpei’s arms pinned to his sides, wriggling for freedom he couldn't quite grasp.

"Wha--"

“What the heck? Why didn’t you tell me you’re okay?!” The stranger started to squeeze all the
harder. The whole time, Junpei just stood there, his skin turning more and more pale as the
confusion turned to an impending sense of doom. “How long have you– ow, ow–”

A sharp pain made the stranger wince. The slack in his hold allowed Junpei to slip out of the
embrace. Junpei pressed a hand against his arm, blocking himself off.

“Ehehe… Stab wound.” The guy’s hands shot up in front of him, gesturing apologetically. “But not
that stab wound! No. It’s in the back!”

“Uh. I’m…?” Junpei put his hands out, too, hoping to set some distance between them. “I think
you’ve got the wrong Junpei Yoshino…”

How that would work, exactly, Junpei had no idea. All he knew was that a complete stranger had
just tackle-hugged him into kneeling on a gross, sticky movie theater floor.

The look on the stranger’s face was strangely earnest. Their initial burst of happiness washed out
into worry. It reminded Junpei distantly of a pouting puppy.

“You mean…” the guy’s head tilted, confused. “You don’t remember?”

There was a way people asked questions when they meant to mock you. Junpei was used to that.
What he wasn’t used to was these earnest brown eyes. For whatever reason, this guy was
completely genuine. For some reason Junpei felt a pang of guilt for telling the truth.

“No.” Junpei felt so bad that he questioned himself into a guess of his own. “I mean. Are you on
Letterboxd? Like, you know my account?”

The more Junpei spoke, even when it was doubtful like this, the more that the stranger looked ready
to burst into tears. His lips pressed together firmly, like he was holding himself back from
something. “We…! We can finally go to the movie theater…!”

“This…” Junpei stuttered. “This is the movie theater…”

The pink haired guy pulled his hand back, tucking it under his chin. He laughed nervously. “Yeah, I
know. I mean…”. The movement showed the blood caked on the back of them.

“Are you okay?” Junpei asked, staring at his hand. “You’re hurt.”
“Oh, you know me! Hunky-dory Itadori,” The guy picked one of the shards off his hand. He let out
another “ow–” as he plucked out a shard of glass.

“Huh?”

“Itadori,” He repeated, as if the name meant something. When the blank look on Junpei’s face
made it apparent that, no, it did not, he lowered his head slightly in an impression. “Yuji Itadori.”

As confusing as the whole thing was, Junpei couldn’t help but stifle a snort. His hand pressed over
his mouth, his eyes shifting towards the wall. “Bond, James Bond, might have questions for you,
Itadori. Or a lawsuit.”

Yuji’s head bobbed excitedly. “You got it! I knew you’d get it! You’re totally Junpei.”

“Uh…”

Yuji tucked the glass, and one of his hands, into his pocket. “Okay, then.” He smiled. “Let’s start
over. I’m Yuji Itadori. You’re Junpei Yoshino. We both know Earthworm Man 2’s the only good
one, and…”

It was true, though, Junpei had no idea where that opinion must have come from.

Junpei should have left. He knew the rules of stranger danger, and they most definitely applied
more if that stranger kept knowing random facts about you despite you never having met. All of
that had seemed reasonable, except…

…Except he just saw something writhing on the floor.

Junpei stared down at the slithering form of the fuzzy, snake-like curse from before. The curse
opened its mouth. The eye on its tongue blinked at Junpei, then narrowed, squinting in what looked
like a threat.

“...Hey. What’s wrong?” Yuji asked, looking back.

It was crazy to say. It was just crazy enough that Junpei hesitated. He pointed.

“There,” Junpei pointed at the creature, straight into its eye. It wiggled its tongue with a hiss.
“There’s a… something. On the floor. Like a demon.”

“Demon? You mean a curse?” Yuji repeated. He knelt down again, lowering himself to the ground,
and, by extension, towards the creature. “Right here?”

Yuji’s hand hovered over the curse’s back. Junpei nodded. “Yeah. There.”

Without any hesitation, Yuji closed both fists around the curse’s neck. The curse’s tongue started to
flail, wiggling around in an effort to wrap through Yuji’s fingers and break free.

“Whoa–” Yuji slammed his fist against the ground. The worm-like curse started to flip up,
attempting to strike him. Yuji kicked his heel down over it, smashing the curse into the floor. It
dissipated into the ground. “Did I get it?”

Junpei gave a shallow nod. His hair bobbed into his face. For all of the questions he’d had earlier,
what he’d just seen left him nearly speechless.
Nearly.

“You can see them, too?”

“Curses? Yeah. Totally.” Yuji's eyes fell slightly, shifting to the spot where he’d just crushed the
creature “Well, not that one! But usually. That one must’ve been really small. You’ve got a good
eye.”

Junpei swallowed, his shoulders setting back while his visible eye drifted to the floor. He took in
the sight of the curse’s remnants, mangled through the center where Yuji had struck.

“Itadori,” he repeated the name slowly, as if considering what to say “...Are you human?”

“Yeah!” Yuji grinned. “Yeah, I’m a sorcerer.”

Under any other circumstance, Junpei would have pulled back. The stunned look on his face made
it clear he was still thinking about doing that.

“A sorcerer?” Junpei asked, instead. “Like Doctor Strange?”

“No. No, you know,” Yuji said, as if this was something obvious, but not in a way where he was
being judged too harshly for it. “People who see curses, mostly. Like us!”

“...us?”

“Mhm. You, and me, and a ton of other people. We can work together. We…” Yuji reached a hand
out, brushing it across the top of Junpei’s and taking it in Yuji’s own. His voice tensed as he spoke.
“...Not everything’s like I promised last time. But… but there’s still someone crazy strong,
someone who’ll teach you. And there’s me.”

This really didn’t feel like it was Junpei being spoken to. Something vital was missing.

Junpei meant to back off. He started to raise his hand. Before he could lift it, Yuji set his other hand
on top of the first, sandwiching Junpei’s between his. The hold was firm, but not in a restrictive
way. It felt steady. Safe, even.

Yuji’s smile somehow found further to bloom.“I can’t believe it! You’re not dead!”

The words prickled enough to take Junpei’s breath from his throat. “Excuse me, but…” he
murmured, “Why would I be dead?”

The sound of the projector whirred in the background. A siren blared. There weren’t any red,
flashing lights or ambulances on the way. The sound quickly took on an underlying rhythm. It was
the Ironside theme—the siren from Kill Bill.

Junpei reached for his pocket. He turned down the volume, quieting the ring tone. The screen
flashed with caller ID. “It’s my mother, can I–”

Yuji’s eyes snapped open. “Your mom’s okay TOO?!?”

Someone spoke over Junpei. “Yuji!”

A guy with white hair, wearing a blindfold, was waving towards them from the front row. In one
arm, he was holding a giant popcorn bucket. In the opposite hand, he held a blue slushie. He took a
long sip from the cup.

Yuji’s eyes broke off from Junpei's for long enough to stare back at the white haired guy. “Gojo-
sensei!”

“Yuji-kun! Hey! I got snacks…” Gojo’s voice lowered a bit, only to rise right back up. “I always
forget movie theater popcorn’s so fake! It’s great. Love that ‘this is definitely not butter’ stuff.”

Before Junpei could fully process what was happening, Gojo had popped up in front of him. The
suddenness of it all made Junpei backwards. His already leg smacked into the chair. He winced.

Gojo pointed at Junpei with the sort of casualness that implied he either hadn’t noticed Junpei could
see him, or just he didn’t care.

“Oh. This your friend, here?” Gojo turned back. Despite the fact that his blindfold had very much
not moved, he leaned down, his head shifting in Junpei’s direction. “Sorry, Ozawa, but your
buddy’s got to go. He forgot his homework. Really annoying kind, too. Calculus. Fractions.”

With how quickly this had spiraled, the most Junpei could come up with to say was “huh.”

“Gojo-sensei! No!” Yuji sprung forward. “That’s not Ozawa!”

Before Junpei could consider what else to do, the choice had been made for him. Yuji’s hands
pressed on Junpei’s shoulders, pushing him right back into Gojo’s line of… if not sight, then, at
least line of blindfold.

“Gojo! This is Junpei Yoshino! You know him, right? Did you meet him?”

At the same time, Gojo spoke over him. “Yeah. We met now. Right now.”

The “uh….” Junpei let out wasn’t intentional.

Yuji practically jumped up. “Okay, but Nanamin might have mentioned him…!” The smile on
Yuji’s face just kept growing as he talked. “Junpei was from Kawasaki City! The case from Kinema
Cinema, remember? The one where you–”

In all of that babbling, Junpei found the will to say at least one thing, as flatly as possible. “You’re
in the Kinema Cinema. Like. Right now.”

Junpei said it so quietly that the pink haired one had ignored him. Only Gojo, whose eyes Junpei
still couldn’t see, had paid it any mind at all.

Yuji let go of Junpei’s hand. Junpei’s hand still lingered where it had been pulled, hanging
awkwardly in the air.

Oblivious, Yuji reached out to grab Gojo, shaking him by the arm. “You’ve gotta know. And his
mom, too! Right? You saved them? Like how you helped me when I died?”

The more Junpei heard, the more lost he was getting. “You… died…?”
With all of Yuji’s shaking, and Gojo’s enthusiastic popcorn consumption, no one had heard that
part. Yuji let go of Gojo, too. “Wait. So. Nanami really didn’t say anything?”

“Nope! The last Yoshino I met was mochi.” Gojo raised his hand outside the popcorn bucket to
give a quick wave to Junpei. “Good to meet you, random child!”

Somehow, despite what Junpei should have done, what came out of his mouth was a mumble.
“How would you see? You’re blindfolded.”

Gojo laughed. “You’d be surprised! Hey, you want popcorn?” He held out the bucket.

Junpei raised a hand, tipping the bucket back to Gojo with an “uh…”

“Gojo-sensei! Junpei saw a curse!” Yuji interrupted. “There was one in here, a little one. I didn’t
see it, but he did, so he helped out. He should come join the school, I told him before when he…”

All that enthusiasm Yuji had at the start seemed to die at the thought of something. What that
something was, Junpei couldn’t tell.

When Yuji smiled next, it looked more like a mask. It was a convincing one, but a mask all the
same. “Hey, Junpei! I still have your number. You didn’t change phones, right? I never deleted it,
so…”

Yuji reached into his pocket, removing his phone. He looked down to the screen.

The image in the reflection was something Junpei could see, too. For all of the scratches on Yuji’s
hands, his face was completely unscarred. There wasn’t so much as a wrinkle under his eye.

Junpei started to step forward. He squinted at the phone. The information on Yuji’s screen was
indeed Junpei’s contact information. Before Junpei could even formulate the question as to how
that had happened, Gojo picked Yuji up by the hood.

The “hey–” from Yuji was quickly spoken over.

“See you later, Junbae-kun!” Gojo called through a grin.

Despite what he should have said, Junpei ended up mumbling. “Not with a blindfold, you
won’t…”

Junpei was so busy being snarky, he didn’t realize Gojo had mispronounced his name on purpose.

“Gojo–sensei!” With a writhe and a wiggle, Yuji twisted his way out of the grip. He turned around.
“Hey!” Yuji cupped a hand to his mouth, shouting back. “Hey, Junpei! Wait!”

Junpei started to raise his own hand back. He didn’t return the wave. His hand just lingered
awkwardly in the air.

“This is gonna sound really weird,” Yuji shouted. “But if you meet a guy with stitches on his face,
don’t trust him! Big stitches, like… like Sally in the Nightmare Before Christmas! Got it?”

Junpei raised a hand over his mouth, thinking. “...Or Frankenstein?”

Yuji gave a thumbs up. “Yeah! Yeah, just like that! Don’t even talk to him, okay? Just run away!”
“You’re right,” Junpei mumbled. “That’s weird.”

Yuji’s hand found a little bit further up to stretch to wave a frantic goodbye. “I’ll come back for
you, okay, Junpei?”

The “sure, sure,” from the guy in the blindfold sounded a lot less convincing. And with that, they
left.

A reasonable person should have left, too. By all objective measures, Yuji and Gojo were crazy. It
was simple until Junpei considered that, by those exact same measures, Junpei had gone crazy, too.

So, Junpei followed them.

It was an advantage, though Junpei didn’t know it, that he was familiar with the layout of the
building. Junpei waited to open the door until Yuji and Gojo had a head start of about thirty
seconds–just enough that he could tail them without being obvious.

Before long, Junpei turned a corner. He could see Yuji and Gojo were lingering by the exit. Gojo
took a long sip from his slushie.

“Hey, Gojo-sensei,” Yuji looked away from the street, towards his teacher. Junpei couldn’t even
hear Yuji, exactly–he could only see the lip flaps and guess what they had to say.

Gojo started to say something muffled. He took the straw out of his mouth. “What’s up? You want
to welcome me back?”

“Sensei, can a curse take a nap? Sukuna’s really quiet right now. It’s weird.”

“Hm… I guess they could get tired. Sure.”

Gojo shoved the popcorn bucket into Yuji’s chest. Yuji grabbed it as Gojo gestured towards an
alleyway. They stepped outside and rounded the corner.

Knowing that they were out of his sight meant that he was out of theirs, too, Junpei opened the
door. He stepped quickly but carefully around the side of the building, right up to the mouth of the
alleyway.

There was a split second Junpei saw Yuji and Gojo standing there. Yuji kept a hand on Gojo’s
shoulder, while Gojo folded his hands together. The faint tap of Gojo’s fingertips hitting each other
was the last sound he made before he and Yuji vanished.

A piece of popcorn floated out of the bucket. It rolled across the ground before landing on its side,
the lone kernel of evidence they were ever there.

There was a long list of things Junpei could have done. He could have called his mother back. He
could have left. Of all the dozens of options he had, not one good one had involved stepping into
the alleyway.

Everything he should have done, Junpei ignored. Instead, he walked into the shadows.

The piece of popcorn was still sitting there. Junpei poked the outside of the yellow puff, crushing it
into the cement. He picked the crushed kernel from the ground, turning it in his palm.
“It’s real…” he whispered.

The alleyway stretched. Pipes rattled along the sides of the buildings. Bars and crates blocked what
may have been doors.

Between the metal bars to a side entrance, two eyes watched Junpei. One was gray. The other,
blue. A hand that only a sorcerer could see pressed against the bar, cracking it open to look more
clearly at the boy on the ground.

No matter the timeline, some encounters were always meant to be. This was one.

Just not yet.

Punishment for the Strong
 Suguru Geto

July 17, 2018

Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College

With how far the green stretched across the grounds, no one would guess this was Tokyo. The track
of the training grounds stretched out before Suguru, almost empty.

This almost, in this case, was due to two creatures rushing across the field. One of them was a
fluffy, blue-eyed dog with a blue merle coat. The other was a curse. The flyhead was harmless–
something Suguru had deliberately sent out for training purposes. In fact, the dog was chasing the
curse, not the other way around.

Suguru raised his head to the scene, his eyes narrowing to a squint at the sun. “Mochi!” he shouted.
“Mochi, play nice!”

At the sound of her name, the dog turned and raised an ear. She wiggled her behind, her low tail
swishing back and forth. The flyhead zipped out from between her paws, escaping into the open
air.

“Good girl, Mochi! Good job.”

Suguru pointed two fingers down and mentally connected to the other side of the equation. A hand
signal later, and he sent the flyhead to land directly on the dog’s nose.

The presence of the curse made the dog scoot back. She let out an urgent bark, then raised herself
onto her hind paws to lunge at it. The flyhead flew low and away, buzzing about the track under
Suguru’s thrall.

Suguru remembered when he used to need permission to set curses loose on campus. He
remembered a lot of things that felt wrong, now.

The faint shadows from the leaves above cast across Suguru’s face, shifting with the wind. He
closed his eyes, took a breath, and let himself feel something that wasn’t truly there. As he was
concentrating, a new shadow crept behind him.

“Hey,” a voice called. “Got a light?”

Suguru’s mouth pulled to a flat line in disapproval. “You shouldn’t be smoking.”

Suguru knew who was there without looking. Still, Suguru raised his head to see Shoko Ieiri, with
an unlit cigarette in hand, over his shoulder.

“Do you really think that’s what’s going to kill me?” Shoko asked, her tone as severe as the circles
under her eyes. “If I live long enough for this to matter, I’d be lucky.”

As Shoko took a seat, Suguru reached into his inner pocket. He pulled out a small lighter and
flicked it. Shoko leaned into the flame, cigarette still between her teeth, and set it alight.
At the end of her first inhale, Shoko cradled the cigarette between her fingers. She turned to Suguru
with the somber start of a smile. “I knew you’d have a lighter.”

“One? I have three.” Suguru raised three fingers to signal it. “Although Nanami borrowed one.”

“Three?” Shoko turned to face Suguru. Her long hair swayed over the shoulder of her lab coat.
“You’re sure you don’t smoke?”

“I may as well. But no.” Suguru stretched his hands, letting his posture adjust to a slouch. Before
long, he’d let himself slide to lie directly on his side on the stairs. “...believe it or not, I don’t care
for the taste. Or the smell.”

“You eat curses all the time. How is that not worse?”

“No one pays me to smoke.”

Shoko tipped her cigarette towards Suguru, right in front of his face. “I’d give you a hundred yen.”

“No one pays me enough to smoke.”

Shoko took another drag. “If you’re going to tell me to quit, you shouldn’t carry a lighter.”

“And you shouldn’t criticize someone for doing you a favor.” Suguru tapped his fingers along his
cheek. He let out a deflating sigh. “When did we decide to try making sense of each other?”

Shoko’s darkened eyes shifted down, just enough to blink back. “Hah,” she said flatly. “I won’t
make sense of you until you’re dissected.”

Suguru let his hand raise a little bit higher. He ran a finger straight across his forehead like he was
making a slash there. “Brain first, obviously. I’ll be sprawled right across the table.”

“Head tilted downwards to drain,” Shoko agreed. “Wouldn’t want your blood on my coat.”

“Why not? My blood’s in fashion.”

Shoko closed her eyes. She leaned forward into her cigarette and took another drag. “We’re really
messed up, aren’t we?”

“That’s what we get for surviving. The scars.”

Suguru tried to take another deep inhale of the not-so-fresh air. As soon as he’d started, the sting of
the smoke sunk into his nostrils. The hand he’d been propping himself up with pressed across his
mouth, pinching his nose as he tried, and failed, to stop coughing.

The sound of it was enough for Shoko to stop looking at the sky and check on him. It was not,
however, enough for her to put out the cigarette.

“You okay there, Geto?”

“Me?” Suguru coughed. He pinched his nose. “It’s fine. I’ll get an air freshener.”

Shoko corrected her posture. “I don’t mean that. I mean are you ok?” If there’d been any light in
her eyes, it went out as she whispered. “You remember what day it is.”
She didn’t ask it as a question. It hadn’t needed to be a question. Still, Suguru pretended not to
hear.

“I can’t believe it’s been four years,” Shoko whispered, forcing him to listen anyway.

If Suguru closed his eyes to it long enough, sometimes, Suguru could trick himself into thinking
that nothing was wrong. He could pretend that Satoru was off on assignment, and Shoko was with
him goofing off between classes. Shoko kept talking.

“My third years are all on missions,” she added “I can cover your class. You don’t need to be
alright.”

“But I am alright.” Suguru spread his hand across his mouth, miming a yawn. “I’m great.”

“Geto…”

“He murdered Yaga, Shoko.” Suguru brushed his hands at the front of his pants, flicking the grass
and dirt away. “Satoru Gojo’s gone. Let him be gone. Him staying that way is our best bet to stay
alive.”

“That may be true…”

“Oh, no doubt about it. He could kill any of us!” Suguru said it so casually and cheerfully, it almost
managed to trick people into thinking he meant the cheer.

Shoko finally took her cigarette out of her mouth. She pushed it into the stone step, extinguishing
it. “You’re really going to pretend it doesn’t matter to you?”

Suguru pulled down the sleeve of his jacket. “Yep!”

It was bad enough that things had turned out the way they had, Suguru thought. The most that he
could do for himself now was to piece together a life. Whatever Shoko was concerned about,
Suguru knew he had no right to miss Satoru. After Kyoto, any place in Suguru’s heart should have
been sealed away. If it wasn’t, then that was Suguru’s problem.

Shoko pointed towards the field. “Didn’t Gojo name the dog?”

Satoru had, in fact, named the dog. Shoko didn’t need to know that.

“Don’t bring Mochi into this,” Suguru complained.

“Mochi. Right...” For all the expressions that Shoko had, her concern hadn’t left her. It did,
however, shift subjects as she stared across the field. “...is Mochi supposed to eat curses?”

“No–”

Suguru turned, checking the direction Shoko had pointed in. Sure enough, at the other side of the
field, Mochi and the flyhead had continued to train. At this point, Mochi had proven herself
superior to the low level curse. She had trapped the thing in her mouth by the head and was now
flinging it from side to side. The wings of the flyhead’s lower body smacked against her face,
which only made Mochi shake harder.

“Mochi!” Suguru bounded down the staircase. “Mochi, drop it!”

Suguru pulled the chain at his neck, bringing up a silver dog whistle. He blew hard into the top..
Although it made no physical sound to a human, the unheard pitch brought Mochi to sit down.

Suguru gave another, softer, blow while he ran through the field towards his pet. Once he was at
Mochi’s side, Suguru put a hand on her snout and another below. He opened her mouth wider, then
plucked the exceptionally soggy flyhead back out by its wings.

With the hand that wasn’t holding the very docile curse in place, Suguru clenched his fist, re-
condensing the curse into himself. A very confused Mochi watched the curse turn into a ball, then
vanish into nothing. She let out a whine and pawed towards Suguru’s hand.

“No, Mochi,” Suguru said, speaking with the exact same tone of voice as he would have used with
a human. “We don’t eat curses.”

Mochi tilted her head to Suguru. He could have sworn the dog blinked at him.

Suguru sighed. “Fine. You don’t eat curses,” he corrected.

Mochi sat up. Her tail thumped from one side to the other with enough force to pick grass off the
ground.

Suguru bent over Mochi with a sigh. Her tongue started to poke out, bracing to lick him. He put his
hand on her head, nudging her down. “Ew. Don’t lick me. You just had a curse in there.”

“Arf!”

As Suguru leashed his dog, Shoko watched from the stairs. She wasn’t physically far away, yet the
look in her eyes was still distant. Whatever thought had crossed her mind, once Suguru saw it, he
turned to her with a performative grin.

“It’s ok. I promise!” Suguru lied. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Save the promises you won’t keep for the higher-ups, Geto.” Shoko leaned back against the
railing. “I know you too well to believe you.”

“Mochi, up,” Suguru gave the dog one more happy ruffle between her ears. Mochi’s fur bounced as
she stood, then settled to walk ahead. Suguru snapped in front of Mochi’s face and said “there,”
setting the direction towards the school.

Once he and the dog were walking the right way, only then did Suguru look back over his shoulder.
The stray lock of his bangs swayed into his face as he looked at Shoko. “Do me a favor. Take care
and stay alive long enough that the cigarettes kill you. I’d love to say I told you so.”

“That only works if you outlive me.” Shoko picked her cigarette butt off the ground. “If you want
to make it to my deathbed… you take care, too.”

Suguru gave a broad wave back. Letting Shoko have the last word was the closest either of them
would come to a goodbye.

It was a bright day on campus. Not a cloud covered the sky. The shadows that stretched beneath
Suguru were thin, diminished by the overhead sun with nowhere left to go.
“Quick, Mochi,” Suguru continued to talk in a calm tone of voice, like Mochi understood each
word perfectly. “We wouldn’t want to be late, right?”

Mochi raised her nose. She barked.

“Yeah,” Suguru smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes. “Thought so.”

So much had changed, and yet, Suguru still knew these corners better than the back of his hand.
The Tokyo campus felt untouched by things like time, or society. It was a haven for sorcery in a
world that had few.

There had never been many people on these grounds. That hadn’t changed, either. Still, Suguru
could hear a few students walking towards him. No doubt they needed the training grounds.

Suguru closed his eyes into the sunshine, plastering his fake smile on all the stronger. His free hand
brushed the hilt of the katana at his side, absent-mindedly connecting to its energy. He had just
started to let the sense of the curse wash over him when he heard something else.

“Oh my gosh– Mochi-sensei!”

Suguru turned his head, but didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t need to see to know that a cell phone
with a bunny-eared case was being pointed towards Mochi. “Don’t practice on her, Nanako.”

“Like I’d do that! Geez. It’s for Instagram.” Nanako pulled her phone back. She switched the apps
camera mode to social media and started editing away. “Mochi-sensei’s a star in the making, you
know. Without her, it’s so boring out here."

“Mochi-sensei also outranks you, Nanako,” Suguru tried to chastise her. “If you’re bored, go to
class. Train.”

“Ugh.” Nanako rolled her eyes. “Can’t you get me a mission? If it’s in the city, I could at least go
grab a parfait. I’d bring one back for Mochi.”

Suguru used the hand that wasn’t holding Mochi’s leash to tap Nanako by the shoulder. He nudged
her towards the track. “Tell you what. If you get promoted to grade two, I’ll take you for parfaits
myself. Go to class–”

“No, crepes!” Nanako said instead. “We’ll get crepes on Takeshita!”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Suguru sighed. “If you go to class.”

The shrill squeal that followed was enough for Suguru to open his eyes just a crack. Nanako was
right back on her phone. Between the bunny ears of her case, she was smiling away. “You’re the
best, onii-chan ! Bye!”

Suguru’s stare flattened with the urge to sigh. “…on campus, it’s sensei.”

By the time he’d thought to mumble it, the clarification didn’t matter. Nanako had already skipped
away.

Suguru had made it just a few more steps before he felt another set of energies pass by. He opened
his eyes just enough to nod at the cluster of second year students.
“Kelp,” Inumaki raised his hand, waving.

“Inumaki-san, hello.”

“Salutations, Mochi-sensei,” A boy with tall spiky hair, pulled into a high ponytail, waved a
bandaged hand. His voice sounded stiff. “Pleasant to see you.”

Maki eyed Suguru from the other side of the group. Her golden stare was all the easier to see now
that she wasn’t wearing glasses.

“That suits you, Zen’in,” Suguru said through the same smile he’d shown everyone.

Maki’s glare darkened all the more. “Fuck you.”

Given how uncomfortable everything else was, Suguru didn’t miss a beat. His smile didn’t even
wrinkle. “It’s best if you don’t.”

Maki stomped her foot into the ground. The end of the sword she’d been carrying for training
smacked the dirt along with it.

Having literally no reason to get wrapped up in that further, Suguru made sure to lengthen his stride
away from the group. He could see Utahime in the distance, running to catch up with her class.
They’d be fine.

“Take care!” Suguru waved back as he left.

Without the distractions of other students walking by, Mochi picked up her pace. She pranced
ahead, her tail swishing as they both took in in the sunshine of a deserted countryside day. It wasn’t
until they’d reached the outside of the building that Mochi paused. Her nose twitched as she tipped
her head back, then came to a stop, sitting directly in the center of the walkway.

“Mochi–” Suguru reached for his whistle. He gave a blow, then gave a very light tug on the leash.
“Mochi, follow.”

Mochi’s ears perked up. Despite that, she didn’t follow. She stared into the distance, taking in
something that Suguru couldn’t sense. Her tail stopped swishing, and she let out a whimper.

Seeing the shift, Suguru stopped trying to pull. He took a knee on the ground, resting beside her.
His hands sunk into Mochi’s fur, petting her lightly. “It’s ok, Mochi. Good girl,” he told her calmly,
soothingly. “I’m not mad.”

As Suguru knelt in place, watching his dog with care, he almost missed the shadow walk behind
him. Almost. The cursed energy of another student loomed at his back, stretching over him.

“Is there something wrong with your dog, Geto-sensei?” The voice asked.

“Oh, absolutely nothing.” Suguru didn’t turn to the student. He just kept stroking Mochi behind her
ear. “She’s a brilliant, beautiful girl. Very sensitive to smell, just like her father.”

Suguru set his hand on Mochi’s head, giving her one more comforting stroke. He stood back up to
face the student in the long black robe who stood behind him.
“You may still have the residuals of a curse on you. You should see Ieiri-sensei to make sure you’re
alright.”

The student pulled the loop of their hair over their shoulder. The odd notches in their eyebrows
seemed to wrinkle at the thought. The movement had made them look almost like crudely drawn
birds flying in the sky. After pausing to think, they bowed. “Thank you dearly for your concern,
sensei.”

Rather than try to fight with Mochi any more, Suguru bent at his knees, then wrapped his arms
around her to lift her.

“Now if you don’t mind,” Suguru stood up while holding the dog. The hand under Mochi’s
stomach bounced her slightly. “My class is still waiting. Take care, Yun.”

It was a little bit harder to walk when the leash was dangling towards the ground. Puffs of white
and gray fur kept flying in his face. Suguru made it a few steps looking casual and effortless. Those
steps were the ones that let him stroll into the building, and not a step further. As soon as the door
closed, Suguru dropped the smile and groaned.

“You’re a good girl, Mochi,” Suguru repeated through the strain. “A good, large girl…”

He was going to be late. At this point, it was just worth accepting. The only real solace Suguru
could take was in knowing his first year class was small.

With a bend of his fingers and a little bit of concentration, Suguru let one of his curses out across
the floor. What had looked a bit like a deformed flying millipede crawled ahead of him. It knocked
against the classroom door, then slid it open for him to enter while still carrying the dog.

The door had barely opened when a blue haired girl sprung out of her desk. “Mochi-sensei!”

“Miwa! Stop!” Nobara called. “Go get the beef jerky! She needs the beef jerky!”

Miwa raised her hand, giving a salute. “Yes! Right away!”

With all the commotion, Mochi’s tail had started to wag against Suguru’s chest. She seemed calm
enough that Suguru could put her back down. “I see. There’s a favorite teacher,” he mumbled.

Said mumbling went completely unnoticed by the students, who were much too busy fawning over
the dog.

“I got it!” Miwa raised a small packet of discount beef jerky from the front pocket of her backpack.
She ran the packet over towards the front of the room, and laid it out on the ground.

As Miwa tended the jerky, Nobara pressed both her hands over her mouth. Her eyes were
practically sparkling with admiration. “Mochi-sensei, you’re the best! You’re so smart and helpful.”

Miwa nodded down. “Your friendship is very important to me, Mochi-sensei.”

“You teach us so good…!”

Suguru brushed off the front of his jacket, getting some of the dog hair to fly off. “Is anyone going
to notice your other teacher? The human one.”
Just like that, all the shine came out of Nobara’s expression. She looked up with an aggressive
snap. “No way!”

Suguru forced a smile back in place. “That you answered me means you already did.”

“Oh, shut up–”

The curse that had opened the door for Suguru slithered into the room. It had just slipped past the
doorway when Nobara took out a nail and threw it.

Suguru raised his hand to beckon the curse back. The curse slithered back just in time for the nail to
miss, though barely. “If you’re going to threaten me, remember to use the doll,” he sighed. “I am
still your teacher. You’re here to learn. Not squash my menagerie.”

“Then stop bringing bugs to class!” Nobara complained. “It’s gross!”

Suguru lifted the sleeve of his jacket, letting the curse move across his arm.

While Nobara was busy glaring, Miwa hugged onto his dog. Mochi, for her part, made no effort to
move, her tail still wagging away.

“Geto-sensei, it’s not time for class yet, is it?” Miwa asked. “We’re still missing Fushiguro and
Zen’in.”

“Fushiguro and Zen’in are both excused today. They’ve been requested for an investigation in

Sendai.” The insect curse finished crawling into Suguru’s hand, then vanished from sight. “So take
your seats. We should start. It’s important, today..”

Miwa gave one last pet on the head to Mochi. She stood to walk to her seat. Mochi trotted along
behind her, then hopped up into one of the open chairs. She sat at attention, matching Miwa’s
stance.

Nobara put her hands on her hips, taking up additional space. She didn’t move to sit. “If it’s that
important, we should wait for Fushiguro.”

“Fushiguro already knows this lesson. So does Zen’in. They grew up in this world. You two
didn’t.” Suguru picked up a piece of chalk. He made a dramatic stroke, then another, marking two
words across the board. “Tell me, how can you spot the difference between these two?”

At the last stroke of kanji, Suguru stepped aside, leaving the words in plain view. On the left side,
the board read ‘sorcerer’. To the right, it said ‘curse user’.

In the time that it had taken for Suguru to write, Nobara had taken her seat. She slouched in her
chair, looking annoyed and avoiding eye contact. Miwa sat upright, clearly uneasy, too. The only
eager face in the bunch was Mochi.

When the silence stretched too long, Suguru let himself sigh again. “Speak. Someone.”

“Arf!” Mochi’s tail thumped against the back of her chair, wagging away.

Suguru shook his head. “Someone other than my dog, please?”

Nobara huffed. “The curse user’s attacking us. I guess.”

Suguru leaned back against the chalkboard, slouching. “Not necessarily. A sorcerer could think
you’re a curse user if they’re not paying attention.”

“Then you should tell us,” Nobara dismissed. “It’s your class.”

“It means more if you have to think it through yourself.”

Miwa slowly raised her hand. Suguru nodded to her, his bun bobbing in encouragement. “Yes,
Miwa?”

“Is it the residuals?” Miwa asked. “A curse’s energy is a little different from a sorcerer, right? Less
controlled. A curse user could be somewhere in between? Like how you feel.” As soon as Miwa
seemed to realize how she’d put that, her eyes shifted with doubt. “Sorry, sensei! I didn’t mean it
like that.”

“Don’t be! In a way, I am a curse user. Just not the kind you’ll need to fight.” Suguru raised his
hand and flicked it forward in dismissal. “Until a few years ago, we used to call anyone who used
Jujutsu against human beings a curse user. We’ve learned a lot since. There are–”

“Woof! Woof!”

The rhythmic thumping of Mochi’s wagging tail stopped. She stood up on the desk, at attention.

Both Nobara and Miwa turned to the center of the room. Miwa reached out a hand, stretching for,
but not quite stroking, behind Mochi’s ear. “Mochi-sensei?”

Mochi put her paws on the front of the desk, giving herself space to stand up. She scratched down
at the desk and whined, shaking.

“Geto,” Nobara said, “Something’s up with the dog.”

Suguru reached for his whistle. He gave it a short blow, then started to walk towards her “Calm,
Mochi. Good–” He didn’t finish that sentence.

Suguru was mid-step when the temperature dropped. A flash of cursed energy burst through the
ceiling, engulfing the room in a wave of disorienting light.

At some repressed recess at the back of his mind, Suguru knew this feeling. This sense of space
shrinking, then shoving back apart, was something he’d spent four years hoping to forget.

“Miwa! Kugisaki! Get back!” Suguru snapped.

“Get back where?” Nobara asked.

Miwa took Mochi by the collar, whispered a “here, sensei,” and inched half a step back to hide
under the desk. That was all they got to do before the light gave way.

The distortion of space forged and snapped back, leaving two people in the room who hadn’t been
before. The first was a boy with pink hair. Suguru didn’t sense anything on him. And the other
one… was taking a very loud sip from a slushie.
Suguru’s hand braced at the hilt of his sword. His glare stayed sharp on the intrusion. “Leave. Now.
You’re not taking any more of my family.”

Mochi whimpered in Miwa’s arms. The two of them were safely hiding under the desk. Only
Nobara was left standing in the open, obviously confused. “Wait a second, what’s going on?”

The pink haired kid, the one Suguru had never seen before, snapped his head towards the student.
“Whoa, Nobara! You’re okay!”

“How do you know my name?” Nobara asked, still having none of it. “...You look like you used to
eat boogers or something.”

“Kugisaki, get back!” the pink haired boy shouted. He pointed to Suguru. “That guy, he’s–”

Suguru outstretched his arms, pulling inwards to summon a curse. A cerulean dragon with long
white hair emerged from inside him. In the time it took to blink, the dragon flooded the space
between himself and the others. Its body extended in a spiral, hiding the students behind it on one
side, and shoving the pink haired kid to the other.

“Kugisaki! Miwa!” Suguru looked away, just for a second, to try and spot both of them. “Take
Mochi. Run.”

Miwa started to stand, very slowly, crawling out from under the desk. She gripped Mochi’s collar in
one hand, and braced to take her sword with the other.

Nobara turned her hammer in her hand, her posture setting ahead. “Miwa, you go. I’ll take booger
boy.”

“No,” Suguru insisted, his words as sharp as the blade by his side. “You both leave. It’s not him.
It’s the other one.” Suguru’s dark eyes peered through the veil of the dragon curse’s swaying mane,
towards the target on the other side. “The one with the white hair.”

The person Suguru could see from here was standing around, scratching his head with one hand
and holding a blue slushie in the other. With the blindfold tied over his face and a dumb smile on
his lips, it was hard to tell you should be intimidated if you didn’t know what, and who, he was.

“That’s a curse user.” Suguru’s voice went cold. “That’s Satoru Gojo.”
The Honored One

Satoru Gojo
Teleportation wasn’t usually that complicated. If Gojo knew where he was going, shrinking the
space between locations was thoughtless. To anyone not named Satoru Gojo, the equivalent effort
would have been a lot like folding and unfolding a map. It took so little effort, Gojo hadn’t even
bothered to stop drinking his slushie when he dropped into class.

Gojo’s feet hit the ground. A wave of cursed energy pushed over him. He knew this energy, inside
and out. It was the last thing that he’d seen before he’d been sealed.

Gojo stopped drinking. The slushee froze halfway up the straw.

Having not felt the shift, Yuji sprung away into the classroom. He’d immediately started to gape at
Nobara, marveling “Whoa, Nobara! You’re okay!”

Nobara’s expression fell with disgust. “How do you know my name? You look like you used to eat
boogers or something.”

The lack of familiarity was weird. Almost everything since leaving the prison realm was weird.
Simple things, like sensing Yuji’s cursed energy, weren’t working.

Whatever questions this could have raised, Gojo ignored them. He slid the straw down in his cup as
he focused his six eyes on the flow of cursed energy at the far side of the room.

This, as far as Gojo’s six eyes could see, was the exact same thing that had told Gojo he’d see him
in a new world. He had the same voice that told Gojo goodnight before sealing him away to wait
for an apocalypse.

While Gojo was distracted, Yuji started to yell a warning. “Kugisaki, get back! That guy, he’s–”

That stable flow of cursed energy started to fluctuate. Gojo knew that feeling, too. It was the way
the atmosphere changed before Geto summoned a curse.

On instinct, Gojo sprung ahead. He grabbed Yuji by the shoulder, pulling him back as the enormous
dragon curse flooded the room. The barrier of Gojo’s infinity adjusted instantly, cloaking both
himself and Yuji from the curse. The edges of the curse’s fur fluttered as it bounced off the infinite
space, drawing near, but never touching them.

“What–” Yuji sputtered. He tried to stretch his neck, to look over the curse. “Kugisaki!”

“Stay back, understand?” Gojo warned, “He’s dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Yuji agreed. “I know! That’s the guy who had the prison thing.”

“Yep! That’s the one.”

A different conversation sounded on the other side. Gojo’s best friend’s voice, in a tone he hadn’t
heard in a very long time, was insisting calmly. “No. You both leave. It’s not him, it’s the other
one.”

Gojo raised his slushie, taking one last gulp before he braced himself. This, right now, was the calm
before the next storm.
The dots of Suguru’s deep brown eyes narrowed. He peered through the crevices of the dragon
curse’s form, his head turning so that his eyes would stay level with the gaps in its body as he
focused on Gojo. The angle of Suguru’s brows pointed so deeply at the sight of him that Suguru’s
voice seemed to darken, too.

“The one with the white hair. That’s a curse user.” Suguru’s voice went cold. “That’s Satoru Gojo.”

Whatever it was Gojo expected to hear, it wasn’t that.

The oversized cup fell straight from Gojo’s hand. He spit the mouthful of blue slushie straight out
across the room. The blue ice and sugar splattered across the white mane of the dragon curse, then
dripped across the floor.

“Uh…” Gojo squinted through his blindfold, as if that would help. “What the fuck?”

Yuji’s hands curled into a fist. His eyes sharpened almost enough to match Suguru’s glare.
“Kugisaki! Don’t believe him! He’s–”

Gojo kicked the slushie cup across the ground. He slapped a hand over Yuji’s mouth, muffling him.
That just made Yuji yell louder, though the sound was too incomprehensible to matter.

For all of the commotion, and the cursed energy, right now, this hadn’t turned into a fight yet. It
was a standoff. That was fine by Gojo’s side. It gave him time to figure out what the hell was going
on.

“Yo, Not-so-Megamind,” Gojo called, trying to catch Suguru’s attention. “Some new world you’ve
got here. Who’s supposed to believe I’m a stinky curse user? The same one that believes that’s your
real hair?”

For all of the mockery and jokes Gojo tried to use, the answer he got was serious.

“Anyone who’s met you will believe that, Satoru.” A chill still carried through the tone of Suguru’s
voice, the words firm as they were severe. “Leave.”

“Leave? Why should I leave? You’re the one crashing my class.”

“Why?” Suguru repeated, as if this was the most ridiculous suggestion he’d ever heard. “Because
these are sorcerers, Satoru. My students. And you’re not taking the rest of my family.”

“Psh. What family do you have? Your last brain cells?” Gojo asked back. “I’d ask if you lost your
mind, but… it’s more like you lost everything else, am I right?”

Gojo had meant to get under this thing’s skin, or maybe stall for time. What he hadn’t expected was
how convincing this thing had suddenly gotten at acting. The way this voice spoke, now, it didn’t
sound like some dumpster fire gained consciousness to start pissing him off. It sounded like Geto.

“And who’s fault is that? Me, losing? We all lose, don’t we?” Suguru lowered his head, and the line
of his lips fell with it. “Everyone, of course, except Satoru Gojo.”

For everything Gojo assumed about the situation, that response didn’t feel right. Not even close.

“No,” Gojo said to himself, talking himself down. “Some acting lessons, you got there. You almost
got me.”
Suguru’s hand braced at his side. He was reaching for something beside his cloak. The outline of
his palm was caressing the hilt of some kind of cursed tool.

“Leave. Spare them,” Suguru repeated, the word more stern than before. “Or the next time I lose, I
take you down with me.”

There were a thousand clever quips Gojo could have thought to use. In the end, he abandoned all of
them. What he had was simpler.

“Hey, there, butt brain. When did we start the one-liners? You almost sound cool. Yuck.”

“You sound like a child.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. I’m like a child who went through puberty,” Gojo mocked, still stalling.
“What are those called, again? Oh, yeah. People?”

Every second Suguru spent being confused and talking had been worth something for Gojo. The
stupid jokes and extra time gave him Gojo a chance to assess the room.

Through the six eyes, Gojo could sense where the sources of cursed energy were hiding. There was
a girl he’d met before, Miwa, and a dog Gojo had never seen, under the desk by the chalkboard.
Nobara was standing in the open, holding her hammer. Two nails were laced between her fingers.
She was bracing to attack.

The breeze of the dragon curse still circling the classroom. Its body formed a continuous loop. Gojo
realized, in passing, that it was the same form as an infinity sign.

The sense of cursed energy in this room was crackling. It swayed like the embers by a bonfire, but
it hadn’t burst. The fact that no one had actually lobbied for an attack yet was reason enough for
Gojo to take another step forward into what would be the line of fire, hands raised, signaling like he
might surrender.

“Hey, Suguru,” Gojo called. “If you’re in there, you could strangle him again.”

The hand Suguru had kept over his sword twitched. “What are you talking about?”

Suguru took a single step forward. His eyes narrowed in a squint. That would have been plenty,
except, he wasn’t the only one to move. The second after Suguru stepped forth, Nobara did, too.

Suguru turned, his head pivoting towards her. “Kugisaki–”

Suguru didn’t finish that statement. Before he could, Yuji charged Suguru, his fist clenched,
thoughtless.

“You don’t get to hurt her!” Yuji snapped, his fist plunging straight towards the dragon.

The next sequence flowed like a violent dance.

The dragon curse’s body pushed away from Yuji’s attack, flowing deeper into the room, unharmed.
Suguru’s hands raised from his side, beckoning the dragon. The dragon’s circled around Yuji,
corralling him to land backwards, unsteady, surrounded by the spiral of its body on the other side of
the room.
Yuji’s heel hit the ground. He turned into a lunging jump, fitting between two sections of the
dragon’s body before landing cleanly on the other side.

Just as Yuji was in range, he looked back up to call for her. “Kugi–”

Yuji hadn’t even finished the name before the dragon’s head descended from the ceiling. The
dragon lunged at him face first, fangs outstretched, chomping. A current of wind roared forth from
its mouth, ripping papers off the wall. The fang brushed Yuji’s cheek.

Before the dragon could bite, Gojo struck first. He shrunk the space between himself and Yuji,
pulling them together like magnets, away from the curse, then grabbed Yuji. The curse’s teeth
vibrated against the barrier of infinite space it couldn’t pass.

“Quick question,” Gojo tried to deflect. He stepped forward, looking straight at Suguru. “You ever
try stamp collecting? Seems calmer.”

He didn’t get a reply.

While Yuji was preoccupied watching Gojo, Nobara spun her hammer in her right hand. In her left,
she raised a nail, the point directly at the tip of her fist. With the nail still in her grasp, Nobara
plunged her fist towards Yuji’s head.

The surface of the dragon filled a lot of the room, but not so much that Yuji couldn’t raise his arm,
too. Yuji ducked and stretched hand-first to catch the nail between his fingers, aiming to deflect the
blow.

A few strands of Yuji’s hair scattered, splitting as the nail passed his ear, then embedded into the
wall. His eyes widened with a realization.

“Hey, Gojo-sensei–” Yuji gulped, tensing. “Something’s wrong–”

“Yep. Real wrong. So follow my lead, okay?” Gojo nodded to himself. “Okay.”

A second nail flew through the air, again for Yuji. Since Yuji was looking away, he hadn’t seen it
coming. Gojo raised his hand to stop it. The tip of the nail hovered in the air, hitting the resistance
of Gojo’s infinity.

Gojo didn’t lower his hand, forcing the nail to linger in the space.

Suguru snapped at the side. “Kugisaki, stand down!”

Gojo raised both his hands. His fingers spread wide on either side. Whether it looked like an image
of surrender, or of unusually slow jazz hands, was up to the person looking at him. The most
important part was that it brought every other movement in the room to a still.

“You know what? I’ve never surrendered before,” Gojo announced, projecting as cheerful and
careless a tone as ever. “Gotta try everything once, right?”

The energy of the dragon curse turned over itself, again and again. Its body formed a spiral across
Gojo’s side of the classroom, encircling him and Yuji like a python chasing its prey. Between the
folds of the dragon’s body, Gojo could see the outline of Suguru’s form, still bracing to strike.
As the edge of the dragon brushed by, Yuji backed up into Gojo’s arm. Yuji, too, raised his hands,
though a lot less calmly than Gojo. “Uh, sensei?”

“Tell me. Satoru,” Suguru called back, speaking over Yuji. “Why would I ever believe you?”

“Got me there, brainiac.” Gojo raised his hands higher. “You do, though. Why else would you stop
attacking now? You run out of spooky boxes or something?”

“What are you talking about?” Suguru’s hand palmed the top of his sword. “I am attacking.”

Gojo smirked. “This is attacking? You sure?”

Suguru huffed. His stance deepened, bracing to strike. Whatever he was bracing to do, he didn’t get
to.

Gojo’s leg knocked against Yuji’s, the two of them connecting into a single form. The space they
were in, now, surrounded by the dragon, was a clearly visualized circle. In fact, this circle was
almost the exact same spot where Gojo and Yuji had entered the room.

Gojo lowered both hands, folding his fingers together. He visualized the map, shrinking away.

It was a simple enough solution, he’d thought. As long as Gojo could get Yuji out of here safely,
Gojo could figure out the rest after. The surface of the dragon curse Geto had stuck on them was,
ironically, a perfect way to set a barrier to help him escape.

If Gojo had been fighting anyone else except, possibly, Todo, then, the sudden rupture as the circle
Gojo was standing in shifted locations would have taken them by surprise. They wouldn’t know
how to react to teleporting in the middle of a fight.

But Gojo wasn’t fighting someone else. He was fighting Suguru Geto. He was used to this.

The instant that the floorboards started to sink, the dragon curse disappeared. Its form shrunk, the
energy coiling between Suguru’s palm and Gojo’s form. It stretched in a narrow flash, reaching out
in a last ditch effort to connect with them.

Gojo didn’t check if it would work. It shouldn’t have mattered.

Gojo closed his eyes. He visualized the space compressing, then expanding. One second, he was
inside a classroom, trapped indoors. The next, an afternoon breeze rustled Gojo’s hair. The shadows
of clouds stretched across the low rooftop of a school building in the furthest spot he could clearly
think of.

A city skyline stood in the distance. A slope of houses and trees stretched down, rolling away from
where they stood. A second, taller building stood behind them, cloaking half the roof in shadow.
While this was still a school campus, they were far from Jujutsu Tech.

Gojo stepped out of the circle. He stretched his arms into the air, cracking his neck. “Well! That
was weird, right?” He raised his blindfold to peek.

“Yeah,” Yuji blinked. His eyes snapped open in recognition. “Hey! I know this place! It’s–”

Yuji tried to take a step forward. The key word was ‘tried’. Something thin and white wrapped into
Yuji’s shoe, pulling him back. “Huh–”
Gojo looked down. He had just started to make out that the thin, white strip had fangs when he
noticed the cursed energy again.

“-A place full of non-sorcerers,” Suguru interjected. “Why? You trying to find a hostage?”

Without hesitation, Gojo stomped his heel into the thin, white form of the miniaturized dragon
curse. The second the curse lunged for him, Gojo expanded the space, sending the curse flying into
the field behind the school.

“Eh,” Gojo dismissed, trying to look calm. “Felt like a change in scenery.”

“It won’t work, you know,” Suguru warned. “Whatever you’re planning.”

“You think I have a plan? Sheesh. Bad call, there.”

A tree fell as the dragon curse shot straight through the trunk. Gojo didn’t turn to face it. He
focused on putting himself between Suguru and Yuji.

There was no point in asking how Suguru had gotten here so quickly. Gojo’s best guess was that
he’d used the curse to snag Yuji and stowaway. The fact that the limitless should have prevented
either one of them from tagging along would have to wait for an answer.

Suguru stood back, his palm brushing the hilt of his sword, bracing to strike.

At this point, waiting wasn’t going to do much good. This place was still a school. If Gojo let this
break out, here, there were lives at risk. He only had one good option… and it would have to be
fast.

“Hold tight, okay?” Gojo stepped forward, backing away. He took his hands off of Yuji, freeing
him from the infinity.

“Wha–” Yuji turned his head. “Gojo-sensei–”

When Gojo started to move, Suguru did, too. The hand Suguru wasn’t holding at his sword turned
over, pulling a curse from his palm. The beginning of a sphere began to flow, taking a form that
Gojo didn’t stop to see.

While Suguru was summoning whatever that would have been, Gojo charged him. He wrapped one
of his legs between Suguru’s, hooking his knee to his thigh. The instant Gojo felt the contact, he
folded his hands.

“I’ll be back!” Gojo shouted. His voice distorted as it split between locations, the vibrations
shifting with the quality in the air. When he’d first started yelling, it had been from the rooftop of a
random high school. By the end, the words were in the open air.

Gojo’s shoes sank into the dampened dirt. He stepped back, leaving imprints in the soil.

A burst of sunlight brushed through his blindfold. Blades of grass and flower buds bent under the
weight of his feet. As far as normal eyes could travel, the fields were covered in flowers.

Dots of white and fuschia weaved through the lavender of the Hokkaido countryside. Were it not
for the occasional tree, the landscape would have been almost pure. In a place like this, at this time
of day, the only cursed energy here was the kind they brought with them. It made the outline of
Suguru Geto’s energy, persistent, alive, disturbingly clear.

The hand, vibrating with cursed energy, stilled over the hilt of the sword at his side. The energy of
what might have been a curse, ready to be summoned, seemed to swell at Suguru’s palm.

They stood in silence, the flowers fluttering in that breeze. It wasn’t until a stray petal bounced off
the tip of his hair that Gojo realized something.

“Huh,” Gojo shoved his hands into his pockets, his stance turning casual. “You really aren’t
attacking.”

“I should attack,” Suguru determined.

“Nah,” Gojo shook his head. “No need. You can just surrender. Someone should try it. Just not
me.”

Suguru’s hand twitched at his side. Despite the nerves, the flow of his energy stayed stable.

“We both know that’s not an option, Satoru,” Suguru’s words had a strange tone. The way they
carried in the wind, wafting with the scent of the flowers and fresh rain, was reluctant, almost sad.
“Not after Kyoto.”

“Wait, hold up,” Gojo raised a hand out of his pocket, signaling to stop. “What’d you do in
Kyoto?”

“Nothing,” Suguru answered, the words still cold. “That’s what you want me to admit, right? That I
did nothing to stop you?”

The chill to it was unexpected. It didn’t make sense, if everything that Gojo had assumed about the
energy he’d sensed was true. It made him pause as he came to a realization of his own last words.

“No…” Gojo muttered to himself, realizing what he’d gotten wrong. This all too familiar energy
truly was familiar. This wasn’t the desecrated echo of his former best friend, back to haunt him. No,
this Suguru Geto, here, was the real thing.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” Gojo asked, his words faint in disbelief. “Suguru. You took back control.”

“Control of what? Of your mess?”

“Of your body, obviously–” It wasn’t until Gojo had finished adding the ‘obviously’ that something
else seemed to snap into place. It felt like they were having different conversations…

…Because they had been. This entire time, from the second Suguru had said something as
objectively stupid as calling Gojo a curse user, they’d been talking to different people about
entirely separate things.

“Hey. Suguru,” Gojo raised his hand into the air. Again, he tried to signal surrender. The difference,
now, was that he meant it. “What’s going on? Tell me.”

Suguru stayed firm, his feet planted into the field. “The consequences of your actions, Satoru.
That’s what’s going on.”
Gojo reached for the back of his head. His blindfold shifted as he moved to pull it off. “You’re
gonna have to be more specific, cause I don’t know. What’s this deal with being a curse–”

A curse user. That’s how Gojo would have finished the sentence, had he been given the chance.
Instead, as Gojo was distracted speaking, Suguru Geto had drawn his curse and his blade.

In a unified swoop, a burst of cursed energy pulsed through Suguru’s palm. The speed of the draw
alone was enough to rip through Gojo’s blindfold, tearing the fabric through.

A wave of sunlight crossed over Gojo’s face. His eyes squinted on reflex. In the time it took for
Gojo to adjust to the shades of the sun, Suguru was already charging.

For as fast as Suguru had been to attack, Gojo was still faster. The angle of the wind telegraphed
where the blow was coming from. Gojo synchronized himself with the wind current, dodging with
a spin and leaping away. He raised a hand, his fingers curling as he braced to intercept the attack.

The blade of the katana had crashed into lavender, scattering blooms into the air. As Gojo saw the
sword plunge into the soil, a shadow of near endless cursed energy engulfing its wielder, that the
full force of what stood ahead of Gojo was clear.

There were no stitches across Suguru Geto’s forehead. The scars from that body snatcher weren’t
just healed–they’d never been there. The person in front of Gojo, here, was not the Suguru Geto
he’d seen last, either time. He wasn’t even in the monk’s robes.

If there was any relief to be had from the lack of those scars, it was eclipsed by the flow of cursed
energy in the blade, pulsing through the ground. The shadow of a curse cycled through the vessel of
the black and silver katana in Suguru’s hand. The form of the curse stretched along Geto’s back,
haphazard and jagged, tendrils flying from her head.

Never before had Gojo seen Suguru Geto need an object as a vessel to channel a curse. For as long
as Gojo had known him, the capacity of Geto’s cursed technique had never met a true limit.

The question here wasn’t why that had changed. From the form of the curse’s silhouette, its arms
bent, teeth bared, the question was how.

“What did you do to Okkotsu,” Gojo said, the words too flat to be a question.

“Who?”

Gojo started to twitch. “To the kid whose curse you stole!”

“Stole? Don’t you mean exorcized?”

The silhouette flickered out of sight as Suguru aimed to strike Gojo. As the blade burst towards
him, Gojo jumped. He landed directly atop the tip, using it as a springboard, then landed cleanly on
the other side.

“Answer me!” Gojo repeated, his tone sharpening along with his stare as anger took over. His soul
and his six eyes could both tell that this person was in fact Suguru Geto, but that almost made this
worse. “What the hell did you do to Okkotsu?!”

“Nothing he didn’t agree to for me to destroy you.”

The aura around Suguru shifted. The cursed energy engulfing the blade seemed to switch
directions, the current churning like an angry tide.

The essence of Rika Orimoto channeled through Suguru’s blade. Suguru held the katana on its side,
his stare narrowing to match the point of Gojo’s judgment with his own.

“Let’s curse each other, Satoru,” Suguru whispered, beckoning him. “I’ll be the last sorcerer you
kill.”
 Nine Month Back Step

Yuji Itadori

July 17, 2018

Sugisawa Municipal High School #3

Sendai City, Miyagi Prefecture

From the second they’d landed here, Yuji had known exactly where he was. What he hadn’t been
able to guess was why.

“Hold tight, okay?” Gojo stepped back. He raised his hands off Yuji, breaking the connection
between them.

“What–” Yuji turned his head.

By the time Yuji could spot what was happening, Gojo was standing in between Yuji and the
sorcerer Yuji couldn’t name.

For all the other parts of what was going on that Yuji couldn’t see, he could still pick up on the
position of Gojo’s hands. He knew what it looked like before he was going to disappear. “Sensei!”

As the words left Yuji’s mouth, Gojo shouted, too, the words overlapping. “I’ll be back!”

Gojo’s physical form seemed to flicker. Yuji charged forward, hoping to catch him. That hope
snapped as Yuji’s hand hit thin air. He caught himself along the low railing of the roof, his breath
stopping as the rest of him fell still.

It didn’t take long to see that everyone else who had been here was gone. Yuji shouted anyway.
“Gojo!”

It made sense there wasn’t an answer. His voice didn’t even echo from up here. Why would it?

The last time Yuji had seen this view, it had been completely different. There was no sun to show
the details of the buildings and the trees he knew so well. To see it now, truly alone, felt like that
was the echo of something long gone. This school–this city–was what Yuji had left behind.

“It’s quiet,” Yuji mumbled to himself, the words far lower than he would have expected.

The sound of a metal bat smacking a ball cracked in the distance. A few students’ voices cheered,
while others stared blankly out the windows. Though there wasn’t as much activity as Yuji was
used to, it was unmistakably still Sugisawa Municipal High. He leaned into his arms, watching the
horizon drift.

“I should miss this. Shouldn’t I?” Yuji asked no one. No one answered.
The clear summer air filled his lungs. A breeze pushed across his cheeks. Sunlight washed over
him, warming his face.

It felt wrong to take a moment like this. Even when it was exactly what he’d been told to do by
sensei, it wasn’t just the sunlight that washed over him. Guilt found its way in, too. It was a
younger version of Yuji who had known peace like this. One who hadn’t made so many mistakes.

The thought of mistakes brought Yuji’s eyes to snap open as he remembered. “Wait, Junpei–!”

It was weird, but, in the kind of way it felt best not to question why this was even an option. Yuji
reached for his phone, with every intention to text Junpei back.

Sunlight bounced across the dark screen of his smartphone. A dim, grayed reflection of his face
flashed on the other side. For all the fighting and running around he’d been through today, Yuji
looked fine. There wasn’t so much as a mark under his eye.

Yuji had to think for a second before he realized that sentence was wrong. In that same second, the
lock screen turned on, replacing his reflection with an artificial glow of his photo wallpaper with
himself, Nobara, and Megumi at the start of first year. Yuji squinted at the screen.

“There’s… no. No way…”

Yuji curled over, turning his back to the railing. He pressed the power button to turn the image off.
The reflection of himself stared back on the dark screen once more. His expression had shifted,
now, the smile turning to concern.

He raised his other hand to his cheek, swiping his thumb across the smooth, unblemished skin
under his eye. He turned his cheek to the side and pulled the phone to one side, focusing where the
curse marks should have been.

“He’s gone,” Yuji whispered to himself.

It didn’t make sense. Yuji tapped a finger over the spot, poking himself where one of Sukuna’s eyes
should have been. There wasn't a response.

Of all the things that were hard to believe, that was suddenly the hardest. It was so hard to believe
that Yuji had to prove it.

“Hey,” Yuji called, thinking the words as loudly as he could. “Hey, Sukuna, you know what? I
found a finger for you. It’s mine, right here in the middle…!”

There wasn’t an answer. Yuji shook his head.

“If I’ve got to die, then it’s going to kill you, too,” Yuji glared into the black screen, deep into the
image of himself, as if his own reflection were Sukuna. “You gonna say something to that? Huh?”

He didn’t. Sukuna said nothing, because there was no Sukuna. The only sound in Yuji’s head was
his pulse, echoing, as a new understanding settled in.

Yuji pocketed his phone. His hand flattened against his cheek, hiding the spot where a mark would
have formed. “Wow,” Yuji’s voice raised in astonishment. “...wow. He's not there."
As if just to spite the idea Yuji could ever be alone, the second Yuji finished speaking, he heard a
voice from below.

“Are you sure? Won’t that second year chick get upset or something?” a girl asked.

“Desk space is short for the first years. We don’t have space to keep shrines!” someone else
snipped back. “Most importantly, this is against school protocol. We don’t allow live plants outside
the gardening club.”

The sound of the voice felt vaguely familiar, enough so that Yuji looked back towards the stairwell.
If these people were that close, they were probably on the second floor.

When Gojo had said to stay put, had he really meant to stay in this exact spot? It had probably been
more of a metaphor.

Yuji tightened his grip on the railing. He slid down, dropping to a window frame by the second
floor. As soon as he had his balance, he jumped down again, to the first floor. He took a peek from
the side, peeking into the classroom where the voices had been.

“I don’t know. This still feels sorta weird,” the first student hesitated. Yuji had never seen her
before. “Sorta like we’re touching a grave.”

“This isn’t a time to be superstitious!” the person with the familiar voice exclaimed. The midday
sun bounced off his glasses, “We, the school council, have a duty to fulfill!”

“Ohhh!” Yuji snickered as he realized why he knew that voice. “...It’s Mr. Worm!”

The all too serious president of the Sugisawa School Council marched into the classroom, stuffy as
ever. A short girl with braids and coke bottle glasses was at his side.

Spotting the shift, Yuji decided to duck one last time. He dropped from the windowsill into the
bushes, hiding himself. A few leaves popped into the air before fluttering right back down,
concealing him.

“Wait?” the girl in the glasses asked, concerned “Did you say something?”

“Stop messing around!” The school council president slid his glasses up dramatically along the
bridge of his nose. “Our sixth sense is common sense, not nonsense. There’s no place for messing
around in our school,” he boasted.

“No…” the girl shook her head. “No, it wasn’t that.” Her hand cupped under her chin in
consideration. “It was shorter. Like, warm? Or worm?”

A latent reflex made the school council president’s shoulders stiffen. He looked back in disgust. “I
did not say worm.”

“I didn’t–” she stuttered.

The council president slammed his hand on a desk. “No one said worm!”

Yuji snickered into the bush. For how confusing everything else had been, there was something
nostalgic about knowing this weird power trip was still going on.
The laughter, too, made the people inside pause. The next time the girl spoke up, she sounded far
less sure of herself. “Did you hear that, senpai?”

“No,” the council president answered, far less convincingly than before. “Let’s get this over with.
There’s been enough time spent paying respects to Itadori.”

There was a beat of silence inside the room. Outside, Yuji’s head sprung out from the bush like a
floral jack-in-the-box. He grabbed the window, sliding it open. “What about Itadori?”

A twig snagged in Yuji’s hair, a few leaves bouncing with the residual force. Yuji didn’t see that.
What he noticed, now, was what was inside the room.

The first thing to catch Yuji’s eye was that the school council president had slicked down his hair.
Somehow, he looked even more like a lifeless office worker than before. The second thing Yuji
noticed was that this room wasn’t just any classroom. It was Yuji’s old class, specifically. The
president and the underclassman girl were standing directly at Yuji’s old desk.

The last thing Yuji saw was the state of his desk. The surface was covered in flowers, origami, and
cards. A photograph of him, wrapped in cloth streamers, had been clutched in the underclassman
girl’s arms. Her grip slipped. The frame cracked as it fell to the floor.

Any image of professionalism wiped right off the president’s face. His mouth fell agape in horror.

In the time it had taken for the president to start staring, the underclassman behind him took off.
She booked it through the door, screaming “Gh-gh-ghost!”

“It can’t be–” the school council president stuttered, his insistence sounding far more like terror.
“The phantom member…!”

“Hey,” Yuji blinked. He waved through the window. “I’m right here–”

If there had been an aura in the room, it seemed to darken instantly.

“You aren’t real!” the president shouted. “You’re some hoodlum! You can’t be Itadori! You– you’re
some… some hoodlum!”

While the president was moving about, Yuji pulled up on the frame, popping the door open. He
hopped into the room, landing cleanly in front of the shrine.

“Huh?” Yuji asked, looking up. “What’s that about a hoodie?”

The president let out an eardrum bursting scream.

“No!” The school council president’s voice grew louder, still shrieking with terror. He reached to
grab a vase of flowers from the shrine. A trembling hand wrapped around the vase’s neck, trying to
brandish it like a weapon. “You won’t take me! I–”

Mid-threat, the flowers inside the vase fell limply across the floor. A few drops of water fell on the
president’s shoe with a plonk.

Yuji looked down. “Are you okay? ...You’re really not good at this threat thing.”
The simple act of speaking to him was terrifying enough that the president fell flat on his butt,
straight into the puddle.

Yuji leaned towards him, offering a hand. “Oh. You need help?”

The sway only encouraged the president to scramble further back. His head smacked against the
wall. “I don’t want to go to hell!”

“Uh…” Yuji blinked. “Neither do I?”

The president put his arms in front of himself. His whole body shook in sheer fear. All Yuji could
do about it was just kind of stand there.

“So. Then.” Yuji looked from the president, towards his old desk. “What’s this about the dead
thing? I don’t get it…”

The president answered with a whimper. He pressed his elbows over his face, hiding himself as he
cried. It wasn’t really helpful.

Still confused, Yuji stepped forward, approaching the shrine. A flower brushed against his foot, the
petals scattering through a puddle.

The main picture of himself was still broken on the floor. A vase, too, was missing, creating gaps
where they would have stood. What was left were a few condolence cards, a vase full of incense,
stray flowers that had started to decay, and an article from the local paper, Kahoku Shimpo.

The newspaper paper folded across Yuji’s hand. In black and white, between an article on a local
election and another on rising housing costs, was a picture of the school. The headline of the article
was clear. ‘Teenage Boy Killed, Others Injured by Lightning Strike Fire’.

Between the pictures and the basic description, Yuji saw his name as clear as the day. ‘The
deceased’s name was Yuji Itadori, 15, a first year student at Sugisawa Municipal High.’

“No, no,” Yuji muttered. “That doesn’t matter. Who–”

Yuji tried to skim through the article for the important parts. There were mentions of the rugby
team and their tick incident, but nothing Yuji was looking for.

At the end of the article, Yuji shook the paper. He looked back to the school council president, who
still hadn’t moved.

“Hey!” Yuji called, leaning over him. “Hey, Mr. Worm–”

“Leave me alone,” the council president whimpered pathetically.

Yuji folded the paper over, pointing to the name of the article, right over the kanji on the headline
where it said ‘others’. “These others, they’re Sasaki and Iguchi, right?” Yuji asked.

“I’m–” The council president stuttered. “I’m not going to tell you. You’re some… some…”

Yuji folded the paper. He held out his hand. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? Just tell me where to
find the other club members. I’ve gotta talk to them.”
“A…” The president sniffled back. “That’s privileged information. Breaking the rules. I can’t.”

“You’ve gotta tell me, okay?” Yuji insisted. “They could–”

Die. That would have been how Yuji finished the sentence, had the school council president not
shouted over Yuji in desperate tears. “Iguchi’s in the hospital! Sugisawa hospital, down the block.
I– Please don’t kill me!”

“Huh–”

Whatever intensity Yuji might have had before, it cracked again when he heard just how frightened
the president was. He kneeled down in front of him and tried to give him a smile.

“You should really calm down, y’know? And maybe don’t do things that would make you think
people want to kill you? I mean, I wouldn’t, but, if you think I had a reason… maybe chill? Like a
little?’

The president nodded his head so fast, his glasses flew off his face. Yuji raised his hand just in time
to catch them. He folded the glasses up, then set them back down by the president’s leg.

“Thanks. I gotta go.” Yuji’s hand crept behind his head, ruffling through his hair as he considered
what to do. “You can clean up the desk if you want. I don’t really need it.”

With that, Yuji pushed up to his feet. He crawled out the window, brushed off the bush, and took off
towards the hospital.

The plan felt clear, if not what he’d been told to do. If there was any chance that Sukuna’s finger
was around, it was probably still with the occult club, and that meant Yuji had to find them right
away. He pulled out his phone to tell Gojo.

The second Yuji opened the screen, his footsteps came to a stop. All the momentum he’d been
building washed out in an epiphany. The white letters on Yuji’s lock screen stared back at him with
the time. 4:09 pm, Thursday, July 12th.

“Huh…”

Yuji stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, hunching over the screen. The photograph on his lock
screen phone was still staring back. Nobara was making a silly face into the camera with Yuji,
while Megumi looked aloof to the side, having none of it.

“What’s up with this?” Yuji asked himself. He turned on the phone, flipping into the messages. “It
doesn’t make…” Just as he’d asked the question, something else came to mind. “...sense.”

It shouldn’t have made sense. At first, it didn’t. Then, Yuji pictured a screen in front of him. He
pictured Ozawa, leaning towards him, whispering a question about what was going on during the
movie.

“Or…” Yuji looked down. He closed his eyes, remembering. “...the movie...?”

There’d been a light show, one of colors fragmenting into splotches, as that super-collider that
brought all the universes together had gone off. An array of colors beyond any logic burst through
the darkness, into the world. The pictures had been unlike anything Yuji had seen in real life
before… but it had been like at least one thing he’d seen immediately afterwards. That description
was almost exactly like what happened in the men’s bathroom.

“Oh my God,” Yuji realized, gaping at the phone. “This is Spider-Man! I’m Spider-Man!”

Yuji’s thumb stilled on the screen, his grip tightening on it as he almost jumped with excitement.
“It’s Spider-Man, and… and we did the thing! With the dimensions, and the–”

It was only as Yuji was saying this out loud that he spotted three girls in summer uniform gaping at
him in various stages of confusion and horror.

Slowly, Yuji raised his hand. As casually as he could, he waved to the side. “Hi…?”

One of the girls waved back. Her friend at her right ribbed her in the side, shooing her away. When
they left, Yuji looked back to the new old date with something close to understanding.

There were a lot of conclusions about what was going on that Yuji didn’t know how to reach, but
there was at least one he was sure of. Sukuna’s finger still being missing was bad news. If Sasaki
and Iguchi were still alive, then, they’d be the people most likely to know where the finger had
gone. They were also the most likely to still be in danger.

With newfound determination, Yuji gave a firm nod to his phone. As he was running, he typed in a
quick message to Gojo.

‘Had to go!!! Meet me @ Sugisawa Hospital. Do NOT stop for snacks! Sukuna is missing :O!!! P.S.
I’m Spider-Man :D ’

Yuji was not, in fact, Spider-Man.

Regardless of Yuji’s assessment of himself in other ways, there was one assumption he’d been
correct to make. Yuji knew this path well enough it took no effort to run it. In fact, it took more
effort for Yuji to put his phone back into his pocket than it did for him to sprint from the school to
the hospital.

Having not checked his phone, or the time, Yuji didn’t know how long it took him to sprint up
through the entrance. The automatic doors parted narrowly as he stomped into the hospital lobby.

Yuji’s sneakers let out a squeak as he skidded to a stop by the receptionist’s desk. His hands planted
on either side of the desk as he let out a shout. “I’ve gotta see Iguchi! Right now!”

The receptionist looked up from her computer. She blinked in the most bored way imaginable.
“Room number?”

“I–” Yuji’s expression pulled to a blank. The best he could come up with was a slow “...I don’t
know. High?”

The receptionist looked down to the computer, uninterested. “First name?”

“I… uh…” Yuji’s hand cupped under his chin. “Sorry. You got me.”

The receptionist clicked a single key on the keyboard. “Your name?”

“Oh!” Yuji’s face lit up as he finally got a question he knew how to answer. “Yuji Itadori! I’m his
friend,” he raised his hands from the desk, waving for emphasis as he explained. “There might be
another girl in the room, a Sasaki? They’re old friends. With me, too. They’re old friends, with
each other, and they’re friends with me, too.” He didn’t seem to realize quite how unconvincing
this was.

In the most monotone delivery possible, the receptionist held out a hand. “ID?”

Yuji nodded. “Sure, sure.” He slid his school ID across the counter. “Here.” Yuji didn’t realize that
the ID in question he had with him was for Tokyo Jujutsu High.

The receptionist took the ID, propping it up on the computer monitor. She typed a few letters into
the search bar, checking the system. Her eyes shifted from the ID, to Yuji, to the computer.

“It says here you have an outstanding patient bill,” the receptionist said.

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Yuji agreed, thinking nothing of it. “That makes sense.”

The receptionist looked up. Her glasses slid down the bridge of her nose. “It says here you died.”

“Oh–” Yuji let out a nervous laugh, then raised his hand. “Wanna check my pulse? It’s all…” he
swallowed. “It’s very pulse-y.”

“I can’t allow visitors without proper identification.”

Yuji reached back across the counter. “You don’t understand, I really have to see Iguchi, like, right
now!”

“Sir,” the nurse turned in her chair, staring him down. “Unless you have proper identification, you
have to leave.”

The door started to twitch. Yuji braced one hand along the desk. His posture slipped down, bracing
to sprint ahead. If he had to break in to get to Iguchi, then, so be it. He watched the door as it
started to open… only to see someone on the other side clasp her hands to her mouth and back
away.

A sliver of the bespectacled girls’ face shone through the plexiglass window. It was small, but it
was more than enough for Yuji to tell who it was. For once, he’d had good timing.

“Sasaki!” Yuji called, running towards her. “You’re okay!”

Yuji opened the door. Behind him, the receptionist sighed. She pressed a button under the desk,
sending an alarm for security. Yuji didn’t notice.

“I–it–a–” Sasaki stuttered, cowering back.

“Please,” Yuji called. “Sasaki, it’s okay. I’m–”

“A spirit…” Sasaki started shaking. “You’re a spirit–”

“What? No–”

Sasaki tried to pull the door shut. Yuji nudged his foot into the crack, prodding it open.
“You’re here for me, aren’t you?” Sasaki’s words staggered with a hiccup. The straight bob of her
black hair and the frames of her glasses were shaking. “Because it’s my fault, that you–”

While Sasaki was gaping at him, Yuji reached through the doorframe. His hand settled on her
shoulder, steadying his grip. “I’m here to make sure you’re okay. Okay?”

“Why?” Sasaki’s voice cracked. She opened her eyes. “Itadori–”

All of Yuji’s earlier confusion set to the side. Right now, with his old upperclassman, it was instinct
to force a smile.

“I’m fine. You feel me, right? All solid and stuff?” Yuji gave Sasaki’s shoulder a light pat. “I mean,
what kind of spirit wears a hoodie?”

Red as her eyes were, the rest of Sasaki’s expression tensed. Her eyebrows raised, her mouth
drawing to an unsteady line as she, too, tried to process the impossible. “Are you real?”

“Last I checked. Yeah.”

Sasaki stepped forward. Hesitantly, she raised a hand towards Yuji. He felt her shoulder shift as she
set her hand atop his own.

“Wow… I can feel you.”

“That’s… uh… kind of how being alive works? So?”

Sasaki’s eyebrows raised, her expression falling to a gape. “You’re alive, again? Like… you’re a
zombie?”

“I don’t think so? I mean, zombies don’t talk, right?”

For all the fear that Sasaki had been showing before, now that they were speaking, Sasaki’s
curiosity was starting to spark. “A demon, then?” she asked, starting to look excited. “You’re
possessed? A vengeful spirit..?!”

“No–” Yuji considered what she was saying. His eyes shifted towards the ceiling. “Well, not now?”

“Now?” Sasaki repeated, her voice raising. “What do you mean, now?”

Hospital security was starting to walk up behind them. The receptionist pointed Yuji’s way. He
didn’t make out the exact words, but he did get an impression it was time to take off.

“Hey. So. Think we can talk somewhere else?” Yuji asked. “I kinda came by for something–”

One of the security guards ran towards the door. Seeing the oncoming blur, Yuji stepped out of the
way. He pulled Sasaki by the wrist, bringing her to stumble aside just in time to avoid bumping into
the guard.

“It’s really important. Like, really really, to protect you from something,” Yuji twisted around
Sasaki, guiding her and himself towards the exit. His head turned over his shoulder on the last
pivot, eyeing the guard on the way out. “We’re going! Sheesh–”
The automatic doors to the hospital lobby slid open. In the blink of an eye, Yuji and Sasaki were
standing on the other side. Yuji let go of Sasaki’s wrist. He brushed himself off.

“I’m sorry,” Yuji said, still making himself sound casual despite the mild skirmish he’d just had to
avoid. “I didn’t want to make a scene...”

Yuji had barely finished the sentence when Sasaki’s arms wrapped around him. The crushing force
of the hug made Yuji stumble slightly. Yuji wiggled enough to pick up his arms, stabilizing himself
just in time to steady Sasaki as a new sob ran through her.

“Iguchi, he’s–” Sasaki cried into Yuji’s shoulder, her stance less stable by the second. “He’s still not
awake. It’s my fault. Both of you…”

“It’s not,” Yuji insisted, his words getting firmer. “It was never your fault, Sasaki-senpai. I’m the
one who gave you the finger.”

There were some parts about this situation that Yuji never forgot. Even if these classmates had felt a
lifetime away, he’d replayed these conversations in his sleep.

“It’s a special grade cursed object,” Yuji said, the words feeling as natural as they were important.
“You couldn’t have known what would happen. Neither could I. What happened just… well,
happened.”

The strangest part about having a conversation over again wasn’t Yuji echoing his own words. It
was in getting to witness the reluctant relief in Sasaki’s eyes as she heard Yuji say them for the first
time.

“Itadori…” The way Sasaki called his name was just as stunned as Yuji remembered. What had
changed was the end, how her voice raised into a reluctant question of her own. “How are you
back?”

“Eheh,” Yuji laughed nervously. “No clue. But…” Yuji stepped back, wiggling free from Sasaki’s
hug. “But before that, one question. Do you know what happened to that finger?”

“The…. finger?”

“You know,” Yuji repeated, ignoring how the inquisitive tone on Sasaki’s part implied she very
much did not know. “The curse object? From the school? Purpley reddish gray mummy finger?”

“That’s pretty specific.”

“Mhm,” Yuji nodded. “Kinda smells like rotting soap? It’s gross.”

“That’s really specific.” Sasaki leaned back. She adjusted her glasses, thinking. “I don’t know. I
didn’t see it again.”

Yuji put his hands behind his neck and rocked back against the wall, considering the options. He
wondered what Megumi or Gojo-sensei would have asked next. After a few seconds of quiet, and
then a few more, he realized something. Maybe, if this world’s Yuji Itadori had died, and had been
with Sasaki and Iguchi the whole time, then he was the one who had the finger.

“Wait,” Yuji raised his arms back into the air. He pointed down to himself. “Where am I?”
“Uh–” Sasaki squinted. “You mean, Sugisawa Hospital?”

“No,” Yuji shook his head. He pointed again. “No, no, the other me. The one you said died. Where
did that Itadori go? Does he have, like, a grave, or–”

For as upset as she had been before, a glint started to form through Sasaki’s glasses. Her mouth
curled with a grin.

“We didn’t find any relatives for you,” Sasaki deduced, her enthusiasm building as she spoke. “No
one would release your remains without family, and your grandfather died the same day. There
hasn’t been a funeral announced in the paper. That must mean you were never claimed!”

Yuji started to blink. “Hey. Uh. Should you sound like that when you say that?” he asked, stiffly.
“You seem sort of… happy… about that?”

Completely ignoring Yuji’s concern, Sasaki pumped her fist in front of her in victory. “If you didn’t
rise from the dead, then, it stands to reason your remains will be… at the crematorium!”

“Oh?”

“And with your uncanny resemblance to yourself, you can be your own family and sign them out!”

“Oh.” Yuji looked up, as if he understood where this was going. It took a second of him staring
back at Sasaki before he realized he even had a question to ask. “Wait, wait, when did I die?”

Sasaki lowered her hand. Her line of sight drifted back down to Yuji. “...last week. Shouldn’t you
know that?”

There was a lot of math that he could have done, but he really wasn’t in the mood, so Yuji settled
for shrugging. “Guess not?”

The important thing, here, was that Yuji had gotten a clue where to try next. If Sasaki didn’t have
the finger, and nothing strange had been happening at the school, then the next logical place to
check was his remains.

It was a weird thought that Yuji didn’t want to dwell on. So, Yuji didn’t. Instead, he let himself
switch topics. “Hey. Uh. Sasaki?”

“Itadori?” Sasaki looked back. The bob of her hair shook in the breeze. The rest of her had calmed
down. Evidently, all it took was a supernatural mystery to make her go back to normal.

Yuji’s hands felt heavy at his side. He let them hang there, anyway, as his thoughts strayed down.
“Sasaki, were you there? Like, when I died?”

All the relaxation that had started to settle into Sasaki’s posture slipped. Her hand curled into a fist,
clutching the knot of her tie. “You… saved me. Itadori. From… from the monster…”

The way Sasaki bit her bottom lip, unable to keep talking, said the rest.

If this were earlier into the conversation, Yuji might have tried to correct Sasaki. It was a curse, not
a monster, that she’d seen. Here, now, Yuji fell into a different instinct–to repeat the conversation
that he’d already had before.
“I’m really sorry, Sasaki,” the memory of what Yuji had told her before kicked right back in. The
exact same words left his mouth. “There’s somewhere I need to go. I’ll see you–”

Yuji cut himself off as he realized what he was about to say wasn’t true. If all went the way it
should, there was no reason for Yuji to speak to Sasaki again. Putting on his best calming smile and
assuring her he was going to see her later was just a different way to lie.

So, Yuji stopped himself. He lowered the hand he would have waved with and swayed forward,
instead, towards Sasaki.

“You were a really fun senpai, Sasaki,” Yuji told her, the words still calm, but a little more serious.
“Thanks. I’ll make sure someone comes for Iguchi. He’ll be okay.”

Sasaki tried to force a smile, instead. It was a lot less convincing than Yuji’s had ever been. Her
eyes wrinkled at the corners, still stained with the tears she was trying to hold back. “You have to
take care of your unfinished zombie business, alright?”

Yuji couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m not a zombie. I just… have to go.” Despite every weight of
this conversation, the words themselves drew out a reluctant smile. His hand raised back into a
wave. “Goodbye, senpai! See you on the other side, alright?”

Sasaki nodded. The first teardrop fell. She blinked it away. Yuji forced his smile a little wider. He
gave a wave, then turned his back to Sasaki, closing a chapter he hadn’t known before to shut.

It was an odd feeling to walk into the sunlight, knowing that had been a goodbye. For a second,
Yuji felt his throat tighten. He didn’t realize how much it mattered to him that he’d never had that
kind of goodbye before. He’d never left someone and known they’d be okay.

Yuji turned his back to an old part of his life, then opened his phone to check for the new. The
message he’d sent to Gojo hadn’t gotten a reply. Yuji typed in a new message as he ran.

‘Meet at Sugiwama cremathorium…’ Yuji typed. He backspaced to correct the words.

‘Meet at sugarwarmer crew moth–’

Yuji groaned, then backspaced again.

‘Update: sukuna finger maybe at sgsw burn body place!! Meet there!!! Don’t fight and text! D:’

With that, Yuji took off running, his mind so focused on one part of the puzzle, he didn’t consider
the rest of the picture. Even if Yuji had stopped to look, he wouldn’t have seen the form of a bright
blue eye float through his shadow, then blink right out of being once more.
 Chasing Ashes

Yuji Itadori

July 17, 2018

Sugisawa Crematorium

Sendai City, Miyagi Prefecture

It could have been easier to get lost on the way to the crematorium than the school. Thanks to his
grandpa, the hospital was somewhere Yuji went all the time. Here, Yuji had only been once, nearly
a year ago, and in a universe far, far away.

There was a step forward when Yuji wondered if he was lost. Then, he saw it. A puff of white
smoke rose from the trees, swirling like a beacon.

When Yuji spotted smoke, he sped up, racing towards the target. The fact his muscles were
protesting from having run at least a half-marathon around Sendai City didn’t stop him. If anything,
the pain gave him focus.

No, what stopped Yuji was something less logical and far, far simpler. As Yuji sprinted up the
shallow steps, and the side doors lined up in view, a sudden wave of pressure pushed him down.

Yuji’s knees buckled. His hands braced at his sides, his fingers outstretching for balance. His
shoulder throbbed where the glass had struck him hours ago. Though a chill passed through the
wound, Yuji didn’t reach to clutch it. Instead, he stared onward, struck still by a feeling he never
thought he would have again.

It was like the air had turned to sludge in the presence of something Yuji had no means to describe.
The last time, this feeling had been the presence of a curse, back when the concept of a curse itself
was unfathomable.

Yuji had never realized it before, because he’d never had a reason to realize this. In the same way
something stopped smelling once you’d stayed in the room, there was a benefit in being blind. If it
was always there, inescapable, then there was nothing to gain from being aware of the smell… or
afraid of power.

That learned blindness had left Yuji when Sukuna had. Here, as Yuji stared at the cement box of a
building he could see absolutely nothing wrong with from the outside, every survival instinct in his
body was screaming one thing. Run.

Yuji knew not to listen to that.

Yuji stood still, his hand tensing. He stepped forward, forcing his way through that pressure to
charge ahead. His sneaker planted into the ground in unison with a different, familiar, voice.
“ You stay here, ” Megumi’s words carried through the pressure, muffled by the distances of space
and time. “ We don’t need both of us .”

Someone else answered, the words in a higher pitch. “ No. Megumi, I’m going with you. ”

“Huh–” Yuji took the next step. His head turned over his shoulder, looking towards the sound. All
he could see, there, was a closed door and an empty bench. There was no sign of Megumi.

“Yeah,” Yuji told himself. “Yeah. Why would he be here?”

Meeting Megumi was such a distant memory, Yuji didn’t think to consider it too deeply. He
certainly didn’t remember it clearly enough to realize that Megumi’s words weren’t the same ones
he’d spoken to Yuji, or that the answer Megumi had received clearly wasn’t from Yuji at all.

Yuji clutched his fist. His eyes narrowed back on the door.

Maybe the right call would have been to wait for Gojo to join him. If Yuji hadn’t eaten Sukuna’s
finger in the first place, he knew how much that could change. People who Yuji had seen here,
alive, might have stayed that way if Yuji had never become a vessel for Sukuna. Gojo could handle
this.

Distantly, between the rustle of summer leaves, Yuji heard Megumi’s voice.

“ Stay here! ”

If Yuji heeded that order, he could have avoided hosting Sukuna–but wouldn’t that mean other
people had died? What about Megumi? Would he have been able to handle that curse, or would he
not have made it?

Yuji had spent so much time considering what he hadn’t done, it took until now to realize what he
had. He could imagine what he’d yelled at Megumi to elicit that reaction in the first place.

It’s only been a couple of months, but they’re my friends. I have to do something to help!

The thought formed. And then, Yuji raced for the door.

The door to the crematorium didn’t resist. It was the middle of the day, after all. White smoke was
still rising from the chimney. There was no reason for there to have been an issue. The building was
open.

Or, rather, the building should have been open. The second Yuji’s feet crossed the line into the
reception area, he saw something was wrong.

The bars of fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling were dark. The front reception desk was
empty. A row of urns stood alone behind the front entrance, shining with the reflection of the
outside light. A thin veil of smoke hung across the ceiling. And then, the door clicked shut.

The pressure from outside had doubled. The hair on Yuji’s neck stood on end.

“Hey!” Yuji shouted, craning his neck down the hall. “Hey, anyone here?”

Nothing answered.
Yuji coughed into the back of his hand. The scratches across the back stung. He tried again.
“Hello?!”

The word bounced off the wall, echoing back. Otherwise, there was no reply.

An audible squeak sounded from his shoes as Yuji walked into the next room. The hair on the back
of his neck stood on end. Yuji willed himself to ignore it.

At Yuji’s back, while he walked away, the darkness behind him grew richer. The veil of a curtain
dripped down across the perimeter of the crematorium. An artificial cloak of night enveloped the
space, ensnaring something inside.

Something that, though Yuji hadn’t seen it yet, would likely include him.

Yuji rounded the corner, turning down the hallway. His hand just brushed a doorknob when the
ground started to shudder.

Yuji’s knees bent, his posture crouching towards the floor. A vibration passed through the tile, up
his feet and into his head. He had just registered that this felt like an earthquake when a crash
boomed behind the door. That was enough.

Yuji bowed forward, scrunching his shoulders, and ripped open the door. He rushed into the other
room just as the first tremor stopped.

As far as he could see, this next room was for storage. Shelves ran in rows after rows, closer to a
library or a warehouse than something one would expect for a funeral. Most of the metal racks
were empty. The few which had contents of them held barely-marked boxes, each one hardly
bigger than what would have held a pair of shoes.

Yuji knew those boxes. He’d held one. It wasn’t a shoe store. This was where the bodies were
stored after cremation.

He had just started to understand where he was when a shelf collapsed on itself. An indent
smashing through the center, as if a gigantic, invisible fist had punched straight through. The
shelves popped up on either end, scattering the boxes into the air.

Unsecured tops flew off as the cremation boxes hit the ceiling. The fine, gray flecks of human
remains fluttered down across the room, their clouds drifting almost like snow.

Just like that snow, the ashes of each box–of each person–scattered across the ground. The slightest
sway across that floor spread the flecks of ash like a blanket.

The pressure built in the air. It was stronger here than it had been outside. If Yuji had to guess, then
based on the prickle at the back of his neck, Sukuna’s finger was somewhere in this room.

Yuji swiped his hand across his nose, wiping flecks of ash away. He clenched his hand, tightening
his fist.

The ash against the ground had spread, the thin veil stretching further and further across the
otherwise bare tile floor. The powder swayed under the weight of something, the clear imprint of a
circle forming. No sooner had Yuji seen the first circle form than did he see a second one sink into
the surface.
Footprints. Those were footprints. Whatever was in here, it was coming towards Yuji.

Yuji’s hand tightened. He swung back, building momentum. Three more footprints charged towards
him. Yuji waited for the moment that the pressure dropped most. Then, he smashed his fist into
what looked like nothing but air.

It may have looked like nothing, but it hadn’t been. When Yuji’s fist thrust forward, he felt
resistance. Something sleek and slimy splattered across Yuji’s knuckles. The impact struck in full.

The lines of what had once been footprints pushed back, fast, as the curse went flying. The
invisible mass smashed against the back wall.

Another indent formed after. The next shelf over let out a slow, creaking whine as the shelf
collapsed. Three more boxes of cremated remains tipped over, the stream of remains mixing with
the others on the floor. A puff rose where the stream fell, filling the air once more.

Each box had been a person, once. There was no time left to consider who they were, or what it
meant that they were being treated like this. The most Yuji could do, right now, was watch through
a glare.

The flakes of ashes passed through most of the room as they floated towards the ground. Most, but
not all. A small section of the air stayed clear. In one spot, towards a back corner, the falling ash
drifted to a still around a curve, pooling in midair as if an invisible shelf were in the way.

The curse. That blob had to be the curse.

With a new burst of focus, Yuji charged towards the gap. He took two steps forward for
momentum, then leapt into the air, letting gravity take over as he smashed a kick into the curse. His
heel smashed into the surface, squishing into the mass of something.

Yuji used the landing spot to pivot while still standing on the curse. He built his force again to land
another smashing kick into what he guessed was its head.

The curse collapsed, sinking both it and Yuji towards the ground. Just as the curse started to fall,
Yuji pushed up, jumping off its back. He landed in a sliding step, his heel brushing a pile of ashes.

A large hole formed where the curse landed, forming a crater in the space where its body must have
been. The last specs of ash drifted down across the shelves. Nothing else was moving. The only
shifting left that Yuji could sense was the rise and fall of his chest.

Only something with cursed energy could exorcize a curse. However, from the looks of it here, a
non-sorcerer could still knock one the fuck out.

In that second of stillness, Yuji finally had the chance to check the room. He couldn’t see a living
person, only the scattered remains of those who had already left. It was strange not to see an
employee back here, but, for the circumstances, that could have been a good thing. Maybe whoever
had been working here had the chance to escape.

Whether there were or weren’t people here, what mattered, now, was that he still hadn’t seen
anything move. What he did see, though, were the boxes of remains.
Yuji crouched over, checking the side. There was something in the corner of the box–black,
handwritten lettering in plain hiragana. He hadn’t known the person, but it was clearly a name.

“Huh–”

Yuji set the mostly-empty box down on a shelf. He climbed over the ashes with care and stepped
towards a back shelf. From what he could tell, this was the spot that the curse had been closest to
before it attacked him.

The lettering on one of the boxes, along the top shelf of the case that curse had last been bothering,
looked familiar. Yuji stretched to the balls of his feet.

Yuji picked the box off the shelf, then looked down at the lettering. He squinted at the writing, his
focus turning back to concern.

“That’s me…” Even in the hazy light of a crematorium’s storage room, Yuji could read the letters
clear as day. “It’s got my name written on it! Like, literally.”

Any thought Yuji could have held on this subject was grim. It was so grim, in fact, that Yuji opted
not to think it through at all. He just took the lid off the box.

There was a reason he had come this far. It wasn’t just curiosity. If there was somewhere that
Sukuna’s finger would have ended up, and it wasn’t with Sasaki or Iguchi, then it was here.

Like all the other boxes, the one with Yuji’s name on it held human remains. The difference was
that it wasn’t only human. Between the fragments of bone and skin and whatever else was left of
this world’s departed Yuji Itadori, this Yuji felt the weight of something darker. The jagged,
discolored tip of a cursed fingernail poked out from the surface, as if clawing its way back.

Yuji shifted the box into one arm. He used the other hand to reach in, removing Sukuna’s finger
from the ashes. Yuji clutched it in his fist, then opened his palm to see what he wished wasn’t quite
so clear.

The pieces of Sukuna were too strong to be destroyed. To most people, to consume a cursed object
this intense would be akin to eating lethal poison. Yuji’s ability to survive consuming Sukuna's
fingers was unique–a one in a million chance, if not more than that. He'd been told this was
supposed to be something only he could do…

If the Yuji from his world was one in a million, he thought, then the Yuji in this box was in the
other nine hundred ninety nine thousand. He hadn’t become a vessel. He’d just died.

Suddenly, the emptiness in Yuji’s mind started to feel like its own form of mockery. Where he’d
come from, Sukuna would’ve found something cruel to say to him. Without that voice in his head,
the only voice left to say cruel things to Yuji was his own.

Yuji set the thought aside. He closed the box, then shoved the finger into his pocket. The point of
the jagged nail as it scratched his thigh through the inside of his pocket. Great. Even inanimate,
Ryomen Sukuna found ways to be annoying.

Yuji pulled his hand up, then back down, shifting the finger so it would stop bugging him. He
braced his foot along the back wall in anticipation, ready to walk out.
Just as the final flecks of ash had fallen, and Yuji was ready to breathe, the temperature in the room
found further to fall. A new chill ran down his neck.

“Wha–”

Yuji sensed the shift in energy before he could place it. The trouble was, Yuji didn’t know where
that shift was. The crater of a circle in the middle of the room still hadn’t moved. All indications
were that the curse Yuji had first fought was out for the count. Still, he knew he felt something.

The freshly fallen remains created a solid coat of ash across the floor. Just like footprints would
form in dirt, or mounds would shift in the sand, this was bound to move, too. Yuji looked down,
considering that.

Yuji expected, like before, that what he was facing was something he couldn’t literally face. For
reasons he still didn’t entirely get, no matter how close he’d gotten to death here, Yuji hadn’t been
able to see curses. He needed to anticipate fighting an enemy he couldn’t see.

What Yuji hadn’t considered, yet, were the circumstances in which he’d awoken to seeing curses. It
wasn’t just that he’d been in a life or death situation–it was that he’d been in a life or death
situation after being exposed to Sukuna’s cursed energy. He had held the finger through its
bindings, and carried around a box saturated with its residual energy for hours.

The weight of Sukuna’s mummified finger lingered at Yuji’s hand. One second, Yuji was looking
ahead into a barren, dim room. The next, he saw a curse fall from the ceiling.

The curse before Yuji had the hands of a gecko and limbs stretched to the form of a spider. Its
translucent body distorted its surroundings. A mass of organs and veins glistened inside its torso.
The flow of cursed energy colored its insides a hazy, unnatural blue.

And it was directly on top of Yuji, fangs bared, lunging to swallow him.

The oversized fangs plunged towards him. Yuji dropped flat to the floor, leaving the curse to smash
into the wall. A cloud of ashes kicked up where Yuji lowered himself. The fine gray powder
brushed against him, tickling his nose. Yuji couldn’t help coughing.

In the second Yuji spent flinching, the curse’s maw widened. A shrill screech shook from its gut.
Neon blue venom dripped from its fangs. Fluorescent saliva dripped into the ground, sinking into
the ashes. A stray spec melted straight through the fabric of Yuji’s hood, singing him.

Yuji’s hands braced against the ground, finding spots in the remains that hadn’t yet started glowing.
He tucked his knees into his chest, planted a hand at either side of the wall, and kicked up,
smashing his foot into the base of the curse. The curse bobbed back just enough that Yuji could
slide sideways along the wall.

A shadow cast over Yuji, stretching across the surface he’d just moved towards. Yuji hadn’t been
watching there. All he’d done was look ahead, to the curse he could finally see, waiting for his
opening to do something he hadn’t thought of yet.

Through the curse’s back, a white and black blur charged through it. A smaller pair of fangs bared
into the curse’s flesh, tearing its body backwards.
As the white creature bit in, a second form bound forward from the side. This one, Yuji could see
clearly. A black dog with a three pointed triangle on its forehead charged in to attack.

Yuji’s free hand sank deeper into the ash, his grip relaxing with the realization. A wave of relief
brought a smile to his face just as the black divine dog sank their teeth into the curse. He knew
exactly who was here.

“Fushiguro!”

Yuji slid further aside, pushing his way across the wall to make room. As soon as there was space,
the pair of divine dogs charged the curse, slamming it into the shelves. Six of the curse’s eight legs
raised, flailing in different directions to find a foothold. The white dog bit down, hard, at the curse’s
center while the black one pulled at a leg. Between both dogs, the curse wasn’t going anywhere.

“Good doggies…!” Yuji brought himself up to his feet with one hand. The other stayed firm in his
pocket, clutching the finger. “No, great doggies. Just the best.”

Despite the situation, and everything else that could have been on the way, Yuji still felt a burst of
relief flutter in his chest. Maybe he hadn’t been imagining his voice for no reason before. Megumi
was actually here.

“Fushiguro!” Yuji shouted across the room “Fushiguro, over here!”

Yuji’s sneakers slid beneath him as he brought himself to stand. He stepped awkwardly through the
ashes, marching across the tile to avoid falling as he neared the center of the room.

“Fushiguro!” Yuji shouted. He raised his hand in a flail for attention.

Yuji had assumed that the right way to find Megumi was to start walking towards the middle of the
room. He was wrong. When Yuji heard a voice, it came from behind him.

A tall figure with a signature poof of spiky hair stood behind the window pane. His dark eyes
sharpened with annoyance.

“Stop talking,” Megumi said. “You’re going to attract another curse.”

All the irritation in the world couldn’t stop the sense of relief. It also couldn’t get Yuji to follow the
direction.

“Fushiguro! Over here!” Yuji called, waving. “I got the finger!”

“You…”

The divine dogs’ feasting stopped as the eight legged curse crumpled into nothing, its remains
melting into the ashes on the floor. Megumi hadn’t looked their way. He was watching Yuji.

“The finger,” Yuji repeated, as if clarifying was the problem, here. “You know. The special grade
cursed object? You’re looking for it, right? It’s in my pocket.”

For all of Yuji’s expectations, the statement had done nothing to stop the severity of Megumi’s
stare. It wasn’t just critical or hostile–although it was plenty of that, too. The part Yuji didn’t expect
was that along with said hostility, Megumi was in shock.
“Who are you?” Megumi asked harshly. “And what business do you have with Fushiguro?”

“Oh– well.” Yuji stopped himself directly in front of the window, his posture tensing a little. “I saw
the dogs! I know you, Fushiguro…” It occurred to Yuji, mid sentence, that if the whole alternate
universe thing was true, then there was a very good chance that he’d never met Megumi before.

It was a chance that seemed all the more likely as he watched Megumi’s expression go cold. “I’m
not Fushiguro.”

Yuji’s expression went blank. His head tilted to the side. “You’re… not Fushiguro?”

“I don’t have time for this.” Megumi’s expression dulled to a judgmental stare. He climbed
through the window, joining Yuji in the room. He held out his hand, palm open.

“Give me the cursed object you’re holding," Megumi demanded. "Immediately. That thing is
extremely dangerous. Thousands of people could die, if not more, if you don't listen.”

“I… wait, huh…” Yuji knew that he should have. That was the whole point of calling for Megumi.
Despite that, his hand tightened in his pocket. “Wait, wait, hold up, how are you not Megumi
Fushiguro?”

There wasn’t so much as a blink back as Megumi sneered, stern as ever. “I’m Megumi Zen’in. Not
Fushiguro. Now, hand over that finger.”
The Servant Queen
 Suguru Geto

July 17, 2018

Irodori Field, Nakafurano, Hokkaido

Suguru had imagined this moment a thousand times over. Not once had he wanted it to come true.

To the eyes of a non-sorcerer, a strange breeze cascaded through the field of flowers. The stripes of
yellows, pinks and purples bled into each other as the wind pushed through. It took a sorcerer to see
that it wasn’t wind that rippled through the fields at all. It was cursed energy.

The unmistakable blue eyes of a man he once loved glared at Suguru from a distance. Suguru had
known them, once, better than he could have ever known his own. Today, from here, those eyes
seemed foreign. There was a contempt, and a clarity, that Suguru had never seen.

“Answer me!” Gojo demanded, his eyes narrowing with each word. “What the hell did you do to
Okkotsu?”

Whatever games Satoru Gojo meant to play, Suguru didn’t have time to do more than dismiss it.
“Nothing he didn’t agree to for me to destroy you.”

Suguru turned his blade, and his focus, bracing himself. With the utmost focus, he summoned his
next curse.

An overwhelming burst of cursed energy pushed through his back. The sheer force of Rika Orimoto
was nigh unfathomable, maybe even infinite. The most Suguru could do with any form of control
was to reach for a fraction of that power.

The katana in Suguru’s palm lit up, the flow of Rika’s energy circling through it as he siphoned
fragments of her energy through the vessel of the blade. He fixed his eyes into a matching glare,
echoing Gojo’s expression.

“Let’s curse each other, Satoru,” Suguru whispered, willing himself to believe something he didn’t
want to be true. He raised his other hand, beckoning Gojo towards him. “I’ll be the last sorcerer
you kill.”

The posture Suguru had taken, and the bend of his hand, were both meant to be an invitation.
Suguru’s parrying stance was defensive. He was, without words, asking Gojo to take the first shot.

For all of the anger in his stare, Gojo didn’t budge. Instead, he stood still, his eyes looking smaller
by the second as they widened on Suguru.

“No way!” Gojo snapped, the words frantic as they were enraged. “You’re not getting out of this
with something stupid like being dead! Explain–”

The longer Gojo spent standing still, obviously emotional, the more Suguru knew what he had to
do next. If he kept this a one-on-one fight on even ground, they both knew who would win.
So, Suguru didn’t wait. He didn’t explain. He didn’t even let Gojo finish the sentence. What Suguru
did was much simpler. He charged.

Even without considering the limitless, there had been considerable distance in the field between
Suguru and Gojo. Suguru didn’t let himself consider that. He bounded forth in a leaping jump,
twisting his grip on the katana. A new wave from the bottomless pit that was Rika Orimoto arced
through Suguru’s blade.

Within a blink, Suguru’s foot landed in range. He pushed on the hilt, forcing the blade to slash
down, straight for the part in Gojo’s hair.

It had taken a second of gaping and glowering for Gojo to process what was coming. By the time
he’d done it, the force was already there. A tidal wave of Rika’s cursed energy erupted from the
katana, smashing over Gojo.

The crest of Rika’s pure cursed energy fell straight over his head, the light washing over him. Then,
Gojo folded his hands.

The blade of the katana shook, the barrier of infinity pushing back on the metal to slow it into
freezing. The blast of cursed energy crackled as it ricocheted off a surface it couldn’t reach fast
enough. The residual force of the clash rippled through the field, petals and leaves bursting through
the air in every direction. If Rika’s energy was a storm, then Gojo had made himself the eye.

“What’re you even doing?” Gojo snapped, his irritation only growing. “Since when would you
want to kill me?”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Suguru admitted, his words hushed by the strain to catch his breath.
“These are the paths we’ve chosen.”

“Then choose something else! Go, I don’t know, four-wheeling or something!” Gojo yelled. “If you
can change your favorite color, you can pick a new life! Just tell me why you want me dead!”

The seconds Gojo spent talking were the only ones Suguru had to recover. Suguru let himself. His
knuckles turned white against the hilt, bracing himself for the next strike.

“Not every choice can be undone, Satoru,” Suguru tried to counter, not with a parry, but with
words, “We are what we’ve become.”

“We–” Gojo’s anger started to twist. Where before, he’d looked purely infuriated, now he was
closer to offended. “It’s not ‘what we’ve become’!” he complained. “It’s ‘we are what we choose to
be’’! You’re getting The Iron Giant wrong!”

“I’m not talking about The Iron Giant,” Suguru insisted, starting to get impatient, too, “I’m talking
about reality.”

“Well, you are what you choose to be, so choose, works pretty darn well for reality, so you should
be talking about The Iron Giant!” Gojo complained. “It works way better for this than whatever
crap you’re thinking!”

Suguru raised his blade. His hands slid up on the hilt of the katana.
As far as battle strategies went, stalling to have a conversation was generally a terrible one. With
Gojo, however, the longer Suguru could keep him distracted, the more he could slowly and subtly
slip bits of Rika’s energy into the katana to make an attack. So, he indulged.

“I think you would care,” Suguru said, deliberately baiting Gojo on. “I’m thinking of Pokemon.”

Suguru’s shoes slid between the flowers, finding spots to stand where the grass had already started
to wilt from the cursed energy exposure. He kept focus. Gojo hadn’t seemed to see.

“Ah, the idiot’s miniature monster’s game,” Gojo’s voice lowered, though only a little bit.
“Digimon’s better.”

“Well, people aren’t Digimon.”

“Psh. They should be,” Gojo waved his hand in front of him, gesturing at nothing while he
rambled. “I’d totally hang out with Leomon. Even if he does look like a furry.”

If nothing else, Suguru had succeeded in getting Gojo to be a stationary target. Gojo’s full attention
was set on just yelling at Suguru, like this was any old bickering match.

“...Do you really think that’s the point?” Suguru asked, his words critical, but calm.

“The point of Leomon not wearing a shirt and having a six pack?” Gojo asked back, ignoring the
tone. “Probably. Why else did they give the lion man abs?”

“You know what I mean, Satoru,” Suguru said. “When Digimon evolve, they can go back. If
Pokemon evolve, when they change, they stay that way. They can only ever move forward, to the
next state of being, or to no state at all.”

“Oh… Like once an Eevee becomes a Vaporeon, you can’t get an Espeon? Lame.” Gojo shook his
head. “I bet you’d be an Umbreon, too, gloomy gills you are.”

The shadow of Rika’s partially manifested curse swayed. The distorted claws of her hand
overlapped with the hilt of Suguru’s sword. Though she wasn’t fully manifested, with enough
concentration, Suguru could synchronize most of her presence with the blade, strengthening the
vessel.

He had gone a little too quickly for a completely stable object. Suguru knew that. The trick, here,
would be to have stopped just short of putting so much energy into the vessel that it would break. If
his calculations were wrong, he wouldn’t know until it was too late.

Too late started now.

The flow of energy pushed through his hand as Suguru crossed the distance of the field once more.
He turned the blade in his hand and struck from below, slashing upwards to connect with Gojo’s
thigh. It was a point most people didn’t watch to guard, so he’d had a shot at connecting.

The katana smashed against the force of Gojo’s infinity. The blow landed so close before slowing,
the only way Suguru could tell the first swing hadn’t hit was that Gojo wasn’t bleeding.

Resistance shook through Suguru’s katana. He pulled back, bracing to parry.

“Satoru,” Suguru called, trying to draw Gojo’s focus away. “Why do you know the name
Okkotsu?”

The answer took so little thought, Gojo couldn’t have been lying. “Why wouldn't I?”

Quick as the words were, even three syllables gave Suguru an opportunity to strike.

Suguru’s blade was mid-swing when he saw Gojo raise a single finger. A black sphere started to
form at the point of Gojo’s fingertip, streams of neon red swirling over the center. The petals of the
lavender around Gojo distorted, the purples tainting red and flying into the distance as the repulsive
force of Gojo’s reversal technique built.

Suguru knew what was coming. It wasn’t enough to step aside and let red find a spot to aim.

The blade of Suguru’s katana flashed red, the neon shade reflecting off the surface of the metal. He
changed his hold, arcing the blade to strike directly into Gojo’s attack.

Had Suguru aimed for Gojo himself, Gojo’s infinity was still active. There was no chance of
striking Gojo that way. To aim directly into the heart of the reversal strike as it was forming,
however– Suguru thought that would do something else.

Suguru was right.

As the katana pierced into the heart of the technique, the repulsive force ruptured early. A flood of
black engulfed the field, eclipsing the sunlight as darkness bled across the horizon.

Suguru spun the hilt of his blade, bracing to block the force with another pulse of Rika’s energy.
The glow of her energy cast a mild hue over the petals as flowers wilted and withered away.

A newfound flood of crimson cast across the hill, bursting straight ahead.

On instinct, Suguru spun the blade, forming the surface into a shield. He had barely finished a
circle before the metal cracked.

Fragments of curse-charged metal shattered across the field, pieces falling through the grass, out of
sight. The residual force left from Gojo’s Red sent Suguru skidding back. The faint, shadowed
imprint of Rika’s arms wrapped around Suguru, fighting to stabilize him through a cry.

Suguru lowered his shoulders, then reached into the dirt, clawing through the roots for an anchor.
When he found one, he jerked to a stop, his fingers ripping through the roots of dying flowers. A
drop of sweat dripped between his eyes.

A line etched through the lavender, a scorched path to where Gojo still stood, alone. Of everything
that had happened, that was the least surprising thing Suguru had seen all day. For as long as
Suguru had known Satoru, no matter how much Suguru could endure, or chase him, in the end,
they both had always stood alone.

Gojo’s hand lowered. It stood to reason he was folding them together to teleport away.

Suguru felt the pressure wave across his back. Rika Orimoto’s form was flickering, incomplete, far
too powerful for him to trust he could fully control.
Suguru lifted his hands from the dirt. His shoulders slouched forward. He couldn’t afford to hold
back.

“Rika…” Suguru whispered. There was no reason for his words to be this low, yet, the rasp in them
turned that way regardless. “Rika, I need your help.”

The sobbing at his back began to take clearer form. Suguru could make out a name in the cry.
“Yuta… Not you. Not YOU. Rika wants Yuta…”

“Yes, Rika-chan. I know. You miss Okkotsu,” Suguru reached his hand to the same spot where
Rika’s had formed. Small as his own was in comparison to the might of this, he had no reason or
time to hesitate in putting his, gently, atop the curse’s own.

“Rika, you remember why Okkotsu had to hide?” Suguru asked gently, forcing a smile he didn’t
feel. “That someone was going to hurt him, to take him from you.”

“Agh,” Rika growled, the words strained and distorted by the form of her curse. “Don’t hurt…
Yuta.”

“I won’t. I didn’t. But he will,” Suguru said. “That man, over there. If he escapes, he could hurt
Yuta.”

The intensity of the force at Suguru’s back started to swell. The stringy, jagged shadows that had
formed Rika’s body were solidifying. He didn’t need to work to release Rika, now. She was trying
to come out.

“No!” Rika shrieked. “No, no, no!”

“Yes, he will,” Suguru repeated. “That’s why you’ve got to do what he asked you, Rika. Help me.”

“Help you…!”

All of the effort Suguru had put into trying to control Rika Orimoto stopped. Instead, he stood with
open arms. Rika’s arms stretched beyond his, the pale, violet hands of what had once been a human
child synchronizing with Suguru’s own.

And then, Suguru let go.

Rika’s cry filled the air, her anger and sorrow twisting together into something closer to rage.

“Hey, Geto!” Gojo shouted, his voice rising over the commotion. He folded his hands, bracing
himself far more quickly to teleport. “It was great catching up, but, on second thought I’ve gotta
go!”

A thousand times over, each night he’d tried to sleep, Suguru had envisioned this moment. Most
nights, he knew he didn’t stand a chance. The odds didn’t matter, now. He still had to try.

“Rika,” Suguru spoke calmly, his words still quiet enough that Gojo had no chance to hear.
“Microphone, please.”

Suguru outstretched his hand, flecks of dirt and falling into the flowers. Rika’s hand outstretched,
too, mimicking his movement. Her cursed energy swelled, manifesting the microphone straight into
Suguru’s grip. His fingers wrapped around the base, covering curse sigil engraved on the side.
Suguru saw Gojo. He was faint, hands folded, bracing to teleport away, but at that exact second, he
was still there. The sigil of the Inumaki family cursed technique lit up beneath Suguru’s fingers.

The infinite space Gojo controlled made him untouchable. Gojo controlled what matter touched
him. However, Gojo could still smell, taste, and hear. That meant his infinity didn’t naturally block
light, scent, or sound waves.

Suguru’s throat rasped with the force of a copied technique from a stolen curse. The word projected
across the field, straight to Gojo’s ears, calm as it was piercing.

“Freeze.”

From the loose tips of Gojo’s hair pulling in the wind, to the slight fold of his fingers, his entire
body stopped. A faint puff of mist trailed out of Gojo’s body as the command forced him still.

Suguru hand pressed over his mouth, coughing violently. Between the wheezes, he gaped at a
gamble he hadn’t expected could come true. Suguru had just landed a blow on Satoru Gojo.

A puff of steam rose from Gojo’s still lips. The state he was paused in wouldn’t last long.

Which meant it was time for the next strike.

Suguru ran through the flowers, sprinting towards Gojo. His hand pressed over his mouth, willing
himself not to cough. He’d made it maybe three steps before Rika scooped him up off the ground,
floating him there.

“Down,” Suguru spoke in a rasp, as they’d reached Gojo’s side. Just as she was asked, Rika let go,
setting Suguru down gently to his feet. He nodded, wheezing a strained “Thank you.”

There was a good chance Gojo could hear Suguru. The steam from Gojo’s mouth had turned to a
stream, defrosting, but not quite breathing.

“Rika,” Suguru wheezed. He choked down the pain searing his throat. “I need that, now. To stop
him.”

The curse gave a nod. Vague as Suguru had been, Rika knew.

A new object formed in Rika’s hand. It was the size of a dagger, with the curse mark of what
looked like two intersecting petals engraved into the knife.

Rika’s fingernail brushed the wrappings at the base. Despite her contact, there was no sense of
cursed energy in the object.

“Rika helped you,” Rika said. “Rika helped Yuta.”

“Yes,” Suguru coughed. He forced his eyes into a glare as he took the knife from her hand. “Rika
helped Yuta.”

The sigil on the blade was another cursed symbol. This, too, was a copycat technique–one it had
taken a great deal of effort for Suguru to see in person. Like the cursed speech, there was no
guarantee Gojo would be vulnerable to this, either, but it was far less of a gamble. After all,
someone had used this against Gojo before.
Suguru’s grip tensed around the blade. He plunged down, stabbing straight for Gojo’s shoulder. It
should have been the heart. When Suguru first raised his fist, he meant to aim there–to end this. At
the last second, he lost his nerve and shifted up.

But Suguru wasn’t the only one to move.

The steam stopped flowing from Gojo’s mouth. Though Gojo hadn’t taken a step, space spread
between himself and Suguru. The point of the cursed knife stopped a centimeter from Gojo’s
shoulder, yet it may well have been miles away.

Suguru’s hand stopped. His confidence washed off. All he could do, now, was watch a worst fear
move towards him.

Gojo reached a hand towards the base of Suguru’s knife, deflecting the attack. An invisible current
pushed the weapon away, knocking Suguru’s hand back towards himself. Suguru clutched it to his
chest.

Rika’s right arm wrapped around Suguru, pulling him against her in an act of protection. Her left
pushed out, clawing at Gojo. Her push didn’t come close. No amount of sheer power, or will, was
enough to crack the limitless.

As she flailed for Gojo, Rika let out a cry. “Don’t… hurt… Mister Suguru!”

Gojo didn’t blink, or flinch, as the curse threw a tantrum in his direction. What Gojo did was stare,
taking her, and the moment, in.

“She isn’t hurting you,” Gojo noticed, surprised. “She… likes you?”

It was such a strange question, for all of the things Suguru should have said, he’d ended up baffled
enough to admit the truth. “I respect her. She and I want the same thing.”

Gojo reached past Rika. The talons of her frantic flails bounced right off of Gojo as he approached.
His raised hand pressed forward, flat, just short of brushing Suguru’s forehead.

“You didn’t hurt Okkotsu?” Gojo asked, his words calming with wonder.

Rika cried, again, still trying and failing to strike. Loud as she could be, her voice faded to the
background in the face of this.

Suguru didn’t answer that question. Instead, he asked his own. “How do you know that name?”

“He was a student of mine,” Gojo answered. “Good kid.”

Gojo’s hand drifted down. The force of the limitless gave way as the folds of his palm brushed
Suguru’s face. A finger stretched the length of Suguru’s forehead, tracing a line across the center
of his forehead.

“You’re really him,” Gojo whispered in disbelief. “Suguru.”

For Gojo to touch Suguru at all meant the limitless was down in both directions. If he’d wanted to
attack, all Suguru needed to do, now, was move the blade.
Suguru’s grip around the knife fell slack. He looked straight ahead, into the depths of oversaturated
blue eyes, and let himself be struck still by the gaze alone.

Gojo’s hand strayed down, further, brushing down the side of Suguru’s face.They were so close that
Suguru could feel the heat of Gojo’s breath as he asked a simple question with no answer he could
give. “What happened to you, Suguru?”

Gojo didn’t clarify. He didn’t raise his voice. The two of them lingered in absolute uncertainty, until
Suguru found the will to break.

“Do you really not know?” Suguru’s voice cracked. A new pain scratched in his throat. Whether it
was the strain of using cursed speech, or of a generally cursed existence, he wasn’t sure.

“No. I don’t,” Gojo answered, the words slow, carefully measured so as not to break the balance
between them again, “That’s why I’m asking. It’s sort of how this question thing works."

It hurt to talk. The only thing it hurt more to do was to say nothing.

“You’re not a kind person, Satoru,” Suguru said. “You shouldn’t change that for me. All that is, is
just a different kind of cruelty.”

“You’re not answering me.”

Suguru had no reason to deny that.

Gojo’s hand steadied. His other hand joined, too, pressing to the opposite side of Suguru’s face. He
pulled in so far, Suguru could feel the brush of Gojo’s hair against his skin. “...Why'd you call me a
curse user?”

Guilt pulled Suguru’s heart from his chest into his stomach. His posture sank. What could be the
infinite space between them now felt so small.

“You are,” Suguru said, the words scratching in his throat. “A curse user. The strongest. The name
sorcerers tell children instead of the boogeyman.”

For what should have been a weighted answer, Gojo didn’t stop to process it. He only questioned
“why?”

‘ Because of me ,’ Suguru thought, ‘ because I rotted you into something we couldn’t control .’

“I don’t know,” Suguru answered, his voice cracking from the struggle of speaking at all. “To
create a world where righteousness to the weak would never be a concern.”

“Hold up, I said that?” Gojo bobbed back. “What, like I’m some kind of lame-o supervillain to you
guys?”

Whether it was the question, or the overall strain, Suguru’s will to fight slipped back. With it, his
hold on Rika passed away. The form of the Queen of Curses faded, pulling back inside Suguru’s
mouth with a sharp gasp.

The mere act of taking Rika back inside himself left Suguru breathless. Through it all, Gojo’s hand
hadn’t stopped holding him.
“You don’t know,” Suguru realized between gasps. “--Kyoto.”

“I know Kyoto exists,” Gojo said. It was, again, a simple kind of statement, yet this time, Suguru’s
thoughtless answer was stern.

“It doesn’t exist, Satoru. You destroyed it.”

“I–” The hands on either side of Suguru’s face squished into his cheeks with shock. “Hold up, what
?”

The sudden impact shouldn’t have done much. It shouldn’t have, yet the sudden burst in pressure
brought Suguru to lose his grip on the cursed blade. His last remaining weapon stabbed straight into
the dirt, yet he didn’t stop to look for it. He just stared up at the complete and utter impossibility
currently squashing his face.

“You’re not…” Suguru stuttered, realizing just how absurd this was as he was saying it. “You’re
not my Satoru.”

“No,” Gojo insisted right away. “No, I’m definitely Satoru. Unless someone did an evil twin
switch-a-roo when I wasn’t looking.” It took all of two seconds before a different, stupid thought
came out Gojo’s mouth. “Wait, does yours have a goatee or something?”

The “no,” that Suguru answered with was so automatic that he didn’t know he was saying it until
he already had. “No, that’s disgusting.”

“Good. Because the best case for snow white facial hair is that I’m sexy Santa, and that’s really not
the vibe.”

So much of what Suguru saw in front of him wasn’t adding up. The push of these hands, the boyish
excitement and complete inability to hold a serious train of thought–all of it was so completely
Satoru Gojo that the only missing piece of him was the reality he didn’t know.

While Suguru was busy wondering what in the world was happening, Gojo occupied himself with
running his thumb across the studs in Suguru’s eyebrow. “Yo. Since when do you have a
piercing?”

“Since…” Suguru squinted, the piercings and his eyebrow shifting up with the question. “...Since
we were in school. What’s the last thing you remember?”

The most logical guess, as far as Suguru could tell, was that Gojo had some kind of retrograde
amnesia. If that had been the answer, and Gojo made some crack about how Suguru had new
wrinkles, Suguru could’ve wrapped his head around that.

So, naturally, that wasn’t what Gojo said at all.

“It’s not like I hate everyone at Jujutsu High,” Gojo answered, as if reciting a passage from a book
he despised. “It’s just that in this world, I couldn’t truly be happy from the bottom of my heart.
Your last words. That’s what I remember.”

Suguru could tell, from the tone, that Gojo wasn't kidding The statement sent a chill down his
spine.
“I haven’t had my last words, Satoru,” Suguru parried, trying to sound less bothered than he was.
“If that’s a prediction, then I’ll say something else out of spite.”

“Fine by me. I don’t want those last words. Your last words sucked,” Gojo complained, “I wanted
you to be happy.”

“Then don’t say those were my last words,” Suguru insisted, his words getting stronger and more
stubborn as he spoke. “I can’t be happy because someone else wants it. Because it’s convenient for
you. Maybe the best I have is close.”

“Close?” Gojo asked.

Suguru felt a sense of defeat wash over him again. A stillness filled the air. The only thing to
shatter it was the warmth of Gojo’s breath.

“You want to be close?” Gojo asked again.

There was a feeling in the air. Between the scents of fresh cut grass and lavender, with dirt running
up any part of Suguru that had touched the ground, Suguru couldn’t focus well. The only living
thing in his line of sight, he could barely bear to see.

“What I want doesn’t matter."

For all Suguru tried not to feel, Gojo’s words still brushed his cheek. “It matters to me.”

“It shouldn’t,” Suguru whispered. Despite his protests, he’d let himself shift a little bit closer. “Do
you even know me?”

“I do.” For all Suguru’s hesitations, Gojo didn’t have any at all. “I know I do. Even if it doesn’t
make any sense, I can tell. You’re Suguru. …I mean, except for the piercings. Who thought you
were the stud type? Unless I’m the stud.”

It was a stupid enough joke that, for all the tension Suguru should have felt, he smirked reluctantly.
“Heh. Does that line usually work for you?”

“First time using it,” Gojo countered. “You tell me…”

There was a clear invitation in how Gojo ended that sentence. Suguru knew exactly what he should
have been doing. That list hadn’t included lingering here, with the breath of a living mystery still
warming his lips.

Even Gojo’s invitation hadn’t been one for Suguru to stay still. Leave, attack, explain himself–
whatever choice Suguru wanted to make, it needed to be a choice.

Suguru waited too long.

A chill passed through the field. A shadow cast across Suguru’s face. The veins of a dragonfly’s
wings stretched past the clouds, casting over them both as an overwhelming swell of a cursed
technique started to form.

Suguru opened his eyes in time to see Gojo’s lock on his.

“You have to go,” Suguru realized the same moment he’d spoken.
“I’ll come back,” Gojo said, the words louder than before.

“No–” Suguru didn’t have time to consider why he was saying this. The best he could do was get
himself to keep speaking at all. Each word hurt more than the last, ripping his throat raw. “No,
don’t come–”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You should.”

Gojo’s hands brushed the back of Suguru’s shoulders, lingering. “I’m not leaving you, Suguru.”

And then, exactly like he should have, Gojo let go.

Suguru pulled his knees under himself. He sat upright, kneeling forward, following the flow of
Gojo’s sway until Gojo was out of his reach. The shadow of the approaching shikigami drew
closer.

“Don’t come back,” Suguru snapped. So much had happened, he couldn’t even place why he
sounded so angry.

Gojo’s hands folded together. His feet stayed in the field. As far as a glance would have said,
Suguru and Gojo were a mere arm’s length apart. The distance was deceptive. Even if Suguru had
laid out his hand, he wouldn’t have stood a chance of catching Gojo as space itself folded, taking
Gojo away.

Suguru couldn’t know for sure where Gojo had headed. For all Suguru really knew, Gojo could be
heading right back to the classroom. He could have lied. It was a weird, sick, twisted joke, if it was,
but it could have been.

There was no logical explanation for why Suguru’s hand lingered in the air long after he saw that
Gojo was gone. It happened anyway.

Suguru’s hand was still hovering as the shadow of the shikigami descended over him. The long,
iridescent form of an oversized dragonfly landed among the flowers. Its wings buzzed, sending
ripples across the flowers.

A blonde sorcerer leaned across the dragonfly’s back, her eyes fixing to a serious stare at the
sunken footprints where Gojo stood seconds before.

“Damn it,” Tsukumo groaned. “He say where he was headed?”

“No…” Suguru, too, looked into the tracks. “Why would he?”

“Bragging rights? If I had to guess.” Tsukumo kicked her legs over the side of her shikigami,
correcting her stance to sit up and face Suguru directly. “You kept Gojo talking long enough for me
to track you. He must’ve wanted to say something.”

“He spoke to me. That doesn’t mean he’s said anything.”

“Ah. Talking crazy, then, huh?”

Suguru swallowed. For some reason, having Tsukumo watch him like this made him feel twice as
tense. “Some would say so. Yeah.”

“And what would you say about that?”

“...I don’t know.”

Though Yuki Tsukumo was watching Suguru, Suguru didn’t look up to face her. Instead, he
watched the impact that Gojo’s presence left behind. The white lavender that had been under
Gojo’s feet wilted where he’d stood, the leaves and petals crushed under the weight of him.

Suguru squinted, willing something else into focus. The longer he watched, the clearer the residuals
flowed. The glow of Gojo’s force blossomed before Suguru’s eyes, lingering proof of Gojo’s
existence.

Suguru lowered himself, drifting low into a kneel. He pressed his palm into the footprint, brushing
the residual. There was no mistaking what technique this print belonged to, yet something about it
felt wrong.

“Don’t worry, Geto. No one expected you to take him out solo.” Tsukumo flung her jacket over her
shoulder as she stood, directly over Suguru’s shoulder. “Ugh. I can’t believe he’s back.”

It was an off-handed observation, one that Tsukumo couldn’t have meant anything major by.
Suguru agreed, his tone softening with regret.

“Neither do I.”
 Unsafe Harbor

Yuji Itadori

July 17, 2018

Sugisawa Crematorium

Sendai City, Miyagi Prefecture

The hostility on Megumi’s face had hardened as he spoke. There was a harshness to the demand
that, despite having heard almost exactly this before, Yuji hadn’t expected to hear.

“I’m Megumi Zen’in,” Megumi corrected, “Not Fushiguro. Now, hand over that finger.”

“What?!” Yuji cried in confusion, “Zen’in?”

Megumi's stare sharpened to match his tone. “Yes. Zen’in.”

“Whoa.” Yuji looked up. His mouth stayed agape in the realization. “That’s gotta suck…!”

Megumi’s mouth drew to a flat line, and his eyebrows into an angry tilt. “My family shouldn’t
matter to you,” he grumbled. “What matters is that you hand over the cursed object.”

“Wait! Wait–” Yuji stepped back. His hand tensed in his pocket. “Hold up. If you’re Zen’in,” Yuji
raised his free hand to point at Megumi, then towards the wall. “...Then who’d you think I called
Fushiguro?”

"That doesn’t matter!”

“It matters to me!”

Megumi’s answer to that wasn’t given in words. He leaned forward and reached to snatch Yuji’s
wrist from his pocket. Yuji moved back just as quickly, pushing Megumi away.

“Shut up!” Megumi snapped “Just give me the finger!”

“It’s a question! Geez–!” Yuji couldn’t help thinking, though he would never dare say it out loud,
that there were some people who’d hear Megumi’s attitude and gladly give him a different kind of
finger.

For all of Yuji’s squirming and arguing, Megumi hadn’t budged. If one of them was going to give,
it would have to be Yuji.

“Okay, okay,” Yuji raised his hand out of his pocket. His fist clenched the finger, the nail still
poking at him. “Here–”

Yuji hadn’t finished the words, or brought his hand to still, when Megumi took the invitation. He
grabbed Yuji's fist, pulling the finger, and Yuji, towards him.

“Wha–” Yuji sputtered. He would have said something to that, too. He didn’t get to finish that,
either. The door creaked.

Yuji’s free hand clutched over the top of Megumi’s, pressing it down on reflex. With how the rest
of the day had been going so far, he’d been ready for the noise to be a curse. It wasn’t.

“I’ve cleared the north wing!” A girl’s voice called towards them both. “Megumi, is it safe–”

The girl went quiet when she stepped into the room. Her yellow converse squeaked to a stand still
in the rubble, and the rest of her followed suit. The only movement left, at first, was the swing in
her ponytail.

The gold spiral buttons on her cardigan were the mark of a student at Jujutsu Tech. That wasn’t
why this face was familiar, though. Yuji had never heard this voice, and yet, somehow, he was sure
he knew her.

“Hey,” Yuji looked a little closer at her. His free hand scratched at the back of his head. “Do I know
you?”

The brunette shook her head, her ponytail swishing quietly. “No. I don’t believe so. Who are
you?.”
“What do you mean, ‘Do I know you’?” Megumi huffed. “You just shouted her name five times.”

“Huh? Her name? Yuji stepped forward, as if drawing towards her face was going to help him piece
together what he’d missed. “When?”

While Yuji was busy looking at the girl, Megumi pried his fingers into Yuji’s fist. It took the feeling
of Yuji’s hand being pulled apart for him to jolt back.

“Hold up!” Yuji raised his fist into the air. “Don’t just grab me like that!”

Megumi reached back, yet again, to pull at Yuji’s fist. “You’re wasting time!”

“Megumi,” the girl’s voice sharpened, not angry, just stern. “You said you wouldn’t pick fights with
civilians anymore.”

“He’s not acting like a civilian,” Megumi spat, “He’s acting like an idiot. Do you want him to get
himself killed?”

“That isn’t what I’m saying,” she countered. “If you explained, he might cooperate.”

“He’s holding a special-grade cursed object without a protective seal. You want us to stand around
and talk?”

While Megumi was focused on arguing with her, the girl slipped between the two of them. Though
she was clearly shorter than either Yuji or Megumi, that hadn’t stopped her from blocking
Megumi’s path.

“What’s your name?” she asked, “Mine is Fushiguro–”

“Oh!” Yuji exclaimed. “I’m Yuji Ita–”

Tsumiki turned towards Yuji as he started to say his name. She turned so quickly, in fact, that
before Yuji could finish saying his full name, her ponytail thwacked Megumi in the face.

Tsumiki pressed her hands to her mouth, her shoulders scrunching apologetically. She looked back
to Megumi in regret. “Oh! …Sorry. I didn’t think I was that close….”

Megumi stared back in disbelief. His glower dulled.

The divine dogs, who had been preoccupied feasting on the remains of the gelatinous curse, strayed
back over to the trio. The white dog stopped beside Tsumiki, nudging at her leg. The black dog’s
head lowered, its golden eyes staring Yuji down in accusation.

“I–” Yuji raised his hand, lifting the Sukuna finger back into the air. “Hey, this idiot is gonna hand
it over, okay? I just got confused.”

“Get back,” Megumi told Tsumiki. “I’ll handle the object.”

Tsumiki stepped aside. Her eyes fell on Megumi with concern. “You don’t have to protect me.”

Yuji didn’t know what was going on with Tsumiki or Megumi. What he did know was that if the
first time through, Yuji had just handed the finger straight to Megumi and not interfered, he might
have avoided a lot of horrible things. Of every decision he’d made since he’d gotten here, trusting
Fushiguro, even by another name, was an easy call.

“Here,” Yuji said, lowering his hand. “One extra spicy dead guy finger.”

Yuji waited for Megumi’s to meet his own, then dropped the finger into Megumi’s palm. Megumi
closed his hand, gripping the finger securely.

“Great,” Megumi agreed, his expression finally calming some. “Now–”

An array of narrow spikes rose from the floor. The surface of the room distorted, and gravity, along
with it. The ashes by their feet poured across the slant, funneling down into the divots in the tile.
Yuji’s feet tilted on reflex, keeping his ground on the uneven floor.

“Fushiguro!” Yuji shouted. He’d intended to call Megumi, yet, it was Tsumiki he’d made look.

Tsumiki’s right hand slid up her sleeve, pushing back the cardigan as she reached for something.
“Megumi, down–”

The tips of each spike burst forward, sprouting forth throughout the storage room. Dozens of vines
flailed wildly, each one coming to a similar, wide, clam-shell shaped head with teeth like needles.

The divine dogs opened their jaws. Megumi’s mouth opened, too. His hand twitched, bracing to
signal the next attack. “Divi–”

They’d taken too long.

A new vine sprouted directly beneath Megumi. The mouth of the curse bit straight through his
hand.

“Agh–”

“Megumi!”

Yuji could see it. As much as he didn’t want to know, he could tell. The curse hadn’t just taken a
chunk out of Megumi. It ate the finger straight out of his hand.

The tilt of the floor grew more drastic as the curse’s head thrashed. In a wave, hundreds of sprouts
flourished, vines flooding the room. The main head of the plant curse’s mouth grew directly
beneath Megumi, its mouth open wide.

Yuji tried to charge towards Megumi. A vine knocked him away. Yuji shoved the vine right back,
thrashing out of its grip in an effort to reach him. “Fushiguro!”

A gap fractured in the floor, the last bit of stability giving way as the curse’s form grew. Its open
mouth slammed shut, engulfing Megumi whole.

The black dog pulled Yuji back by his hoodie, tearing him away from the curse’s grip. The white
dog did the same to Tsumiki, pulling her to safety. The fangs on Yuji’s back softened as the divine
dog’s body gave way, melting into nothing.

The ashes and the rubble rose as one, engulfing them in a destructive cloud. For a moment, there
was nothing to see but gray.
“Fushiguro!” Yuji shouted, having meant to call for Megumi.

“Yujita!” Tsumiki called back. “Are you hurt?”

At least, Yuji hadn’t been the only one to use the wrong name.

“Fine!” The sharp inhale Yuji took for him to speak up loudly rewarded him with a mouth full of
soot. He choked it back, gagging. “Fushi–”

Between the specs of rubble and remains, Yuji started to make out a glow of cursed energy. The
hue, this time, seemed different than any he’d seen before. It was darker and richer than the usual
blue, yet not quite purple, either.

A wave of dust kicked up by force. Yuji’s arm snapped up, bracing. A stray vine shot through the
air, mouth first, eyes wide open, snapping straight for him.

Yuji stepped back against the wall, crouching down. He cupped a hand under either side of the
vine’s mouth, then clapped, forcing the curse’s mouth shut. A noise of some kind came out of its
mouth. Maybe it was just Yuji’s imagination, but the gurgle sounded a little like “Feed me.”

Yuji squeezed his hands together, strangling the curse. His thumb pressed into one of its eyes.
“What the heck do you think you are, Audrey II?”

Yuji raised his foot into a kick, then slammed it into the center of the vine, crushing it. Though the
vine tried to curl around his foot, the most it could manage to do was flop around.

A second vine started to coil near Yuji’s feet. Yuji jabbed it with his elbow, knocking it away. Once
he had space, he slammed the head of the first vine straight into the second, hitting it with itself.

“Get back! Show yourself!” Yuji yanked up on the vine, as if drawing one section of it up might
bring the rest of the curse back to the surface. “Where’s Fushiguro?!”

“I’m here.” Tsumiki answered.

A jagged stroke of black paint cut through the air, the edges glowing with that same off-blue hue
he’d spotted before. The slash cut clean through the vines, severing the head from the stem. The
part of the curse in Yuji’s hand wilted, going limp in his grip.

Yuji hadn’t seen quite what she’d done, but he was starting to have a guess. When Tsumiki stepped
in front of him, she had a paintbrush in one hand and a bottle of black paint in the other. A few
specs had dried on her cheek.

“Huh? You’re a sorcerer?”

“Don’t be afraid, ok?” Tsumiki said, holding back her own distress. Though some people might
have found it convincing, Yuji could see the drop of sweat run down her cheek. “I’ll protect you.”

Tsumiki dipped the paintbrush into the vial. She swayed, adjusting her stance so that she was at
Yuji’s back.

The closer Tsumiki and Yuji had stood to one another, the closer the fly trap curse was slithering
towards them both. Vines rose like cobras, attentive, bracing to pounce as new heads kept
sprouting. The only spots they weren’t coming from were the flailing sections searing shades of
purple and black, where Tsumiki’s attack had sealed them.

Tsumiki drew her paintbrush from the vial. The curve of her leg nudged Yuji to turn with her,
changing their direction to turn in a spiral. Yuji synchronized with her, twisting quickly. The paint
left her brush as she stroked an even slash through the air.

It didn’t take Tsumiki stopping to explain the technique for Yuji to understand. When the paint left
Tsumiki’s brush, it hovered in mid air, like the world itself had been a canvas. The slash mark shot
through the air until it made contact with the curse. Then, it cut through like a cauterizing blade.

The sections of the vines that hit the paint slash fell to the floor, wilted and black and burning with
the residue of her technique Yuji didn’t know. Tsumiki dipped the brush back into the paint.

A new wave of vines rose along the walls, encircling them. Dozens of mouths opened, swelling,
each one bigger than the last. Whatever technique she’d tried to use before, it wasn’t enough.

Tsumiki turned again, pivoting the both of them so that they were no longer back to back. Now,
instead, both she and Yuji were pressed against the broken shelves of the back wall. She spun her
paintbrush in the bottle.

“Yujita,” Tsumiki spoke softly, the words under strained breath. “You should cover your ears.”

Yuji bobbed forward, glancing towards her. He did.

Tsumiki pinched the paintbrush between her fingers and her thumb. Specks of cursed energy
bubbled through the paint, popping in blues and purples as she painted across thin air.

The first form Tsumiki made was a spiked bubble. The poof of it almost looked like Megumi’s hair.
When the jagged shape had closed, she added a few quick brush strikes to the center.

Tsumiki raised her hand over her head, releasing the last brush stroke. Only then did Yuji get a clear
look at the symbol she had painted in the center of the spike. The shape was a sound effect, like
something out of a comic.

‘ Boom ’

The sound effect bubble smashed against the charging vines. Cursed energy popped along the
length of the vine, exploding the stems and leaves in a pale purple flash. The space, which had been
littered with curses a few seconds ago, had become more like a crater.

Tsumiki plugged her brush into her paint bottle. She looked back to Yuji, still forcing an outward
calm. “Can you move?”

“Yeah,” Yuji stretched his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Then stick close. You can’t stray off if we’re going to find my brother.”

“Your–”

It sounded stranger than it should have. Yuji had heard about Tsumiki, sure, but the image of a
curse victim that Megumi did everything in his power not to talk about was a far cry from who Yuji
saw now.
Tsumiki raised her hand, signaling Yuji towards her, and the hole in the floor. “Yujita. This way.”

The main body of this curse had come from below ground. It stood to reason, then, that they’d need
to go lower. Yuji stood at the border of the hole Tsumiki’s technique had torn into the basement.
Whatever was down there, hopefully, Megumi. That was reason enough.

With no place for fear, or tension, Yuji stepped right past Tsumiki. He jumped into the hole.

When Yuji landed, it was in a crouch like a frog. He looked from one side of the darkness to the
other, taking in nothing.

A soft patter of her sneakers landed at his back. A faint blue light flickered behind him.

"Here," Tsumiki offered, extending a very unusual, crooked torch towards Yuji. “It’s made from
cursed energy. You should be able to protect yourself.”

“You made this?” Yuji asked, turning the handle. It was oddly wet in his grip, but he could tell it
was steady, “For real?”

“It’s temporary,” Tsumiki clarified. “But yes, it’s cursed fire. You shouldn’t touch the top.”

Yuji raised the flame between them. The glow of the cursed fire gleamed against the sweat on her
face. Subtle as it was, her hands were twitching. Whatever it was she’d done, Yuji got the sense
Tsumiki might be nearing a limit soon.

Yuji gestured down, signaling back to the torch. “You should keep it. I’ll be ok.”

“I made it for you,” Tsumiki insisted. “Besides, I couldn’t wield that. I need my hand for my
brush.”

“I–” Yuji paused. Skeptical as he was, he had no way to argue against Tsumiki when he didn’t fully
understand her cursed technique in the first place.

A tap sounded down the corridor. It was a faint, distant pattern, bouncing off the wall, thumping,
rustling, like the thickest, wettest leaves imaginable. Or, as they’d seen before, tongues.

“Tsumiki,” Yuji took her hand. Her grip was clammy. “Can you run?”

“I can try.”

The pattern grew louder, faster, as new heads of the curse charged towards them. Trying wouldn’t
be enough.

Yuji tightened his grip. He turned the torch in his hand, then pulled up. Within a blink, he had
scooped Tsumiki up, securing her between his arm and his shoulder.

“I’ve got you.”

Someone else, with less explanation, might have demanded to be let go. For whatever the reason,
Tsumiki didn’t. What she said instead was “okay.”

Yuji felt the waver on his shoulder. Tsumiki wasn’t exactly steady. Still, she wasn’t struggling.
What she’d done was position herself around Yuji to free both her hands.
“Watch my back,” Yuji said quietly, remembering this from before. It was a long time ago to him,
but he’d done something similar with Nobara. “I’ll take the front.”

Tsumiki nodded. Yuji felt her chin brush his shoulder. That was as much confirmation as he could
hope to get. And then, he ran.

It didn’t matter that he’d spent half the day so far running. For this, Yuji could’ve broken a world
record in sprinting. Before long, he could hear a scream bounce off the walls, pained and unhinged.
It broke into a laugh.

Yuji raised the torch, raising the light towards the cackling. The sound was growing louder, though
not as loud as he had started to shout.

“Fushi–!”

Yuji stopped himself. As his own voice cut off, another shouted over him.

“Megumi!”

Yuji almost missed a step when he heard Tsumiki shout. His words dipped to a hush, urgent, but
whispered. “Shouldn't we be quiet? Like, sneak up on it or something?”

“Not anymore!” Tsumiki said. “Our noise could distract it from Megumi!”

It hadn’t occurred to Yuji until then, but now that Tsumiki said it, it made sense. Whether this was
one curse or hundreds of smaller ones, if they took most of the attention away, either the curse
might drag Megumi towards them, or it would get so occupied trying to fight the two of them that
Megumi could escape.

Yuji shouted out in his own enraged cry–not a name, a sentence, in absolute focus. “You’re not
taking Megumi!”

If what they’d wanted was the curse, they’d found it.

The faintly blue light of the torch’s cursed flame cast highlights across the oncoming wave. Dozens
upon dozens of intertwined vines wove through the basement, all of them from the same direction,
straight ahead.

It meant two things, both of which Yuji had to register quickly. The first was that he was running in
the right direction. The other was that it was his turn to strike.

Yuji lowered one shoulder, holding Tsumiki as stably as he could. He braced with his other arm,
brandishing the flame. He jumped, tucking both knees to his chest to disconnect with the floor, and
then swiped the torch across the length of the room.

The flame spread in a solid line, a blazing slash burning through any vines close enough to hit it. A
few had their heads disconnected from the rest of them, the most threatening part of that section of
the curse rolling across the floor. Other vines ran across the length of the floor, then turned,
wrapping themselves under Yuji’s feet to ensnare him.

Yuji jumped, again, with a smaller bounce, springing directly on the back of a vine. A very quick
peek let Yuji spot Tsumiki. She dipped her brush into paint and then flicked it back, sending
random splatters behind them. Each stray speck landed like a bullet, shooting holes through the
curse wherever it sprayed.

“Good plan!” Yuji shouted, trying to keep the sound coming. Sure enough, the noise drew more of
the vines from the shadows. Yuji stabbed the torch forward, burning the closest one.

“Thank you!” Tsumiki called back between flicks. “Keep running!”

Yuji hadn’t needed to listen to that for long.

It had only been ten more steps until Yuji saw a road block. For the dozens upon dozens of smaller
vines that could charge their way, it was obvious when they’d come to the true head of the curse.
Not only had the fly trap’s mouth grown to the size of the wall, but a thick gray vine at least the
width of a giant python slithered past Yuji, blocking his path.

Yuji jumped one last time, leaping over the charging vine. He landed cleanly in the gap between its
body and the head, then set Tsumiki on the ground, his back pressed directly against hers.

It was easy to say that the reason for this stance had been because of the curse. It made sense to
keep someone at your back when you could be attacked from any angle, but that wasn’t the only
reason. It was a kindness to keep Tsumiki from seeing what was right in front of him.

The great serpent, one of Megumi’s shikigami, struck down upon the largest head of the fly trap
curse. The curse had grown in size enough that its main head was larger than the basement walls.
The serpent was putting up a fight, baring its fangs as it snapped at the curse’s head to knock it
back. Megumi, however, was not.

Megumi’s body was lying, mangled, halfway into the floor of the curse’s mouth. His right hand was
clutching the stump that had become his left. The rest of his body lay almost limp, twitching, as the
curse’s mouth tried to close on him.

There were times to think things through. And then, there was this.

“Fushiguro!”

Yuji hadn’t noticed that he’d called the wrong name. He also hadn’t seen Tsumiki turn towards him,
her sway sluggish, but still determined. She’d brandished her paintbrush and braced for an attack
she wouldn’t make.

Yuji hadn’t left a clear path for anyone else to strike without running the risk of hitting him. What
he’d done was raise the torch high and charge straight for the head.

At least four smaller vines rose up and snapped at Yuji. Not one of them was fast enough to reach
Yuji before Yuji could reach the main head. He stomped over the edge of the curse’s mouth, one
arm raised, and shoved the cursed flame directly into the corner of its open jaw.

The curse hadn’t seen it coming. It wasn’t until the fire was actively burning a chunk off of its
mouth that it twitched to retaliate at all.

Yuji shoved further in, jamming the flame as far into its flesh as he could. He pushed the fire closer
to the curse’s jaw, propping it open from the corner. His other hand reached for Megumi.
When his fingers finally brushed Megumi’s shoulder, Yuji latched in to drag Megumi towards
himself. He turned his head over his shoulder.

“Fushiguro,” Yuji called again, for the first time actually intending to speak to Tsumiki. “Fushiguro,
can you–”

“Get back–” Megumi rasped, his voice cracking from the strain. Aside from the great serpent still
having a form, it was the first true sign he was conscious. “Tsumiki–”

Neither Yuji or Megumi finished their sentence before the curse’s mouth snapped shut.

A sudden darkness slammed around them. The hole Yuji burned was just wide enough to keep his
arm from being chopped clean off. He retracted his hand just in time. The torch fell from Yuji’s
hand, rolling to a stop outside of the curse’s mouth.

For a moment, there was nothing Yuji could see. He felt nearly blind, until the giant serpent opened
its eyes. A muted gold reflection whipped from one side to the other as the serpent snapping its
fangs for whatever it could reach.

As long as the shikigami was moving, then, that was a good sign. It took more cursed energy to
summon a shikigami than to maintain it, but, if Megumi had passed out completely, his technique
would have broken. He was still conscious.

Yuji raised one hand over his head and ducked, avoiding the serpent shikigami’s flail. His hand
tightened at Megumi’s shoulder, shaking him.

“Megumi!” Yuji shouted. His voice was getting raspy. The sting didn’t matter. He didn’t have time
for it to. “Megumi! Stay with me!”

“Ugh…”

Even a pained groan was enough to put a spark in Yuji’s eye. “Megumi…!”

Whatever hope Yuji had started to form, it snapped at the last fleck of light going out. The snake’s
golden eyes gave one last blink before its form dissolved, its once giant head melting to a boiling
puddle over the floor of the curse’s mouth, then, to nothing.

“Megumi!!!” Yuji shouted, shaking him harder. Megumi didn't reply.

One more time, Yuji pounded his fist against the inside of the curse’s mouth. He felt its flesh waver,
but not break, against the force of his bare hand.

“Fushiguro!” Yuji scraped again, desperately. “Fushiguro, we’re in here!” He couldn’t tell if she
could hear him, either.

In the past, this was when Sukuna would have mocked Yuji. Without that voice, all Yuji could do
was mock himself. He’d gone nine months backward, all the way into another world, and yet, the
first thing he did when he wanted to help was to get ahead of himself all over again.

It wasn’t like before, when he had built up his strength and control. Yuji’s mind may have
remembered what he went through, but clearly, his body was back to square one, if not a straight-up
zero. He couldn’t kill a curse like this.
Yuji swayed to the side, propping himself up against the curse’s mouth in frustration.

“I don’t want to die,” Yuji repeated, though it had been a long time since he’d said it first. “I’m…”

He couldn’t see anymore, but he could feel the edge of Megumi’s body against his shoe. It wasn’t
fair. Maybe this wasn’t the Megumi who Yuji knew–the Megumi who had fought to save him–but,
in another place, Yuji knew who Megumi could have been.

Without anyone conscious enough to hear him, there was no reason for Yuji not to admit it, his
voice breaking. “I don’t want him to die.”

Yuji’s hand flattened on the wall. A bump pressed into his palm. The jagged edge of an old, broken
nail scratched his hand. He pulled back. The lump of Sukuna’s finger was pulsing like a beating
heart, embedded in the curse’s mouth.

He hadn’t thought about it until it was right in front of him, but curses didn’t digest objects like
this. It was absorbed into the curse that was stealing its power. All it would take to disable the form
this thing was in was to take the finger back in a way where it couldn’t be reclaimed.

Yuji heard a ringing in his head. The rush of nothing that currently filled him was overwhelming,
almost eerily so.

This world’s version of Yuji Itadori may have had died making this exact, stupid decision, in order
to save his friends. In his case, he’d died. The Yuji Itadori that was standing right here wasn’t like
that. He was a one in a million chance to become a vessel and destroy Sukuna.

When Yuji made that choice last time, it was an impulsive decision. Everything that had happened
before, he hadn’t known could be a consequence. Here, now, Yuji knew the implications.

For Megumi, that was worth it.

Yuji kept one hand flat, at first, marking the spot where the cursed finger was embedded. With the
other, he dug in. His feet slid into the surface of the curse’s mouth, the rest of his body shifting as
he fought against the curse’s flesh with his own.

The mouth of the curse began to tilt, the head thrashing in retaliation. Its jaws snapped open.
Between the pull of gravity and the sudden opening, Megumi’s body tumbled out across the
basement floor. Gravity pulled Yuji, too, towards the exit. Instead, Yuji dug deeper, using the finger
like a handle to hold himself in place. He pulled.

The flesh gave way, part of it snapping. Whatever the curse was made from, it was burning him.
His hands discolored, and tiny eyes were forming on Yuji’s fingers where the curse’s essence
corrupted him. He kept going.

In the background, Yuji heard the voice he knew best. Despite how unconscious he’d been before,
landing outside the curse must have been enough to let Megumi stir.

“Don’t… You idiot…”

The last time Megumi had said these words to him, he looked almost exactly the same. Just like
then, Megumi was bleeding from the eye. What was most different wasn’t even Megumi’s mangled
hand. It was the sound. Last time, Megumi was furious. Now, it was a fight for Megumi to speak at
all.

Yuji tore his head back. His hands gripped the curse’s mouth on either side. Between the push and
the pull, he tore Sukuna’s finger from the curse’s throat.

The finger clenched between Yuji’s teeth as the last bit of the curse snapped off. The curse’s mouth
shook violently. The sudden thrash knocked Yuji from its mouth. He tumbled across the floor, his
body smashing into a wall. The finger clenched between his teeth.

What was left of the curse started to rise in fury. Hundreds of smaller, eye-covered vines blinked to
attention, bearing green needles for fangs. Every appendage clashed as they raised at the center
point, bracing to strike him. At that moment, Yuji did what he could do. He sucked in.

The taste of Sukuna’s finger was just as gross as he remembered. A flavor somewhere between
earwax, congealed fat and rotting potpourri fought Yuji’s mouth. He choked back, swallowing it
down.

Yuji thought, for sure, he knew what was coming. He raised a fist, bracing to strike. That stupid
voice would flood his mind. The peace would leave. After a few seconds, Yuji would have to fight
back Sukuna for control.

Yuji thought he remembered how this would go. That memory hadn’t included seeing a flash of
white light crackle before his eyes, flooding everything. A wave of energy ripped through the air as
space compressed in a vacuum, then blasted right back out again.

A bright blue light formed between human hands. In a literal flash, a blue vacuum burst forth from
behind the curse. In an instant, its weakened form crumpled in on itself, each smaller vine fluttering
like decayed, misshapen streamers, clearing the space until nothing was left but four people and
ash.

As that light faded out, his form was left clear. His hair was lying flat, and his blindfold was gone,
but there was no mistaking who’d finally made it.

“Gojo–” Yuji exclaimed. It wasn’t until after he'd spoken that Yuji's relief turned to dread.

Gojo had arrived. Any threat from that curse was gone. Megumi was safe, now. Everyone was. And
that meant Yuji just consumed a Sukuna's finger for no reason.

Shit.
Cat and Mouse Island
 Satoru Gojo

July 2018

Irodori Field, Nakafurano, Hokkaido

Without the cover of his blindfold, the setting sunlight of the outside world hurt Gojo’s eyes. Still,
it hadn’t stung half as much as what he saw across from him.

The last time Gojo had seen Geto’s face without something else possessing him, was right before
Gojo killed him. Back then, Geto’s gaze had been resigned. Calm. As if death drawing near had
been the only thing that could cure Geto of the disillusionment that so consumed him.

Gojo had memorized that expression. At the time, it felt like Gojo owed it to Geto to take that
burden. Only Gojo knew what it looked like when Suguru Geto expected to die.

Suguru stared at Gojo, eyes still open, sorrowful, resigned, and severe, echoing that stare along
with something new. These weren’t just the eyes of Gojo’s lost best friend, seconds before his
dying breath.

A shadow crossed over the field. A wave of cursed energy swelled. Something stronger was
coming.

“I’ll come back,” Gojo said, unable to stop himself.

Suguru’s eyes narrowed on Gojo. The piercing through his eyebrow glinted under the sunlight, yet
another signal that something was ever so slightly wrong… if Gojo could even think of that way.

“No,” Suguru argued, the words so unstable, his voice faded in the wind. “No, don’t come–”

There wasn’t time to talk now. Even if there had been, Gojo had no idea what they were supposed
to talk about. All Gojo knew, for sure, was that whatever made sense didn’t matter.

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You should.”

“I’m not leaving you, Suguru.”

The hurt in Suguru’s eyes muted. His expression hardened. “Don’t come back.”

It didn’t matter how angrily Suguru spat those words. He didn’t get to mean them.

Gojo pulled his hands together. He looked down, memorizing the hollow hostility on Suguru’s face.
Until he could come back, that look would be his next burden.

The wilted, singed flowers gave way under his shoes. The space of the world compressed around
him. In the time it took for others to blink, the world expanded anew, leaving him to plop to the
ground outside the familiar courtyard of Sugisawa Municipal High.
The sunset glared at Gojo’s eyes. He cupped his hand over his eyes, blocking the light as he looked
out onto the open field of the schoolyard.

“Uh… huh. Weird.” Gojo reached into his pocket. He opened the front of his jacket, then plucked
out a spare pair of sunglasses. A comfortable darkness eclipsed his vision, leaving Gojo with the far
more familiar imprints of cursed energy to watch.

Just as he was setting his glasses in place, a trio of young girls in school uniforms started to look
Gojo’s way. Gojo raised his hand in a wave. One of the girls turned to the other two and let out a
soft squeal.

“At least that’s normal,” Gojo spoke to himself, watching the girls walk off. He popped his collar.
“Still got it.”

If only that was the problem. The problem, here, was what Gojo hadn’t found yet. He cupped his
hand to his mouth, then shouted across the field. “Yuji!”

Gojo hadn’t exactly expected an answer. Still, there was a little disappointment when he didn’t get
a reply.

“Man, you’d better be around here,” Gojo complained. He tapped his foot in thought, his hand
cupping under his chin. “He can’t be in the toilet, again, could he? He was just there. How many
times can one kid pee?”

It was mid-bathroom question when Gojo felt a vibration in his pocket. The chime of an incoming
text sounded through the air.

“Whoa, this thing’s still on? Geez, should make this a phone commercial,” Gojo took out his
phone. He tipped his head down to see the screen over his glasses. “iPhone XS, keeps your battery
life through prison realm–”

Gojo hadn’t had a signal out in Hokkaido. The end result was that a stream of messages popped up
without timestamps, all at once, from Yuji.

‘Had to go!!! Meet me @ Sugisawa Hospital. Do NOT stop for snacks! Sukuna is missing :O!!! P.S.
I’m Spider-Man :D ’

‘ ssf ‘

Gojo presumed that one was a butt-text.

‘Update: sukuna finger maybe at sgsw burn body place!!’ The last text read, ‘Meet there!!! Don’t
fight and text! D:’

“Well then,” Gojo noted with a smirk. “Guess Daddy’s got a date at the funeral home.”

He paused.

“...Hah! Never thought I’d get to say that!” Gojo tipped his glasses at the frame, then looked at the
message one more time. “...somehow, not my worst date.”

Gojo didn’t bother to text back. It wasn’t worth the time. He tucked his phone back into his pocket,
and folded the space one more time.
The smokestacks of the funeral home sputtered white puffs into the air. The benches outside were
bare, exactly how Gojo had remembered him from the last time he’d been here. He and Itadori had
come once before to collect Itadori’s grandfather.

Just when Gojo might have thought things were what he remembered, he saw a hole in the wall. A
multi-eyed, venus fly trap looking curse was pouring out in every direction, thrashing violently. It
hit one of its heads against the wall, forming a dent.

“...Well,” Gojo said flatly. “Guess that answers that question.”

While the vines of the plant curse flopped every which way, and a deep, anguished yell filled the
air, Gojo stretched himself out. He cracked his knuckles over his head, then stretched out his leg,
settling himself. His neck let out a light, satisfying pop.

Once he’d finished stretching, he crossed his fingers, raised a hand, and condensed the space
between him and the curse. In a blink, the sunlight vanished. Gojo appeared inside the crematorium
basement.

The curse’s powers were already weakened when he got there. Parts of the plant were wilting, and
the main power source had vanished. It was hard to make out where it went, exactly, but that didn’t
seem like it should matter. He might as well clean up.

“In that case–”

Before anyone else in the space had even noticed he arrived, Gojo turned his hands. The force of
blue ripped through the space of the basement in a direct line, directly into the curse. The vacuum
of the limitless’ reinforced form condensed the curse’s form from grand, winding vines into an
infinitesimal speck.

Satisfied with the nothing he saw, Gojo turned. He tipped his sunglasses at the crew. He heard, and
felt, a faint blob of extremely faded cursed energy twitch on the floor.

“Gojo–” Yuji shouted.

Gojo raised a hand in a wave, signaling right back to Yuji. He had been ready to give a greeting,
some sort of ‘short time, no see’, but before he could pick the right joke for the moment, Yuji’s
hands reached back towards his throat, gagging.

“Yo, Yuji!” Gojo called back. “You need the Heimlich over there? Or is that some TikTok thing?”

“Crap!”

“Crap?” Gojo repeated. His head tilted to the side. “That’s how you greet me, now? I didn’t
approve that nickname, kid.”

It took one more second of watching Yuji writhe and sticking his hand down his own throat for
Gojo to catch on.

“Ah,” Gojo’s expression turned to a smile, not from any happiness, but simply from processing.
“...Again?”

“...Yeah,” Yuji admitted. His hands fell from his neck in resignation. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Gojo flicked his wrist, swatting the problem away. “No big! Nothing we haven’t dealt
with before.”

As Gojo’s hand started to sway, he felt Yuji start to turn, too. Now that Yuji wasn’t trying to yank
out his own throat, he’d found something else to flail over.

“Fushiguro–!” Yuji shouted. He swallowed, coughing again. “I mean– Megumi!”

Gojo looked down. That muted bit of cursed energy he’d sensed felt all the more familiar. “Oh…”

Yeah, that definitely wasn’t great, either.

“Fushiguro!” Yuji raised his hand. He waved frantically towards a third person, the speed so rapid
that Gojo could feel a light breeze coming off the gesture. “Fushiguro, over here!”

As hard as it was to sense where Yuji even was, somehow, that wasn’t the strangest thing…

…Because a fully conscious Tsumiki Fushiguro had just started running towards them.

“Miki-chan! Hey!” For all Gojo’s focus on needing to leave, he’d at least spared a second to smile
at her. “Like the cardigan! You cardi-can pull it off!”

Gojo had sensed it clearly, if strangely, that Tsumiki had started running towards Yuji. He felt it just
as clearly when she skidded to a stop, frozen.

“...Miki-chan?”

Tsumiki’s eyes widened. Her paintbrush fell from her hand. A faint smudge of black paint cast over
the dust.

Any other time, Gojo would have stopped to question this response. Any other time, he would’ve
wanted to take a closer look at the horrible state Megumi must have been in. But this wasn’t any
other time. This was here, now, and for here and now, Gojo only had one good option–get Yuji out
before anyone had to deal with Sukuna.

“Miki-chan, get Gumi here to Shoko, ok? She’ll know how to patch him!” Gojo didn’t stop to see if
she’d heard. He draped an arm across Yuji’s shoulder, and, in unison, raised his other hand in a
wave. “Ok, bye!”

Yuji’s head turned. “What–”

With that, Gojo vanished, taking himself and Yuji away.

There’d been no time for Gojo to consider where he was going until he already was. The most
important part was that wherever he landed, the human population was small. If there was any risk
of a Sukuna incident, however small, it was best to minimize the casualties.

A glimmer of the sunset shone over the top of Gojo’s sunglasses, reflecting the ocean waves. A
chorus of mewing sounded under his feet.

“What–” Yuji repeated louder, nearing a shout. “What’s going on?!”

Gojo unwrapped himself from Yuji. His hands pressed on his thighs as he crouched forward,
catching his breath. A light bump nudged his leg as a cat tail thwacked past him. The cat meowed.

“Yo,” Gojo looked down. “Meow mew to you, too.”

In a place like this, the dark of Gojo’s glasses came close to blinding. The relief of the partial
sensory deprivation was balanced out by the pressure behind his eyes. He wasn’t supposed to
teleport this much.

“Hey, Yuji,” Gojo called. Despite the building sense of nausea, he forced a casual grin. “You like
cats? Or are you more of a dog guy?”

“I don’t…” Yuji pressed a hand over his mouth. “Crap–”

Yuji ran through a puddle of cats, sending a few kitties to scurry angrily out of his way. Yuji’s back
arched as he hunched over the water, lurching with a failed attempt to throw up.

Gojo flicked a hand over a few of the cats’ tails on the way towards his student. His hand settled on
Yuji’s back with a gentle pat. Whether it seemed truly comforting, or if Gojo was handling this in
the same way that a new parent tried and failed to burp a baby, was a matter of interpretation.

“There, there,” Gojo said with the least amount of sympathy possible.

Yuji wobbled, drifting further over the edge. His arm wrapped around his stomach. “I’m gonna be
sick–”

Gojo gave a hard pat, deliberately smacking Yuji’s back.

“Ow!”

The force of the hit nearly sent Yuji flying off the edge of the dock. He let go of his stomach to grab
back onto Gojo, only for Yuji’s hand to hover straight over the top of him, blocked by the infinity.
Yuji grumbled.

“Not fair!”

Gojo felt the shift in pressure in time to grab Yuji’s hand, instead. He took a steady hold and then
guided Yuji towards the water.

“If you can get sick, you should, right?” Gojo asked, not meaning it as a question. “Just spit it out.
Like bad fish sticks.”

There was a brief beat between them, as Yuji seemed to process this.

“Oh…” Yuji stared back, going still. “You’re right…!.”

“Yep! Usually am!” Gojo nodded. “I’ve been told it’s annoying!”

“You…” Yuji blinked, taking in this information. “You think I should try throwing up?”

“Unless you want to throw down, yeah.”

Logically speaking, throwing up should never have been on the table when it came to ways to
avoid possession. By everything that Gojo knew about special grade cursed objects, they should
have sensed at least some mild change in Yuji’s cursed energy by now. Instead, Yuji’s cursed
energy stayed a blind spot. It wasn’t even that it was muted. It just flat out wasn’t there.

Gojo tipped his sunglasses up, resting them at the top of his head. With the glasses out of the way,
Gojo could look at Yuji with the same eyes as anyone else. Sure enough, when Gojo forced himself
to watch this way, he could spot Yuji sitting on the dock. Both of his feet were dangling in the
water, and his arms were still wrapped around his gut. His complexion had turned pale.

“Yuji.”

Yuji turned his head. “Yeah?”

“You’re sure you don’t feel Sukuna?”

At first, Yuji still looked nauseous. The longer Gojo waited for that answer, the more Yuji’s
expression changed.

“...I don’t,” Yuji realized as he admitted it. “It’s still me talking to you, yeah?”

Gojo nodded. “Mhm?”

“And I don’t sound like Sukuna?”

“Not unless Sukuna got a way better personality!” Gojo raised his hand to Yuji’s head and ruffled
through Yuji’s hair. “Pretty sure you’re curse-free, kid! Should probably watch what you leave in
the toilet, though! If I can’t destroy it, you can’t digest it. That’s for sure.”

“Yuck.”

“Yeah,” Gojo nodded, “Not my first choice, either.”

With how long Gojo and Yuji had now spent standing still, the local cats had stopped being so
skittish. A few gray striped cats and one spotted one started to snuggle up by Yuji’s back. Another
pawed at Gojo’s leg and let out a very long, boisterous meow.

“I know,” Gojo turned towards the stray cat. “That’s totally gross! Mrow meow meow!”

The cat meowed again, practically screeching for attention. Gojo reached down to absent-mindedly
scratch the cat on the cheek.

“You know what’s great, mister mew mew?” Gojo asked. The cat meowed softly. He nodded “Oh,
missus mew mew. My bad. Girl cat.”

The cat started to rumble with a faint but present purr. Gojo stroked her fur. “Yeah, yeah. You like
getting gendered correctly, don’t you?”

“Gojo-sensei?” Yuji asked, his tone softening.

Gojo stopped petting the cat. He turned. “...Yeah?”

“How are we gonna get home?”

“Well…” Gojo paused.“ You got me.”

Yuji swayed his feet in the water. “Yeah, that’s not, like, super assuring?” He gripped the edge of
the dock, then turned to Gojo with a sheepish “...Sorry.”

Gojo took a breath, breathed out, and forced his composure right into place with a confident smile.
“No, no” Gojo corrected. He pointed towards Yuji, first, then to himself. “I mean, lucky you,
you’ve got me! Satoru Gojo doesn’t fail.”

In the past, this kind of boast used to work. The fact that Gojo had recently spent half a year in a
cursed cube dimension with grabby handed skeleton people could, by most definitions, have
counted as a failure. Gojo was banking that Yuji wouldn’t think too much about that.

“Gojo-sensei,” Yuji repeated the name, his voice a little more steady than before. “Y’know. If we’re
here. Couldn’t there be two Satoru Gojo?”

If it was possible to hear a pause, that time, Gojo’s was audible. He didn’t answer.

The cat raised its paws, stretching desperately to pull Gojo’s hand towards itself. Thanks to the
infinity guarding Gojo, the best the cat could do was generally paw at a distance it couldn’t cross.
The cat started to hiss, swatting faster, to no avail.

“Why are you thinking about that?” Gojo asked, completely ignoring the cat. “I’m the thinking guy.
You’re the punching guy.”

“You read my texts, right?!” Yuji raised his voice, and his hands, gesturing away. “This is Spider-
man! We’re Spider-man!”

“You mean we crawl on the walls and think red spandex is a good fashion choice?”

“No! We’re Spider-man cause we got plonked in another world!”

“Another–”

“Another world!” Yuji shouted over him.He slapped the dock with frustration. “Back in time! Or –
sideways! Like in Spider-Verse, where there’s two Peter Parkers!”

“Peter Parki?” Gojo let the automatic joke spurt out. It wasn’t until he’d gotten that out of his
system that Gojo seemed to register the statement itself, “That’s what Spider-Verse is about? Two
spider-men? Whoa, spoiler warning.”

Yuji opened his mouth, bracing to argue. Then, he closed it, realizing something else. “Oh. That…
that movie wasn’t out for you, was it?”

“Nope.”

“Oh. Well.” Yuji turned along the dock, shifting his posture so he could face Gojo as he explained.
“Well, There were tons of Spider-Men.Then, there’s this big explosion thing that pulled a bunch of
the Spider-Men somewhere else. So. It’s like this, kinda. There could totally be two Gojo. Like
there would’ve been two Yuji, if the other Yuji didn’t die.”

For all of the surprisingly sensical deductions that Yuji had done on his own, the most Gojo could
contribute at first was to sit there, taking in that last thought.
“...You died?”

Yuji nodded.

“And you didn’t come back? I mean, it’s not like you dying hasn’t happened before.”

“Pretty sure. There were, like, ashes and stuff. That’s where the finger was. So…” Yuji nodded
more deeply. His head hung over the edge of the water. Gojo saw the reflection ripple off the
waves. “...so, yeah.”

“That’s heavy.”

“Five pounds, maybe? I don’t think ashes weigh that much.”

“...not what I meant, kid.”

“...oh.”

The stray cat that had been swatting at Gojo climbed up towards his lap. Gojo stopped resisting,
allowing it to crawl on up. The cat pawed at Gojo’s leg, kneading him. He gave it a scratch behind
the ears.

“I get it, though. What you got,” Gojo agreed. “Like… it’s Shrek Forever After by way of
Jumanji?”

“Jumanji?” Yuji asked, his eyes shifting up in thought. “You mean that one with the Rock?”

“No. Yuck,” Gojo shook his head. “Like the one with Robin Williams. The good one.”

“Hey! I liked Rock Jumanji! The redhead chick was hot. She had a nice belly button.”

“Hah. You would notice that, wouldn’t you?”

“Come on!” Yuji shouted. “Like you wouldn’t lick her belly button!”

Gojo snickered. The cat looked up, seemingly offended. Yuji was, too, enough so to snap at Gojo to
“shut up!” He shouted so loud, he’d ended up coughing.

It was at that moment, watching Yuji hack away into the back of his hand, that Gojo felt confident
assuming they weren’t in active crisis mode. There was no sign of Sukuna, here, or of any other
assailants, for that matter—not unless you had cat allergies.

The clowder of cats on Aoshima went about their business. A few stopped to headbutt Gojo as he
took off his shoes. The second Gojo’s footwear was off, one of the cats stuck its head in the hole.

Gojo tucked his hands behind his neck, and draped his legs over the docks. He dangled his now-
bare feet into the water. The slow approach of the waves crashed not against him, but the slowing
barrier of his infinity, as he finally let himself breathe.

For everything else awful and confusing about this, at least he wasn’t getting grabbed by skeletons,
anymore.
“Hope you’re a cat guy,” Gojo said casually. A set of claws pawed at his chest. “However we’re
getting home, it’s not tonight.”

Yuji kicked his feet in the water. “It’s not?”

“Nope.” Gojo stretched his arms up, settling in. “Believe it or not, I’ve got a limit, too. So! We’re
camping.”

“Oh. Well. Camping’s fine, I guess. Where’s camp?”

Gojo raised his hand. He pointed a finger from one side of the island to the other, like he was
wagging it.

“Here?” Yuji asked.

“Yep.” Gojo’s mouth stretched in a yawn. He flopped directly back against the dock, his back
sprawling across the wood. “Unless you’re allergic.”

“Nah. I’m fine,” Yuji agreed. He paused. “...I like dogs more, though.”

The stubborn stray Gojo was petting earlier walked straight across Gojo’s chest. The cat, too, laid
down, its tail curling around it protectively.

“Gojo-sensei?” Yuji called, signaling back for attention, “Hey, Gojo-sensei?”

Gojo’s limp hand flopped towards his face. “Still here.”

“Gojo-sensei,” Yuji’s voice dipped, far more serious than before. Whether the change was from the
last hour, or from the months Gojo had been sealed away, he didn’t know. He kicked his feet in the
waves, casting new ripples in the water. “Sensei, we’ve gotta get back there sometime, right? Go
home?”

“Psh,” Gojo pretended to wave it off. “Yeah, yeah, we should. I’ve seen Back to the Future.”

The second Gojo said that, he started to connect something. He turned his head, but not his torso,
allowing the cat to stay still while Gojo craned toward Yuji. “ You’ve seen Back to the Future,
right?”

From the angle Gojo was at, he could see Yuji nod to that one.

“At least that’s not what’s wrong. Imagine seeing Rick and Morty before seeing Back to the Future.
Lame.”

“Sensei, we’ve gotta get back,” Yuji repeated, emphasizing the words a little more sternly. “...but
does back have to be soon?”

For all of the ways Gojo had planned to look like he was in control, that one, simple question
brought out the truth. Gojo couldn’t think of any other way to answer than “I don’t know. Why?
You worried about not-Fushiguro?”

Yuji didn’t nod, or shake his head. He just answered. “About all of them.”
Yuji slouched forward, into his arms, his legs still swinging in the water. The liquid covered his
ankles, hiding the last of him from view.

“It’s wrong, here, right?” Yuji asked with the kind of tone that didn’t need an answer. “That’s
wrong. But, there’s so much that’s still right, here, too. Like, Kugisaki’s still alive. And Junpei.
Nothing happened to them, yet. Not here.”

The idea hit Gojo so hard, it took a second for him to hear what else Yuji had said. Even when he
had, Gojo repeated the part he’d been least sure he’d heard right. “...Kugisaki died?”

It was the kind of simple question that you didn’t know to regret asking until you already had the
reply.

“She died. Nanami did, too.” Yuji’s breath staggered.

The suddenness of that thought was enough for Gojo to shoot back up from the dock in shock.
“Nanamin died?! No–!!”

The cat on Gojo’s chest slid down with another agitated meow. She tried to dig her claws into
Gojo’s coat, only to fall straight off and flop down onto the dock. “Who took him out? Sukuna?”

“No.” Yuji shook his head. “Mahito.”

“Poor Nanamin,” Gojo lamented. For as joking as what he’d said was, his tone was serious. “Didn’t
even get his retirement fund. Huh.”

The last of the sunset vanished over the horizon. The glare of a red sun reflected in Yuji’s stare,
angry as the eyes it was trapped in. He clenched his fist in his lap.

“It’s July, right?,” Yuji asked quietly.

“I think so.”

“It’s July,” Yuji repeated, “I met Mahito in September. Nanami said he was a kid, then. That means
Mahito shouldn’t even be born yet, yeah? Or, if he is, he’s totally weak, now. Like a baby.”

It wasn’t often, in the past, that Gojo had tried to look at Yuji straight on. He’d always been able to
watch the kid the same way he would anyone else–through a veil of cursed energy, watching his
essence flow. Here, now, Gojo watched Yuji with the same eyes that anyone else might have used.
What he saw, he hadn’t seen before.

It wasn’t just determination when Yuji held his fist like this. Yuji had always had focus. What Gojo
saw, here, was a stare so dark it was stone.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Yuji told him. “Here. Now. Before he can do anything.”

There was no room to argue with the way Yuji said those words. He was cold. Focused.
Unshakeable.

So, naturally, Gojo didn’t respond that way at all.

“Couldn’t that, like, change a timeline or something?” Gojo asked, the casual tone helping him not
to process the rest. “It’s like that whole hypothetical would you go back in time to kill Hitler as an
infant thing.”

“Then let it.” Yuji clenched his fist tighter. The back of his scratched knuckles went white. “Let it
change.”

Yuji took a breath. He slouched over the water. His eyes fell into the waves, watching a reflection
of something that Gojo couldn’t see.

“I’ll protect them, here. I’ll kill Mahito. Then, after he’s gone, we can look for the zap back home
or whatever.”

There were some instances where a discussion like this was held for feedback. Gojo knew how to
handle those. He knew how to diffuse a situation, too–to turn things around enough that the most
severe situation could be a joke.

Gojo didn’t know what to do about this. He didn’t have a joke. All he had was a truth he couldn’t
admit.

With the last bit of energy Gojo could muster for the day, he turned to Yuji one last time. “...he
really got Nanamin?”

Yuji nodded. “Yeah.”

“Damn.”

Gojo folded his hands across his chest. He collapsed lifelessly against the dock. His feet sank
deeper into the water, the rest of him sprawling into the cats.

“Gojo-sensei!” Yuji called, his earlier severity breaking into frantic concern. He sprung up to check
on him. “Gojo-sensei, you okay?”

Gojo raised one hand into a brief thumbs up. He let it fall limply across his chest and closed his
eyes, blacking out the world in exhaustion.

Yuji shook Gojo by his shoulders, saying something enthusiastic that Gojo drowned out, trying to
get him to sit up again. Gojo ignored it. He just thought.

Wherever they were, or however they had gotten here, Suguru Geto was alive. Not just that, but he
seemed like the person Gojo once thought Geto would grow up to be–a goody-goody, super-strong,
sanctimonious stiff in the Jujutsu High faculty. A Suguru Geto with that look on his face wouldn’t
be capable of turning away someone in need.

As the sunset faded before them, and Yuji finally gave up on shaking Gojo to rest, an unspoken
question rose to the forefront of Gojo’s mind. Why couldn’t Gojo sense Yuji?

It wasn’t even that Yuji hadn’t become a vessel. Yuji bore no trace of Sukuna, either. Unless Gojo
kept his glasses down, Yuji was completely and utterly gone. If eating Sukuna’s finger hadn’t killed
Yuji, yet he also hadn’t become possessed by Sukuna after doing so, Gojo could think of three
reasons why that could be.

One: Yuji had retained his status as a vessel, yet the shift in universes had interfered with Yuji’s
cursed energy. That Yuji hadn’t transformed from eating the finger was because Yuji still had
control over Sukuna.
Two: The Yuji in front of Gojo was something closer to a curse than a sorcerer. Yuji could consume
a cursed object and not be changed by it in any significant way beyond an increase in power. How
this could be possible, Gojo wasn’t sure.

Three: Yuji was a non-sorcerer who would have been compatible with Sukuna as a vessel.
However, Yuji couldn’t be possessed upon consuming the finger, because this world’s Ryomen
Sukuna already had a host.
Junpei Yoshino's Pathetic Little Life
 Junpei Yoshino

July 2018

Nissincho Street, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

A gaggle of schoolgirls gathered under a lamppost, comparing cell phone charms. A businessman
stormed by, briefcase swinging, rushing home in an angry dash. A cluster of coworkers in matching
uniforms swayed with an early evening stupor as they wandered between bars. The reflection of
urban chaos shone off the store window, distant, like a painting that Junpei wasn’t a part of. Maybe
he never had been.

Junpei held his phone to his ear. The sound of his mother’s voice distorted on the other side. He
leaned against the glass of the building behind him.

“I can’t believe this guy brought the match to adjournment,” his mom complained. Even through
voice alone, Junpei could practically see her exhaustion. “...So I’ve gotta spend the night here in
Dazaifu. Sorry, kid.”

“It’s fine,” Junpei dismissed. “It’s normal.”

It may not have been normal to anyone else, but it was normal to them. Where most parents had
business trips and stable hours, Nagi Yoshino was a professional Go player. Tournaments,
conferences, and away calls for tutoring were part of the deal.

“It’s annoying,” Nagi grumbled. “It’s way easier when we just play games at the Association.
That’s like barely an hour from home. They’ve got to get all fancy for these title games. You act
like something’s important enough, suddenly, everyone believes it.”

“It’s a good problem to have, though, right?” Junpei asked, his words much quieter than hers.
“Being in something someone believes is important.”

“You’d think so, except, that’s all perspective, yeah? It’s not the stuff, or the room service or the
dress code or being half a country away that makes something matter, Junpei. It’s the choice you
make to let it.”

Though he was speaking to his mother, without something specific to watch, the only place
Junpei’s eye could fall was on his own reflection.He stood close to the window, enough so that each
spec of the would-be crowd started to blur.

“Everything’s important to someone. If it matters to you, then, that’s what made it matter …not that
I’m complaining about the free booze.”

When Junpei stared close enough into this glass, everything else could fall away. The world, as far
as he could see it, was nothing past this wall.

“You know,” his mom’s voice crackled through the phone. “I bet the coot resigns in an hour. Might
only take five moves. Old farts like him just want to say it went to a second day.”

“...You’re calling an 8-Dan an old fart?” Junpei blinked away from the reflection. “...is he around?
He could hear.”
“Eh, let him. If he can without his hearing aid, that is.” She sighed. “Besides, he barely spent half
the game looking at the board! If Takashiro 8-Dan can’t handle having boobs in front of him, he’s
flatulence to me.”

Junpei squinted at the phone. “...is that even an insult?”

“To me, yeah.”

“...fair enough,” Junpei sighed, “That’s gross.”

“Tell me about it!” she exclaimed, her voice loud enough that it made Junpei wince. “Even the
game recorders, they’re always like, Yoshino 7-Dan, the woman. Next time, either it should either
just read Yoshino and Takashiro, or, Takashiro 8-Dan the perv and Yoshino 7-Dan, the woman
about to kick his wrinkly raisin butt.”

Regardless of what she was rambling on about, the familiarity of his mom’s voice was a comfort.
Like most things that put Junpei at ease, the feeling didn’t last. Instead, he caught his own eye in
the reflection.

The deeper Junpei looked at the reflection–of himself, of the crowd–the more he didn’t see. There
weren’t any monsters–curses–or mysteries, or anything at all. It was just life, plain, mundane,
separate, and, for whatever reason, wrong.

Barely five hours ago, Junpei watched a monster crawl straight from his classmate’s mouth. The
eye of a curse had stared out from the back of its throat, straight on him. A complete stranger had
known his name and called him a sorcerer. The easier explanation was that he’d gone insane.

Junpei shifted his grip on his phone. He pulled it closer to his mouth, his words dipping to a
doubtful hush. “Mom…”

“Yeah?” she asked back, her voice rising as his own fell. “Junpei?”

He wanted to tell her. If someone else heard what he heard, and saw what he saw, maybe that would
help to make sense out of everything. Junpei thought that, and yet, he went quiet.

“Junpei?” his mom called out, speaking louder. “Where are you? Were you in the middle of
something?”

Junpei’s grip tightened. He lowered his head.

“I’m out,” Junpei dismissed, his words stiffening. “I’m on Nissincho, by the 3. That’s all.”

“You went out today? Huh.”

“What do you mean, huh? It's not like I'm a shut-in.”

There was a pause of consideration. In that moment of silence, Junpei looked back at his own
reflection in the ever-blurring crowd. In a sea of normal faces, somehow, it felt that much worse to
stand apart. Alone. His cell phone charm swayed against his hand, the metal lens of the camera
charm knocking against his neck.

“You need a ride home?” his mom asked, trying to be helpful, “Ishizika or not, I’ve got internet. I
could call a car.”
“No,” Junpei insisted. “I’m fine.” If he said it enough times, maybe he would be.

The flow of traffic was, though rapid, easy to follow. Junpei turned away from the reflection. He
raised his foot, bracing to step into a crowd that didn’t matter, in a world that didn’t matter, unless
he decided it should.

Like a snap in the air, something passed Junpei. He froze mid-step.

A schoolgirl with hair so faintly blue it was almost silver walked by, her sailor collar fluttering. The
unintentional caress of her hair on his skin sent a shudder through his core, yet, that wasn’t what
struck Junpei so still. From her face, to her thighs, to the form of a choker wrapped around her
neck, the pale sections of her body were lined with sutures.

Junpei’s eye flashed with recognition, Yuji’s description echoing in his head.

“This is gonna sound really weird, but if you meet a guy with stitches on his face, don’t trust him!”

This wasn’t a man, though. It was a girl. Still, it was enough to give Junpei pause. He pulled his
phone against his chest.

“Pick up dinner on the way home, okay?” his mom asked, having no indication something else had
happened at all. “Something decent. Cereal and cup ramen doesn’t count. Not unless it’s eating
both at the same time. Then, it's a challenge.”

“I…” Junpei stuttered, his brain at a standstill. He wasn’t quite sure what he heard, if anything, so,
he’d settled for saying. “...sure thing.”

Junpei’s hand paused on the phone. He pressed his back to the wall, then stared down at the screen.
His thumb hovered over the incoming messages. Had Itadori misspoken? Or was it only a man
Junpei had to be cautious of, and this girl didn’t matter?

The noise of the crowd mixed with his mom’s words. “If you’re fine, I’m heading down to the bar,”
she’d said. “The match sponsor’s paying for drinks.”

Most days, Junpei would have cautioned his mom not to get drunk. He didn’t. Instead, he’d
dismissed it, cold and stiff, “love you, bye.”

Junpei didn’t wait for the answer. He ended the call. He looked at the glass, checking the reflection.
To anyone else, he hoped, it would look like he was simply staring at himself.

A sudden wave of warmth brushed Junpei’s back.

“You….”

Junpei’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t realized he’d blinked. He hadn’t thought he had, yet, he
must have.

Because the stitched schoolgirl was right behind him.

Her voice brushed close enough to raise the hair on his neck. “You can see me?”

On instinct, Junpei looked down, averting his stare as if he’d never spotted her in the first place. He
typed in the first thing he could think to check in his phone. He’d entered a name, the way he
guessed it was spelled. Yuji Itadori.

If anyone had an answer, it had to be that kid. Maybe there was some way to contact him.

A new wave of unnatural warmth brushed Junpei’s back. The girl wasn’t touching him, and yet,
Junpei could feel her whisper.

“You can see me, can’t you? I met your eyes.” she asked, her intrigue rising. “Or… eye.”

Junpei forced his stare down. With all his might, he pretended this wasn’t happening. The only
thing that could matter, now, was the smartphone screen.

The name Yuji Itadori stayed at the top of the search results. There was no LINE account, nor an
Instagram or Twitter. In the place of the things Junpei might have expected to find for a regular
teenage boy was a newspaper article transcription from Kahoku Shimpo in Sendai.

The blue link read clearly, ‘ Teenage Boy Killed, Others Injured by Lightning Strike Fire ’. In the
article description, the name was in bold. ‘ The deceased’s name was Yuji Itadori, 15, a first year
student at Sugisawa Municipal High .’

It could have been a coincidence. It wasn’t as if there weren’t multiple Taro Tanakas or Yui Satos in
the country. Yet, when Junpei clicked the link, it stopped being easy–because a photograph of the
boy from the movie theater was glowing on screen.

“Wha–” Junpei’s foot slid back, leaning away from the image in horror. His back smashed into
someone else. His posture wilted with apology as he muttered a meek, weakened “sorry–”

“Oh, good. Good,” the girl cooed, “I was right. You can see.”

Before he looked up, Junpei already knew what he’d see.

Like the snake creature in the movie theater, an impossible form lingered in front of Junpei. Where
the gaze of that monster had been almost vacant, this girl was aglow. The silver of her right eye,
and the sky blue of her left, shone bright with judgment.

“You were at the movie theater, weren’t you? You talked with Toru.”

“I–” Junpei stuttered, frozen.

“You what?” The girl swung onto the back of her heels, her front pigtails swishing with a deceptive
innocence. “Go on.”

Junpei pulled his phone back towards himself. He rocked on his heel, too, retracting himself from
her presence. He only made it half a step before he felt a pull.

The overheated hand pulled at his shoulder, yanking Junpei into her space. Had this figure been
visible to anyone else, the posture would’ve been almost indecent. Close as they were, Junpei could
still see the stitches flex on her wrist.

“C’mon,” she urged, “Talk to me.”

“I…”
“Speak. If you're interesting enough for Toru, you must have something to say.”

For all the questions that came to mind, each one crossed the others out. Junpei turned his words
flat, so quiet that a person could hardly have heard him at all.

“I can’t,” Junpei whispered, his voice cracking. “They’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Oh. Well, you should be crazy! All the best people are…” The burning breath of something he
didn’t understand crept into Junpei’s ear. Their voice matched his whisper in volume, but not in
tone. “A world of the sane is a world of the same, right? Just be mad, then. It’s not like you
wouldn’t have a reason.”

The stream of pedestrians walking down the block pushed at Junpei’s back, a thoughtless, steady
current, like a river of fish, swimming to avoid the struggle. The girl tapped her fingers on Junpei’s
shoulder, patting a rhythm that no one else could hear.

“Go on,” she urged. “Ask. No one’s watching who matters... and no one who matters would care.”

Junpei’s hand tightened around his phone. His knuckles turned white. His shoulders slouched
forward, his hair draping to obscure his face.

For all his intentions to ignore her, that wasn’t an option, anymore. He didn’t know what to do. The
best he could manage was to swallow, and pick.

“Excuse me,” Junpei whispered, his words somehow finding further to fall. “...You're a curse, aren't
you?”

“Yup,” the girl bobbed her head, her pigtails bouncing again. “Why? Is that a problem for you?”

“I don’t know." The pressure of it all took Junpei's breath from his chest. He could barely manage
the question. “What is a curse, exactly? No one’s told me.”

She snapped her fingers. Even that sudden sound was enough to make Junpei jump in his shoes.
She snickered into the back of her hand, which only made Junpei glower.

"Don't laugh at me," Junpei tried to sneer. It didn't quite work.

She smiled into her hand, letting out one last chuckle. "Then don't be funny."

With a contented sigh, the apparent curse did as she was asked to do. She pulled her hands behind
her back and swayed in place, getting comfortable. “Well, to start, the proper term is ‘cursed
spirit’," she mused. "Although we call ourselves curses, when human beings say it, it’s more or less
a slur.”

“More or less,” Junpei repeated, “...So. You mean, always?”

“Mhm. Exactly.” The curse’s hand slid along the side of Junpei’s sleeve, her touch almost searing
his skin as it stroked down to take Junpei’s wrist, instead. “Each resentment, or fear, builds an
essence inside people. People like you. Have you heard of an aura before? It’s like that, an energy,
swirling, building momentum to dance around your souls.”

Junpei’s pulse echoed through his ears. For something that should have been a threat, her
composure towards him seemed thoughtful; almost gentle.
“That essence is cursed energy,” the curse continued. “When enough of it builds, it emerges, then
gathers, forming cursed spirits. That’s what curses are–an amalgamation of your kind's emotions.
Your wills, your malice, your fear...”

There was an ease to how she explained it that bordered on carelessness. The way that she spoke so
openly about something so absurd was almost entrancing. Not just that, but it made sense with what
Yuji had said. Their definitions lined up. Junpei could trust, most likely, that what both beings had
said were the truth.

It was simple. Stupidly so, perhaps, but, in a way where Junpei hadn’t needed to think to do it. He
turned his wrist in her hand, pulled down from the point between her thumb and her fingers, and
did what he had to do.

Run.

Junpei pushed forward with his shoulder, forcing his way into the current of people. The thick flow
of the pedestrian traffic gave him cover. He ducked his head down and wove in, hiding himself.

“Hey! Where are you going?” the curse pouted. “This isn’t how conversation works, you know.
You’re supposed to talk, too.”

Junpei lowered his knees, and his posture, scrunching himself as much as possible. The downside
was, with this many people in his way, Junpei couldn’t spot where the curse was, either. The most
he could do was guess.

Where almost everyone else kept a steady clip, Junpei changed the pace of his footsteps. He
weaved through the mass to lose himself in the crowd, deliberately moving to the other side.

Junpei made it a few doors down before he spotted the closest window. He poked up from the
traffic and checked the reflection, skimming the crowd for just the right blur. Within seconds,
Junpei spotted it. The silver blue pigtails were around the corner, about two doorways back.

The curse rose to the balls of her feet. She cupped a hand over her eyes, blocking the glare of the
setting sunlight as she peeked atop the people. “...this isn’t very considerate! Ugh. Lame.”

Junpei waited until the curse’s voice dipped to a mumble. Then, he found a new gap between
people and forced his way through.

A few different people gave him looks–few of them kind, and none of which Junpei had time to
think about. Feeling the turns of their heads made Junpei rush faster through the crowd. He might
be careful, but the people around him could easily give him away.

Junpei looked down the road. Between the office buildings, bars and coffee shops, a tower to the
right loomed. There were no windows, just an artifice of fake decay and a neon sign for the
Kawasaki Warehouse over the top floors. Warning signs rest at either side of the entrance, marking
the building for no admittance to anyone under 18.

The person beside Junpei had started to turn. The shift of their footstep showed they were heading
inside. Junpei followed their steps. Somehow, the admittance policy didn’t feel like it would
matter.
The faux rusted gate to the Kawasaki Warehouse slid open. The scarlet painted archway ended in a
matching door, the English words ‘Welcome to the Warehouse’ etched into the front of the
tarnished hall. The older man who Junpei had entered beside turned his head, shooting Junpei a
confused look. Junpei didn’t stop to answer. He just went in.

If the entryway hadn’t been a warning, then this next room made it clear. On one side of the
hallway, the closed, folding bars of barricaded fake storefronts. To the other, graffiti, fake doors,
and frosted backlit windows forged the path. A final door, awash in a red glow, waited at the other
side.

This place didn’t look like a building. It looked like a movie set for the end of the world.
Specifically, it was a replica of the Kowloon Walled City. It might just be one of the worst and most
appropriate spots in Kawasaki to be on the run from a monster.

Great. Junpei would remember to complain about this later if he didn’t die.

No sound followed Junpei but the echo of his own steps. He kept an eye towards the walls,
checking either side for a door. Finally, he spotted one. A sliver of white light clashed against the
red, a line casting between the frame and the door.

Junpei grabbed the handle. The door gave way. The light stabilized on the other side. Plain, clean,
gray stairs ran as far as a quick glimpse could see. Junpei’s best guess was that he’d found an
employee entrance. It would do.

A footstep pounded behind him. Junpei slipped in. He closed the door.

From the lights, to the metal, to the matching stairs and walls, this part of the building was
deserted. The churn of running water ran through pipes he couldn’t see.

For one second, Junpei gaped. It was the only second he spared himself before the reminder kicked
back in. If that was a curse–a monster–then he was under horror movie rules. He was in even more
danger alone.

Junpei shifted to the balls of his feet. He stepped carefully, but quickly, to run up the stairwell.

He didn’t watch how far the stairs had climbed. Junpei kept going. His legs burned when he’d
reached the top floor.

The exit sign glowed overhead, a faint red hue casting across the ceiling. Junpei pressed his hand
against the bar. Slowly, silently, he pushed the door open.

The other side was normal.

Patches of deep red carpet coated the floor. The familiar glow of rhythm games, slot machines and
ufo catchers spread as far as an eye could reach. As far as Junpei could tell, this section of the
warehouse was basically an arcade mixed with a casino. More importantly, it was populated. There
wasn’t a crowd, but there were people by the card tables and slot machines.

With a wave of relief, and the breath out to match, Junpei stepped through. He set a hand into his
pocket and paced ahead, pretending he knew where to go.
Junpei walked towards an unattended token machine. He exchanged a bill for a handful of tokens.
The machine whirred in compliance, spitting coins into the black tray. He picked them up, then
headed in.

Junpei supposed, on some level, that this kind of keeping his head down should have felt different.
Somehow, it didn’t. No matter the cause, this pattern of getting trapped and running away felt so
second nature, Junpei wasn’t shaking, now. If anything, his mind felt clear.

If there was anything he’d spent the last year learning how to do, it was hide.

Junepi wandered down the aisle, evaluating both the people, and his options, until he sensed
someone had tried to watch him. He stopped beside the closest machine to avoid the stare.

A UFO Catcher full of Re:Zero figures was in front of him. The prize barely mattered. What
mattered more was the layout of the machine. The bottom of the case was smooth, and the claw
being used to move the prize was a standard, rubber-tipped two-pronged pincer. The claw wouldn’t
be capable of picking up the prize, but it could possibly drag the box. It would take a while, but it
was winnable, and without a lot of concentration.

Knowing full well what he needed was to look busy, and do barely anything, Junpei put a token in
the machine. He tapped the joystick, shifting it thoughtlessly while his mind moved elsewhere.

As far as Junpei could tell, there were two solid options for where he could go from here. The first
option depended on a cell phone signal being present in the building. Deceased or not, the Yuji
Itadori from the Sendai news article had died so recently, there was a chance his cell provider
hadn’t disconnected his number. Junpei could find somewhere to hide, then search for the answer
and call for help.

Junpei released the joystick when the claw was just to the side of the box, at a slight diagonal, to
help shift and tip it. The claw raised. The message on the machine prompted Junpei to try again.

Junpei set a new coin into the machine. He hunched over, his own face hidden from the mirror. He
barely watched the claw as he adjusted its spot.

The second option Junpei could think to try was to keep hiding, in public, where there were other
people for cover. Whatever that curse was, she may not have seen Junpei come in. Even if it had,
Junpei was one face in a crowd. Maybe he could find another exit.

The claw descended as the timer expired. The box nudged, tipping, but not falling to the chute.
Junpei put in another coin.

If Junpei was trying option two, then there was some benefit to stalling. The more time Junpei
waited, the more chance that curse would come up here–but it was also a greater chance she would
lose interest entirely.

Junpei shifted the claw into position. He set his hand atop the button to mark the spot. Just as he
meant to strike, he heard something.

“Yoshino…”

Junpei’s hand slammed down on the button.

The voice spoke up again, his words crisp and fake through a smile he didn’t mean. “What are you
doing here?”

Junpei didn’t turn. He watched the pair through the mirror. To his left was a girl with bleached hair
that Junpei had never seen before. To his right was someone he wished he’d never met.
Unfortunately, he had.

The UFO Catcher’s pincer descended, tipping the edge of the cardboard box. The figure toppled
into the prize chute. As the digital banner at the back of the claw machine announced a winner,
Junpei knew he was anything but.

Even out of school, in a casino neither one of them should have been allowed inside, there was
something deceptively polished about Shota Ito. From the way he closed his eyes, to how he
nervously ruffled the back of his hair, Ito didn’t even have the decency to look like a monster.

“Shouldn’t you have somewhere else to be?” Ito asked, the new question hiding what he really
meant.

Junpei didn’t look back. Instead, he spoke to the reflection. “Go away, Ito.”

“Heh. You think you can say that to me?” Ito’s laugh, stiff as it was, brought Ito’s eyes to a squint.
“You can’t snitch on me, here. You’d blow yourself in, too.”

Junpei glared into the mirror, past himself, towards Ito. “This isn’t about you.”

“Who said it was?” Ito’s fake smile didn’t budge. “It’s about you.”

Junpei knew what he couldn’t do. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t make a scene. In the midst of all
those couldn’ts, he was left without a thought for what he could.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Ito muttered, the words all the more cutting for how casual they
were. “The only reason some self-righteous nothing like you would break a rule would be for otaku
junk.”

“Ahhh! So cute!” The sound of the squeal made Junpei look away. The girl who’d been with Ito
had walked up to the machine and taken Junpei’s prize from the chute. She tossed the box into the
air, then hugged it. “Oh, I love Rem!”

Just like that, Ito stepped away from Junpei. That rehearsed smile fixed right in place.

“Then you should have it.” Ito nudged Junpei’s shoulder, a single finger prodding Junpei like a
warning. “That shouldn’t be a problem. You didn’t need that thing, right?”

For once, that dismissal was actually true. Junpei had no use for a character figure. It was the
principle of the situation that made him mutter back. “How would you know what needing is like?
Every problem you have, you pay away.”

“Be quiet,” Ito mouthed, hushing his words below his friend’s cooing. “Haven’t you noticed?
People are trying to play.”

As Ito loomed over Junpei, something else loomed behind him. A pale hand brushed the side of
Ito’s neck. The stitches on her wrist flashed white in the artificial light.
“You have to try to play? Oh, wow,” the curse asked from over his shoulder. “Then you’re not
doing a very good job of playing, are you?”

Junpei couldn’t tell where the curse had come from. In the end, he supposed that didn’t matter. She
was here.

And no one else could see her but Junpei.

The schoolgirl curse’s hand twisted around Ito’s neck, her fingers strumming. Ito started to shudder.
His posture, too, went stiff.

“Oh my God…” Ito’s friend stepped closer to Junpei. She wrapped her arms around the figure
protectively, her face turning colors in shock. “...dude, the fuck?”

“Oh, wow! No wonder no one plays with you guys! You can’t share,” the curse marveled, looking
from one to the other. “You know, the only person who likes a narcissist is themselves.”

With each pause and turn of the curse’s head, Junpei tried to get some distance. He tried, and yet,
when he had finally managed to lean away, he was pulled right back.

Ito’s hands hooked into the front of Junpei’s shirt, strangling him. “Yoshino–” Ito croaked, glaring
Junpei down. “What are you–”

Junpei didn’t hear the end. To Junpei, and only to Junpei, the curse had spoken over them both.

“Does it matter what I’m doing to them?” she asked, the tone flippant enough to imply she already
knew her answer was no. “They’ve got no potential. So ordinary. So dull.”

Junpei had to move. He couldn’t see a clear exit from here, yet, that was the only decent option.
He’d run off once before. He could do it again.

That he could do it didn’t mean he’d found the will to start. His sneakers stuck to the carpet, his
body frozen between the tight grip Ito had on Junpei’s shirt, and the force of that mismatched stare,
taking him in.

“Oh, good,” the curse murmured. Her head bowed low. “So you agree.”

It was easy bait to answer. If Junpei disagreed, he could have said no. If he agreed, he could say
nothing. All he had to do was pick.

“I–” Junpei stuttered.

“You what?” The curse’s head tilted, her front pigtails swaying curiously. Her finger poked against
Ito’s throat enough that Ito shook from the touch.

To see Ito shaking like that, under the force of something with true power, was enough. Junpei shut
his eyes. Then, he picked.

Junpei slammed himself to the side, body-checking Ito into the UFO Catcher. His friend was hit,
too, being shoved the exact opposite way. The claw machine rocked from side to side, the character
figure boxes toppling down. An alarm flashed in the machine, calling to the staff that someone had
tried to knock it down.
Junpei didn’t stop to check where Ito had landed. If he got up, fine. At this point, it didn’t matter.
All of it, Ito’s anger included, was just another reason to flee.

When Junpei first sprinted across the floor, that’s what he’d been thinking. He passed by the rows
of flashing games, a few spare eyes shifting his direction. He avoided them in his sprint. Narrowly,
between the slot machines, Junpei could see the downward slope of a stairwell. An escalator.

It was a way out. A clear path. Junpei didn’t hear footsteps following him, yet–just the muffled,
frantic pace of his own scratching the carpet. He could make it.

Someone let out a scream.

Junpei knew not to look back. He told himself not to. The sound hadn’t been close by, and he’d
seen enough horror movies to know how that could end.

No, it wasn’t the sound that made Junpei peek. It was when it stopped, suddenly, without warning.
The ear piercing scream extinguished flat into nothing. Then, he looked. He wished he hadn’t.

Because that was when Junpei realized he hadn’t just shoved Ito’s friend into the ground. He’d
shoved her straight into the curse.

The curse flicked her hand away, tapping at what was left of the body. She laughed in delight as the
last specs of Ito’s friend melted to a black puddle on the floor. The action figure box rolled in the
muck, melting to nothing. The box brushed Ito’s arm. He, too, was lying face first on the carpet.
His friend’s remains stained his shirt.

In a wave of attention, every eye left in the arcade pulled to the same spot. That first second of
terror gave way to new screams as a fake understanding found them. Not one of them knew what
was there, and yet, they knew the fear.

The curse in the black sailor uniform let out a chuckle. She wiped a tear from her eye as she
strolled past the remains.

Each movement differed as they finally thought to react. An employee behind the bar picked up the
phone. An elderly couple started shouting at each other, each word louder than the last. A pudgy
man sprinted for the door. A young woman in a hoodie leaned forward. She knelt to the floor,
prodding the puddle–as if, to her eyes, there was someone still there to save.

The curse lowered herself beside the woman. Her stitched hand reached past the fabric of her hood,
wrapping across her neck. The screaming softened to a whimper.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” the curse chastised the girl with the same, gentle disapproval a parent
might use to a child. “...you’ll sound so much better quiet.”

The woman squirmed, then convulsed. Her feet dangled off the floor, pulled up by a force that,
from the direction her eyes were bulging in, she couldn’t even see.

The curse stood up. Her other hand, too, wrapped around the woman’s neck. The woman’s face
started to tint slightly, the faintest bit of blue flushing her skin. Her arms trembled beneath her
sleeves, her body convulsing.
“Don’t worry, okay?” The curse’s hand moved up, stretching over the woman’s face. The curse’s
thumb stroked the skin beside her cheek. She squeezed, pinching her nose and mouth together. “I’ll
fix it for you.”

The curse opened her hand. The woman fell back against the wall. Her hands reached towards her
neck, clutching herself. It wasn’t until the woman was leaning back against a slot machine, clawing
at her throat, that Junpei could clearly see what happened. The openings of her nostrils, and any
sign of her mouth, were gone. In the place of the openings were smooth, unblemished skin. She
was suffocating.

The sight of it all was even more reason to run. Junpei knew that. Yet, the more he looked, the
harder it was to do anything but stare.

“Should I have introduced myself?” the curse asked, a gentle smile crossing her lips. She turned
towards Junpei curiously. “Was that why you ran? Or did I come on too strong?”

Her free hand raised to the side, flicking her wrist. The sutures on either side shone almost white
beneath the fluorescent lights. Her victims writhed in the background. Others fled. She hadn’t
looked. For all the other chaos erupting around them, her focus stayed on Junpei.

“I guess that makes sense,” the curse mused. “Anything could be too strong for you. You’re not a
sorcerer.”

Junpei shouldn’t have spoken. He knew he shouldn’t have, yet, in his complete inability to do
anything else, he’d ended up speaking.

“I’m… not?”

The curse shook her head, her hair scattering almost peacefully to still in his presence.

“Nope. You’re not.”

Junpei took a step back. The patter of his sneaker on the carpet synchronized with the sway of the
pleats in the curse’s skirt. Without intending to, somehow, their souls had found a rhythm.

“Hey,” the curse called, the words innocuous enough to pass for normal conversation. Perhaps, to
her, it was. “What’s your name?”

Junpei felt himself still. Her hands weren’t on him, and yet, he was just as stuck in the wake of her
as the one who’d been strangled. His breath throbbed in his throat.

“Yoshino,” he answered slowly, drawing each syllable to stall for time. “Junpei.”

For all the running Junpei had been doing, the monstrous thing before him sent forth a gentle,
friendly smile. “Nice to meet you, Junpei. Call me Mahito.”
 Young Fish and Reverse Punishment Redux
Chapter Notes

Thank you very much to my friend kingofswag for the birthday gift of this chapter's cover art!
 Junpei Yoshino

July 2018

Anata no Warehouse, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

The curse in the sailor uniform stood before him, mangled, pieced together, and yet flawlessly
composed. The tint of her skin looked almost golden in the artificial light.

“Nice to meet you, Junpei,” the curse before Junpei smiled, calling his attention. “Call me
Mahito.”

Behind her, barely an arm’s reach away, the woman without a mouth was writhing. She scratched
her nails into the flesh where her mouth should have been. Though a line of blood had formed
where she clawed, there was no hole–only the wound of her fingers against solid skin.

If there was something Junpei was supposed to do next, he wasn’t thinking of it. The most he could
do was say the name.

“Mahito…”

“Yup. That's me,” Mahito swayed forward. Her hands pulled behind her back as she bobbed over
his shoulder. “You should say it two more times, you know. If you want to remember me.
Repetition carves the soul.”

“Three times? Like…” Junpei swallowed, the word staggering. “Like Beetlejuice?”

“Ah! Not exactly!” Mahito flicked her wrist, gesturing behind her as her victim fell limp to the
floor. “...I don't care for stripes.”

Junpei’s hand clutched his chest. All that grip did, now, was let him feel each tremor as his pulse
strained to work at all. He looked to the side, at the remains of the mouthless, noseless woman,
sprawled across the carpet.

Whether it was the sound of the crash, or the direction of Junpei’s stare, Mahito turned her head
over her shoulder, too.

“Oh, boo,” Mahito pouted. “Gone that quickly? I thought for sure she’d have another minute."

The way Mahito spoke was so casual, if she hadn’t been directly looking at the body, it was easy to
forget she was talking about murder.

It took a second–only one–for Junpei to connect that realization with the implication. Mahito was
watching the body. She wasn’t watching Junpei. If he was going to leave, it was now.

He picked now.

Junpei stepped to the right, backwards, away from Mahito. His first step was slow, silent, enough
not to call attention. As soon as he’d backed away, Junpei turned the corner and ran.

The same second Junpei’s foot crashed down, he heard a siren. The escalator at the end of the hall
went still. Someone must have pulled the fire alarm. Shit.

A flashing white light started to circle the ceiling. The few people who weren’t already screaming
for help started scrambling, too. There weren’t enough people fleeing to hide in a crowd, yet there
were enough for them to get in his way.

Junpei picked up his pace. He sprinted ahead, directly between a pair of other people, and darted
down the escalator stairs.
The “excuse me–” from one of the other patrons that Junpei had bumped into was restrained, yet
obviously annoyed. Junpei didn’t look back. He caught himself on the escalator railing, bounced
off, and went right back to running.

By the second escalator down, the scenery shifted. False warning signs falsely demarcated the
building as sections of Kowloon. Functional games and vending machines mixed with the
dilapidated decor. The emergency sirens seemed to mesh with the theme, as if the crisis, too, were a
part of the ambiance. It might have even been welcome were he not fleeing for his life.

By the fourth flight of stairs down, Junpei registered what had gone missing. In his rush to get out
of here, he’d lost the other people. The dozens of other faces that had been evacuating with or
behind him were gone.

The siren dulled in Junpei’s ears. The sound of a scream overtook the white noise. Somewhere
Junpei couldn’t see, the curse was still coming.

Junpei crouched. He turned the next corner, his sneaker smacking into the floor. He’d run out of
escalators.

“Shit–”

A hexagonal archway stood at the end of the last hall. A yellow glow coated the floor. Every other
wall tinted red, illuminated like an inferno in wait. It was the same, red passageway Junpei had
avoided going through when he’d first come inside.

One second. That was all the time Junpei gave himself to catch his breath. His foot turned against
the cement floor. Then, he went in.

The red path wound before him. Junpei’s footsteps echoed off the cavern walls, the sound warping
with a form walls weren’t supposed to take. Somehow, the further Junpei ran down this path, the
more it felt like the caves were narrowing.

The red light tainted the corridor, drowning all other colors in the scarlet glow, except one. An
outline of white flashed in the distance.

That one, luring flicker was reason enough to keep going. Junpei ran through the gate, leaving the
tunnel. The mechanical doors slid open before him. A new light pushed through, guiding them in.

The next room was awash in vibrant greens. Raised, stone steps formed a path to a second gate at
the opposite side. Jagged metal pipes lined the way, welded haphazardly in random angles into a
makeshift railing. Luminescent dragon heads were painted on the wall, pointing at the gate and the
rune-like inscriptions around it from either side.

The mechanical door slid shut. The red light behind Junpei cut off, plunging halfway into darkness.
The white light from the fire alarms cycled in and out, casting flickers as the muffled sound
blended with the echoes of his pulse.

The green under lighting washed across Junpei. He set a hand on the railing, pulling up. The form
of these pipes looked so unsteady, he had thought there was a chance one was loose enough to pop
off as a weapon. The pipe didn’t budge.
With no other option, Junpei hopped onto the first stone. He pulled up on the next railing, then used
it for support as he hopped to the next platform.

The automatic doors of the back gate slid open. The red and yellow fire lights of the path Junpei
just come from backlit his silhouette into the front gate.

Junpei took a step back. His feet slipped to the edge of the rock. There was nowhere to hide.
Nowhere to go. The best he could do was dislodge the pipe, and brace for the inevitable.

“Who’s there?” Junpei snapped. He pulled at the railing. It didn't give.

In every movie Junpei had seen, what was coming should have been the curse. Except, it wasn’t.
The silhouette in the doorway was too tall. Too human.

Junpei pulled to a stand still. It wasn’t the curse, yet, Junpei knew what was there.

“...Ito?”

The automatic doors shut behind Ito. A bright green glow cast across their pale hair, the color
intensifying in the under-light. A spot on Ito’s forehead glistened with blood.

“What was that?” Ito snapped, his voice oddly stiff. Instead of an echo off the wall, the sound
seemed to reverberate in his throat. “What? Do you have a death wish or something?”

“Shut up! This isn’t the time–!” Junpei’s hand clutched the metal bar. He slid back, again, stepping
to a new rock. “--Can’t you tell? There’s a monster! I could die.”

“You could die,” Where Junpei had been frantic, Ito’s mockery was flat. “Is that so bad? If you’re
dead, maybe someone would like you.”

Ito stepped onto a cobblestone, crossing the path from the other side. There weren’t any lackeys to
back him up, and yet, with each step, he loomed.

“Apologize,” Ito said, the words reverberating with an echo that shouldn’t have been there.

“You need sorry?” Junpei snapped. “Fine. I’m sorry. Just get–”

Junpei didn’t finish speaking.

The automatic doors behind Ito slid shut, washing the red light away. Narrow, nimble fingers
pierced the surface of the unmoving metal, passing through the solid mass. Before long, a full hand
was visible. Sutures shone across its wrist. Her wrist.

Junpei hadn’t meant to say it, yet, the recognition turned to a whisper. “Mahito–”

In the time Junpei spent staring, Ito kicked Junpei into the floor. The sudden force knocked Junpei
down, sprawled across the jagged rocks. He skidded into the railing, his neck trapped against the
pole.

Junpei could see, all over again, what he’d seen so often before. The scenery was different, yet,
nothing changed. The mundane, idle evil of bored, entitled children loomed before Junpei, trapping
him.
“I’m sorry,” Junpei repeated, his words still in a hush. For as scared as he was, he couldn’t help but
grit his teeth and bite back. “Sorry you think having a dick’s a personality–”

Junpei reached for the railing to find his grip. When his hand found a spot to rest, Ito grabbed it,
too. He pressed Junpei to the bar.

“What was that?” Ito’s face distorted in the neon light. That same, strange echo lingered in his
words. “I couldn’t hear you.”

In the distance, Junpei could see the rest of the curse’s form cross through the door. The door hadn’t
opened, and yet, she’d passed right through like it was nothing but air.

Ito leaned over Junpei, blocking his sight, and any other path to leave with it.

“Say you’re sorry,” Ito repeated. Somehow, when he’d gone back to that phrase, his tone of voice
hadn’t changed at all. Instead, it distorted, like an echo of himself.

Junpei kicked his legs out, flailing, sprawling for some ability to defend himself. Ito wasn’t that
much bigger than Junpei, yet, today, Ito’s hand felt like lead. Junpei couldn’t budge.

“Fine–” Junpei raised his voice, and his neck, “I’m–”

“Pathetic?”

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” Junpei cried, his shout loud enough that his words truly did echo off the walls.
“Just stop–”

“That doesn’t seem like an apology to me.” Ito mocked. “You should do a dogeza.”

Junpei tried to squirm. Behind them both, beneath the siren, he heard footsteps. He couldn’t see the
form, yet, Junpei knew who it was.

“You idiot!” Junpei screamed. “This isn’t about you!”

“Has no one taught you how to bow, before? Here.” Ito raised his foot. The sole of his dirty shoe
drew close to Junpei’s face. “I’ll show you.”

Before Ito could lower his foot, Junpei lifted his. He rocked onto his back and kicked out with both
feet. His sneaker collided straight into Ito’s gut. The shake of a collision pulsed through Junpei’s
back. Ito didn’t move.

Or, more accurately, Ito couldn’t move. Something had held him still.

A pale hand stroked up the back of Ito’s head, brushing the part of his hair. Ito’s hand froze around
Junpei’s, anchoring them both to the railing. A drop of blood dripped from the gash on Ito’s
forehead, straight down Junpei’s cheek. The damp, warm liquid shone black in the green light.

As the curse’s hand drew closer, the blood around Ito’s wound started to part. Inside the gash, a
third eye opened on Ito’s forehead. The beady, dilated slit flashed like a cat’s. For the first time
since he’d entered this room, Ito’s words sounded clear.

“Sit still, Junpei,” Ito purred. “You don’t want to be a bother, now, right?”
That wasn’t Ito, anymore.

The last thing Junpei should have done was listen. He knew it, and yet, this far pinned down, he
couldn’t think of anything else to do but stare.

The curse’s hand pulled the back of Ito’s head. Ito’s eyes shot open. Clear streams of liquid poured
from the corners of all three, parting the blood with tear tracks. Then, Mahito let go.

Half of Ito’s face had distorted, while the other side looked exactly the same. The result looked a
bit like how someone might in the aftermath of a stroke. The lopsided Ito’s grip tightened, forcing
Junpei down.

The thoughtless question in Junpei's head came out like a scream, desperate and wailing. “What did
you do?”

Mahito pulled herself to sit on the jagged railing, her feet swinging contently on her perch. Her
hands tucked beneath her chin, watching on.

“Oh, you’re curious? I like that. Me, too.” Mahito kicked her legs out. “I transmogrified his soul.”

The hand holding Junpei’s to the bar let go. Immediately, Junpei leaned back. He scrambled off the
rock path, beneath the railing, into the wall, to pick himself up. Junpei only made it to his knees
before Ito kicked him in the back.

Mahito snickered. “Aww. You thought that would work? Cute. Pathetic, but cute. Like a puppy.”

A foot pressed firmly between Junpei’s shoulders, crushing him straight into the stone. The wind
knocked out of Junpei’s chest, his limbs twisting in directions they hadn’t been meant to land in.
The charm snapped from his phone, the small metal camera skidding across the stone.

Ito’s shadow loomed. The pressure at Junpei’s back shifted. From what he could tell, Ito must have
lowered himself to kneel directly on top of Junpei. One hand pressed into his shoulder, forcing him
down. The other dangled something in front of his face.

“Hey, Yoshino. I don’t think this should be here,” Ito urged. His hand lowered, dangling something
thin between Junpei’s eyes. “You can eat it.”

There had been no echo in Ito’s tone, but the words still hit like there was one. Junpei heard these
exact words, before, from him.

This wasn’t a roach, squirming and writhing for its life. The object in Ito’s hands was withered,
still, and rotting. The base mangled out like tree roots, while the top looked like a finger.

“Open wide, Yoshino.” Ito dangled the finger by its nail. From this close, Junpei could smell the
decay.

Junpei’s hand pressed into the ground. The hand against his shoulder pushed down harder, crushing
him. He ground his feet against the floor to push back. He couldn’t

“No!” Junpei shouted through the strain. “No, let me–”

Go.
The end of the sentence would have been simple. Instead, Junpei never made the sound. When he
would have, Ito’s hand shoved straight down Junpei’s throat.

Junpei bit down. His teeth clashed against Ito’s hand. The force of the bite sent a new shudder
through Junpei’s bones, pain throbbing through his teeth as Ito retracted.

There was blood on Ito’s grip when he clutched that same bitten hand over Junpei’s face, pinching
Junpei’s nose and mouth shut. Though Ito’s fingers had pulled away, the severed finger was still in
his mouth.

The essence of something vile scratched Junpei’s mouth. He thrashed against the floor. The burn of
bile pooled in his throat. Every one of Junpei’s senses screamed to force this thing back out. Ito’s
hand wouldn’t let him.

“That’s better.” Though the words were crisp, there was no feeling in Ito’s voice at all. His fingers
pressed harder over Junpei’s mouth, nearly crushing him under his grip. “Now, swallow.”

“You should listen, you know,” Mahito added. “Though it is fun when you squirm! Calm
experiments get so boring.”

Junpei tried to twist his head to the side, then the other, shaking like a dog. On the third shake, Ito’s
hand snapped up, forcing Junpei’s head to snap backwards. The pull was so rapid, it knocked the
finger down his throat.

The lump weighed heavily, lodged in the middle. Though Junpei’s eyelids were shut, he could feel
the pressure bulging. His instincts were still screaming where the rest of him couldn’t. Tears welled
in his eyes.

“It’s been a while since Toru’s picked the test subject. Normally, he doesn’t care,” Mahito mused.
“I wonder what he saw.”

A new hand wrapped around Junpei’s neck. The over warm grip tingled against his skin, almost
burning, as it pressed over the form of the finger. From how close her voice had been, Junpei could
only assume it was Mahito.

“Hm. Maybe it's the combination?” Mahito pondered out loud. “That you see curses, but have no
way to fight? I mean, you're obviously not a sorcerer. If you were, by now you’d have tried some
trick to get away.”

Junpei clawed towards the ground. He strained up, trying, and failing, to raise his unpinned
shoulder. The effort to buck Ito off, surprisingly, worked. Junpei felt the pressure lift from his back.
Ito’s body made a thud on the concrete floor.

It was a second of relief–a single flash in the turmoil, where Junpei’s pulse stopped racing, a little
bit of hope forming at the back of his mind. It didn’t last.

Mahito’s burning hand wrapped against Junpei, hooking tighter as it pressed the length of his
throat. The searing spread so rapidly, Junpei had no choice but to swallow.

The lump passed down, visibly, from the base of Junpei’s throat down. Mahito’s hand raised,
clumping through Junpei’s hair to force him to his knees. Junpei’s shoulders pressed against the
metal railing, his back arching in a way that a spine was not supposed to bend.
There was no scream. Junpei couldn’t form one. Mahito’s other hand raised, pushing across his
scalp. The slightest tap on Junpei’s head was excruciating, as if, for a second, his whole body was
boiling from the inside.

“Hm. Junpei,” Mahito called. “Don’t stop being fun now. Maybe we’re lucky.”

He had never imagined what it felt like to be torn apart. Maybe this was it. He couldn’t struggle, or
stop it. The best Junpei could do, anymore, was to lay there, keep his eyes shut, and feel the sweat
coat his body as he was consumed with something he had no means to stop.

With how little Junpei could sense past the pain, he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the feeling of her
mouth directly over his ear. The soft brush of her lips crossed his flesh, searing like a brand directly
on his eardrum. “Oh, Junpei. Open your eyes.”

For how deep her voice had crawled inside Junpei, he had barely heard the other shout.

“Yoshino!” The odd echo in Ito’s voice was gone. For the first time since he’d entered this room,
his pathetic excuse for a classmate sounded like himself. “Yoshino, what the hell’re you doing?”

A crack filled the air–the snap of something solid, muted by the flesh of the body it was in.

The light from the floor blocked shadows on the form of the other person Junpei knew was still
there. Shota Ito’s body was splayed across the floor. Ito laid face-down, writhing. He screamed
“Stop–”

For all the horrible things that had happened, for a second, Junpei felt a new thought cross his
mind. At least if he was going out, this scum was going, too.

The curse’s whisper brushed Junpei’s ear once more. The warmth of her words, that close, brought
Junpei to shudder. “You hate this brat, don’t you, Junpei?”

“I’m…” Ito croaked, his whole body already shaking, “Help me…”

Mahito’s fingers tapped along Junpei’s cheek, stroking a circle an inch above his jaw. The edge of
her nail dug in enough to make Junpei wince at the touch. “Why wouldn’t you hate this thing?
He’s a fool. A coward, too. A horrible combination, really. At least brave fools entertain you. This
kind just… writhes around.”

The bright green flashes cast shadows through the deformity still marring Ito’s eye. His fingers bent
in strange directions.. Droplets of something resembling tears rolled down Ito’s cheeks, the liquid
catching the light.

“Just another, foolish child,” Mahito murmured. Where, before, the words had burned, this whisper
was almost casual. “If you live, you'll kill him.”

“I–” Junpei sputtered.

Mahito’s hands pressed back into Junpei’s cheeks. Her touch still felt wrong, casting fires through
Junpei’s flesh, but they were smaller. Somehow, Junpei could move enough to argue.

“No–” Junpei’s one word staggered. Mahito shushed him.

“Stay still, Junpei.” Mahito’s finger turned, again, the sharpened nail scratching directly below
Junpei’s eye. A wet trickle trailed Junpei’s cheek, too, the same clear liquid pouring out from his
skin. “You’re distracting me.”

A new, muted wave of burning ran through Junpei’s core. Where the other touches had twisted his
body, this one flowed through his veins. Junpei’s jaw snapped shut. His eyes followed, a faint wave
of something he couldn’t place overtaking him.

“Oh, don’t think so hard, will you?” Mahito complained. “If this works, you won’t need a brain.”

For all the dark things Junpei had seen, he’d never truly considered what it felt like to die. The
concept had always felt so far away. No matter how many times someone had suggested he kill
himself, the true meaning of death had been at a distance to him.

Maybe, he thought, this was it. One second, Junpei was there. The next, his body went numb, as if
all the suffering he’d endured mere seconds before had been muted into nothing.

“Oh, wow,” Mahito marveled. The pattern that she’d traced on Junpei’s face began to sear. “You’re
doing pretty well, aren’t you? You’re so weak! So… malleable.”

From Junpei’s chin to his eye, the marks pressed deeper. Though Junpei couldn’t see himself, he
could feel the dark imprints spread where the curse’s marks embedded to his skin.

As the green light faded to sickly gray, and Junpei’s consciousness started to wither, he heard
something new. Something else. Someone else, laughing.

It wasn’t until Junpei had registered the noise that he realized why it had echoed. The manic howl
wasn’t Junpei’s, yet the voice was his own.

Mahito’s form vanished into the floor, receding into nothing. What was left, now, were the screams
of anguish from Ito, and a sound Junpei couldn’t justify, ripping through his throat.

The last thought to cross Junpei’s mind clearly wasn’t his. Where Junpei’s mind was desperate,
panicked, this thought had no fear. What it had was simpler.

“Ah! Marvelous,” the curse inside Junpei cackled, “Someone’s left me a child.”

The curse raised his hand, black claws forming where Junpei’s fingertips had been. The effortless
cleave slashed the whimpering Ito in two.

Sukuna inhaled. He tossed aside what was left of the body, and took in the smell of what could so
soon be his slaughter.

“What a fine age this is! I can smell it. Women, and children, spawned everywhere!” Sukuna’s
arms raised in triumph. The shadows from his outstretched arms split in two, embedding the image
of four arms across the room. The silhouette of his new vessel loomed across the archway, the
outline of his body creeping forth as if Sukuna had torn a tunnel into hell.

A toothy, fanged smile stretched across Sukuna's face, beaming from ear to ear. “It’ll be a
massacre!”
 Whiteboard on How to Kill God

Suguru Geto

July 18, 2018

Tokyo Jujutsu High

The board at the front of the room was covered in photographs. Bright red tacks ran across a map
of Japan, with colored strings pointed between each point and the image of the wreckage left
behind. Suguru knew the locations well. He knew just as well, perhaps even better than anyone else
in this room, why there was a large black blot through Kyoto.

The faded ink stain was a reminder of damage long past. That wasn’t what gathered them here. No,
that reason was pinned to the far right.

The last known photograph of Satoru Gojo watched them all. In that picture, Satoru’s hair was
overgrown. His signature sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, his nose crinkling with a
smile. He wasn’t facing the camera. He’d been facing Suguru.

Suguru clutched his hand under the table. Mochi whined, poking her wet nose up his sleeve. He
stroked her head, gently.

“Good girl,” Suguru uttered, the words low enough to keep it between them. “Stay.”

“You know, when TV shows do that whole zoom and enhance thing, it’s a bunch of crap,” one of
the junior sorcerers complained. “These pictures are blurry.”

“Ehhhh, forget it,” Tsukumo waved, flicking the problem away. “I mean, it ain’t like we don’t
know who’s in ‘em.”

Takuma Ino pulled at the side of his beanie, shifting the brim up the side of his head. “...then why’d
you make me print them?”

Yuki Tsukumo stretched her arms into the air, cracking her back. Her blonde hair draped over her
shoulder as she swayed, ignoring the complaint. “Hey, Ino. Did I ever ask you–”

The face of a cracked watch flashed with stray sunlight as Nanami yanked Tsukumo back. “No.”

“No, I didn’t ask?” Tsukumo turned towards Nanami. She barely watched him for a second before
she’d turned right back to Ino. “Well, now's good a time as any. Ino, what kinda–”

“ No .” Nanami pulled her back, again, his stare twisting to a glower. “This is not the time for your
proclivities."

“Eheh,” Tsukumo rolled her shoulder, pulling away from Nanami. “Who put you in charge? It’s my
meeting, ain’t it? I'm meeting him."

“That’s not this kind of meeting…”

“Nanami?” Ino stepped away from the board, ignoring Tsukumo. “What’s up? Something wrong?
Something wrong?”

“Yes,” Nanami stated, factual and flat. “Her.”

“Hey!” Tsukumo slapped the table. She stood up, pretending to be offended. “I ain’t like I’m
incompetent or something! I brought donuts.”

A bright pink box of fluffy, untouched pastries sat in the center of the table. Suguru hadn’t even
noticed them until she’d said something.

Tsukumo flopped against the wall, her arms crossing in protest. She sighed. “...Man, I hate
meetings.”

For all of Tsukumo’s dramatics, Nanami’s mouth simply drew to a straight line, unamused. “Then
don’t call them.”

Suguru leaned back, stroking Mochi’s head to keep calm. Mochi stuck out her tongue, lapping
blindly at thin air.
“No, girl,” Suguru whispered. He wrapped a hand under her jaw, pulling her closer. “That’s not
how you lick.”

It wasn’t until Suguru was done making this suggestion that he looked up to the meeting, again. As
dysfunctional as the room was, technically, this was still the board of the school.

He supposed that was just another sign of exactly how far things had gone wrong.

Yuki Tsukumo, the head of the whole thing, was leaning up against the whiteboard. To her right,
Takuma Ino was fixing a picture on the display. Everyone else was kneeling alongside the paper
walls, keeping their distance from the center table

To the right were Kento Nanami, Utahime Iori and Kiyotaka Ijichi (who looked exceptionally
sunken-eyed, even by his standards). On the left side sat Noritoshi Kamo (not that one), Yun
Kuwabara, Manami Suda and Larue. Per usual, Larue was shirtless. He was the only one eating a
donut.

Mochi licked at Suguru’s fingers, still lapping away. Suguru leaned over her, his hair draping over
her as he told her to “stop.” Mochi opened her mouth wider and nipped at his hair. He sighed.
“Mochi, no–”

“Do I really gotta say it?” Ino asked, his earlier confidence wilting. “We all know why we’re here.”

“It’s for the best, Ino,” Tsukumo tipped her hand towards the wall, gesturing to the back of the
room and the first years along the wall. “We’ve got guests, you know.”

Every eye in the room, including Mochi’s, turned towards the back, to Suguru’s students in the
room. Normally, first years wouldn’t be in a meeting like this.

Nobara Kugisaki, for her part, looked impatient as ever. Her hand pressed against her hip as she
waited impatiently. Tsumiki, conversely, held herself with the kind of rigid posture where multiple
encyclopedias could be stacked on her head without them falling off.

“Welp,” Ino tugged his beanie back. “Here we go. Satoru, formerly of the Gojo clan,” Ino jabbed a
finger over the photo, setting a wrinkle through Satoru’s face. “Special grade curse user, possessor
of the six eyes. Before now, his last known sighting was July 2014, the mass extinction in Kyoto.
Until–”

“--Yesterday,” Tsukumo interrupted, talking over him. “Where he showed up twice!”

Ino’s hand fell to his side. He looked down towards Tsukumo. “...If you wanna talk, why am I up
here?”

“Well… It’s more professional if you do it, Ino, right?”

Nanami sat up. Ino looked down. Together, in completely different tones, they answered.

“...No?”

“No.”

Suguru let out a sigh. He folded his hands. Mochi stretched her paw onto his lap and whined softly
for attention. He shifted, again, to nestle her close. Mochi’s tail thumped on the tatami.
“What’s her deal? The biker chick,” Nobara leaned over Suguru’s shoulder to whisper in his ear.
“And what’s with the guy in the headband? Can he not afford a shirt?”

Suguru didn’t answer that beyond a sigh.

“Oh, whatever,” Tsukumo threw up her hands, again. “Screw professionalism! It’s not like dress
codes ever saved lives.”

Nobara gave Suguru a side-eye that seemed to imply they obviously had no dress code. If they had,
then Larue wouldn’t have heart-shaped nipple pasties in a business meeting.

Before Suguru could decide if he even cared to justify that, Tsukumo slapped the picture board. His
attention snapped back to focus where it had to be–on her.

“If you didn’t live through Kyoto personally, then you sensed Satoru yesterday. Right here,”
Tsukumo plucked the string between a tack in the map and a photo of Suguru’s classroom. It shook
with the aftermath. “Tokyo, our campus, 14:00 hours. The problem man-child broke our barrier and
infiltrated the first year class. He stayed there, until–”

Tsukumo plucked the next string, between the photos of the charred, matted Irodori Field and
“Hokkaido, where Geto here managed to hold him off for a minute. He’d know more about that
part than me. On that scene, we thought he fled. Except, he didn’t.”

Tsukumo’s hand tipped, again, to the next string. “He went here. Our investigation, at the
crematorium in Sendai, at 15:04. Somehow, six-eyes found our students there during an attempted
recovery of a special grade cursed object. Which brings us to–”

Before anyone in the room could give feedback, Tsukumo plucked the last string.

“16:14, Anata no Warehouse, in Kanagawa,” she said. That picture, more than the others, brought
Suguru to sit up. His hand steadied at Mochi’s head, holding her for support. He’d seen the
whiteboard for a while, but, not even he had heard this part before.

“We didn’t have anyone on site for this one,” Tsukumo explained, “but our preliminary scopes
sensed an unregistered curtain, which put us on alert. All security footage from the building was
wiped, so we can’t confirm specifics past the residuals and the body count. Sixty one dead. Four in
critical care.”

Suguru’s hand froze in Mochi’s fur, his eyes going wide, processing.

“No–” Suguru muttered. To anyone else, it was a simple emotion. Shock. Denial. Any of those
reactions could have made sense. This didn’t.

Everything else that Gojo had done yesterday, Suguru understood. He knew the timeline for it. The
part he hadn’t witnessed himself, when Tsumiki and Megumi were in Sendai, Suguru had spoken to
Tsumiki about. That had felt consistent.

But not this.

“We can’t avoid the truth. We all sensed him here,” Tsukumo leaned back against the board. She
folded her hands in front of her mouth, thinking. “There’s no way blowing up an arcade and taking
a Sukuna finger is the endgame for six-eyes… So, we’ve gotta deal with him.”
Suguru stroked his hand across Mochi’s back, his fingers sinking through her fur. Mochi stretched
alongside him, comforting him. Whoever else was in this room, or whatever else they were
thinking, none of that needed to matter unless Suguru let it. He focused ahead.

“Tsukumo.”

The call of her name drew Tsukumo’s eyes to Suguru’s. The deep, almost impenetrable red met his
own. “Yes, Geto?”

“Why are you so certain the Kanagawa incident is linked to the other three?” Suguru asked, unsure
himself. “Were Satoru’s residuals at the scene? We have no witness he was there.”

It was a simple question with a simple reply.

“No,” Tsukumo said. “But…”

Correction–it was a simple question that should have had a simple reply.

“There residuals at the scene in Kanagawa aren’t what we’d expect from the emergence of a natural
curse,” Tsukumo reasoned. “They’re too strong to have manifested without the involvement of a
cursed object or womb. Does a missing special grade cursed object known to create special grade
curses not fit exactly what happened?”

“Well, yes. However–”

“What seems more unlikely, Geto?” Tsukumo asked over him, “That a special grade cursed womb
appeared at the exact same time as another special grade cursed object goes missing, or that the
object went missing in Sendai so it could be used for what saw in Kanagawa?”

Suguru’s shoulders tensed. For whatever the reason, the implications she was making made him
tense.

“It’s not a matter of what’s likely,” Suguru tried to say. “It’s a matter of assumption. We can’t be
sure it’s the truth.”

“We can’t know it’s a lie, either,” Tsukumo dismissed. “All we can know is that sixty people are
dead. The last time we saw Gojo, that was six hundred thousand. That’s more people than die from
natural born curses in twenty years. You really want to take that lightly, Geto?”

That strange sense of tension rose. This, not the jokes, or her seniority, or the box of donuts on the
center table, was the reason why Tsukumo had the authority when there’d been a power vacuum to
fill. Because every eye in this room, when it fell on Suguru, had some reason to doubt the curse
eater. Even himself.

Suguru hung his head, his eyes falling to his lap in shame. He didn’t know how to look at anyone
else. How long had it been this way? That even in a group now made up of survivors, rebels and
dissenters, Suguru was still the odd one out?

“Geto,” Tsukumo called. At first, it was barely an echo. She slapped her hand on the wall. “Geto!”

As Suguru’s beady, shaken eyes met hers, Tsukumo looked back. Her arms crossed beneath her
chest, her shadow casting over him.
“Don’t worry about what brought us here. Got that?” she smiled, “No one expected you to take out
the Six Eyes user alone.”

Tsukumo meant it. Somehow, her sympathy made Suguru’s posture go all the more rigid, a
tasteless, rotting lump forming in his throat.

Mochi raised her head, then her paws, stretching out over Suguru’s lap. Her bright blue eyes staring
adoringly back at him. She sighed.

“Hey, Geto,” Tsukumo raised a few fingers to gesture back at his students. “Since you’re talking,
you wanna handle the introductions? Or should I?” Right after, Suguru could have sworn he heard
Tsukumo mumble, “If not, I’d love to know their types.”

For as low as Tsukumo had mumbled it, Nanami had still spoken over her “no.”

“No?” Tsukumo squinted, feigning confusion. “What’d you mean, no?”

“They’re children,” Nanami snapped. “It’s not your business to know.”

Suguru gave Mochi one last scratch behind the ears, silently thanking the universe that Nanami
hadn’t quit. He kept one hand on Mochi’s head, then stood to face the first years.

“Fushiguro,” Suguru checked her first. Tsumiki gave a single, stiff nod.

“Kugisaki,” Suguru called, next. Nobara picked at a piece of her hair, annoyed.

“Why should we be formal?” Nobara asked. “You’re just bickering.”

As much as Nobara had a point, Suguru didn’t acknowledge it. He tried to fix his face enough that,
if not pleasant, it could at least have passed for doing an impression of Nanami.

“We can discuss this later, in class,” Suguru dismissed. “For now, just answer their questions.”

Nobara tucked her hair behind her ear. “You can just tell me you don’t have a reason.”

“...Kugisaki, you’re my student. That’s reason enough.”

“So, what? Am I supposed to respect you or something?”

“Well… yes..”

Nobara marched towards the front of the room, not acknowledging him. Tsumiki gave a short bow
to Suguru. He could hear her whisper a “sorry, sensei,” on her way up, as if Tsumiki were the one
he’d needed an apology from.

Suguru hooked his hand through Mochi’s collar. He, too, walked to the front of the room. Yet
again, although he wasn't standing here alone, Suguru got the sense that every eye in the room was
on him.

“So–”

Despite his best efforts, Suguru couldn’t stop his eyes from sinking. He couldn’t even muster a
smile. Then again, this wasn’t the time for smiles. Apparently, sixty non-sorcerers had died.
“Unfortunately, no representative from the Zen’in clan could be with us today,” Suguru explained,
forcing a fake calm. “Megumi, my other student, is with Ieiri being treated for damage he sustained
in Sendai.”

Suguru focused past the mix of others’ eyes. He settled on Nanami, as if his former underclassman
was the only person Suguru meant to speak with. Nanami returned the stare. He gave a nod. Go on.

“All four of my students encountered Satoru in some capacity yesterday,” Suguru continued.
“Kugisaki Nobara, semi-grade two” Suguru gestured to Nobara, “Confronted him during his time
on campus, and Fushiguro Tsumiki, grade three,” Suguru stepped aside, allowing the group to see
Tsumiki, “Was with Zen’in on the Sendai mission.”

It was apparent from the looks of them, at least to Suguru, what would happen if Nobara spoke
first. From the way she was tapping her foot, Nobara looked ready to explode.

“Tsumiki…” Suguru spoke gently, looking away from the crowd, to her. “Do you think you can
describe what happened to you and Zen’in? If not, I'll try.”

Tsumiki gave a nod. Her ponytail wavered, her eyes nearly closing with exhaustion. She never
quite looked at the crowd. “I’ll do my best, sensei.”

For as worried and tired as Tsumiki no doubt was, when she turned to the room, she stood tall.

“My brother and I were sent to track a special grade cursed object at the third Sugisawa Municipal
High School,” Tsumiki explained. “The energy we’d found there was a residual from shed cursed
seals. What we needed wasn’t there.”

Suguru had heard most of this from Tsumiki before. The others in the room hadn’t. Where, earlier,
there had been arguments. Now, it was quiet.

“The cursed seals had enough scent for Megumi’s shikigami to track them to a crematorium in
Sendai. When we got there, someone else had found the object, first. A boy with pink hair. He was
handing the cursed object to Megumi when a curse appeared. The curse ate the finger, while
Megumi was still holding it.”

Tsumiki straightened her back up along the wall. Her head lowered, bowing to herself. Suguru
considered telling her she could stop. Before he could bring himself to, she’d already gone on.

“The boy and I both pursued the curse to save Megumi. The stranger was able to take the finger
from the curse by eating it himself. That’s when Satoru appeared. Satoru exorcized the curse, took
the stranger, and told me to find Ieiri-san…”

As the last thought trailed off, Tsumiki looked back to Suguru. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else
you’d like to hear.”

“Nothing,” Suguru nodded to her. “That was a pristine report, Fushiguro. Thank you.”

“I have a question,” Nanami interjected. “ You said this stranger ate the curse. Is that correct?”
Nanami asked.

Tsumiki nodded. Her back straightened against the wall. Nanami continued.

“When Satoru abducted this stranger, after the object was consumed, was the stranger still alive?”
It wasn’t until Nanami had pointed that out that Suguru even thought of that. If Tsumiki had seen
that boy eat a special-grade curse object and he hadn’t died, then, the only other option by all
understanding of cursed energy was that he’d become a curse vessel.

A little spark of dread spread in Suguru’s gut.

“Yes,” Tsumiki answered, her words a little slower and softer than before. “He was hurt, but he was
alive.”

Nanami adjusted his glasses. The soft glint of the sunlight through the paneled doors obscured the
look in his eye. “Hurt how, exactly?”

“Scrapes along his hand,” Tsumiki explained. “A bite mark somewhere, presumably. The curse
tried to eat him, too,” Tsumiki set a hand along her own shoulder to demonstrate where the wounds
were, before allowing it to fall back to her side. “I couldn’t sense him, but he was kind. He fought
well. I could tell he wouldn’t harm us.”

From most people, that last statement didn’t mean a lot. To Suguru, it counted for something.
Optimistic as Tsumiki tended to be about things, she had good instincts.

“A stranger you couldn’t sense? I saw him, too, then,” Nobara added. “He showed up in the
classroom, too. Some pink haired hick following Six Eyes like poop on a goldfish–”

“ WOOF !”

Mochi lurched towards Nobara. Suguru yanked back, hooking through her collar to barely restrain
her.

“Mochi–” Suguru grunted. He rocked back and forth, wrestling her down. “Bad girl, no barks–”

“I know, right?” Nobara complained to Mochi, completely ignoring Suguru. “What a weirdo.”

Mochi pulled, again, at Suguru’s arm. She barked directly over Nobara, blocking anyone, including
Suguru, from hearing what she’d had to say.

As the other eyes in the room started to turn towards the chaos, Suguru pulled up his necklace. He
blew into the dog whistle.

Mochi’s arm’s perked up. Her body went slack. Suguru blew again. “Mochi, down!”

The sheer volume of the order was enough to make Mochi stop. She plopped over Suguru’s feet,
lowering herself over his sandals.

With a long breath out, Suguru turned to Nobara. “Would you like to tell the group what you saw,
Kugisaki?” he asked, as if it wasn’t entirely too late for that already. Nobara turned away in a huff.
Still, she did as he'd asked.

“The albino freak was definitely this Eyes guy. No doubt, there. He spawned out of nowhere. So
was the other guy. He kept screaming my name like some stalker. Guess that’s the curse of beauty.”

“Did he not introduce himself?” Tsumiki asked Nobara, looking to her instead of the room as a
whole. “He told me his name was Yujita.”
“Yujita?” Nobara asked, her expression going blank. “What kind of name is Yujita?”

“...His, I would think.”

“Eh,” Nobara scoffed. “Weird guy, weird name.”

While the girls were comparing notes, Suguru considered whether there was something else that it
mattered to ask. He looked back towards Nanami for a new signal.

“Geto,” Tsukumo called. Suguru turned. “Did you also see this boy?”

Suguru paused. For some reason, it felt off to tell the truth.

“Yes. I did,” he nodded. “Satoru seemed to be protecting him.”

Tsukumo tapped her hands together in front of her mouth. “Oh, really?” She hadn’t needed to call it
out for it to be clear she was considering something. “That could be a weakness.”

Suguru hadn’t thought of that as a reason not to answer until he’d already said it. His face went
blank. Tsumiki’s, however, did not.

“Is the purpose of a sorcerer not to protect others, Tsukumo-san?" Tsumiki asked, the implication
not leaving it as a question at all. "Stranger to us or not, we have a duty to protect Yujita.”

Suguru looked towards Tsumiki. He was watching her, yet what he heard was himself.

“Society should protect the weak, and keep the strong in check. You see, Satoru… Jujutsu exists to
protect non-Jujutsu users.”

“Being righteous? I hate that stuff!” Suguru could still picture Satoru complaining. “Applying
reasoning and responsibility to Jujutsu is what weak people do. Blech!”

Suguru was so busy seeing it, he hadn’t noticed someone else had spoken up.

“Are you not an associate of the big three families Fushiguro?” Kamo’s eyes were still closed, like
always, yet his words were as sharp as he could make them. “You should understand that fairness is
a luxury.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Tsumiki argued. “You’re speaking about an innocent person. We have a
responsibility–”

“--To our clans, to do what we must,” Kamo interrupted, speaking over her. “You’ve been afforded
this naive outlook by your benefactor. That the Zen’in heir protects you doesn’t make you correct.
It’s made you his weakness.”

Suguru started to reach for Tsumiki, his hand resting on her shoulder as he whispered “don’t
listen.”

Ino raised his hand. Faintly, Suguru heard him try to stop it, too. “Hey, how about we don’t–”

“Oh, give me a break!” Nobara yelled over everyone. “We get it, you get off on having a stick up
your ass–!”
Nobara stepped away from the board, down the center of the room, charging towards Kamo.
Suguru blocked her path. “Kugisaki, that’s enough–!”

In the end, all of the room had shifted. Mochi had hunched forward, her head ducking down, baring
her fangs at Kamo. Tsumiki had placed a hand on Nobara’s arm, gently guiding her back. Yun was
doing the same to Kamo, restraining him.

Though Yun’s arms had wrapped around Kamo, a physical pull didn’t stop Kamo’s last words.
“You mistake a matter of morality for one of survival, Fushiguro. Whatever choice we make, I’ll
believe it to be right.”

“Great,” Nobara sneered. “And I’ll believe you’re a dick.”

Tsukumo clapped her hands together with a loud, echoing smack. "And that's it for our first years!"
She lowered one of her hands in a limp wave, then shooed them towards the door. “Go on! Go, go.”

Suguru let his hand fall from his whistle, and his attention turn to his students.

“You aren’t in trouble, Kugisaki,” Suguru decided, perhaps against his better judgment.

“Shouldn’t that guy be in trouble?” Nobara countered. “He’s being an asshole.”

“Are we not all in trouble?” Tsumiki asked, in unison. “That’s why the room’s so distressed.”

“Woof,” Mochi added. Her tail wagged into Suguru’s leg.

Suguru ruffled his hand through Mochi’s fur, shifting her floppy ears aside. He bowed his head
towards his students. “Send my best to Ieiri. I’ll join you when I can.”

For the first time all day, someone finally seemed to listen to Suguru. Nobara had crossed her arms
at him, and Tsumiki stepped a little too far back to bow, but, in the end, they both did as he’d told
them to. The door clicked shut, leaving the rest of them behind.

Tsukumo leaned back against the map. She slapped her hand across the photos, enough so that a
few pins fell off the board.

“Believe it or not, no one’s here to debate philosophy,” Tsukumo pushed a pin in, fixing the map
without looking at it. “We’re here to stop Satoru Gojo.”

“The three families,” Tsukumo referred to Noritoshi and Yun, “Barring Zen’in, today, for obvious
reasons. Our faculty,” Tsukumo gestured to Utahime and Ijichi. Then, she pointed to the rest. “And
the best sorcerers we’ve got. Whatever your differences are, we can’t allow a second Kyoto.”

With how frankly Tsukumo said it, the issue sounded straightforward. When Suguru looked around
the room, he knew it was anything but.

“Geto.”

Somehow, the call of his own name made Suguru’s shoulders tense. He did his best not to show it.

“Good work,” Tsukumo said casually, as if the rest of the room weren’t there. “Your theory that
sound waves bypass the infinity technique proved right. Even if it didn’t last long, that’s the first
sign the six eyes is still vulnerable to something.”
“It didn’t last,” Suguru dismissed. “His reverse curse technique expedited his recovery.”

The hypothesis of what they could or couldn’t do came easily. For a fraction of a moment, Suguru
didn’t feel completely out of place. Then, he heard another voice, and all that certainty left.

“A vulnerability to sound means our most useful sorcerers aren’t ranked as such,” Yun interjected.
“For this purpose, our best options would be Inumaki Toge from second year, and Utahime-sensei.”

Utahime’s priestess uniform made her easy to spot. She was the only person present not in some
shade of black.

“Satoru says I’m weak to my face,” Utahime said. “He won’t care about me.”

“He may claim you’re weak specifically because he’s vulnerable to you. That way, you wouldn’t
think to try.” Yun countered. They looked back towards the others. “Perhaps Todo Aoi would be of
some help, also. His curse technique requires no physical contact with the target.”

Kamo lowered his head. “Todo Aoi is erratic.”

“Todo Aoi’s a riot!” Tsukumo shouted over Kamo. “Good taste in women, too.”

“Todo Aoi is a teenager.” Nanami eyed Tsukumo. “His taste in women shouldn’t matter.”

Before anyone else could interject, Tsukumo snapped her fingers. “Won’t be that simple, though.
Now that Satoru knows we know the sound thing, he might account for it. We’d have an easier time
exploiting someone else, like that Yujita kid.”

The very concept made Suguru’s pulse stop.

Mochi whined, nuzzling Suguru’s hand. Suguru barely felt it. What he felt, across this room, was
an old question drift to the forefront of his mind. Was this the same kind of conversation sorcerers
had when they chose to erase Riko Amanai?

“Is that it?” Suguru whispered, the words barely forming. “That’s the best we can do? To threaten a
child?”

He hadn’t expected an answer. Still, Tsukumo had given one.

“I don’t want it to be.” She nodded, her posture correcting to something that could pass for stern.
“All I want’s for there to be a world left to fight over. What would ideals mean in a grave?”

Suguru felt the thought cross his mind. He had an answer. What ideals meant, in that case, was that
they hadn’t become the kind of people worth killing. A bead of sweat dripped down his cheek.

“You didn’t see him,” Suguru mumbled. He hadn’t known he’d spoken before the words escaped
between his breaths. "Not like I did. Not like-"

“No one thinks you’re responsible for this, Geto,” Tsukumo interrupted. Though she’d kept her
tone steady, the words cut him all the same. “This ain’t yours to fix, anyway. You’re too close to
this. You won’t think well.”

“It’s not–” The words caught in Suguru’s throat. They sputtered out, so fast, so frantic, that it felt
violent to speak. “It’s not too close. It’s just close enough. That man, the one in the flower field,
that wasn’t him. That wasn’t my Satoru…!”

Suguru heard the word echo in his head. The speed of that thought slowed his voice down. For all
the arguments and the bickering that had been here before, all of it was gone. In its place was just
silence.

Tsukumo’s eyes met Suguru’s. Her distant contemplation shifted to understanding, and then
something softer. Suguru looked aside, searching for Nanami. The glint over Nanami’s glasses
didn’t hide his expression. It was the same as Tsukumo’s, now. Pity.

Mochi nuzzled the back of Suguru’s hand. The distant sound of his dog’s cry guided Suguru to
stand still. His stare fell to the weaving in the tatami mats.

“Get some rest, Geto,” Tsukumo told him. “Don’t worry about this. We’ve got it from here.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, or a friendly statement at all. What Tsukumo had said, out loud, was an
allusion to what Suguru was sure everyone else was thinking. He must have gone insane. In what
world was the man in that lavender field not Satoru Gojo? It sounded so crazy, and yet, he was
sure.

Suguru draped his head lower, the tangles of his unbrushed hair falling across his shoulders in a
bow.

“Does this not bother you, Tsukumo?” Suguru asked, the words quiet, almost conversational.
"...That this is what we’ve become?”

“The survivors of forced evolution? No. Not at all. Do you think it bothered a hawk the first time it
ate a sparrow, Geto?” Tsukumo’s expression leveled. “I don’t think it did. I think the hawk flew.”

Suguru didn’t give her an answer. Tsukumo was so composed, Suguru wasn’t quite sure if he’d
imagined her smirking.

“It’s up to you how you feel, Geto. Everyone here, in this room, has their own choice to make about
that. All I know for sure is how I think. And I think I won’t pick to be the sparrow. How about
you?”

Before anyone else could comment, or another eye could send misguided sympathy his way,
Suguru opened the door. He stepped out into the hall, leaving them behind.

It was amazing, in the worst possible way. After this many years, Tsukumo could still ask Suguru a
question, and the only answer he had was that he didn’t know.

An empty corridor stood before Suguru. A winding, ancient pathway stretched in any direction he
could look. The sounds of important conversations muffled behind the paper walls. Mochi licked
his hand.

With a bow still in his posture, Suguru gave her one last pet. He took her leash from his pocket,
then hooked it into her collar. “Let’s go, Mochi,” he beckoned. “I need to walk.”

Mochi gave a quiet bark in return, acknowledging him. She waited until Suguru hooked her leash
around his hand. Then, she took off in a trot down the hall. The swish of her tail was the sole sound
in the stale, still air inside.
Suguru closed his eyes. Soon, the sunlight of the outside world washed over him. He let himself
stay blind, his eyes staying shut as Mochi guided their way.

The sense of darkness swelled around Suguru as he kept his eyes closed, intentionally shutting
down. Suguru wondered, faintly, if this was how it felt behind Satoru’s glasses. He could feel the
flow of something, hear it in the air, and yet the version in his mind would never match with
anyone else.

There’d been no students on the grounds. Suguru assumed they were with Shoko in the infirmary,
or under tight supervision in the dorms. After all, no sorcerer with a right mind, and even very few
who were crazy, would’ve dared to wander free with a threat like Satoru on the loose.

Suguru had no trouble wandering, though. If anything, it felt like exactly what he needed. The
mindlessness of not even daring to look while his dog led the way was a blessing.

He realized, faintly, that they must have walked far enough to cross the whole campus when Mochi
paused. Her nose hit the ground, sniffing loudly.

“What’s wrong, girl?” Suguru asked Mochi. He took a knee at her side and stroked her back. “You
sense something?”

“Oh, she’s yours?” A voice called through the barrier. “How’d I never know you were a dog guy?”

Suguru’s arms wrapped around Mochi, holding her tight. He felt her tail drop. The tip tucked
between her legs, shaking.

“You shouldn’t be here."

“Fun greeting. I would’ve gone with ‘hey’, but, you know, hay being for horses and this being a
dog moment, I get it.”

Suguru steadied his hand. His eyes sharpened as they opened to exactly the face he’d known he
would see–the very last one he should have wanted to.

“...Satoru.”

“Wow. Way to ruin the disguise,” Gojo complained. He tugged at a curl of his brown wig. “At least
I’m sexy brunette.”

There had been some effort on Gojo’s part, apparently, to hide his identity. He was in a brown wig,
and aviator sunglasses Suguru had never seen him wear before. All the same, it wasn’t exactly a
master class in disguise work.

“You didn’t change your voice,” Suguru stated. “I could tell.”

“What, did you want me to do an accent or something?”

The shadow of Satoru Gojo stretched through the barrier. He raised a hand, his fingers outstretched
in a wave.

“Hey, howdy, hey,” Gojo greeted, a slight twang sneaking in. “How’s it hanging?”

"...Please don't do an accent."

Suguru steadied his hand on Mochi’s back, holding her still. He rose to his feet, then straightened
his back, to meet him eye to eye. Or, eye to glasses, anyway.

They barely passed hello, and already, Suguru knew he couldn’t stop himself. There could have
been a million people back on campus who thought he’d gone insane. It didn’t matter. Now that
Suguru could see this Gojo, there was only one thing left to do.

“Satoru,” Suguru whispered. His hand steadied on Mochi’s head, soothing her to stop.

Gojo tucked his hands into his pockets, swaying, casual as ever. “Suguru.”

Suguru stepped through the gate, exiting the campus barrier. He looked through the reflection in
Gojo’s sunglasses, straight into those infinite eyes.

“Satoru,” Suguru repeated, his name crashing like a certainty. “Let’s talk.”
Barking Mad
 Suguru Geto

July 18, 2018

Yoyogi Park Dog Run, Shibuya, Tokyo

The shadows of the trees overtook anything they could reach. Dogs ran through the dirt and
scattered leaves, circling each other in the ordinary kind of chaos.

It felt, for a second, like Suguru was lost in a memory that he had never experienced to begin with.
To stand side by side with Satoru Gojo, ridiculous wig aside, just another couple in a crowd of
‘medium-sized dog owners’, wasn’t something either of them had earned.

With a lean that bordered on a bow, Suguru hovered over his dog. He unlatched Mochi’s leash from
her collar, then ruffled her ears while pulling away. “You be a good girl, alright, Mochi?” he told
her. “Play nice for daddy.”

With one last stroke of her ears, Suguru pulled himself away. A few strands of her hair shed in a
cloud of speckled fur. The shed clump flew up to hit Suguru right in the bridge of his nose. He
rubbed it off with his sleeve.

He had expected what would happen next. The instant that Mochi was unleashed, she would run off
to join the other dogs. Instead, she looked up, expectant, her blue eyes staring at the very person
Suguru tried so hard to ignore.

Gojo scooped a tennis ball from the ground. Mochi’s tail swished, knocking a falling leaf from
midair as she watched him.

“You want this, huh, Munchy?” Gojo’s voice pitched up, the way someone would speak to a baby.
“You want the ball?”

Mochi barked. Presumably, she’d meant ‘yes’.

Gojo chucked the tennis ball out into the park, cheering. “Go get ‘em, Munch! Get the ball!”

Having spotted the all-important ball, Mochi took off across the park. A few other dogs joined the
chase, right on her tail.

“Oh, man,” Gojo stretched his arms into the air. His wig fell slightly askew when he cracked his
hands together. “She really is Mochi! Could just eat her up.”

The comment was enough to make Suguru turn back. He pushed up from the ground, turning with
an exasperated sigh. “Maybe we don’t joke in public about eating my dog?”

“Maybe you don’t,” Gojo corrected. “I do.”

“You know what I meant.”

From a distance, Suguru and Gojo could both look normal. That was deliberate. Suguru shoved his
hands into his pockets. He watched on through a growing, increasingly false smile as Mochi
mingled with the other dogs in the open field.

“We shouldn’t be in public for this, you know,” Suguru spoke casually, keeping the tone light and
friendly. “It would be easier to talk somewhere secure.”

“Well, the only privates I have here, you wouldn’t see unless you took me out for dinner. The nice
kind, too. Like sushi at Sukiyabashi Jiro.”

Suguru lowered his head. He turned from his dog, towards the bizarre sight of Gojo in his crooked
wig and aviator glasses, talking about sushi as if nothing happened at all.

Suguru shook his head. “…You’re unbelievable.”

“If you don’t want to believe it, that’s a you problem,” Gojo leaned back, stretching his arms into
the air contently. “I believe me all the time.”

There was a pause, however brief, when Suguru was able to take in the sight of Gojo for the stupid
miracle it was. As much as he hadn’t earned this moment, he’d let himself stand in it as the summer
breeze passed by.

Gojo turned his head towards Suguru. His smile stretched mischievously.

“That wasn’t just talking about sushi, by the way,” he leaned across the fence, stretching his arms
out across the length with a smile. “It was a dick joke, too.”

Yet again, Suguru’s eyes slanted on Gojo in disapproval. “Is it a joke if it’s not funny?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. It went on too long and didn’t stop.” Gojo snickered. “Just like the real
thing.”

“I meant private,” Suguru cut him off. “As in, at a house, moron.”

Gojo tilted his sunglasses down. He blinked. “More on what?”

“More on how you’re an idiot,” Suguru chuckled despite himself. It was such a dumb comeback, he
hadn’t quite managed to avoid smiling. “It’ll be educational.”

“Educational?” Gojo put his hand towards his neck, miming a choking gesture. “Yuck.”

“Satoru, I’m a teacher. Education is my job.”

“Mine, too. Don’t catch me doing it for free.”

Gojo had shared the fact so casually, as if it was a foregone conclusion, that it only made Suguru
stop all the more.

“You’re a teacher?” Suguru asked.

Gojo nodded. “I’ve got one of those best teacher ever mugs. Must make you number two.”

Gojo’s wig tilted to one side as he nodded harder. Suguru raised his hand, pushing it back up. The
“hey!” Gojo exclaimed in protest only made Suguru nudge his hand in the opposite direction. He
looked back to Mochi to see she was happily sniffing at another dog, snout to snout, perfectly
harmless.

“Satoru?” Though Suguru was trying to get Gojo's attention, he himself stayed watching the park. It
was easier, now, to look at the dog than it was to face him.

“Yeah?” Gojo answered, so quickly, it was clear to hear that, like it or not, it could easily have been
just the two of them, here.

Except, it wasn’t that simple. It never had been.

Suguru stared out, away, anywhere but at the person he most wanted to see.

“We really do need to talk.”

Gojo adjusted his spot on the fence. He swayed sideways, kicking his leg out enough so he could
crane over Suguru’s shoulder. “Then what’d you call what we’re doing now? Really slow rap
music? This is talking.”

“No,” Suguru dismissed. “It’s not talking. You haven’t told me what’s going on.”

“What’s there to tell?” Gojo shrugged. “I got trapped in the prison realm box thing. When I came
out, it spit me out at your bizarro world. Not much more to tell.”

“Prison Realm?” Suguru repeated. “You mean, the special grade cursed object, one of Tengen’s
relics? That Prison Realm?”

Gojo nodded.

“Satoru. You expect me to believe that Prison Realm opens other universes?”

“Nope! I don’t expect that at all. I just think you’ll help me, anyway”

Gojo raised a fist. He bumped it against Suguru’s shoulder, breaking the infinity away just long
enough to nudge him, then pull right back. “You’re that kind of guy, Suguru. You won’t hurt a
sorcerer in need.”

It almost didn’t matter what glasses, sweater and curly wig combo Gojo had put on to hide himself.
It wasn’t the signature blindfold, the six eyes, or infinite cursed energy that made Gojo be who he
was. It was the sway of fake hair into his eyes, his stupid jokes, and what happened when his
performative smiles finally faded away. Suguru knew, without needing to ask, what the answer
would be. He spoke anyway.

“In that case,” Suguru whispered. “I don’t know who you are.”

With that one little statement, Gojo’s fake smile went right back into place, broad and shining.
“Well, that’s easy. I’m Satoru Gojo.”

“Yes. You are.” Suguru leaned closer to the fence, and, by extension, into the endless space
between himself and Gojo. The beads of his brown eyes honed in, haunted by something he wished
he wasn’t faced with, but was too entranced by to ever look away. “...But you’re not my Satoru.”

For all the longing in how Suguru said those words, Gojo must have missed it.
“Your Satoru?” Gojo asked, oblivious. “What, like you bought me?”

The “no” Suguru gave was exhausted. It shouldn’t have left room for argument. It shouldn’t have,
and yet Gojo did anyway.

“Must’ve been expensive. Hey, what's insurance like for owning a person?” Gojo asked, even more
eager than before. “You think you’d get a two-for-one deal if the name didn’t change? I could
totally be your–”

“Geto,” a woman’s voice called over, soft, but pronounced just enough cut Gojo off.

“--yeah, I guess,” Gojo agreed. “A Gojo by any other name’s just as cool. Except Kento,” he added.
“I’ve never met a cool Kento.”

Despite every awareness of where they were, and how serious this was, Suguru cupped his hand
over his face. He tried not to snicker.

While the two of them were distracted, the woman stepped closer. “Geto?”

Only then, when Suguru failed not to let out a chuckle, did he look to see who was there. A middle-
aged woman with her hair in a bun was watching him. A leash with nothing on the other end was
wrapped around her hand. Presumably, she’d brought a dog, too.

“Ah. Ms. Saito,” Suguru remembered, plastering on a smile of his own. “Is your daughter still
well?”

“Yes,” Ms. Saito nodded. “Thanks to you and your father. To finally figure out what was wrong,
and not have it come back… we’re so grateful, still. It’s a blessing.”

“It’s nothing, I promise.”

“There’s no need to be modest. You and Doctor Geto, you’re nothing short of a miracle for us.”

“A miracle?” Gojo asked, poking his wig-covered head right into the middle of the talk. He hooked
a hand around Suguru’s shoulder, pulling him close. “I agree! He’s my miracle, too.”

Silently, Suguru cursed the timing. This was why he’d known he and Gojo should’ve gone
somewhere secluded. The true miracle, here, would be making it out of this conversation without
rolling his eyes straight off his face.

“I’ll send your regards to my father,” Suguru dismissed, the fake smile firming. “I’m sure he’ll be
pleased to hear your daughter’s still well.”

Suguru turned to Gojo. “Satoru.” Suguru’s hands pulled tight behind his back, his posture going
even more rigid. “Why don’t you go get Mochi for me?”

“Great idea!” Gojo agreed. “Which flavor are you thinking? Strawberry, or matcha?”

Suguru paused. “..the dog, Mochi. Not the food.”

“...Oh.” Gojo paused, too. “...can Mochi eat mochi?”

Suguru’s fake smile pulled all the more taut, so much so that his eyes closed entirely. “Just fetch the
dog, Satoru.”

Thankfully, for once, Gojo got the memo. He walked off with a “fine,” to do just that. His hands
cupped over his mouth as he started calling for the dog. “Oh, rice cake!”

Suguru opted not to correct that part.

His eyes opened enough to keep watch over what happened next. Gojo had wandered into the pack
of the medium-sized dog section, grabbed the tennis ball, and started waving it around. Before
long, he’d started attracting a collection of dogs, Mochi included.

As Suguru watched the flailing, a sense of nostalgia seeped in. This, too, felt like an echo; like deja
vu of a lifetime he’d never gotten to have.

The distance, and the childishness, and the beauty of it made Suguru stop. He closed his eyes,
blocking the image away. He couldn’t watch it. He didn’t deserve to.

He’d completely forgotten, until she’d spoken, that there was someone else by his side.

“So, that's Satoru? Your father told me about him.” Ms. Saito craned her neck a bit to look on,
watching Gojo as well. “He’s a looker. You have to be careful with men like that. The pretty ones
bring trouble.”

She had no idea how right that was.

Suguru turned his head. The seemingly effortless but extremely forced smile he so often faked
plastered right back on, vibrant and fake as ever. “I wouldn’t be too concerned for me, Ms. Saito. I
can handle myself quite well.”

“I’m sure you can,” she agreed. “Someone as strong as you. Hopefully, he’s not so pretty he forgets
how lucky he is.”

“Oh, I have no doubt he does.” Suguru’s voice dipped, something close to fondness trickling back
in against his will. “He’s the luckiest man I’ve ever known.”

“It’s nice to see you together,” Ms. Saito smiled. “Your father said you made such a cute couple.”

It was the sort of off-handed remark that wasn’t supposed to sting. It did.

The tennis ball flung from Gojo’s hand, bouncing far across the park. A pack of dogs dashed off,
with Mochi in the lead, all in pursuit of that all-mighty, all-fluffy green ball. Gojo stood there,
alone, smiling blankly.

“...a… couple…?” Gojo questioned, obviously confused.

A shiver ran through Suguru’s spine. Whatever reverie Suguru had been lost within was washed
right out. In its place, Suguru gaped.

“A couple what?” Gojo asked, again, “Couple homies?”

“Uh–”
Gojo’s smile started to flash. Suguru didn’t know what it meant, exactly, but the end result made his
stomach jump. He turned to the older woman.

“Ms. Saito?”

“Yes, Geto?”

It wasn’t just Ms. Saito who listened when Suguru spoke. Gojo leaned closer, his shoulders
swaying in.

“Would you mind watching my dog for a moment?” he asked. “She’s the Australian Shepherd.
Right there, the gray and white coat.”

“Of course I can,” she agreed, pleasant and grateful. “What a beautiful dog.”

The “thank you,” Suguru gave was quicker than he normally would have. As much as he usually
would’ve put on a show of being the dutiful son for his dad’s patients, he had a different priority.

That priority, here, now, had been to step into the dog park. He grabbed Gojo by the arm and pulled
him towards the gate. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” Gojo snapped his head. He turned so fast, the side of his wig started to fall off. “Go-jo?”

Suguru raised his other hand. He tried to reach for the wig, only for his hand to bounce right off the
infinity.

“Oh my God, stop.”

“You don’t have to call me God,” Gojo answered, “I’m fine with Satoru.”

With a huff, Suguru settled for what he already could do. He tightened his grip on Gojo’s wrist
where he already had a hold of him, then pulled him through the crowd. One of Gojo’s feet dragged
into the ground. It must have been the work of Gojo’s infinity that kept his heel from leaving a
track in the dirt.

The wig was still tilting off Gojo’s face as his head tilted all the further. “What did she mean,
couple?”

Suguru didn’t answer. He kept walking.

“Hey,” Gojo’s feet dragged a little further into the ground. He turned in the grip, not struggling to
stand, only to look back. “Hey, Suguru. Couple of what?”

Suguru tightened his grip. He marched forward, past the dogs, not looking back.

“If this is a trick,” Suguru muttered under his breath, “I won’t forgive you.”

“How could a question be a trick?” Gojo asked, further twisting the point in. He was, by any
measure Suguru could use, persuasively oblivious.

The transparent colored boxes of the public park toilets stood ahead. The clear orange, red and
purple glass showed that none were occupied. With a quick shove, Suguru opened the men’s room
door. He pulled them both inside.
“Wow,” Gojo looked up, taking in the glass. “That’s a gay toilet.”

The “what–” that Suguru sputtered was barely voluntary. Gojo pointed at the wall, jabbing the air.

“What, what? They’re pride toilets,” he insisted. “They’re all rainbow.”

Suguru decided not to question it. He locked the door. With the flick of the handle, the transparent
purple glass frosted over, turning the walls opaque.

“Whoa,” Gojo pulled back. He leaned against the opposite wall, touching his hand to the glass.
“There’s magic toilets here? What kind of world is this place?” He tilted his glasses down the side
of his nose, taking it all in. “Why do I have to be evil to get gay toilets? That’s so lame.”

“It’s not magic. It’s science,” Suguru argued. “Non-sorcerers made these. Besides, that isn’t the
point–”

“Hold up,” Gojo outstretched his hand, signaling to stop. “Did she mean, like, a couple-couple?
Like, with dates and stuff?”

The breath Suguru meant to take stopped short. The lock of his bangs flopped into his face. All at
once, his body froze, crumpling under the weight of something Gojo couldn’t know or mean.

This man was, in some ways, a stranger. Suguru knew that. He knew that, and yet, to hear him talk
like this, for whatever the reason… It felt like abandonment.

He couldn't quite rationalize the way it churned him. The swell sharpened so quickly, Suguru hadn't
been able to fight it back.

“That doesn’t matter. What he was, it doesn’t matter to you.” Suguru spoke sternly, speaking louder
to persuade himself of it, too. He clutched his hand to a fist at his side, his nails digging into his
palm, gripping in a last ditch effort to hold himself back. “...Whoever you are, you aren’t my
Satoru…!”

Somehow, to hear and see Gojo way hurt even more than simply knowing his Satoru had become
someone else.

Suguru couldn't know it went both ways. There'd been no chance to ask about it. What he saw, he
only saw from his side.

Gojo tipped the aviator glasses. The blue of his eyes shone back, clouded as the sea or the sky.

"Thank God for that."

 Star Crossings

Suguru Geto

July 18, 2018

Yoyogi Park Bathrooms, Shibuya, Tokyo

“That doesn’t matter. What he was, it doesn’t matter to you.” Suguru spoke sternly. He clutched his
hand into a fist, the form of it shaking. He hadn’t meant to admit it out loud, yet, before he could
help it, the words came pouring out all the same. “...Whoever you are, you aren’t my Satoru…!”

Suguru had yelled. He’d felt his outrage swell, turning over in anger towards something neither of
them could change. He expected to see the same anger look back at him through Gojo’s eyes. It
didn’t.

The face that looked back at Suguru, beneath a lopsided wig and sunglasses that didn’t suit him,
wasn’t an angry one at all. It hurt.

“Thank God for that.” Gojo pushed his glasses right back up, hiding his face behind them. He
forced a grin he didn’t mean. “He sounds like an ass.”

The frosted, purple walls of the bathroom didn’t give them space to stand apart. Even so, the way
Gojo reached out his hand felt both like a threat, and a beckoning.

“Never thought I’d see this,” Gojo pressed his hand against Suguru’s cheek, stroking him gently. “I
never thought that Suguru Geto could still be happy.”

“I’m not happy,” Suguru sighed. “I’m annoyed.”

“Fine. Be a grumpy gills, then. A regular, lame-o gloomy Gus, you are.” The tip of Gojo’s finger
stroked the skin above Geto’s brow. His finger turned around the piercing, outlining the metal stud.
“I never thought I’d see you again at all.”

Suguru raised his hand. He meant, on instinct, to push Gojo back. He didn’t. Instead, he stalled,
lingering.

For all the options Suguru could come up with on what he was supposed to do, in the end, the only
thing he could get himself to do was look away. The lock of his bang fell into his eye. “What am I
supposed to say to that?”

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Gojo answered. “That’s what you tell me. I mean, it’s not like there’s
some etiquette book for how to host prison realm escapees from alternate dimensions. You’ve
pretty much got free reign for whatever.”

Gojo’s hand slipped down, letting go of Suguru. It fell to his side, limp. “Suguru. Just say what you
want. I’m here.”
In some ways, Suguru thought that was the problem. There was no version of the story he’d lived
through where it made sense for the Satoru Gojo of this world to still be here. In fact, he’d chosen
not to be. The only reason there was a Gojo left here at all was because this Gojo had known
another story entirely.

Suguru didn’t know what world this Gojo had come from. With how different their memories might
be, it was possible to think that Suguru and the man in front of him had just met. Suguru could tell
himself that Gojo was a stranger as many times as he wanted to. No matter what reasoning Suguru
could form, he couldn’t stop what else he saw. No matter what world this man was or wasn’t from,
this man was undeniably Satoru.

Whatever will Suguru had to fight off that understanding faded. He, too, let his hands fall limp. He
tucked them both into his pockets. “...If other people hadn’t seen you, I would have thought I made
this up,” he whispered.

Gojo raised his hand. He shifted the top of the wig, settling the fake brown waves back in place. “I
get you. I mean, who’d have ever thought I’d go brunette?” He flicked one of the curls back.
“Works well, though.”

“Well, brunettes aren’t exactly my type.”

“Oh, I’m better than a type. Haven’t you heard ‘All Star’? I broke the mold.”

The relaxed posture brought Suguru to lean back against the wall. He leaned against the faucet,
deliberately looking away. “Can’t say I have.”

“What? You missed Shrek?! Oh my God, your universe really does suck.”

The over-dramatic tone was enough to make Suguru snicker. He tucked a hand under his chin, his
eyes closing into his smile. “Don’t worry. Shrek exists. I just haven’t seen it.”

“...Not seeing it on purpose? Well, now I’m just worried more.”

Gojo closed his fist, then removed it from his pocket. At first, the posture had looked as if he was
trying to get a fist bump. He held the closed fist in midair, still, offering something Suguru couldn’t
see.

“I was going to give you a thank you for not murdering me gift,” Gojo said. “But you kinda killed
the vibe with the no Shrek thing, so. Maybe it’s a condolence gift, now.”

Suguru had been leaning forward enough that he’d been clearly able to see Gojo. His hair cascaded
over his shoulder. He tilted down, trying to look towards Gojo’s hand.

There was no cursed energy off the object in Gojo’s palm. The talismans wrapped around it
suppressed its essence. Despite that, the tip of a blackened fingernail and the spot of rotten,
bubbling maroon flesh made it clear what was inside.

“That finger,” Suguru realized, staring closer as he spoke. “That’s part of Ryomen Sukuna…”

“One of twenty,” Gojo closed his hand, then bobbed back some. “Catch.”

Suguru had no trouble raising a hand to grab the finger from the air. He cupped it between his own
hands, securing it. The wrappings crumpled, but didn’t falter, snug in his grip.
“We have some of these in Tengen’s vault on campus, I’ve been told.” Suguru said, watching the
finger with care. “I’ve never been permitted to see one, personally.”

“Well, feast your eyes,” Gojo smiled. “And nothing else! Apparently, they taste disgusting.”

“Like that’s the problem for me.” A lifetime of eating curses said otherwise, after all.

“You can’t say you got it from me, obviously,” Gojo told him. “Say you knew a guy.”

Suguru turned the finger in his hand. Cautiously, he looked away from his palm, through the
sunglasses on the other side. “How did you retrieve this? Fushiguro’s report said it was consumed
by someone.”

“Well…” Gojo’s grin grew, suppressing a snicker. “Let’s just say it took a lot of toilet paper.”

If it was possible to hear a pause, Suguru’s “...” would have been audible.

Suguru put the finger into his pocket, then zipped the pocket shut. He set his hand over the pocket,
checking that the form was there. He’d make a point of not touching it again.

“Why give it to me, then?” Suguru asked. “You could’ve kept it for yourself.”

“Eh,” Gojo shrugged the thought off. “I’m a little safe-homeless at the moment. And regular
homeless. Turns out lease terms don’t transfer across universes? So we chilling.”

It made sense, in its own way, that Gojo didn’t have anywhere specific to go. Without a good place
to store a cursed finger, the options for holding onto one were more limited. Yet, that little fragment
of it left an entirely new set of questions. Suguru chose one.

“Where did you go when you left Sendai?”

Suguru knew, already, that Gojo had gone back to Sendai. What he’d needed to see happen was for
Gojo not to deny he’d gone there after their fight. Gojo didn’t.

For all the joking around they’d done before, now, Gojo was serious. “Ao Island,” he said. “In
Ozu.”

“And where else did you go before you came to see me?”

That time, Gojo looked a little more confused. He did answer, though he’d looked a lot less serious
about it. “Well, I stopped at UNIQLO, I guess. Needed some threads. Couldn’t walk around in the
same shirt every day like a cartoon. Why?”

If Suguru answered Gojo’s question back, he would’ve given away why he was asking. So, he
ignored it, and moved right back to something more pointed.

“So, at no point yesterday evening did you stop in Kawasaki City?”

It was easy to point out that Suguru hadn’t answered the question. Rather than deflect, Gojo
nodded. “At no point did I stop in Kawasaki City.”

It was a guess, at best, to believe that Gojo had told the truth. Suguru hadn’t exactly asked a non-
leading question. The Satoru that he knew would have no trouble lying, if he could get away with
it.

“Why?” Gojo asked again, repeating his own increasingly logical question. “Something happen
there?”

If there was a tell Gojo was lying, Suguru missed it. The best he had to go on, now, was what
Suguru wanted to believe. And, more than anything, what Suguru wanted to believe was Gojo.

He knew full well how foolish it might have been to take this at face value. Yet, when the face was
this one, hidden behind sunglasses and the ridiculous curly will, Suguru let himself indulge.

“There was an incident at the Anata no Warehouse. The cursed energy signatures were consistent
with those from the lost Sukuna finger.” Suguru lowered his head. The lock of his hair fell over one
eye, obscuring his face in shadow. “The working theory in the faculty is that you’re responsible. I
said it wasn’t. No one’s listening to me.”

“Weird.” In the time it should have taken to blink, Gojo crossed the (admittedly cramped) room. He
hopped up to sit on the faucet, his head turning towards Suguru. “Yaga’s usually way smarter than
that.”

It was that sentence, not the sudden appearance of Gojo in his personal space, that made Suguru
stop cold.

“Satoru,” Suguru took a breath, bracing himself for something he didn’t know would, or wouldn’t,
follow. “It’s not Yaga’s theory. It’s Tsukumo. You killed Yaga.”

Most of Gojo’s body went still. He paused. For a frame, it looked as if Gojo may have stopped
breathing. Then, he raised his hand, pointing to himself. “Me? How?”

It took that stunned point for Suguru to realize what he had to correct.

“Not you,” Suguru clarified. “The you that everyone thinks you are.”

The correction was enough for Gojo to lower his finger. His hand settled on his lap. In its own
twisted form, the confusion on Gojo’s face was its own form of comfort to Suguru. He was so at a
loss, there was no way that the atrocities he’d been blamed for could be true of him, too.

Suguru took a breath. He let his eyes close, shutting himself off from the feelings. “He killed a lot
of people, Satoru,” he admitted. “Good people. Good sorcerers.”

With his eyes closed, Suguru wasn’t watching for a signal of what would happen next. He had left
himself to drift. In that, he hadn’t felt Gojo watching him back. There was no expression to warn
him of the question that was coming.

“Your father’s alive?”

Suguru turned, the suddenness of it making him look. What he saw, back, was sincere. Gojo was
still watching him. “I heard you talking. Doc Geto’s your dad, right? That means he’s still
kicking.”

“Yes,” Suguru answered, the answer so automatic he seemed irritated to give it. “What does that
have to do with anything?”
It was only after Suguru finished asking that he’d connected the dots on why that would be a
surprise.

“Satoru. He's dead where you came from?”

Suguru leaned across the counter. His hand gripped the edge, giving him some leverage to scoot to
the edge of the sink and lean towards Gojo’s perch. Somehow, whether the glasses were in the way
or not, Suguru could sense they weren’t facing him back. “He is, isn’t he? That’s why you’re
shocked. ”

Everything Suguru meant to say was pushed away by a simple gesture. Gojo’s hands pressed
against Suguru’s cheeks, one at either side, guiding Suguru back to a face he’d never mean to see
so closely again.

“I missed you,” Gojo uttered. “...Suguru.”

The sound of his own name was enough to stop Suguru’s heartbeat. Somehow, if this was the voice
speaking, even a public park bathroom stall felt precious.

Suguru knew better. He had spent the worse half of a decade telling himself, over and over again,
that he knew better than to wish for exactly what he wanted right now.

Suguru eyes shut into the touch, blocking out the sight of it all. One hand reached up, stroking the
back of Gojo’s with his own. The feeling of this skin against his, soft, warm, almost untouched,
was unmistakable. There was no infinity between them, here. His fingers slipped between the
cracks of Gojo’s, wrapping to hold him from behind.

“You…”

If Suguru was wrong about who this person in front of him was, then this second touching him
would have been the next chance to fix his mistake. If this was Satoru, the six eyes user, then the
moment when his guard was down could so easily have been the last chance to destroy him.

Suguru lowered his head. The stray strands of his hair draped into Gojo’s shoulder as Gojo leaned
in towards him, too.

“...You’ll have to stay in hiding,” Suguru decided, deflecting his original thought. “Unless you want
every sorcerer in Japan trying to kill you.”

“Well, not every sorcerer. I think one of them’s gonna let me go, at least.” Gojo stroked his thumb
beneath Suguru’s cheek. Even that light of a touch, somehow, seemed enough to lure his heart into
stopping completely. “Think I should keep the disguise? Worked for Hannah Montana.”

The fact of the matter was, Suguru had no idea who Hannah Montana was. All the same, at the end
of the name, he was confident enough to say “No. Just lay low. Your residuals give you away,
anyway. You’re not careful.”

Gojo’s breath brushed against Suguru’s lips. There wasn’t a word to distract from them, just the
flow of his chest, and a proximity much too close not to undermine it all. A new thought pinged at
Suguru’s brain. The feeling of an old instinct nipped closer. They were close enough to kiss.

“Suguru?”
A curl from Gojo’s wig fell over Suguru’s nose. That itch was the only thing to call Suguru back to
reality. He tightened his grip on the sink and pulled away.

“Satoru…” Suguru whispered, feeling the letters curl his tongue. He closed his eyes, reminding
himself. “You really aren’t my Satoru.”

“You’re still Suguru, though.” Gojo countered. “I know it.”

“You need to hide,” Suguru said, reminding himself, not Gojo, as to why this mattered. “Tsukumo
could already be looking for you.”

“Let her look. I’ll be fine. As long as you’re looking, more, I don’t gotta care.”

Gojo pushed his hands further down. His fingers slipped through Suguru’s hair, pulling one of
Suguru’s own hands through the strands along with it. Suguru’s back pressed against the mirror.

“You don’t get it. You need to hide,” Suguru said, again, emphasizing the first word. “But if that
boy is still with you, you can send him to the school for shelter, instead. One of my students is
vouching for him. If he’s with you, they may be more likely to target him than if he’s under my
guard, instead.”

The reality of the statement broke the trance. Gojo let go of Suguru. He stepped down from the sink
and removed the wig, leaving his white, rumpled hair to flow.

“That’s better,” Suguru told him. Whether he meant the hairstyle, or the fact that Gojo was no
longer directly in his personal space, he didn’t say.

“...You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Suguru agreed. “Most assumed he was some kind of captive. His only assault was
towards me. If Tsukumo agrees to enroll him, he’d be under my protection as a first year. I’ll watch
him until we find out how you can go.”

It was a straightforward enough thought, Suguru hoped. “We’re low on sorcerers. I doubt she’ll say
no to more help.”

If Suguru was right about what he’d sensed from the boy with Gojo before, that was an
understatement. Yuki Tsukumo would be thrilled to meet a human with no cursed energy.

“You should both know there’s a risk, though,” Suguru cautioned. “There were discussions of
trying to use him as leverage against you. If he shows himself, even to learn, it’s possible some of
the staff will think that way about him, anyway.”

“I’ll let him pick, then.” Gojo ran his hands through his hair, spiking it up. “Not making any vow
he’ll do it, but, it’s his choice.”

“That’s fair.”

“Fair?” Gojo asked back, as if he’d never heard of the concept before. “Someone call in a Ferris
wheel.”

“Not that kind of fair.”

“Psh. Lame.”

Suguru let himself take a breath. From this far away, he could almost forget what it was he’d been
thinking of doing, and focus on the true absurdity of this all. After all this time, and so many years
imagining anything but this, here he was, all over again, with the echo of his other half.

“...If he agrees, have him meet me tomorrow, around eleven, at the top of the Skytree,” Suguru told
him. “I’ll handle the rest.”

Gojo gave a nod. “Sunrise. Ew. Why’d you have to be a morning person?”

Suguru’s eyes opened, but only enough to squint at Gojo. “I’m an ‘avoid rousing three classes of
students with an intruder’, person. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” Gojo grinned obliviously. “Thank you what?”

The fact that it was sarcasm, Suguru chose not to specify.

“I have to go,” Suguru gestured towards the door. “Ms. Saito still has my dog. She might be
worried, by now.”

“...Suguru?”

“Hm–”

“One more thing.”

Suguru paused. He lowered his hand, no longer moving towards the exit. “Yes?”

Gojo rubbed the side of his neck. His words came out surprisingly uncertain. “...Suguru ...If this
guy is really me… then how the hell are you supposed to beat him?”

The same question had plagued the sorcerer community for the past four years.

By all reason, and every claim, a user of the Six Eyes and Limitless both should have been nearly
unbeatable. The only hope in the history books would have been a Ten Shadows user, like Megumi
Zen’in, to do Satoru in with an act of mutual destruction.

Suguru opened the lock. With the turn of the switch, the walls that encased them began to defrost.
The outlines of trees, grass and scenery turned unnatural colors through the tinted glass just beyond
the bathroom door.

For all the shadows of purple that washed over Suguru, he didn’t blink to any of them. All he did
was look back.

“Myself,” Suguru answered. “That’s how.” Then, he opened the door.

There may have been a call at his back. Suguru didn’t let himself listen. He just walked away.

As Suguru’s first step hit the dirt, he felt the grass bend around his sandal. The weight of moving
even that short a pace was heavy with thoughts he hadn’t meant to have.
It didn’t matter what Tsukumo or anyone else said about Suguru. It didn’t matter that the history
books said the only person who had a chance to take down a user of both the six eyes and infinity
was an inheritor of the ten shadows technique. The expectations people did or didn’t have of
Suguru were irrelevant to the truth. Whenever Suguru's own Satoru finally appeared, Suguru felt
sure it was his responsibility to stop him.

It didn’t matter what anyone else said about Suguru, not even this Satoru Gojo, because between
the lines, Suguru had heard a different truth. In the world where Suguru had become something for
Satoru to miss–a world where Satoru had never been someone Suguru tried to depend on–then that
world’s Satoru Gojo never became a monster.
 Tree in the Sky

Yuji Itadori

July 19, 2018

Ao Island, Ozu, Ehime

The sky was gray. The sea was still. Stray slivers of sunlight passed through the overhang of the
dock he was hiding under.

“There’s no other choice,” Yuji told himself. “I’ve got to.”

Yuji balled one hand into a fist. His feet outstretched, rocking into a defensive stance, as he tried to
feel cursed energy flow through him. Water swayed, the occasional wave passing over his knees,
yet, for some reason, his hands and feet felt empty.

The emptiness was enough to make Yuji grit his teeth. He clenched his fist tighter, his frustration
focusing him on a decaying wooden pole. The target stood still, the reflection of sunlight glistening
against it.

“Maybe I’m starting over, but, so’s Mahito.” Yuji ground the heel of his sneaker into the sand
beneath the water, digging in. “He won’t know I’m coming.”

With every bit of focus he could manage, Yuji turned on his heel. He struck the pole with a punch
and kick, striking two points in unison, before skidding through the water. He landed cleanly
through the crashing waves, skidding to a stop as the post cracked.

Beneath the surface of the water, when Yuji glimpsed towards his hands, he saw as clearly as the
water was clean what wasn’t there. Any flicker of cursed energy was missing.

As Yuji was staring, the pole started to crack, the wood giving way. A few angry “mrows” started
to sound from above, angry scratches clawing through the woodwork. The startled mews were
enough for Yuji to snap his head back up, realizing what else must have been on the dock.

“Shit–”

Just as quickly as before, if not faster, Yuji rushed towards the dock. At the same point as the
wooden post gave way, Yuji held up the dock. His hand leveled, keeping even as he peered through
the cracks.

“Sorry!” Yuji shouted.

A trio of cats tipped their heads over the side of the dock. Their tails swished across the platform,
ticking time like a clock as they stared down.

“I mean it,” Yuji tilted his head, too, trying to crane so that he could make eye contact with the cats.
“I sorta forgot you were up there…”
One cat answered with a meow. Another stuck its paw over the side, swatting down at Yuji. Its paw
reached through the crack to bat at Yuji. He ducked.

“Hey!” Yuji stepped back, pulling away. “I’m trying to help! Get off before you drown!”

“Me? Drown?” Yuji heard someone say. “Like water could touch this.”

Yuji had been so engrossed in the act of talking that he didn’t think before answering “yeah, you–”
Only after he spoke did he realize something was off about that. “Wait–”

“Pretty sure I couldn’t drown!” Gojo said cheerfully. “The water’d just bounce off. I only drip if it’s
my fit, you know.”

“Gojo!” Yuji shouted through the crack. “You’re back!”

The second Yuji turned to see him, Gojo moved, too, stepping cleanly off the ledge of the dock to
the water below. Although Gojo landed on the surface, no ripples passed through the sea. He stood
beside Yuji, waving casually as ever.

“Well,” Gojo grinned. “Good talk! Gotta blast.”

“What? What talk?” Yuji blinked, confused. Not only was Gojo back, but he was now wearing
tinted rectangular glasses and a bucket hat. “Hold up. What’s with the hat? Where were you?”

Gojo’s hand landed on Yuji’s shoulder. His other hand folded into a sigil for his cursed technique,
folding distance to his will.

In the time it should have taken Yuji to blink, his surroundings warped away. The hands that Yuji
had been holding so firmly over his head to support the dock were now holding flat to thin air. The
waves under his feet turned to the chill of air conditioning.

“Looks great, right?” Gojo asked. He tipped a finger along the brim of the bucket hat, flicking it up
for dramatic effect. “Could call it high fashion up here.”

“You wha–?!” Yuji’s hands snapped down to his sides. The slap of his palms let water drip across
the floor. “Where are we?!”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Gojo let his hand off Yuji’s back, releasing his hood. “We’re sightseeing.”

The first “I–” Yuji’s stutter was so abrupt, he didn’t finish his thought. Instead, he leaned in to grip
the guard rails ahead. Only then did he see the horizon.

A convex panel of glass stood before him, perfectly polished. Beyond that glint, thousands upon
millions of faintly colored squares stood below. The morning sun cast shadows, most of them too
small to see.

“This…” Yuji uttered to himself. He leaned as far as he could against the guard rail, taking in the
image of a world outside the glass. “It’s Tokyo."

Gojo bobbed his head, smirking under his sunglasses. “You bet.”

A rush of other footsteps patterned along behind Yuji. He barely heard. He’d seen this in movies
before, yet the view from his own eyes felt so different. The idea that the world could be this small,
and sound this normal, felt so far removed from anything he’d gone through.

“It’s the Skytree,” Yuji whispered, staring at the horizon of a world he could barely touch. “We’re
in the Skytree.”

Gojo nodded behind him. “I owed you a field trip.”

“It’s so cool,” Yuji raised a hand, pointing at a green patch among the buildings. “That’s the
national stadium, right? Where they’d play football.” Gojo nodded again.

There was one short second when Yuji was just distracted enough to forget what he’d come from,
or why. More than one of the fellow tourists in the observation deck were staring at him and the
puddle he’d left from dripping seawater all over the place.

Yuji stepped out of the puddle. He turned, expecting to spot the eyes of strangers. Just as he’d
pivoted, a brush of cursed energy nipped at his mind.

Yuji snapped his hand back down against the railing, bracing for it. “Gojo-sensei! Watch out, it’s
that guy–”

At the same time as Yuji had spotted the long-haired man with multiple piercings and too-baggy
clothes, the man had spotted them, too. Suguru Geto raised a hand in a wave.

“Hey, Satoru,” Suguru called. “...I thought he was coming alone?”

“Well, I thought I’d like a look at your face again,” Gojo dismissed. “So that won out.”

“Huh?” Yuji snapped his head, again, looking from Suguru to Gojo and right back again. He
pointed between them. “Wait– Why aren’t you attacking?”

“Satoru,” The long lock of Suguru’s bangs swayed into his face. He shook his head. “You were
supposed to explain. You remember that, right?”

“Eh,” Gojo shrugged. “You’re the better explainer. Too boring for me.”

Suguru’s smile and amusement both faded, any earlier intensity turning to beady eyed disbelief.
“This is starting to feel like an insult.”

“Did I say boring?” Gojo asked. “I meant an overly responsible stick in the mud.”

Suguru sighed. “Now I know that’s an insult.”

Yuji’s eyes went wide, so utterly baffled he could barely manage a “huh–”

“Good thing I like sticks, then!” Gojo reached out to give the other guy a fist bump to the shoulder.
He smirked in anticipation of his words before he added. “Sometimes, if they’re in popsicles, they
even have jokes on them.”

For all the banter back and forth, Yuji’s confusion just kept growing. He braced his hand against the
railing, his sneakers sliding through the puddle beneath him as he snapped.

“Hold it!” Yuji pointed towards Suguru. The sudden shout was enough to bring both Suguru and
Gojo to quiet. “What’s going on?” Yuji asked. “Why aren’t you trying to kill us anymore?!”
Whatever friendliness had been between Gojo and Suguru twisted to a stand still. A few other
heads in the crowd turned their way. The trio froze, staring back at the tourists until the public
interest faded away.

Suguru took a breath. He’d lowered his head with what started to seem like regret. “Sorry. It’s my
fault, before. There was a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gojo added, speaking over him. “But it’s all good, now! My best friend wouldn’t kill
you. He’s chill. Like the popsicle with the stick up its butt.”

Suguru sent Gojo a sideways glance. “...I’m starting to think you’re just hungry,” he muttered.

“Hot and hungry,” Gojo nodded. “Just like you like me.”

“Did I say I liked you?” Suguru asked back. “I don’t recall.”

The way that they were bickering, Yuji wasn’t sure that the word he should have used for this was
friendship.

“Uh…” Yuji raised his hand, trying to catch their attention. “Hey. Uh. Can someone explain?
Please? I. Uh…” Yuji turned his hand towards himself, pointing. “I don’t get it.”

Suguru looked to Yuji, and then to Gojo. “You really didn’t explain?”

“Yeah, well, you know how well I listen,” Gojo dismissed. “Besides, he’s gonna say yes.”

In another context, if Yuji wasn’t staring straight at someone else that he distinctly remembered
attacking him, Yuji would have agreed. Instead, he asked “Yes to what?”

There was one more silent exchange of glances between Gojo and Suguru. With Gojo’s hat and
glasses in the way, it was hard to tell exactly what his stares were trying to say. Suguru’s
expression, however, had managed to go from disapproval, to understanding, to a smile.

“Did you at least tell him about the school?” Suguru asked. Gojo didn’t say a word. Suguru’s
mouth pulled taut in exasperation. “...of course not.”

“And deprive you of a chance to be all holier-than-thou?” Gojo snickered. “No way.”

Yuji blinked. He put his hand back down on the railing. A few other tourists walked through the
background, though none of them were attentive enough to bother looking at them anymore.

Suguru took a step forward, towards Yuji, right at the cusp of entering his personal space. In the
morning sunlight, somehow, the form of Suguru’s shadow seemed to warp under their feet. It
wasn’t the same way that a shadow could stretch like Megumi’s would. There were no literal
distortions, and yet, Yuji felt Suguru loom like a threat in his own right.

“Itadori, was it?” Suguru asked.

Yuji nodded. “...Yeah.”

“Are you familiar with Jujutsu Tech?” Suguru asked innocuously. “Satoru tells me he teaches there,
where you’re from.”
“Where I’m–” Yuji started to repeat. He cut himself off as he realized the implication. “Where
we’re from? You mean you believe us?”

“Yes,” Suguru agreed. “I believe you.”

If they weren’t in public, they could have been more specific. Even without the details, for this
statement alone, Yuji knew two things. First, they were on the same page, and second, it was the
truth.

“If you would like to enroll with Jujutsu Tech here, I’ll sponsor your transfer,” Suguru told Yuji.
“Provided you pass the entrance exam, of course. You’ll have a place to stay and train safely until
you’re able to return home.”

“The entrance exam…” It was the kind of statement Yuji didn’t expect to hear again. By now, the
concept of learning over at Tokyo Jujutsu Tech with the other first years had felt so far gone, it felt
like reaching back into a memory. “...You mean the one with the stuffed animals?”

“The what?” Suguru asked. As much as he’d obviously tried not to sound judgmental, it was clear
he was confused.

“The cursed doll things the principal made,” Yuji said, remembering as he spoke, “that kept
pummeling you until you answered why you’d fight curses. Those ones.”

It took a second of silence for Suguru to catch on. When he did, his head angled down. Where,
before, he’d looked almost stern, he had started to look more somber. “No,” he said. “Yaga isn’t the
principal anymore.”

From the tone in Suguru’s voice, Yuji knew not to press for why. What he felt, instead, was a crawl
of self-awareness as a different memory resurfaced.

When Yuji had first joined the school, Principal Yaga had given a warning. No jujutsu sorcerer dies
without regret. Yuji’s answer then, had been straightforward. He wouldn’t regret the way he lived.

Yaga had been right. Yuji did die with regrets. He’d died, and then, he’d gone on to live with more
of them. If he had to give an answer again, then, it wasn’t the same. If he had a reason to fight, it
was for a chance to change those regrets. If not in his own world, then somewhere.

“Gojo-sensei?” Yuji asked, looking back to his teacher.

“Dorm beats camping, right?” Gojo tipped the brim of his hat. “Besides! If you’re hunting a curse,
that’s gonna be way faster for you to find from Jujutsu Tech.”

Yuji couldn’t think of an argument against that, either.

“If I go with this guy,” Yuji gestured to Gojo. “Then where’re you gonna go?”

“Eh. Everywhere?” Gojo shrugged. “I’ll focus on the wibble-wobble multiverse tunnel gunk.”

Yuji tilted his head. “You think it’s a tunnel?”

“I think it’s confusing,” Gojo concluded. “An unexplored function of the limitless, maybe. That, or
a distortion from the prison realm gate.”
“So… uh…” Yuji squinted. “I don’t get it…?”

“So don’t get it. Duh.”

Gojo put his hand on Yuji’s head. The quick pat was enough to make Yuji back off, swatting Gojo
with a “Hey!”

“You, go. Get your curse, Yuji. It’ll be fine. I trust Suguru.”

“Suguru…?” Yuji looked from Gojo, back to the black-haired man across from them “You mean,
dragon guy?”

“Yep. That’s Suguru,” Gojo pointed to Suguru, too. “My only best friend. Total fuddy-duddy.”

“I’m right here, you know.”

Yuji looked up, his eye trailing to the piercings through Suguru’s ears and his eyebrow. The
moment he’d spent watching to question this thought was one where Suguru met his stare.

“My students vouched for you. You made quite the impression on Fushiguro,” Suguru said.

“You mean, girl Fushiguro?”

The question alone was able to crease Suguru’s brow.

Gojo nudged Suguru in the side. “Don’t question it.”

Suguru pivoted on his heel, turning deliberately away from Gojo to just speak with Yuji. “The
people in charge of the school know nothing of your circumstances. When I tried to broach the
subject, they dismissed it. That in mind, don’t tell the woman interviewing you about Gojo. Just
pretend you escaped. You don’t know anything else.”

“I escaped him?” Yuji questioned. “Why would I do that? He’s my teacher.”

Suguru took a breath long enough that it started to sound like a sigh. “...Don’t admit to that, either.
Just say you don’t know anything.”

“...Oh.”The suggestion made Yuji pop back up with a blink. “That’s easy! I don’t know anything.”

“Perfect. Just like that.”

“Um…” Yuji blinked. “I’m not kidding. I don’t know what’s going on. Like. At all? I’m confused.”

The glimpse Gojo and Suguru exchanged, in the second when they’d both looked away from Yuji,
implied yet another conversation Yuji couldn’t hear. Strange as it was to watch, there was enough
implication in that look that Yuji nodded to himself.

“I’ll go,” Yuji decided. “If that’s how I get to Mahito.”

Yuji expected that by speaking, Gojo would turn to him. He didn’t. Instead, he’d kept watching
Suguru, saying nothing at all. That, more than anything else, made Yuji quiet.

Suguru’s eyebrows wrinkled in scrutiny. He peered back at Gojo, taking in him, and only him.
“Are you really going to stay hidden?” Suguru asked. “I wouldn’t expect you to behave.”

“Me? Hide? Blech.” Gojo leaned back against the hallway wall, stretching. “Why would I do that?
I’ll just go wig shopping.”

“Because anyone and everyone you could imagine is searching to kill you, Satoru. That’s why.”

“Oh, wow. The furbies want to kill me? That’s new.”

“I mean, anyone you can think of who’s real.”

“What?!” Gojo took a step back, feigning surprise. “Furbies aren’t real? What kind of world is
this?!”

“Reality,” Suguru said plainly. “The only way a furby would kill is if they’re possessed by a
curse.”

“They’re not all possessed? Could’ve fooled me.”

There were tons of questions Yuji could think to ask. He still wasn’t quite sure what was supposed
to be so wrong with Gojo, here. He also wasn’t sure it was the best idea to openly be discussing
curses in public. There were usually codes of secrecy about this kind of thing. Apparently, it wasn’t
an issue. The wandering tourists were engrossed enough in the city skyscape that they hadn’t
minded two fully-grown men bickering about toys.

“I could totally get attacked by a furby, you know,” Gojo argued. “Who’s gonna feel like an idiot
then, huh?”

“I’d expect it would be you, still,” Suguru dismissed. “Apparently, you’re being mauled by a
children’s toy.”

Gojo raised his hand towards Suguru’s face. Yuji couldn’t tell if he’d touched him directly or not.
Either way, his palm had hovered there, crossing the space between the two of them until there was
hardly anything left.

“Suguru."

The dark haired met that stare, and those words, his voice falling to a whisper. “Satoru.”

The names didn’t sound like names anymore. What they were, instead, Yuji couldn’t tell.

“Take care of Yuji for me. You got that, Suguru?”

Suguru’s head lowered, a spike of hair sprouting from his bun. “Only if you take care of yourself.”

“Yeah. Well,” Gojo’s shoulders stiffened, leaning back, yet not moving away. “Well, you better take
care of you, too.”

The intensity of the stare between them seemed to deepen.

“Hey, uh–” Yuji raised his hand. He gestured towards the exit. “If that’s all worked out and stuff,
are we gonna go? Looks like the elevator’s over there. Y’know. Near the people–”
Whether Yuji would have screamed there was a fire, or a curse, or free ice cream, nothing of it
would have called Gojo or Suguru’s attention away.

Gojo’s pale hand stroked across Suguru’s cheek, batting the lock of Suguru’s bangs. The strands
twisted between his fingers. “Tch. You’re gonna make me be the one to say it?”

“Say what?” Suguru asked, his words drifting to a hush.

“Well, now I’m not gonna.”

Gojo’s finger spiraled, again and again, entangling himself. Suguru didn’t fight it. He just stood
there, watching until he understood. Suguru bowed his head. His eyes closed, solemn.

“What won’t you say?” Suguru whispered. “Goodbye?”

“Yeah, obviously. It’s not a good bye at all. It sucks,” Gojo complained. “It’s a bad bye. Horrible,
even. The worst bye of all time.”

Gojo twisted Suguru’s hair one more time, spiraling it thoughtlessly. Each clockwise turn was
another pull between them, until Gojo and Suguru were barely inches from each other. The brim of
Gojo’s bucket hat was pressing against Suguru’s forehead.

“Seriously,” Gojo whispered. “Worst bye I’ve ever heard.”

Even with Gojo’s glasses and the hat in the way, Yuji and Suguru both could hear the expression
they couldn’t see. A little more space was erased as Gojo drew in.

“You need me to say it again, Satoru?”

“Well… you could always not say it at all.” Gojo’s hand tipped away. He let go of Suguru’s hair
and tipped his hat back, grinning. “A bad bye to you, too–”

Gojo didn’t finish saying it. Suguru’s arms draped over his shoulders on either side, pulling him the
last inches in. The brim of Gojo’s hat tipped back, shifting up to make space for both Suguru and
Gojo as their bickering went quiet.

Yuji knew it wasn’t his business to watch. It wasn’t, and yet, there’d been no way for Yuji not to see
it happen. One second, his teacher and a guy who’d attacked them a couple days ago had been
arguing, and the next, they weren’t.

Suguru’s hands settled across Gojo’s back, wrapping him tight. Gojo’s own stayed still, settled in
his pocket, as the faint flutter of a peck brushed the inside of his lips. Gojo’s posture stayed upright,
pulled to attention by the presence of someone his infinity hadn’t pushed away.

The “uh…” that came out of Yuji’s mouth wasn’t something he’d planned to say. It just came out,
scrambled. “...Way to go, sensei…?! …Get it.”

Suguru’s hands pulled from Gojo’s back, and his lips drifted off of his own, parting ways as soon as
they’d come together. Gojo’s sunglasses tilted to one side. The lenses steamed up with the fog of
Suguru’s breath, clouding them even further. His mouth drew to a flat line, stunned.

“I–” Gojo stuttered. “Huh?”

In the time it should’ve taken for a hummingbird to flap its wings or a heartbeat to skip, all the
emotion on Suguru’s face was washed out.

“Suguru…?” Gojo’s hand strayed up, tipping towards his own mouth to cover his lips. It muffled
his words, though not so much that he couldn’t be understood. “What was that?” he asked “You
miss on a hug, there?”

In a single question, Suguru froze completely. His face flared red, a mortified blush crawling down
his neck.

“Uh…” Yuji stumbled, again. He didn’t dare to step forward and interrupt directly, but that didn’t
keep him from butting in. “Gojo-sensei? Uh. That’s not how people miss? I mean. You don’t hug
mouths. So–”

Before Yuji could finish the thought, he felt a pull on his arm.

“Hey–” Yuji turned, swiveling towards the nudge. “What’s–”

“Bye, Toru” Suguru spoke so quickly, it veered closer to a shout.

“Bye?” Yuji repeated. “Bye why? You–”

Before Yuji could ask the question, or even piece together what it was he should ask, it was too late
to stop Suguru. He’d already taken off towards the exit, running away.

For all the commotion that had happened, Gojo still hadn’t moved. His hand pressed over his
mouth, holding the spot where their lips must have touched. Gojo’s face flushed, too, the natural
pale of his skin turning pink.

There may not have been a signal Gojo understood what was happening, exactly, but Yuji didn’t
have time.

“Sensei!” Yuji shouted. He waved from down the hall, signaling for Gojo’s attention. “I’ll be back!
I–”

The elevator bell dinged. From afar, Yuji could spot Suguru walking through the doors. His eyes
went wide. “--crap.”

Knowing full well there wasn’t time, Yuji did the last thing he could. He waved one last time, then
sprinted back down the hall, straight through the closing doors as they slid shut.

Yuji’s back pressed against the wall, coming to a stop. In the same second he’d seemed to appear,
the seal formed, blocking the cube of the black elevator from the rest of the observation deck. Yuji
tightened his grip on the back bar, then looked towards the near-stranger who had started this all.

“Hey,” Yuji said, waving for Suguru’s attention. “Hey… Suguru, right? So, what was that about?”
he asked. “Are you, like, okay, or–?”

The wave didn’t draw Suguru’s eye. If anything, trying to get Suguru’s attention seemed to make
him more intent to look away. He angled his head down, averting his stare from Yuji’s. Despite
standing in the corner, tinted by shadow, it was obvious he was blushing, too.
The whir of gears ran overhead as the elevator descended. A light across the closed doorway turned
colors, illuminating the room. A distorted reflection of them casting across the ceiling.

“Uh–” Yuji’s hand slid across the bar. His shoulders scrunched as he rocked back against the
moving wall. Suguru didn’t move.

“It’s okay, y’know,” Yuji tried to encourage, “It’s not like it matters you’re both guys. Sensei’s cool.
I don’t think he’d mind? I mean, if anything, he looked kinda happy.”

Yuji didn’t really know if this was the right thing to say. With how stiff and nauseous Suguru had
looked, it might well have been the opposite. In the absence of any other options, Yuji turned,
craning closer anyway.

“I mean, I usually like girls more often, but I’ve seen guys look hot!” Yuji chirped, his enthusiasm
budding, “Not just in the ‘oh, it’s summer, why’s he got a shirt on?’ kinda way, either. In the, ‘oh,
I’d kiss him,’ way.”

There was a second, when Yuji was looking up from below, where he thought it seemed like
Suguru had been ready to speak. Then, just as Suguru started to look settled, he turned away.

“Forget it,” Suguru said. “It’s nothing.”

“You sure?” Yuji bobbed in, still trying to catch his eye. “I really don’t think it’s a big deal!”

Suguru bowed his head in a nod. “I’m sure. Just forget it.”

“Really?” Yuji asked innocently. “Cause it kinda looked like you like-liked him.”Yuji knew full
well what that kiss had seemed like from a distance. He knew just as well that when Suguru looked
away, the brown of his eyes had turned almost black with dejection.

“I’m sure,” Suguru dismissed coldly. “It’s nothing.”

“Why?”

“Because it has to be.”

The way Suguru said it, then, wasn’t as if the dismissal of his feelings was the truth. It was as if
Suguru was willing the lie to become true, because he couldn’t handle anything else.

There had been so little room to argue it, Yuji didn’t. His hand tucked into his pocket, then looked
down, too. The weight of his phone lay dead beside him. Yuji clutched the phone anyway. He
looked up, staring at the distorted reflection on the ceiling.

What Yuji saw, literally, was the top of Suguru’s head, and his own eyes meeting his stare. What he
saw in his mind was more complicated. He saw the inverse of a world he’d once known, and the
emptiness ahead of him, here.

Yuji’s hand tightened in his pocket, firming across the sides of his phone case. The weight of the
dead brick lay heavy in his palm.

“Hey. Suguru?” Yuji turned back. “You got a portable charger or something? My phone's kinda
dead.”
The “no,” was so immediate, Yuji had no chance to think it further through.

“Oh,” Yuji said. “...Ok. Thanks.”

The elevator doors slid open. The overwhelming black of the Skytree’s elevator gave way to the
ground floor. A lobby of passing people buzzed before them, weaving paths of their own design.
The flood of unfamiliar faces swept across Yuji’s view. He’d barely started to process that before he
saw Suguru wave him on.

“Come,” Suguru beckoned, already part way through his own path. “We shouldn’t waste time.”

With a clutch of his fist and a forceful nod, Yuji bound ahead. He fell into Suguru’s wake, his pace
synchronizing like a shadow to the man he’d been told to follow.

The closer Yuji drew to Suguru, the more Yuji could still see the red on Suguru’s face. Whatever
Suguru wanted to pretend, there was still proof Suguru was lying about what he’d just done. It was
a lie, it seemed, that Yuji had no choice but to let Suguru tell himself.

They had just reached the exit when Yuji came to a stop. His eyes snapped open with a new
thought.

“Hold on!” Yuji turned, looking up directly. “How am I supposed to enroll?! I can’t feel my cursed
energy.”

“Don’t worry,” Suguru said calmly, as if he’d expected that was the case from the start. “You won’t
need it.”

“I won’t?” Yuji repeated, “How’s that gonna work? I can’t get a black flash or anything–”

Suguru didn’t stop walking ahead of Yuji. What he did was brush a hand on Yuji’s shoulder,
nudging him to keep up. There wasn’t a good alternative to taking that signal, so Yuji followed. He
fell into step behind Suguru, trailing him into the crowd.

“Seriously?!” Yuji complained. “Come on! I was being all encouraging and everything!”

Yuji’s protests fell on closed ears. Suguru didn’t even blink in his direction. All he did was mark a
pace, professional and metronomic, as they headed out onto the street.

With a huff, Yuji shoved his hand back into his pocket. His socks sloshed under him as he charged
along the floor, leaving drops of water in his wake.

Yuji barely knew where he was going, but, for now, that didn't matter. Whether he was in a sea off
the shore, or standing or in the middle of a million people, he knew what he had to do.

Yuji’s eyes fixed on the horizon of the flowing crowd. For as many people as there were in this
swell of strangers, the faces that he saw ahead weren’t the strangers that were there. What Yuji saw
in his imagination were the images of the people he’d lost, still alive, as if they were right in front
of him. Nobara Kugisaki. Kento Nanami. And, last, as if he’d faded just out of reach, a boy with
hair over one eye.

The image of Junpei Yoshino watched Yuji back, as if he was still there. He smiled, laughing.

Yuji tightened his grip on his dead phone. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek.
“I’m gonna save him,” Yuji told himself, the words lost within the crowd. “He doesn’t have to
die.”

If only he knew.
Vessel of Sukuna
 Junpei Yoshino

July 19, 2018

1st District, Block 16, Building 13

Tamami, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

Floods of green drowned Junpei out, the artificial under-light of the arcade’s entryway washing
over him. A stranger’s voice rang high in his head, a maniacal pulse taking hold. Between the
strobing darkness, flickers of carnage broke through.

The bones of a stranger snapped inside his grip. His fingers sank, bending tighter, forcing skin and
muscle to tear against his fingers. His vision strobed, blinking out.

The outburst of that stranger’s scream drenched. Drips Junpei couldn’t wipe streamed down his
face, wet and warm, until the essence of someone else’s insides trickled down his neck. And then,
just as soon as he’d understood where he was, there was nothing.

The cackle racked his brain, bouncing, maniacal, pouring from the inside out. His throat warped
around the sound as something in him beheld the wreckage. What had once been an arcade was
now rubble, coating pieces of the dead in flakes of burning ash.

Junpei’s body said something. Junpei couldn’t make out what was said, only that it was a sound.
Some final word of mockery, cracking with madness.

The last thought Junpei fully formed, then, was how wrong he’d been. He’d thought he wouldn’t
care if he saw people die.

Junpei’s hands sunk into the futon. He cried a laugh that wasn’t his, an echo of something else.

Junpei shot up in the bed.

A shiver ran through his body, cold from his own sweat. He looked down, expecting to see spots in
the mattress. Instead, he saw proof.

His outfit hadn’t changed. Dark, crusted splotches of red had dripped down from his clothes into
the bed, dying everything it could touch with a halo of carnage.

The second Junpei saw it, he pulled back against the headboard. His knees tucked into his chest,
leaving the imprint of himself still obvious in the sheets. His body shook in the recoil, yet, he didn’t
feel pain.

Slowly, knowing what he would find, yet still afraid to spot it, Junpei raised a shaking hand. He
pulled up the leg of his pants, first, checking his skin. He ran his palm along his calf, then his knee,
and found nothing but unblemished skin. This blood wasn’t his.

Junpei’s hands tightened against his legs. He let his back arch and shoulders fall, condensing into
himself.
“Was that…” Junpei swallowed. The act of speaking at all made his throat scratch. He blinked.
“...did I… dream?”

It was a fleeting thought, one just strong enough for Junpei to start shifting his hand. He leaned
back against the wall, then stood up from the futon. His knees buckled at the sense of his own body,
sore and heavy.

“Huh?”

A thought that wasn’t his pushed through Junpei. The sudden pressure was enough for Junpei to
freeze. His hand stopped in midair, and his breath paused with it.

“How’re you able to move, brat? This is my body, now.”

It wasn’t just the sound that made a lump form in Junpei’s throat. It was what he could see when his
eye darted to the side of the room, to a mirror. Beneath his widened eye, there was a mouth on his
cheek.

The fangs of an inhuman mouth bared yellow, almost gleaming in his reflection.

“You should go back to sleep, boy,” the invader spoke clearly. Where, before, this thing had
sounded like Junpei, now, it clearly had one of its own. “Weak flesh like yours is enough of a pain.
You can at least know your place.”

“I…” Junpei willed himself to sit up. He swayed towards the mirror, watching the reflection in a
distant sort of terror. “I don’t know how I can.”

“Easy,” the invader’s mouth twisted with a cocky, mocking smile. “ Grovel beneath me, boy. Beg
for mercy, like the maggot we both know you are.”

The threat sent a new chill down the back of Junpei’s neck. He gripped the edge of his bed, shot
off, and rushed to face the mirror closer. He stared towards his reflection in the smudged glass,
hoping something would change, yet knowing full well it wouldn’t.

It wasn’t just the second mouth, though that was the most striking shift. Junpei’s hair had taken on a
second color. A layer of pink had formed beneath the brown of his hair. The mark of a crooked v
curled beneath the corner of his eye, above the mouth, like a second pair of lids waiting to open.

Junpei pressed his hand against the mirror, supporting himself as he drew even closer. The chapped
lips of a mouth kept turning, rippling across his skin. Surreal as the image of it was, he felt it no
more than he would have words from his own mouth.

“Ah! Weak and stupid. How delightful,” Sukuna laughed in scorn. “What fortune for you, that
something so pathetic gets the honor to host me. Now, stop squirming.”

The demand was so sharp, it made Junpei go still. He hadn’t meant to comply, yet, he had.

Without Junpei actively resisting, something else moved his body. His hand cupped beneath his
chin, a finger scratching the surface of his cheek. His head turned, angling until the mouth on his
cheek was facing the center, and Junpei’s own eye had to slant sideways to see.

“Better,” the second mouth curled at one side with the threat of a smirk. “So, you can listen.”
The sound of the other voice still echoed in Junpei’s head. The reverberation made the sound lower,
mocking him all over. He closed his eyes, and an echo of something else formed in its place.

It wasn’t just this thing, inside him, taunting him. Junpei could hear that girl with the mismatched
eyes, laughing as Ito pinned him down. He could hear his classmates, looking down, using him like
a trash disposal, or muttering behind his back at the theater about why he didn’t just die.

“You’re all… like this…” When Junpei spoke, the sound was faint, almost breathless, as if he could
hardly string the ideas together. “Like I’m supposed to roll over. You… You just want me to die.”

“I spoke too soon,” Sukuna complained. “At least most non-sorcerers know how to grovel. You
can’t even do that. What a pain.”

Junpei blinked, hard, breaking eye contact. His left hand trailed down, pressing into the desk. For
as tight as his right hand had been holding himself, he let it go.

“Right,” Junpei muttered. “Because your opinion’s meant to matter to me…?”

“It would,” Sukuna mocked. “If you were smart enough to know your place.”

The lump sank in his throat, choking Junpei from the inside. His body shook, all too aware of itself.
There was nowhere to run, because the thing he most wanted to run from wasn’t here, and anything
else to escape was trapped with him.

Every instinct Junpei had screamed out, helpless. In its place, his worst impulses spat back.

“And where’d you think that place is, huh? Beneath you?” Junpei snapped, the thought lashing out
wildly. “You think you’re special? All you are is a bully–”

Junpei’s hand slid from his neck, then slammed with an open palm into the papers below. The
mouth on his cheek moved away. The mouth sprouted on the back of his hand, exactly where
Junpei could still see it speak.

“You think that’s an insult, do you?” The curse sneered back at him. “A bully has power. The only
ones who balk at using that power are the ones who don’t have it. The weak. Like you.”

Whatever articulate thought Junpei meant to have, it didn’t make it out his mouth. He heard the
creature start to laugh–a new manic cackle as its mouth stretched wider on his hand.

“Hahahahah—”

Junpei turned his hand over. He clenched it into a fist, then slammed it down into the back of the
desk. A cup fell off the desk, pens rolling to the floor. He grit his teeth from the impact, clutching
himself.

The laughter spurted again, even louder than before, as the curse’s mouth formed on Junpei’s neck.

“Hah–” Sukuna sneered. “Maybe I should just kill you. I have other soul fragments. Another host
could be stronger. In you, I might as well be inside a woman.”

Junpei’s hand pressed beside his neck, stopping just short of blocking the mouth. It hid the image
from himself without the risk of being bitten by it.
“Maybe you should,” Junpei repeated, the thought seeming so distant, it almost felt like a mercy of
its own. “Maybe you should kill me.”

“Your opinion doesn’t matter, brat,” he sneered, “If I do kill you, it’s my choice.”

The blare of a siren sounded, building. Junpei’s pulse stopped. His understanding flared to fear.
He’d heard enough empty threats to know this one was full.

The longer Junpei stood still, the more the siren built. A musical sting chimed in. It wasn’t until
then that Junpei felt the shake inside his pocket and remembered why. That siren wasn’t outside. It
was for him.

“...My phone.”

Junpei reached into his pocket to check the number. The incoming call was from his mom.

Junpei paused, watching the screen flash. He waited, at first, to see if a new mouth would appear on
his hand. It didn’t. So, he tried to answer.

“Ma—“

He didn’t finish. She spoke, first.

“Junpei–!”

How quickly his mom started talking was enough to strike Junpei quiet. He nearly dropped the
phone.

“Junpei, where are you?” Nagi asked, obviously frantic. “Are you okay? I’ve been trying to get
home, but all the trains over to Tokyo got shut down. Where the hell’ve you been?”

The choppy, scattered way that Nagi was speaking wasn’t just a crummy cell signal. It was a rush
to get all the words out, like she’d been holding them in for days. Maybe she had.

Junpei struggled to breathe. He clutched the phone tighter. “I’m at home, mom,” he lied. “It’s
fine.”

“You’re home?” Nagi repeated, processing it. “Thank God. You weren’t still in Nissincho during
the bomb, were you? I swear–.”

“I–” The thought staggered. Junpei squinted towards the phone. “When, in Nissincho?”

“What’d you mean, when?” Nagi asked. “It’s all over the news. There was a suicide bomb in the
Nissincho quarter, near the train station. It took out an arcade. They’re still finding people...”

The way his mom’s voice trailed off into static wasn’t just the broken signal. Junpei heard her
stagger with the start of what could easily have been tears.

He felt the flash before his eyes. Junpei closed them. An image of something he would’ve pleaded
to be a dream burned into his eyelids. The screams of strangers echoed through once more.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Just pick up the phone once a day from now on, at least, you got that?
I seriously thought–” Nagi dismissed. Static passed through the signal, cutting her off. Between the
pulses, Junpei heard her almost cry. “...Shit, Junpei. I thought you died. You can’t do that to me.”

A laugh sounded from Junpei’s hand. While he wasn’t looking, the extra mouth had moved once
more.

“Junpei?” Nagi asked, her voice distorting. “Junpei, are you there?”

“What is this?” Sukuna jeered. The more Junpei tightened his grip, the more the curl of his mouth
seemed to prickle. “A louse like you has a woman?”

Whether it was the insult, the question, or the fact that Junpei had almost forgotten this thing was
there, the end result made him quiet once more.

“Junpei, did you say something?” Nagi asked, oblivious, “I think the signal’s getting worse.”

A new bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. Junpei slumped, hiding from his reflection.

“I’m here,” Junpei told her, his words going hollow. “My phone’s about to die, though.” The
battery showed enough left that it could’ve finished a conversation. She didn’t need to know.

“You sure you’re fine?” Nagi asked. Junpei was sure he was the opposite, yet, he didn’t answer.
“What happened? I can call an ambulance.”

“No–” Junpei shot back. “Don’t. I–” the denial caught in his throat. He swallowed, correcting the
phrase. “--I don’t need one.”

“Ah! I see. This shrew is your mother,” Sukuna’s mouth grinned. Though Junpei didn’t look at it,
he could feel the curl of his mockery. “All the better. When she comes home, I can kill her.”

Every thought Junpei had up until that point broke, his thoughts shattering into nothing but “No–”

“No?”

The mouth at the back of Junpei’s hand stayed quiet, all except for its laugh. Junpei blocked it out.
All he heard, then, was his mom, and the churn of a fan below.

Junpei lowered his head. “Sorry,” he uttered. “I’m here. I’m just–”

He didn’t finish the sentence without the other voice kicking in.

“Don’t you understand?” Sukuna said, the words echoing through Junpei’s head and Junpei’s
alone. “Either I kill her, or you let me out so I can find someone else to slaughter.”

Junpei had heard enough threats to know, immediately, something he wished he didn’t. That threat
wasn’t empty.

Junpei stared down to the phone, at the name on the call screen, knowing something he couldn’t
say. A cold bead of sweat ran down his cheek. At least, he could call it that.

“Mom?” Junpei whimpered.

The “yes, Junpei?” Nagi spoke from the other side of the line, distant, but caring. Even half a
country was there, if she could be here, she would be.
“Be safe, mom,” Junpei uttered, his voice growing quieter. “Love you. Bye.”

“Love you to–”

Junpei ended the call.

Within seconds, the Ironside siren started sounding again. Nagi was trying to call back. Junpei
didn’t answer. He let his hand clutch the phone, feeling it vibrate.

“It won’t matter what you tell her, will it?” Sukuna jeered. “A woman like that is too stupid to know
what’s best. I know her type. Breeders. They’ll do anything for their brats.”

The vein beside Junpei’s eye bulged. Five simple sentences, and every ounce of reason, or
composure, or fear had been siphoned straight out.

“You told me to stay still,” Junpei swallowed, forcing the thought up through his panic. “You don’t
move unless I let you. You hurt her, I won’t let you...!”

An eye started to form beside the mouth at the back of his palm. Junpei watched it bulge beneath
his skin, bubbling to the surface until the red iris stared straight back at him.

“That’s what you called it before, huh? You let me?” Sukuna laughed, the sound building louder.
“You allowed my slaughter?!”

Junpei’s phone shook in his pocket, vibrating with the incoming call. The siren cycled. Junpei
shouted over it.

“I–” Junpei swallowed. “I could kill myself, then–”

“Then, I’d stop you. Know your place.” The corners of Sukuna’s new eye turned with mockery.
“When you die is up to me.”

Junpei turned his hand over on the desk, pressing Sukuna’s mouth against the wood to block him.
That strange, bubbling warmth started to spread in Junpei’s hand. He knew, without looking, that
Sukuna’s mouth had changed spots again.

Junpei stared back into the mirror, to the reflection of himself and the new scars he’d found there. It
took a moment of standing quietly, of feeling himself breathe, before Junpei gathered the will to try
and ask back.

“Are you sure?” Junpei asked. “I think I’m the one moving.”

The warmth in Junpei’s hand intensified. The new form of a mouth started to twitch. Junpei
flattened that hand against the table, too.

A different writhe formed in Junpei’s gut, like some part of his body was fighting the rest of him.
He lurched forward to grab the desk. His stomach pressed into the corner, a different kind of pain
overtaking the first.

There was a knock at the door.

The sudden, rapping thuds were followed by a ring. The same two notes of the doorbell played on
repeat, as if someone had found the doorbell, then kept pressing it again, and again, and again, like
a child.

The wave of tension receded. Junpei stood up. He turned towards the source as the foreboding from
the curse turned to something far more still.

“No,” Sukuna ordered. Though he hadn’t formed a new mouth, Junpei could hear the voice in his
head just as clearly. “Leave. Now. They’re annoying.”

Again, and again, the doorbell rang. The same two notes blared.

“Annoying?” Junpei shouldn’t have asked out loud, yet, he’d felt like he needed to. “Who?”

It wasn’t much of a question, but it did get a reply.

“Sorcerers.”

Sukuna hadn’t finished talking–or whatever the equivalent of speaking in Junpei’s mind was. The
warning hadn’t mattered. What mattered to Junpei was that he’d heard that word before, from the
pink haired boy at the movie theater.

“The only good to come of most of them is their screams,” Sukuna complained. “I’m not in the
mood for that stupidity.”

“Itadori!” Junpei called, his desperation flaring. “Itadori, I’m in here–”

How, exactly, someone had found his house, Junpei didn’t care to question. If that pink-haired boy
had known to warn him about Mahito, then maybe he knew something else, too.

The ringing slowed at the door. The repeated notes stopped repeating, finally reaching the end of
the intended chime. Junpei scrambled for the door.

“Itadori!” he shouted, desperate.

“Ugh. This is your problem, brat,” Sukuna complained. “I won’t save you.”

Junpei scrambled down the hallway. Dark smears streaked across the wood, more evidence of
something Junpei couldn’t stop to take in. A bloody handprint pressed over a portrait. He didn’t
stop to see.

“Wait!” Junpei shouted, forcing his voice ahead of the rest of him. “Don’t leave! Please–”

The sweat spots and blood stains on Junpei’s clothes made him a mess. His two-toned hair had
tangled wildly, clinging in spots that left all his scars and marks in view. He hadn’t cared, as long as
he could make it to the door.

“Itadori!” Junpei opened the door.

It wasn’t Itadori.

The door swung back, the handle slipping from Junpei’s grip. He considered pulling it back,
shutting himself in again. Before he could make a choice, the door propped open against the other
person’s sneaker.
Junpei knew this face. He’d seen most of it before, though some of the details felt wrong. Where,
before, he’d been dressed in black, now, the white-haired man was in a t-shirt and jeans. His
blindfold had been swapped for a pair of goggles. Still, different as the parts were, Junpei
recognized the whole.

“Gojo…” Junpei blinked. “Right?”

“Close! But, nah. Not so much lately. Too formal,” The white-haired man pulled at his goggles,
scratching under the strap. “These days, I go by Satoru.”

“...These days?”

“Yeah. Thursdays. Sundays…” Satoru shrugged. “Pretty much the whole week. Sometimes,
Wednesdays I go by Larry online, though.

“Oh…” Junpei stepped back. Before he could wonder too much about the difference, he corrected
himself to a different train of thought. “Where’s Itadori?”

“Who?”

“Uh–”

Before Junpei could find a conclusion, Satoru snapped the rubber strap of his goggles. He
straightened up, hovering over Junpei.

“So! You’re the Sukuna vessel. ” Satoru rocked forward on his feet. His grin grew below his
goggles, amused. “Wow! You’re so small! Like the studio apartment of curse hosts. That’s
hilarious.”

“I–” Junpei stuttered. “I’m what ?”

“A curse vessel. You know,” Satoru reached out a hand, clapping over Junpei’s shoulder. “Letting
old four arms live in your mind rent-free! Man, you really got messed up, didn’t you?”

“Huh–”

Satoru reached into his pocket to take out his phone. Before Junpei could so much as blink, the
automated camera click had gone off by his face.

“Hah,” Satoru pulled the phone back. He looked at the screen, admiring the picture. “I should show
Jogo. Maybe the rockhead can finally laugh! He hates people so much, maybe his real thing’s their
pain.”

As the image of a new face, grinning at their phone at Junpei’s expense emblazoned in his mind,
Junpei did the only thing he could think of. He slammed the door in Satoru’s face.

There was a slight crunch as something invisible smacked the door. Junpei flipped the lock, then
pressed his back into the door. His arms wrapped around himself, huddling tight in a shiver. The
second voice in his head had gone quiet.

“Wha–” Junpei started to whisper. He didn’t finish the thought.

While Junpei was speaking, and trying to think, a crack popped before him. In the time it would’ve
taken to blink, space itself had changed. Not a piece of furniture had budged, yet, now, Satoru was
crouching on top of the dining table.

“You should be online more,” Satoru complained. “Took forever to find you. Had to look you up
through your mom. …pretty hot, though. You’re real mopey for a milf byproduct, you know that?”

If Junpei wasn’t in complete disbelief at everything else around him, that statement would’ve
gotten him. His eyes went wide in offense. “I, what–”

Satoru raised his chin and leaned back, casually taking in the decor. “Hey, Finding Emo, you got
anything to drink around here? I could use something before this.”

“...I’m seventeen,” Junpei stated flatly, locked in disbelief and horror. “I don’t drink.”

“You don’t drink?” Satoru repeated. “Then how are you alive?”

“I…” Junpei stuttered, his hand pressing over his cheek. Some part of Junpei expected to feel a
mouth start to form and argue back. It didn’t, so, the best he could come up with was to be honest.
“When people say they want a drink, they mean booze. Usually. I don’t have that.”

“Well, I don’t! I mean anything drinkable. Juice, soda, coffee… Anything but antifreeze, really.”
Satoru plopped himself down to sit at the ledge of the table. His legs kicked out, back and forth, as
if he was on a swing. He looked back to Junpei, expectantly. “Hey. I’m gonna need something,
alright? We’re gonna be here for a while. Like an insomniac slumber party.”

Junpei knew, completely, that there was no way to escape. This guy, whatever he was, had just
teleported through a wall.

“How about the blood of a sorcerer?” Sukuna asked, his mouth emerging from Junpei’s neck. “I
could start with yours.”

“Mmm… Nah. I’m thinking more like Ramune. Or maybe apple juice?” Satoru tucked a hand
under his chin. “...Hey, vessel!”

The sound, if not the action, made Junpei turn. He hadn’t even realized the significance of looking
until Satoru was waving at him.

“I…” Junpei stiffened. “...at the corner store? I don’t have any.”

“Oh, well,” Satoru deflated. He kicked his leg out again, making himself at home on the furniture
exactly how someone shouldn’t be sitting on it. “Get me water and some fruit, then! Plus some
sugar. You’ve got fruit in here, right?”

“I–” Junpei stuttered. He blinked, baffled. “I think so? Why?”

“Because you don’t have anything better to drink? Duh. Not like sugar water’s my first choice,
either. Unless you’ve got strawberry milk, back there. That’s cool, too.”

As commanding as this presence was, Junpei still found it in him to stop. He turned on his heel,
making sure he was facing the stranger.
“Why are you here?” Junpei asked, each word getting quieter as he went. “Are you a sorcerer or
something?”

“Hm…” Satoru kicked up one leg, crossing it over his knee. “Well, if those are the choices, I’d say
it’s ‘or something’. Most of those types don’t like me anymore. So uptight and all that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Satoru leaned into his hand, smiling away. “The sorcerers would kill you, man.
The higher-ups are rough. But me? If you play nice, I might just save your life.”

For some reason, that felt like a threat.

“What’s wrong?” Satoru asked, his smile stretching a little further. His expression was so
controlled, so innocuous, that it made Junpei absolutely sure he was hiding as he added. “You look
like I put a lawnmower to your pet rabbit.”

Junpei set his shoulders back. He tried not to shake. His eye went wide, the rest of him falling to a
loss.

“I just…” he admitted. “I’m not nice. Usually.”

“That’s fine! You can start nice with getting that drink.” Satoru’s mask of a smile fixed to his face.
He pulled his hand from his face, flicking his wrist towards the kitchen. “Make like a cobbler.
Shoo, shoo, and all.”

Junpei’s hand tightened around his phone, wishing for a call that wouldn’t, or couldn’t, come. No
matter what he wanted, or where he should have been, he wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t going to be alone, again, for a very long time.

Hawk and Sparrow
 Yuji Itadori

July 19, 2018

Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College

Yuji had made this march before. Back then, the school grounds had loomed so grand, each
mountain’s peak seemed almost infinite. The green of the rusting trees hadn’t just swallowed the
buildings. They’d been ready to engulf him, too. Even now, the sight made Yuji feel small.

“Whoa!” Yuji marveled. He raised his hand to his forehead, covering his eyes. “It’s the same!”

“The same as what?” Suguru asked through a composed, subtle smile, “Your world, you mean?”

“Well, yeah–”

The wood of the walkway bent under Yuji’s foot. He rocked his ankle to one side and tucked a hand
in either pocket, settling into a stride.

“I mean, some stuff’s different,” Yuji turned his head over his shoulder, towards the patter and
panting behind them. He couldn’t help but smile and wave at Mochi. “Who’s a good girl?”

Mochi barked back. It may have been imagination, yet, Yuji was sure he saw her smile. The sight
of it made him rock back, too, grinning in relaxation.

“It’s nice! In my world, the only dogs we had on campus were Fushigu–”

It wasn’t until Yuji had gotten halfway through the name that Yuji remembered who he was talking
to. His shoulders fell as he corrected himself. “I mean, Megumi’s.”

Before Yuji could finish the thought, he felt a hand set on his shoulder. He turned towards it,
directly into Suguru’s face.

“Itadori?” Suguru asked. Yuji blinked, his face turning blank. His hand settled directly on Mochi’s
head, petting her. Her tail flipped from one side to the other, casting her fur through the air.

Accepting that those stares were the best he was going to get, Suguru raised his hand. He gestured
both down a path Yuji already knew.

“This way,” Suguru told him, “We don’t want to be late. The principal’s a bit… to be kind,
eccentric.”

If that was the kind way to put it, Yuji wondered what the rude way was.

“I thought all sorcerers were strange, though, right?” Yuji asked, remembering. “Aren’t they
supposed to be kinda crazy? That’s what the other principal said. At least, to me.”

“No,” Suguru nodded. As much of a contradiction as the word and the gesture could have been, his
composure made it feel deliberate. “You’re right. We are all crazy,” he agreed. “If we weren’t when
we started, then, we are once we survive.”
Only then, as Yuji fell out of step with Mochi, did he think he saw the difference in this path
between the two worlds. Where he’d come from, there hadn’t been nearly so many shadows from
the branches overhead. He had walked this path dozens of times, yet it had never felt so somber.

“I guess,” Yuji whispered, the thought mixing with the rustling of the trees. “Kinda. Yeah.”

The patter of Mochi’s footsteps matched back up with Yuji’s. Her wet nose brushed his leg,
nudging him through the hole in his jeans. Any trance he’d been at risk of nudged to the side as
Yuji scratched behind her ear.

“You’re the best, aren’t you? Right? Right?”

Mochi barked back. She bobbed onto her hind legs, readying herself to pounce towards his face.
Yuji hugged on, supporting her as Mochi gave half his face a thorough wash of dog slobber.

“No–! Hah–” Yuji tried to wave, yet all he did was encourage Mochi to leap closer. She planted a
paw on his thigh, and stretched up to lick him again. He laughed. “Down, down–!”

“Mochi, Enough.” Suguru pulled the chain of the dog whistle around his neck. The tinkling of the
chains alone made Mochi look up, back to Suguru. His stare sharpened on her as barked “sit.”

Immediately, Mochi lowered her paws. She laid down on the path, directly in front of Suguru. Her
paws rest over his feet.

“Thank you, Mochi,” Suguru told her. He let go of the whistle to ruffle the space between her ears,
instead. Despite how stern he’d been, Yuji could catch the start of a smile in his voice. “I’m sure
Itadori would prefer to feel his face.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Yuji wiped his sleeve over his face, de-dog-drooling himself. “I love dogs!”

Suguru gave Mochi one last stroke. He and Mochi both stepped back, facing the door. Mochi’s tail
wagged across the ground, kicking up stray leaves into the air.

Seeing both eyes look in the same direction, it made Yuji look, too. He’d known what he was about
to see, and yet, it still felt different.

“Still there?” Yuji asked, pointing towards the staircase into the principal’s room.

Suguru nodded. “Mhm.”

“You coming?”

“Would you like me to? I can, if it would help.”

There was an answer in that answer that Suguru hadn’t said, but clearly gave. If given the choice,
he didn’t want to go. Yuji wondered why.

“It’s ok!” Yuji decided, smiling. “I’ve nailed it before. I’ll do it here, too.”

Yuji took a step forward, then another, scaling the cement staircase to the top. His hand flattened
along the door. Just as he was about to open it, he heard Suguru call.

“Itadori–”
“Yeah?” Yuji turned around, blinking, to face him.

Suguru set his shoulders back. His hand flattened on Mochi’s head. Both his posture and the dog’s
looked almost like statues down below.

“I wouldn’t bring up that there was a ‘before’ if it can be helped,” Suguru warned. “Not everyone is
as understanding about your dimensional anomaly as I am.”

Yuji curled his hand into a fist. He gave a nod back in determination. “Got it.”

Yuji remembered, in the back of his mind, how this had gone last time. One wrong word, or
impression, and the principal could send him right home. The stakes weren’t as high as his own life
or death, yet, in a way, it was almost worse. If this went wrong, it could mean the death of other
people.

Last time, Yuji had to have the right answer beaten out of him. He hadn’t been ready. This wasn’t
going to be last time. His first tightened by his side.

“I’m here for a reason,” Yuji told himself under his breath. “Because he’s me. I have to stop him.”

And with that, Yuji opened the door.

Yuji still felt the echo of what would have come next. When the door swung open, and his sneakers
reached the floor, he and Gojo had been scolded for being late. Some part of Yuji had expected the
voice, or the shadow of the principal. That wasn’t what was here.

Where most buildings on the Tokyo campus had soft mats or wooden floors, the inside of the
principal’s workroom was cold, gray concrete. Rows of wooden shelves had been built into the
wall. Two dismantled cars, a lawn mower, and even a motorcycle were scattered about in varying
states of disarray. In the far corner, behind a stack of pipes and scrap metal, the steady, gasoline
fueled whir of a blowtorch roared away.

With as little caution as he could have, Yuji took the last step inside. His hands tucked into his
pockets at either side as he turned his head, watching everything.

“Whoa…”

Though Yuji’s hands stayed in his coat, he raised a foot to nudge a tarp off a sculpture. The cloth
fell away, revealing what looked like an old fire hydrant with wings made of knives. The large
reflectors welded to either side of the front flickered in the artificial light.

“Cool,” Yuji noted, leaning closer. “What is it, in here? It’s kinda like Dean’s in the Iron Giant or
something.”

From somewhere Yuji couldn’t see, a woman’s voice echoed. “Oh, it’s something, alright.”

Whether it was the volume, or the tone, the sound of it Yuji shot upright. His shoulders set back, his
eyes wide as beads, as his thoughts pulled to a flat, stuttered “--uh.”

“Oh, well,” the woman sighed. “Leave it to Geto to get someone here early. Guess you’re him.”

The mechanical whirring silenced. The light of the blowtorch went out. From behind the mound of
scrap metal, a woman stepped forward. Her boots clacked against the cement along the way.
“Itadori, right?” As she stepped into the light, her long blonde hair swayed to the side. She pushed
her welding goggles to the top, ruffling it. Her hand rest over her hip. “Great! I’ve got a question
for ya.”

“Sure,” Yuji agreed, at a loss, but not so much so he couldn’t find his composure. His shoulders
went straight, his eyes narrowing in all seriousness. Whatever this woman had prepared for him, he
had to meet it–if not for himself, then for Nanami. For Kugisaki. For Yoshino.

“So. Itadori. Tell me somethin’. It’s important,” The principal smiled down, her expression at once
casual, and far, far too knowing for his comfort. “What kinda girls are you into?”

Yuji’s mouth fell agape at the question. His eyes turned to pins, lost in the white of the rest of it,
dumbfounded.

“You heard me, right?” Tsukumo repeated, cutting off Yuji’s internal questions before they could
start. “I mean, unless you’re only into guys. Type in men works, too. My gaydar’s on the fritz these
days. Heh.”

The specification answered Yuji well enough, though in a way he barely managed to grasp. He’d
heard her correctly–he just hadn’t expected it.

“Oh–” Yuji blinked, jolting back to attention. “Okay!”

Yuji lowered himself to a polite, if quick, bow. His eyes closed, repeating exactly what he’d done to
introduce himself to Principal Yaga.

“My name’s Yuji Itadori! I’m into girls like Jennifer Lawrence! Nice to meet you.”

Yuji was still mid-bow when he heard Tsukumo interject “And guys?”

The question was fast enough that it made Yuji hesitate. “Uh–”

Yuji held his original position, at the deepest point of the bow. His eyes opened, taking Tsukumo in
from the odd angle below. She stared back. The fact that her boobs were dangling pretty close to his
face hadn’t seemed to phase her.

Yuji wondered, in passing, if she might’ve paid attention to that if he’d said he was a breasts guy.

“Take your time,” Tsukumo said, smiling in a way that made anyone wonder if a smile was what
she meant at all. “Though usually ya shouldn’t haveta think that much.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yeah.” Tsukumo bobbed forward, too, matching the movement so that she could meet Yuji’s
stare. “What’s up? You get stuck down there?”

The prompt was enough to send Yuji springing back upright. He set his shoulders at attention, as
his mouth drew to a flat line. For everything she’d pointed out, Yuji still ended up looking
confused.

“You really wanna know about that?” Yuji asked, scratching his cheek. For as determined as he’d
been before, for some reason, the shift made him look nervous. “Not, like, why I wanna be at the
school? How I can’t live with myself knowing other people are gonna die, or something?”
It felt, in Yuji’s mind, like this kind of Q&A was what these interviews were aiming for. The big,
dramatic build up to the revelation about his character had been the entire point when Yuji had met
with Yaga. Instead, Tsukumo shook her head.

“Nah. No need. You’re here. Besides, we say way more in irrelevant truths than the lies we’ve
convinced ourselves to say.”

“Well. I’m not lying. So–”

For all the things Yuji considered saying, and the ways he might have been able to deny it, in the
end, he just settled for not trying to understand.

“I guess, I kind of like emo guys? Like, slim, but not in the buff way? Like they could look good in
makeup.” Yuji looked to the side, like he was trying to picture someone that matched the
description as he spoke. In the end, the image felt blank enough for him to add in a mumble, “I still
like a big butt, though.”

If there was a reason why Tsukumo was asking this question, it didn’t occur to Yuji to ask her. All
he bothered to do was to meet the red of her eyes with his own.

“Ah,” Tsukumo nodded to herself. “So, you’re a tough guy! Straightforward. Earnest. I’ve met
sorcerers, like you. They’re pretty popular. Hard working. Really, my only complaint on your
type’a sorcerer’s that they’ve got a habit of dyin’ young.”

That highlight in Tsukumo’s eye seemed to set brighter, the glint twisting from understanding into
something more. “So, is that gonna bother you, kid? You care that you’ll die?”

There was a look of expectation in that stare. Yuji met it with a glare of his own. The brown in his
eyes bled dark.

“Let me die, then! I don’t care! I’ll kill him.” Yuji shouted.His hand balled into a fist. His nails dug
into his palm as he focused in a glare. “I’m still stopping Mahito…!”

“Well, ain’t that interesting.” Tsukumo leaned back. She kicked out one leg, then crossed it over the
other, stretching casually. “Who’s ‘Mahito’?”

The way Tsukumo asked the question, it gave Yuji a second’s pause. In that second, he remembered
just how much these people didn’t know.

“A curse,” Yuji answered quickly. “A special grade. He took my friends. Killed them, like it’s
nothing.”

There was something Tsukumo didn’t say outright in the first second she’d watched Yuji speak. She
and he both understood, now, why he was here.

“It’s a vendetta,” Tsukumo concluded. “You really think you’re gonna take out a special grade with
spite?”

“I’ll do it,” Yuji said, without room to argue. “I already have.”

Tsukumo’s eyebrow started to raise. If there was an implicit question, then, it was one she didn’t
ask.
“I’ve heard worse reasons, before. I’ve also heard better? But I have heard worse,” she sighed. “I
mean, a lotta this lot’s just in it for the paycheck. Your whole Inigo Montoya ‘prepare to die’ bit
could be kinda fun.”

The reference brought Yuji’s glare to stop, gaping at an unrelated realization. “You know the
Princess Bride?”

Yuji assumed that Tsukumo would have nodded along. In another setting, this epiphany could’ve
led to the customary exchange of poorly repeated jokes from a movie they both knew. Instead,
Tsukumo stepped to her right. Her fingers brushed the outline of the repurposed fire hydrant. At the
brush, a pulse of cursed energy sparked in each lightbulb, illuminating them. The light flickered,
first yellow, then blue.

The head of the owl turned half a circle until its face was directed at her. The hinges of its metal
beak squeaked open.

Tsukumo gave a nod. The curl of her bangs swayed over one eye. The recycled sculpture flapped
its metal wings. Despite the weight, and rust, the fire hydrant creature rose to life. The energy
flickered from its eyes, blinking back away, as the shadow of an owl stretched across the floor.

With a metallic whine, the sculpture’s head turned. The hinges of its beak opened wider, the points
showing the hollow glow inside the sculpture’s core, almost like a soul inside.

Yuji watched on, not quite awestruck, but teetering towards the verge. “Whoa. What’s up with
that?”

He was still gaping when it charged.

The bird-like creature dove towards Yuji, beak-first, wings outstretched. The jagged blades of each
wing shone, spikes hovering to block the path he could’ve run.

In the absence of a better option, Yuji dove. Hei skidded against the cover of the nearest object,
shielding himself against the sculpture Tsukumo was already leaning beside.

“Hey!” Yuji snapped, looking up towards Tsukumo in alarm. “Look–”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m looking.” Tsukumo raised her arms in a shrug. Her red eyes, however, shifted
down. “Are you?”

The owl sculpture landed, spiked talons first, on the head of the sculpture between them both. The
shape shook with its impact.

Yuji snapped back, crouching to the floor, again evading the wingspan.

“You don’t have to do this, okay?” Yuji shouted towards Tsukumo. “I meant what I said!”

“Oh, I figured. I don’t gotta see your therapy bill, kid,” Tsukumo flicked her wrist, swatting his
protests away. “I don’t care about your crazy! I care if you can fight!”

The owl swooped towards Yuji. He skidded back into a wall, then shoved his foot straight into the
hydrant’s chest. The metal bird slammed into the back wall, scattering debris on the way. Its wing
twitched, tangling in the tarp.
Without so much as a blink, Tsukumo grabbed an object off the wall.

Before Yuji could hear her say “catch,” he saw the gleam. A knife with two holes through the
center of the blade had been hanging there, chucked straight towards his head.

The owl dove anew, the lights in its eyes flickering mad. Yuji sprung off the back wall and jumped
past the owl, snatching the knife from midair. The black fur at Slaughter Demon’s hilt brushed his
hand. He ignored it.

When Yuji’s sneaker slid against the floor, his posture turned to match the first time. His right hand
clenched around the base, while his left rose with an open palm to enforce his hold. His legs
stretched defensively, bracing.

Again, the metal owl charged. Yuji held his ground. Only once he could feel the push of the air
current from its speed, did Yuji move. He jumped into the air, falling sideways. As he landed, he
planted his foot directly on the edge of a wing’s blade. Yuji turned in midair, building his
momentum, and plunged Slaughter Demon’s tip into the sculpted owl’s eye.

The cursed energy inside the sculpture swelled. A pop of glass shattered against the blade, and the
adjacent wing slumped with it. The owl cracked against the floor.

“Not bad!” Tsukumo clapped with one hand, smacking it into the limp, sculpted palm of the
humanoid sculpture she’d been leaning by. “Although… might not be good, either.”

The ominous cheer came so quickly, Yuji barely knew to blink. “Huh–”

Yuji turned away from the owl, towards Tsukumo, just in time to spot her last touch. Tsukumo ran
her hand across the metal chestplate of the sculpture beside her. The half-molded figure of a giant
metal man lumbered forward from her touch, its joints rattling in the effort to support its own
weight. The humanoid sculpture had no eyes, nor mouth, nor visible source of cursed energy to
target. Its metal fingers let out a wailing squeak as it formed a fist.

“A robot!?” Yuji shouted, pointing Slaughter Demon towards it in shock. “That’s a robot!?”

“Eh? Not really? It’s more like, a guy?” Tsukumo turned her head over her shoulder, too, checking
back on her sculpture. “That really looks like a robot to you?”

In exasperation, Yuji waved towards it. “Yes!”

In the time Yuji had spent trying to make this point, he’d failed to look toward what was coming
until it was already there. The humanoid sculpture raised the fist over its head. The shadow
stretched across his face.

“Crap.”

Seeing the momentum, Yuji darted to the left. The fist crashed against the ground, sending a burst
of cement shattering. He blocked his face with his arms, then hopped up to the supply table.

As the robot charged towards him, its fist raising again, Yuji used the corner of the table as a
springboard. He leapt to the ceiling and grabbed a light fixture, holding himself up high for support.
The pole swayed, the chain shaking under Yuji’s weight.

“Wow,” Tsukumo noted, “Guess Geto was right.”

“Right about what?”

The sway of the light fixture changed Yuji’s position again. The sculpture tilted its faceless head,
turning right back towards him again. At the same time, Tsukumo answered. “You.”

Yuji wondered, for a moment, if this lady took a specific kind of joy in being vague. Whatever
temptation Yuji had to ask what Tsukumo meant, it was undercut by the thunk against his skull.

“Ow–”

The humanoid sculpture jabbed a punch over its head, straight into the light fixture. The top of the
fist parted Yuji’s hair, smacking him. The light swung wildly, the force swinging like a pendulum
that could have struck him into the ceiling.

Yuji let go. His loose arm outstretched, blade first, to stop his fall as he rolled against the floor. He
smacked into a pair of wheels with his back. From the frame of the white tarp, Yuji registered,
however faintly, it was a motorcycle.

The lopsided, overstretched form of the human sculpture swayed towards Yuji. With each step, it
bent lower into its knees, building momentum on the way.

Yuji hopped back up into a crouch. His arm outstretched, bracing the blade once more. His leg
stretched to one side, keeping low, with his focus honing in. He couldn’t see the cursed energy, yet,
this thing still had a weak point. If he disabled a knee, it wouldn’t be able to move.

Yuji turned the blade in his hand, repeating the strategy. He had focused so intensely towards the
welded, hinged knees of the sculpture, he almost hadn’t seen the change of light.

A pair of headlights snapped on behind him. The initial pulse of blue turned yellow, flooding the
wall. His own silhouette stretched across the shelving. Whatever it was Yuji expected to see when
he turned, it wasn’t what was there.

A motorcycle without a rider flashed its headlights . It revved again, a final warning just long
enough for Yuji to start to process that there was, in fact, a haunted motorcycle threatening him
right now. Then, it charged.

Already braced, Yuji pivoted. He sprinted as fast as he could, away from the motorcycle’s wheels.
The bike rode straight on, narrowly avoiding Yuji’s path on its way towards the back wall. A streak
of rubber burned across the floor, the air scorching where it left behind.

In Yuji’s relief that he’d dodged it, he stopped moving. And that left him exactly in the path of what
he’d meant to avoid before.

The humanoid sculpture outstretched both arms. With one, it reached for Yuji’s head. Yuji bobbed
to the side. With the other, the sculpture locked its elbow around Yuji’s neck and grabbed him.

The metal arm yanked up, forcing Yuji off the ground. His feet dangled in midair.

As the sculpture tried to take Yuji, Yuji swung back, too. Yuji clutched the creature’s arm with one
hand, pulling himself up so as not to fall into the chokehold. At the same time, he thrust back,
plunging Slaughter Demon into the sculpture’s chest.
The instant Yuji felt contact, he stabbed deeper, pushing in. He twisted his wrist and tore
downwards, turning the blade inside. The metal of the sculpture screeched with the friction, literal
sparks forming with the strike.

With a new anchor through Slaughter Demon’s blade, Yuji planted both feet back against the
sculpture. He found his footing against the sculpture’s narrow legs, writhing for room to breathe.

The floodlights from the motorcycle came at him. A screech passed below. The side of a wheel
brushed against his leg, tearing a hole through his pants. His eyes opened from the sting.

The momentary distraction from the motorcycle was enough for the sculpture to start fighting, too.
The arm around Yuji’s neck let go, forcing Yuji to start falling. In the second Yuji had to spend
searching for a new spot to grab, the sculpture wrapped both its metal hands around Slaughter
Demon, pulling it away. Yuji clenched the hilt behind his back, fighting to keep hold.

A forceful bend sent Yuji and the sculpture’s hands flying. Slaughter Demon slipped from both of
their grips. The blade flashed, reflecting the pulse of the bike’s headlights, as it pierced into the
wall. Yuji’s eyes traveled with the light, all too aware of what that meant. Without cursed energy, or
a cursed tool, there was no way to exorcize a curse.

Yuji’s shadow stretched in multiple directions, scattered by the different sources of light as he stood
in the center of the room. His hand curled into a fist, a familiar urge nipping towards his fingers. He
knew, in his memory, what it felt like to make his cursed energy pool here. As he grit his teeth, and
sweat dripped from his face, Yuji knew that was exactly what he was doing–yet nothing came.

The conclusion felt obvious. He needed to get behind the sculpture and retake Slaughter Demon.
He needed to, and yet, there wasn’t time.

The motorcycle’s headlights bounced off the metal shelves, revving its engine in victory. On the
exact opposite side, the sculpture loomed. The light passed through the hole where Slaughter
Demon had torn its torso, and yet, even that way, the sculpture was still standing.

“You done, Itadori?” Tsukumo asked. “You don’t gotta get hurt if you give up! I’ll just send ya
home.”

Yuji didn’t turn. His hand twitched, his focus resetting.

There was no giving up. Not here. He’d seen too many people die for this to matter.

The motorcycle charged at Yuji, headlights blaring, from the right. Behind him, Yuji heard the
metal footsteps stomp. He waited at a crouch, his shadows distorting as the light drew closer.

Only cursed energy could hurt a curse. He knew that. And he could use it.

At the exact second when Yuji started to feel the heat from the wheels, and the shadows couldn’t
shift any further, Yuji jumped back into the air. He sprung at a slight diagonal, then banked himself
across the ceiling, changing the trajectory of his fall.

“Huh,” Tsukumo folded her arms in consideration, watching from afar. “Now, ain’t that
interestin’.”
Naturally, the pull of gravity started to angle Yuji back down. He landed, hands first, on the back of
the motorcycle.

The second his hands hit the handlebars, Yuji felt a kickback. He strained against it, pulling up and
away where it tried to buck him off. His back arched as he forced his way to straddle the seat. His
foot slid into the cage, ensnaring himself.

The humanoid sculpture lumbered closer, charging towards Yuji, undeterred. Yuji’s right hand
shifted down, grabbing the throttle beneath the handlebar. He twisted his hand towards him, then
pressed down with his foot, forcing the gear to click.

The motorbike’s headlights flashed in retaliation, and the front wheel started to raise. Yuji rocked
himself forward, ramming the cursed motorcycle straight into the sculpture.

The first wheel smacked into the sculpture’s face, burning rubber streaks again, and again, until the
form started trembling. The sculpture raised both hands to swat the bike, and Yuji, away.

Yuji ducked behind the seat and turned the handlebars, forcing the wheel to shift. The sculpture’s
hand was pulled along the wheel, ensnared between the spokes.

Yuji charged the throttle harder, grinding the sculpture’s hand inside the wheel. Flashes of sparks
scattered through the room, the gears whining in retaliation. Yuji pressed harder. A final burst of
light sparked through the headlights before they burst from the strain, flecks of cursed plexiglas
splattering across the sculpture.

As the last bit of life left the motorbike, Yuji jumped back and kicked it away. The sculpture
stumbled, forced away by the large weight on its hand, knowing what he’d done.

Only something with cursed energy could take out something with cursed energy. No one said that
you couldn’t put a curse on a curse.

Yuji landed against the back wall, directly beside Slaughter Demon. He yanked the blade out from
the drywall, then clutched tight to the cursed tool, bracing for the next attack.

“Come at me,” Yuji said, determined, yet calm. “If I can take him, I can take you.”

The giant sculpture shook the bike from its hand. The lower half of its arm fell from its hinges.
What was left of the upper arm dangled like a loose tooth. For all the damage it had taken so far,
between the skid marks and its mangled stump, somehow, it just looked more threatening.

Yuji’s shoe left the ground as he started to charge. The sculpture charged towards him, too. He was
so focused, Yuji never thought to check back on Tsukumo.

From behind Yuji’s back, Tsukumo clapped her hands together. “Well! Seems like enough’a that!”

“What–”

The second her hands clapped together, the ceiling lights turned off. The human-shaped sculpture
scrashed, collapsing to scrap on the floor.

Yuji scrambled to lean back against the wall, his arms blocking defensively. “What the–?”
Yuji looked down, checking what was left of the sculpture. There was no light to be sure of what
was there, yet, from how things had settled, Yuji could guess.

“Who taught you to fight like that, kiddo?” Tsukumo asked, her voice creeping against his ear.

“Uh–”

Tsukumo clapped her hands again. The lights flashed back on. Yuji winced, adjusting to the light
with a squint. He steadied the blade in front of himself, his stare turning cold. The way that Yuji
faced Tsukumo, in that instant, told them both something he hadn’t said.

“They didn’t make it, did they?” Tsukumo noted. “Sucks, don’t it? Bein’ the one to survive.”

Yuji lowered the blade. He let it fall against his thigh, limp, but still ready.

Tsukumo cocked her head to the side. She set a hand on her hip, seeming to settle back in place.
“Welp. Anyway! Do ya know whatcha did, here, Itadori?”

“I busted your bike?” Yuji looked down, then to the side, taking in the wreckage. On a second look,
from the dent in the cement to the bent overhead light and many rubber streaks on the floor, it was
more accurate to say the whole room was broken. “...sorry.”

“Nah–” Tsukumo started to say. The second the word left her mouth, her expression went blank. “I
mean… Uh. That’s kinda my bad? Whatever. It’s not that you pounded my shikigami up. It’s that
you pounded my shikigami without making cursed energy.”

“Your…” Yuji looked down, his eyes darting back to the wreckage. “--that’s a shikigami? How? I
thought they were all spirits. Not stuff.”

“Yeah, well, I’m kinda special! Comes with being a special grade.” Tsukumo smiled, her earlier
concerns bounding right back out of her in the boast. “I’m the all-you-can-generate Shikigami
buffet. If I can make it, I can have it.”

“You made that?”

“Yep. I’m pretty scrappy!”

Yuji stared back, not making a sound. Just as he looked ready to ask a new question, Tsukumo
sighed. “Sheesh. Don’t just stand there like I’m not funny. Laugh! I’m hilarious.”

Yuji didn’t answer. Tsukumo huffed.

“Okay, fine. No cursed energy, no sense of humor, I guess.”

Tsukumo stepped away, back towards the same wreckage she’d been looking at before, and
crouched over the debris. She pulled up on the handlebars, first, guiding what was left of the bike to
stand.

“Y’know, with a body like yours, you’d go your whole life without makin’ a curse. Sorcerers
channel cursed energy, non-sorcerers expel it all, and then… apparently… there’s someone like
you.”
There was a part of Yuji tempted to point out that wasn’t supposed to be the case. Until he’d ended
up here, he’d had as much cursed energy as everyone else. He paused, remembered what Suguru
had told him to do, and didn’t say anything at all.

The silence didn’t bother Tsukumo in the slightest. She grabbed the deflated wheel of her bike and
popped it back into place. Her gaze trailed towards him from under her bangs as she nodded. “My,
if everyone was like you, curses wouldn’t exist.”

In concept, that should’ve been a good sentence. For whatever reason, Yuji tightened his hold on
Slaughter Demon all the more.

Tsukumo slapped a hand on either side of the partially constructed bike. She popped up. “Well!’
That’s that! You passed the first test.”

It should’ve been good news. For all the tension he’d felt before, it was, yet Yuji paused at “first?”

“Well, yeah. Didn’t think an entrance exam’s just this, did ya? We’d wanna see you in the field.”

The “uh–” that Yuji sputtered wasn’t supposed to get an answer. “Well. Yeah. I did? Kinda.” The
fact that it had in fact just been an interview last time suddenly didn’t feel like a good explanation.

Tsukumo’s eyes closed into her grin, like a housecat waiting to pounce. “Ya good to stick around
for a while, Itadori?” she asked. “I should be able to find ya a mission tomorrow! Somethin’ small,
with one of our sorcerers on staff.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll rig ya up in the dorm for the night! Unless you’ve got somewhere better ta
be.”

Yuji’s shoulders raised with a shrug, unsure if there was somewhere more important. His mind
wandered back, quickly, to the dead weight in his pocket, and to the people he needed to get in
touch with. “Hey, uh–”

“What’s up? Ya gettin’ constipated or something?”

“What?! No–! I need a charger!”

“A charger?” Tsukumo blinked. “Car, L.A., or cell phone?”

“Phone. Like this–” With an uncomfortable shift, Yuji tucked Slaughter Demon into his back
pocket. He shoved his hand into the front side and pulled out his phone to show her.

Tsukumo swayed forward, her eyes seeming to somehow get smaller on her head the closer she
looked to it. “...This an Apple or Samsung? I don’t recognize it.”

“Samsung.”

“Good call,” Tsukumo said with a snicker. “I aint peer pressured enough to use a fruit phone,
either.”

For what could have been a very complicated answer, Tsukumo just pointed towards the wall.
“Second cord down. If that ain’t work, let me know. I think Ino’s fruity enough for the other kind.”
The spot where Tsukumo was pointing was direction enough. Yuji sprung forward, ducking past her
on the way with a “thanks!” and rushed over to the cord.

With the outlet and cord both in plain view, Yuji crouched on the floor. For as much as he’d
wondered if interdimensional travel would change the smartphone settings, the charge cord
snapped right in. He sighed in relief, then sat down, waiting until his screen flickered back to life.

Yuji’s first thought was to message Gojo to find out where, and how, he was doing. After all, his
teacher would want to know he was staying at the school overnight. It wasn’t until the phone
vibrated in Yuji’s hand, and no texts from Gojo appeared, that Yuji saw something else, instead.
The picture of his classmates, smiling at the camera, filled his home screen.

Immediately, a different image rolled through Yuji’s imagination, each person he’d once lost staring
back across the dark of his eyelids. Nobara, giving him a side-eye, had clearly judged him for even
bothering to think this way. Nanami, looking serious as ever, nodded to him knowingly. Then, last,
he saw Junpei, smiling.

Yuji’s thumb hovered over the screen. A bad feeling nipped at the back of his mind.

“Weird…” Yuji mumbled, his mind drifting. “Did I not give him my number? Thought I–”

Yuji cut himself off halfway through the sentence, realizing with a drawn-out “ohhhh,” that he had,
in fact, not traded numbers with Junpei. He had simply shoved Junpei’s own contact information at
him and never given Junpei his own. He scratched at the back of his head. “Guess that explains him
not calling...”

Yuji dropped the phone into his lap. He craned his neck back, peeking back towards the principal.
“Hey, Tsukumo!”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Would you think about letting someone else join the school? I might know a guy! He started
seeing curses a few weeks ago, but he’s pretty smart and stuff!”

“Hm… A few weeks ago, you say? How old is he? Kindergarten?”

“I dunno. My age?” Yuji looked down at the phone, thinking. “I mean, I never really asked? We
just kinda hung out.”

“Your age, like… you’re talkin’ about a teenager?”

Yuji nodded.

“And he just started seeing curses?” she asked. Yuji nodded again.

“A heckuva late bloomer, then. Most sorcerers start ‘bout age six.” Tsukumo paused for a second.
She pulled her goggles back down, then set her attention back to her bike. “Sure. Why not? We’re
short-staffed. Hell, at this point if it fought curses I might enlist a raccoon.”

Tentative as the agreement was, hearing it made Yuji’s face light up. He smiled back, beaming.
“Thank you!”
Yuji clicked back into his phone. He considered, briefly, sending along a text. He almost did, only
to change his mind and revert to the call button.

“Come on,” Yuji spoke to himself. He bent oddly along the wall, curling himself so that he could fit
under the charge cord and raise the phone to his ear. “Pick up. Pick up.”

The phone rang. The first chime made Yuji’s heart race with excitement, waiting to hear Junpei on
the other side.

The phone kept ringing.

 Junpei Yoshino vs. the World

Junpei Yoshino

1st District, Block 16, Building 13

Tamami, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

The phone in Junpei’s palm started to ring. The familiar swirl of the siren built, swelling louder.

“Cool ringtone you got there,” Satoru sat on the kitchen counter.. He spun a straw through his glass,
mixing clumps of blueberries and sugar into his water glass. “Love ‘Kill Bill’.”

Junpei couldn’t see through the black lenses of Satoru’s goggles. Despite that, the sense Junpei was
being watched felt all too clear. He pressed the lid back on the sugar container, then pushed it back
into the cabinet.

“Hey, kid,” Satoru called. “Which part do you like better? One, or two?”
“Uh…” Junpei’s shoulders scrunched as he stared back, at a loss.

“Come on, is it that hard a question?” Satoru asked. “I like part one, myself. Gogo can get it.”

The refrigerator whirred, as if even the appliances themselves opposed this as a conversation. In the
time Junpei spent staring, the phone stopped ringing. He let his hand sink into his pocket, holding
tight to a lifeline he couldn’t use.

“It’s… not supposed to be a separate piece, exactly. If anything, I’d pick The Whole Bloody
Affair,” Junpei excused. “It’s incomplete without the ending. Even if the best choreography was in
part one, without the climax, it’s not conclusive. If it’s a let down, at the end, that’s not a flaw of
part two. It’s an issue for the whole.

“Huh.” Satoru leaned into his straw. He kicked his legs against the counter, swaying. “That’s a
whole lot of thought for ‘what’s your favorite movie’, kid. Most people pick a number.”

“I’m not most people, though.”

“Got that right! For one, most people don’t grow mouths.”

Satoru hunched over. He blew a burst of bubbles into his straw, making himself all too comfortable.
When he was done, he jabbed his straw into the glass, impaling a blueberry off the end.

“Thanks for the invite, kid. I’ve been waiting to do this forever!” Satoru laughed. “...The talk-to-
you part, not the sugar-water, obviously. Beggars aren’t choosers, but this is gross.”

“Then why would you drink it?” Junpei asked, at a loss. “No one said you had to.”

“Because I’m thirsty.”

“Then why complai–” before Junpei could finish the question, he felt a warm stinging stab through
his cheek. He winced, his face wrinkling with an “ow–”

Junpei raised his hand to his cheek. He tried to block Sukuna’s mouth from opening. Just as Junpei
found a place to press in, Sukuna’s tongue licked his palm. He jolted back on reflex.

“If you insist on begging, sorcerer, it should be for your life,” Sukuna mocked.

“Oh, really?” Satoru tapped the end of his straw, pointing the tip towards Sukuna’s mouth on
Junpei’s cheek. “That’s all you can think of to beg for? No wonder you’re pissed off.”

Having stopped panicking, Junpei tried to press his hand over Sukuna’s mouth to quiet him. He had
barely managed to mumble “sorry–” before Sukuna shifted spots, too. The mouth reappeared on
the back of Junpei’s hand, unobstructed.

“Not quite,” Sukuna sneered, “Once I’ve made this body mine, I could do you the favor of taking
your head from your neck!”

“Really makes you miss acne, doesn’t he?” Satoru asked. He shoved his free hand into his pocket,
wriggling around for something. “Though I guess it’s an honor to be a target of the Great Sukuna.”

Rather than fight to stop Sukuna from forming, Junpei just lowered his hand. He let it dangle at his
side, even more awkwardly than normal.
“I’m sorry,” Junpei told Satoru. “I guess I don’t know what’s going–”

“--Think fast!”

Junpei barely turned towards the stranger. “Wha–”

A wrinkled, pruned finger flew across the room. It would have smacked Junpei in the face, were it
not for Sukuna’s mouth reappearing on Junpei’s cheek. The curse caught the roots of flesh in his
teeth, then sucked in, engulfing the finger with a slurp of his own. It wasn’t until the finger was
already gone that Junpei finished turning to spot Satoru with an arm outstretched, still following
through from tossing the finger.

Somewhere between horrified and baffled, Junpei lost track of any words but “what the fu–”

Before Junpei could finish the word, the image of Satoru disappeared. Like the blur between frames
in a corrupted video, Satoru’s figure completely lost focus. Junpei couldn’t see him at all.

For one second, Junpei looked across the room, trying to process what he could no longer see. In
the next second, he was slammed back into the fridge.

An array of magnets and old family photos scattered, trinkets clacking to the floor. The handle
jabbed into Junpei’s side, and an arm into his neck, pinning him. He flinched.

Satoru’s hand pressed against Junpei’s shoulder, pinning him by the neck. Junpei could feel the
pattern of Satoru’s breathing as he invaded his personal space with no warning at all. He gasped,
barely breathing.

“Ha,” Satoru sounded, the syllable nothing like a laugh at all. “How’d you feel after eating that,
kid? Worse?”

Junpei couldn’t get himself to answer. His bloodshot eyes opened. Though Satoru was in his face,
when he finally looked, all Junpei could see was his own reflection in the black goggle lenses on
the other side.

“That much pain, huh?,” Satoru raised his hand against Junpei’s neck, tipping his chin. His grip
relaxed, yet Junpei felt just as much strain to breathe. “It’s still you in there, though, right, kid?”

“What…” Junpei strained to breathe. Every thought he meant to have froze halfway into his brain.
The best he could piece together was to swallow down. “No. I changed. I–”

“Nah, that’s still you. For sure.” Satoru raised his hand again, tracing something only he could see.
He gave Junpei a pat on the cheek. “Pretty perfect, there, if I say so. And I will! I just did.”

Junpei meant to argue. His hand reached for the fridge, tensing at the handle, for any grip that he
could find. He braced himself to do something, maybe even defend himself. And then, before he
could do any of that, Satoru poked him in the forehead.

“It’s Yoshino, yeah? That’s who I’m talking to? Not Ryomen Suck-on-ya?”

“Who–”

“You know. King sucky-sucky. Good ol’ shrivel fingers.,” Satoru said, seemingly oblivious to the
fact that Junpei did not, in fact, know. “I mean, calling himself the king of curses? So try-hard.”
Satoru raised his finger. Just as he was getting close enough to poke Junpei again, Junpei raised his
arm to swat at him.

“Stop that–” Junpei tried to smack Satoru. By all means Junpei perceived, he should have hit him–
yet for some reason, his arm bounced right off. He looked again, closer, baffled. “What?”

Completely ignoring the question, Satoru leaned closer, bobbing right back into Junpei’s personal
space. “Well, you’ve definitely got control,” he mused, “if anything was gonna give a curse auto-
pilot, it was consuming another cursed object like that.”

“Another…?”

Satoru extended a hand. He ruffled through Junpei’s hair.

“Another finger,” Satoru said, cheerful, yet as if this was obvious information. “There’s twenty in
total. Two, in your gut, then another eighteen out there in the whatever. You know, like an edible
horcrux or something.”

Just as Junpei had started to feel like he had some awareness of his own body, a new burn formed
on his face. Directly beneath his hair, at a spot where he could feel his bangs start to snag through
its teeth, Sukuna formed his mouth.

“Foolish sorcerer,” Sukuna mocked, maniacal as ever. “Any debt I owe you, I’ll repay by striking
you dead–”

“--Curse user,” Satoru interrupted. He spoke so loudly, it barely mattered that Sukuna had kept
making some over-dramatic threat on Satoru’s life.

Junpei’s bangs pulled all the more uncomfortably into Sukuna’s mouth. He tilted his head to the
side, trying to brush his hair out of the way. Sukuna sneered.

“The name you give yourselves makes no difference,” Sukuna continued, “There is no man who
could–”

“Who could brush your teeth, I know,” Satoru interrupted. “Not like that, anyway. You keep
moving them around.”

Junpei pushed his hair back with the palm of his hand, freeling just enough of it that, while his
scars still stayed covered, Sukuna could speak without it in the way.

“There’s only one use for a mouth like yours, you–”

“Oh my god,” Satoru interrupted, already snickering before he’d even spoken. “No sex jokes.
You’re inside a kid!”

The burning on Junpei’s cheek intensified. It felt, for a second, as if Sukuna was ready to actively
boil over in irritation. The boiling bubbled over into a cackle. “Oh, I’ll savor the day when I–”

“Can finish a sentence?” Satoru cut in, “Yeah, sure you do. Whatever. Believe it or not, we’re on
the same side. There’s a win-win for both of us, here. Trust me.”

“I’ll trust you when you grovel. As I said, kneel before me, and–”
“What’d I say about sex jokes around the virgins? Sheesh!” Satoru grinned. Despite the fact that his
goggles were very much in the way, the manner in which Satoru turned his head implied he’d
looked over at Junpei. “You are a virgin, yeah? You’ve got that vibe like you’d light the black
flame candle.”

There was a gap of silence as Junpei tried to put together what he was supposed to do other than
gape back. As he was staring, Junpei felt Sukuna’s mouth start to shift, bracing to speak. He
pressed down, shoving his hair against Sukuna’s mouth. Sukuna gagged.

“Not–” Junpei winced, his visible eye twitching as Sukuna pulled on his hair. “Damn it–”

Junpei grit his teeth until the mouth went away. At that point, he managed to glower at Satoru
himself. He readied himself to argue. “That’s not your–”

Satoru took an audible glug from his glass of fruit and sugar water, swallowed back, and wiped his
hand on his sleeve.

“Welp!” Satoru slapped the tabletop. “Let’s get down to business.”

“Down to–”

Before anyone else had the audacity to finish a sentence in his presence, Satoru clapped his hands
together. “You know!” He smiled. “Defeat the Huns. Change the world. Get you a haircut that
doesn’t say you listen to My Chemical Romance. The important stuff.”

In the time it took for Junpei to realize he could move his hand without Sukuna talking, Satoru had
gotten himself settled. He took one of the chairs from the kitchen table, spun it around, and sat
backwards, his arms folding over the chair.

“So... short, dark and mopey! Now that it’s just the two and a half of us. Tell me something.”
Satoru tipped the glass of sugar and blueberries back and forth, swishing what little little was left
inside. “If you can destroy anything you want, what’s it gonna be?”

The question was just strange enough to give Junpei pause. He stared back.

Satoru set the glass down. He fidgeted. “C’mon. You’re way too emo not to have an answer. If you
liked the world that much, you’d watch it with both eyes. So, tell me, cyclops. What do you hate?”

Of all the ways to answer that, Junpei couldn’t decide on any. He just watched, thinking, until the
silence drew so long, he’d whispered something to deflect.

“What about you, then?” Junpei asked, instead. “You’re not looking at anything.”

“Fine! Fine. I’ll guess what you hate, then. How about… hm… School? You seem like a geek.”
Satoru pointed ahead, gesturing towards Junpei in accusation. “No offense, just haven’t really met a
popular kid who answers calls to Tarantino scores.”

“That’s not a score. It’s a sound effect. It’s not even originally from the film.” Junpei tried to
correct.

Satoru’s finger steadied, pointing harder. “You’re just proving me right more, you know that?”

Junpei didn’t find it in himself to answer that.

Either satisfied he’d won their non-debate, or oblivious to the fact there could have been an issue to
begin with, Satoru smiled right on through. “So, what kind of trouble was it? Classic bully-on-nerd
beatdown? Or are we talking more pigs-blood-at-the-prom kinda torment?”

Satoru paused, as if waiting for an answer. Junpei made a point not to give one. Satoru nodded to
himself. “Ah. I know. It’s the modern kind, then. Where they stop playing the middleman and just
tell you to kill yourself.”

The statement alone made Junpei straighten up his back. He didn’t say anything, and yet, that was
enough.

“Bingo,” Satoru nodded. “If Bingo stood for teen suicide, anyway.”

For everything else that had happened, Junpei didn’t have it in him to make up an excuse. The end
result was that he just stood there, at a loss, watching a complete stranger pace through the kitchen.

“Makes sense, really. It’s always school,” Satoru nodded to himself. “Put enough different parts of
society together, someone’s bound to make a grab to take power. One person lies, another one
believes them, and by the end of the semester, all you’ve got is war with a worse name.”

Some part of Junpei’s mind nipped at the rest of him, sending a shudder through his hand. He
remembered there was someone here he should be running from–and yet, he couldn’t think of
anywhere left to run.

“They got anything at this school, kid?” Satoru asked, “Some cultural festival, maybe? Football
game? I don’t care what it is, as long as it’s big. Can’t make a statement when no one’s round to
hear. ”

“I don’t think so, no…”

“Well, think, Yoshino! I’m trying to be cool about this. I don’t wanna force you to do something
you don’t want to do. C’mon! Level with me.”

Junpei should have known better than to look up. He did. It was a natural instinct, and yet, the
second he’d done it, he realized it was something to regret.

Satoru’s finger pinched at the strap of his goggles, pushing them back up. He looked through
Junpei through eyes so neon blue, they should never have been real at all.

“Look,” Satoru said. “I’ve gotta send you somewhere! Might as well be something you’d want to
take out.”

With how this man charged into his house, without warning, and with the undercurrent of a threat, a
stray possibility wandered into Junpei’s mind. Of all the things Junpei could have chosen to take
out, right now, the best something to take out was the curse user.

Junpei’s stare started to shift, observing his surroundings. An unfamiliar itch twinged at his neck, a
sense of foreboding looming. In the lower cabinet, just half an arm’s reach away, Junpei could feel
the cutlery drawer.

If this was on film, then, there were only two ways a scene like this could go. If Junpei were the
protagonist, then Satoru was probably the enemy. If Junpei wanted to survive, then, the only way
he’d make it would be by going through Satoru. A shiver ran the course of Junpei’s spine, lapping
through him. He tensed.

That second of hesitation was a second too much.

A cheshire worthy grin overtook Satoru’s lips, a brighter glint passing through the neon of his eyes.
“Oooh,” he jeered. “Wrong call.”

The accusation stabbed through like a spike. Junpei reached back, opening the drawer. He leaned
back, grabbing a knife.

The intention failed as soon as it had formed. In a single turn, Satoru twisted Junpei’s hand behind
his back, wrapped a leg between his own, and spun the both of them to the floor. Junpei flopped
into the linoleum, the shadow of a window frame streaking across his face as Satoru pinned him
down.

“Now, what gave you that idea?” Satoru asked, casual, as if this were the same conversation they’d
been having before. “Unless you’ve been hiding a watermelon from me, I don’t think that knife’s
about to help. Do you?”

It was a question that was never meant to have an answer.

Satoru pressed his knee into Junpei’s back, squishing him further. He swatted the knife from his
grip. The blade skid across the tile, clanking still against a grate under the sink.

“If you’re gonna cut something, we’ll cut this short,” Satoru told Junpei. “That work for you?”

A new wave of possibilities scrambled through Junpei’s mind. He meant to think of something.
Instead, he just felt the weight push deeper.

“Ow–” Junpei sputtered. He couldn’t quite see, yet, from the position of where things shifted, he
had a feeling Satoru had sat directly on top of him.

Satoru’s hand pressed against his head, pushing Junpei down lower. A burst of searing heat stung
over Junpei’s cheek. He winced, feeling Sukuna’s mouth reform. It bit towards Satoru’s hand.

“Well, that’s rude,” Satoru complained, sliding his hand slightly down. “Eat your own fingers!”

“Manners are for the weak.”

“Oh, are they? Then you should get some.”

“You, sorcerer, are calling me weak?”

“Well, yeah.” Satoru shrugged. “Though I’m starting to wonder if it’s better to call you dumb, first!
Kingship must not’ve come with a tutor.”

“You think you can insult me? Stupid sorcerer.”

“Oh, I know I can insult you. That’s not the point. Neither was the knife, by the way. Bad call.”

Trapped between the possible monster pinning him down, and the obvious one inside his own body,
Junpei couldn’t think of what to do. He stretched a hand across the ground, squirming for a grip he
couldn’t find.

“I told you. If you’d stop mouthing off, you might hear.” Satoru’s hand tapped Junpei’s cheek,
poking directly beside Sukuna’s newest mouth. “We’re all on the same side. So, chill.”

“You mean to let me roam free?”

“Yep,” Satoru smiled. “Why not?”

A mocking laugh spurted from the mouth that shouldn’t be. Junpei could feel the wrinkle of a sneer
pull his own mouth out of place.

“Then you’re even more of a fool than you seem! Delightful.”

“Well, we’ll see about that. Or, I will. You might not see so well without an eye.”

The conversation had kept cycling, turning in a way that Junpei was sure he shouldn’t have heard.
He pushed up, straining to move away from Satoru. It didn’t work.

“Hey,” Satoru looked down. “What’re you doing, down there?”

Junpei gasped. A new, sharp pain stabbed through his face as Sukuna smiled.

“If you really want to shake the brat,” Sukuna cackled. “...then threaten the mother.”

The last click of Junpei’s composure and fear let go. A sound that wasn’t quite a breath, or a gasp,
rushed through him as he spat out. “Shut up–!”

With all the force he had left, Junpei tried to squirm out. He had just managed to find something
resembling a grip when something strange flashed at the corner of his eye. A ghostly orange glow
engulfed Junpei’s hand. His palm seared into the linoleum, melting a handprint into the plastic.

The weight at Junpei’s back swayed. A hum of observation left Satoru as his shadow shifted places,
looking towards the distortion. “Threaten your mom? Really?” he clicked his tongue. “Geez, you’re
gonna make me a cliche.”

The anger swelled. With it, Junpei’s hand burned faster. For all the fire around it, his flesh wasn’t
burning. He didn’t notice.

“Then, don’t!” Junpei snapped, digging in for leverage. He burnt enough of a hole that his shoulder
began to slide. His eyes went wide, gaping in his panic. “Don’t hurt her–!”

Satoru kicked at Junpei’s hand, directly into the energy spot. Just as quickly as it formed, the flame-
like glow was stomped out.

“Interesting body you got there,” Satoru noted, casual as ever. “Less interesting trigger, being a
momma’’s boy.”

The flash of anger twisted with the fear, rendering Junpei still all over again. He knew what this
was like, being held beneath someone mocking him, who had all the power over him. And, like
always, Junpei couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“What are you, some store-brand Ozymandias? You’re the cliche–” Junpei spat, literally, towards
Satoru. “You’re not smart, you’re just entitled, right? Playing with lives like you’re above them?”

“Oh, keep going,” Satoru raised his foot, rocking back on his heel, so that the tip of his shoe was
dangling just over Junpei’s hand. “What, you think you know me? That it’s the Incredible Sulk’s
psychoanalysis hour?”

It had clearly been meant as an insult, yet Junpei snapped back “Yes!” He gasped, sharpy, to force
his thoughts in order. “You’ve never struggled, have you? Never met the real world. You’re an
overgrown child! Hell, all you’ve probably done for yourself is burst out of the right vagina–”

As he was shouting, the image of Satoru blurred in front of Junpei’s face. Before Junpei could do
so much as press back into the closest cabinet, or start to sit up at all, Satoru grabbed him by the
mouth, shutting it.

“And you don’t know half of what you think you do, yeah?” Satoru tilted his head, his casual smile
still intact. He tipped his head down, then pulled his goggles back in place with one hand. “At least
you’re feisty. Guess you do have a spark, huh, momma’s boy?”

As Satoru squeezed his mouth, Junpei squirmed across the floor. He tried to contort himself,
stretching for the handle of the knife. Satoru planted his other foot directly on top of the knife’s
handle, knocking it back.

“I wouldn’t do that, kid.”

Junpei tried, again, to open his mouth against Satoru’s grip. He stretched enough that he could take
a nod from Sukuna’s playbook and lick Satoru’s hand. Junpei had hoped, when he’d done it, that
the reflex to wipe it off would make Satoru let him go. It didn’t.

“Not that feisty,” Satoru said. “That’s pretty gross! Yuck.”

With a glint across his goggles that looked far more knowing than it should have, Satoru’s hand slid
down.

“Don’t spit on me, again,” Satoru mocked. “I ain’t into that. Or teenagers.”

There was no sensation left of Sukuna’s mouth on Junpei’s cheek. The word that burst out in frantic
anger was all his own. “Why?!”

“Why what?” Satoru pressed his thumb in, just enough to leave a mark. He gripped Junpei by the
chin, forcing his gaze. “Be specific, kid.”

“Why this?” Junpei's breath staggered, sharp. “What the fuck does this get you?”

“What, you think I’m going to monologue for you? I saw the Incredibles, too, Yoshino. Why’d you
think I don’t have a cape, either?”

The deflection meant that there was an answer, somewhere. Whatever it was, it wasn’t one Junpei
was going to get. Knowing, full well, that there was nothing else to gain, Junpei went quiet.
Sensing the same, Satoru turned his grip.

“Where’s this ceremony, then?” Satoru asked. “The school thing you won’t tell me about, but
clearly thought of. You might as well spill.”
“I won’t–” Junpei spat, struggling to keep that composure. “You can’t make me.”

“Fine,” Satoru shrugged. “Then I’ll go pick up your mom. She looked like more fun, anyway.”

“Stay away from my mom, damn it!”

“Or what? You’ll pout at me?”

The odd tingling that coursed through Junpei’s hand before trailed back into it. An energy that he
couldn’t place started to swell. His breath staggered, gaping back.

“Look, Yoshino. You can even keep one eye hidden, if you wanna.” Satoru let go of Junpei’s hair.
The black and pink strands both swayed as they settled, and Satoru leaned further in to whisper
against him. “I’ll get your mom, bring her back, and every horrible thing you can think that thing
inside you would do to her, he or I will let it happen. Or, you can get reasonable, and you can listen
to me. Got that?”

Junpei’s pulse raced in his ears, his blood flooding places Junpei wasn’t ready for it to swell. No
matter how much he hated this, Junpei still understood. Behind those tinted goggles, the same neon
eyes were still watching.

The words didn’t feel like his when they left.

“Tomorrow,” Junpei admitted. “The 20th. The end of term ceremony.”

“Well, would you listen to that?” Satoru’s hand stroked down. He patted it quickly on Junpei’s
cheek. “Guess you’re not that bad a spitfire after all! More like a dribble fire.”

Satoru kicked the knife out of the room entirely. Only after Satoru’s back had turned, and the
shadow of his presence seemed to loom over everything else, did he grab his cup of sugar and chug
the rest.

Junpei’s back pressed into the cabinets. He struggled to sit up against the counter. The weight of his
cell phone brushed through his pocket, the faint light from the portable battery still aglow.

Quickly and quietly, Junpei reached into his pocket, checking the screen. It was a number he didn’t
know.

Junpei wondered, in passing, if maybe his mom’s cell phone had died. Maybe, if he could call that
number back, that’s who Junpei could have warned. That, or maybe he would have heard a
stranger.

“Hey, if we’ve gotta wait all night, how about a movie?” Satoru asked, his head tilting over his
shoulder. The sound was enough for Junpei to drop the phone, gaping back.

“If you’re an action guy, I could go for John Wick. I haven’t seen the second one,” Satoru
suggested. Junpei wondered, fleetingly, if Satoru kept the goggles on, if he’d ever seen any movie
at all.

“It’s not as good,” Junpei dismissed, stuffing his composure and his phone away. “You can see the
increase in the budget, yet the contrivance in the plot to keep the story going just isn’t as strong.
His endgame doesn’t have the same catharsis over his loss, so it’s just–”
Junpei felt Satoru’s eyes, even if he couldn’t see them, as if the man turned away from the sink.

“--It’s not watching a man mourning love, anymore. It’s more–” Junpei swallowed, sensing the turn
in the air as Satoru finished facing him. He stopped.

“Go,” Satoru waved, beckoning him. “What’s the review? You’ve got more to say. Say it.”

Junpei’s hair rose on his neck. Somehow, he felt even more out of place now that he was sure
Sukuna had gone quiet. What, exactly, he was being watched for, Junpei wasn’t sure. All he knew
without question was that, despite having a curse in himself, this was the moment he felt trapped
with a monster.

“It’s a force of nature against the world,” Junpei whispered, each word more controlled than the
last. “...because one person manipulated the world into becoming its enemy. That’s not relatable,
anymore. No matter what happens, or what corner he’s backed into, on the run or not, John doesn’t
feel relatable, anymore. He’s something else. Cartoonishly superior, almost. Something past
human.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that for everyone. Sounds pretty relatable to me,” Satoru countered, his own
tone flippant as could be. “Just never got anyone to call me Baba Yaga.”

“Would you… want to be Baba Yaga?”

“Pft. Nah.” Satoru dismissed, flicking his wrist to mimic swatting the comment back. “I get enough
old lady comments with the hair.”

Junpei paused, uncertain what he could, or should, say. Anything that came to mind felt so out of
place, in the end, he was cut off before he made a choice at all.

“Movie night it is!” Satoru gleamed, ignoring the tension on purpose. “Hope you’ve got big PJs!
Otherwise, I’ll take your mom’s.” he joked. At least, Junpei hoped it was a joke. “I look good in a
nightie.”

The thought that Satoru would look best nowhere near Junpei’s house or his life came to mind. He
didn’t let himself say it, though.

“Uh…” Junpei uttered. He blinked. “I don’t think they’ll fit you.”

“Why? Are you saying I’m fat?”

“No–” Junpei stuttered. “No, I’m saying if you walked in here, you’d hit your head on the door.”

If there’d been any genuine offense on Satoru’s part, it faded out into an “ohhhh”. His childish
default smile set back into place. “Yeah, that’s chill! I’ll wear capris.”

Junpei’s hand twitched, still holding his phone.. For all the things he would’ve wanted to say to this
guy, he still sensed the outspoken threat. If he didn’t play nice, and go along with this plan, then it
didn’t matter if it sounded like a cliche. If this man was threatening his mom, he meant it.

Junpei’s eyes fell to his feet. He held tight, measuring his breath, as the quiet in his head echoed
with his pulse. He wondered to himself, in the hollow, helpless tension, if this was how it felt to
lose your soul.
Detroit Lyings
 Satoru Gojo

July 19, 2018

Tokyo Skytree, Sumida City, Tokyo

The echo of a kiss lingered over Gojo’s lips, a phantom pressure tracing him long after Suguru
pulled away. The only thing Gojo was less sure of than how that touch had started was when it
stopped.

“Suguru…?

Gojo covered his mouth. Between the glasses, wig and his own fingers, anyone else’s view of
Gojo’s face had been blocked to be nothing but the tip of his nose. Though the curl of his fingers
looked to anyone else like simple thinking, to Gojo, it was something else, too. As long as his hand
lingered there, it still felt a little like Suguru’s lips were still there.

“Suguru, what was that?” Gojo asked, trying, and failing, to play it off, “You miss on a hug,
there?”

The flow of cursed energy outlined Suguru’s body. Gojo saw him perfectly, the same way he saw
everything else, but more. A sudden spike of warmth swelled on Suguru’s face. He was blushing.

“Uh–” Yuji interjected, breaking the silence Gojo had meant to keep. “Gojo-sensei? Uh. That’s not
how people miss? I mean. You don’t hug mouths. So–”

A number of movies, and at least one scene from Naruto, would’ve argued that a kiss could be an
accident.. The time Gojo spent considering that gag, instead of watching Suguru, had been his
mistake.

“Hey–” Yuji spoke up, turning away, “What’s–”

“Bye, Toru,” Suguru called, rushing away.

Gojo’s hand stayed in place, wrapping tighter to him. He started to step forward, ready to follow.

“Bye?” Yuji asked. “Bye, why? You–”

For as well as his Six Eyes could see, somehow, Gojo hadn’t seen this coming.

Gojo tried to walk forward. The crowd wasn’t so thick that he hadn’t been able to try. He started,
and yet, the sense of deja vu slowed his step. Even through his sunglasses, Gojo could see the
moment that was more like Suguru Geto than anything else. At the instant when Gojo most
desperately wanted to know what Suguru was thinking, Suguru walked away.

“Sensei–!” Yuji shouted. By then. Gojo barely heard him at all. “I’ll be back! I– crap.”

Gojo plucked off his sunglasses. He squinted through the shine, adjusting to the light of the sun-
drenched corridor. Just as he had started to spot the skyline through the windows, Gojo saw
Suguru’s back turn the corner. Yuji vanished along with him.
Two minutes ago, his former best friend had just kissed him. And now, he was alone.

The blush on Gojo’s face waned. His showman’s smile faded away, leaving him without a trace of
one at all. The sense that his mouth had ever had a shape beyond the flat line it had drawn to now
left, too.

The bars across the windows cast square shadows on the observation deck floor. As he stared on,
watching the sun sway, Gojo heard a memory. He heard Geto.

“It’s just that in this world, I couldn’t truly be happy from the bottom of my heart,” he’d said. Gojo
wondered if that was still true.

“Suguru,” Gojo told himself, knowing full well that no one else was there to listen. “I won’t take
your last words, again.”

As the sentence left his mouth, a whistle sounded by the window. A pair of schoolgirls were eyeing
him up. As soon as Gojo spotted them, the shorter of the two clapped her hands over her mouth and
giggled.

“Woo!” the taller girl cheered. “You tell ‘em, gorgeous!”

Unable to help himself, Gojo winked back. “Thanks! You’ve got good taste.”

The taller schoolgirl crossed her arms beneath her chest. “Hey! If your Suguru doesn’t work out,
I’d give you my number! My last words could be your name.”

“Not the worst choice,” Gojo teased. “Great movie! Gotta love Shinkai.”

The schoolgirl raised an eyebrow, obviously confused by where her flirting had ended. In the time
that she had to spend wondering where the hell that had just derailed on her, Gojo darted quickly,
and smoothly, into the men’s bathroom to dodge her.

The bathroom door swung shut. Gojo pushed his sunglasses back over his face. He tipped his wig
as he brushed past the urinals, then hid inside a stall. He locked the door.

“Guess I can’t stay,” Gojo whispered to himself, catching his reflection in the metal. “Psh. Lying
low. Who does he think I am, Clark Kent? …Though I am super.”

All the talking to himself in the world didn’t give Gojo an answer. All he got back was his own
reflection, in a high-quality wig, stranded in a world with every sorcerer he could think of hunting
for him.

So, he thought.

At first listen, agreeing to avoid any sorcerer he could think of could have meant Gojo had to avoid
people. He considered that, and then, he looked closer at himself. If every sorcerer that Gojo could
think of was on the lookout, then, maybe the key was to think of someone who wasn’t a sorcerer.

“...Hm…” Gojo picked a strand of his wig, shifting a ragged curl. “...Guess a diagonal would
work? Haven’t gone that far in a while.”

Back in his universe, there was a list of people that Gojo could ask for help in a pinch, not that he’d
needed it often. That list was Shoko Ieiri, Utahime Iori, Masamichi Yaga, Kento Nanami, Kiyotaka
Ijichi, and Yuta Okkotsu. Obviously, they wouldn’t do, here.

There weren’t a lot of options for people Gojo knew that weren’t sorcerers, but that list wasn’t
completely empty. Some were students who’d chosen to leave Japan. Those, Gojo assumed, would
never have met him if he’d turned into a psycho, so, that whittled down the options to people he’d
met before teaching.

“Him,” Gojo told himself with a nod. “Touta, then.”

If every sorcerer Gojo could think of would be looking for him, like Suguru told him, then Gojo
needed to go to someone who wasn’t on the normal list. Gojo needed someone who wasn’t a
sorcerer. There were other options, but, of the ones with actual skill, the most likely to be useful
was still his angry, inferior cousin, Touta Maeda.

Where Kento Nanami had briefly quit sorcery, Touta had done it permanently. Before Gojo had
been born with the six eyes, the then-teenaged Touta had been chosen by the elders of the Gojo clan
to be their heir. The very day Satoru Gojo had been born, Touta had been demoted from future clan
head to an unglorified tutor. When Touta vanished from the clan, Gojo had simply assumed what
happened to Touta was the same thing that happened to most Infinity users without the Six Eyes–
that the use of Infinity drove Touta insane.

It was still possible that was true. In his own world, Gojo hadn’t spoken to Touta in at least six
years. Still, Gojo knew where he’d be, at least in his universe. It was found that Touta ran off to
America, where there was barely any sorcery to speak of at all, to live in exile.

“Well,” Gojo spoke to himself, facing his reflection with a grin. “Should be interesting! A lot of
corn syrup in my future, then.”

Gojo bent at his waist to check beneath the stall. He could see, now, that the shoes by the urinals
weren’t the same as when he’d walked in. That would do.

With a fold of his hands, Gojo closed his eyes. He felt the infinite space around him, and the flow
of his cursed energy against the void of everything else. The equation formed in Gojo’s head,
almost tangible in front of him. Gojo sensed where it was, and then, he forced through.

In the time it took to blink or snap, the fabric of space bent around Gojo. A pathway forged
between two points instantaneously, the form of the world folding to his will. A slight pull of
gravity nipped at Gojo’s feet. He landed softly on a carpet, leaving nothing but a small burn under
his heel, as the world snapped right back in place, leaving him at the other side.

Where, before, the world had been drenched in sunlight, it wasn’t. The moon hung in the sky,
obscured by the window. The scent of cleaner and urine cakes had been replaced with orange wood
polish. The living room plunged into darkness, not just from the night, but from the lack of cursed
energy.

From sheer habit, Gojo turned on the closest light. A clock ticked on the wall, its hands tipped up.

“Wild,” Gojo grinned. He started to take a step, only to feel his knee buckle under him. “Whoa–!”

Gojo grabbed the lamp, clinging to the pole. The light wobbled, barely catching him. He snapped
his head up, checking his surroundings for movement that wasn’t there.
“Geez!” Gojo complained. “Teleport lag! Geez.” Gojo pulled away from the lamp, then flicked the
side of it. “Always forget about that…”

Gojo ran his hands up through his wig, spiking the curls so far up, he revealed the white of his true
hairline under it. He looked out across the living room as he stripped it off completely.

“Heya, Touta!” Gojo shouted. His tone shifted into a song. “Oh, Touta! Olly olly oxen free!”

Gojo’s voice didn’t echo. It filled the space, then disappeared, leaving no other signs of anyone
around. Gojo sighed. “Tough crowd. Guess dust mites don’t laugh.”

Raking his hand through his actual hair, this time, Gojo walked across the first floor. He wandered
past the patch-covered couches in the living room towards the kitchen. The lack of cured vibrations
felt eerie.

“Touta!” Gojo shouted, one more time, knowing full well he wouldn’t hear anything back. “Guess
who came to visit! And guess who isn’t home! That’s rude of you,” he complained. “Now I’m
nothing but a cat burglar! And I didn’t even bring a tail!”

Whatever stupid complaint Gojo could’ve come up with next, he didn’t make it out loud. Instead,
he popped open the fridge. He grabbed a sub from the stack of leftovers, unwrapped the tinfoil, and
took a bite. The door swung shut in his face, papers fluttering on the door.

“Oh, Touta–” Gojo called through a mouth full of food. He didn’t get an answer, and he hadn’t
needed one.

A calendar on the side of the fridge shifted with the swing of the door. Gojo stuck his nose up to the
surface, reading.

Each date that had passed was crossed off with a pen. The ‘X’ marks on the calendar stopped on the
18th. It made sense, if Gojo considered where he’d traveled. In this part of the world, the time zone
meant it was still the previous day. More importantly, there was something written in English on the
day. “Nina’s Wedding”.

“A wedding?” Gojo repeated, figuring it out aloud. He dropped his stolen sandwich in offense.
“And Touta didn’t tell me? He–”

It wasn’t until the sub spilled on the floor, and Gojo got a clearer look at the fridge, that he noticed
the invitation–and remembered something else with an “ohhhh.

“Oh yeah,” Gojo picked up the invitation, reading the faint indents of the letters from the front.
“Twisty supervillain Gojo. No fun at parties.”

He turned the page over, then ran his thumb across the back. The date and time were listed.

“Well, at least that makes it easy. Thanks, calendar.”

Having had more than his fill of talking to himself, Gojo adjusted his stance one more time. He
folded his right hand, let his shoes steady on the tile, and counted down just how far he had to go.

Three.

Two.
There.

The energy in Gojo’s surroundings shifted. By the time his hand fell, there were dozens of people
nearby. The flow of cursed energy was dim, still–far more so than it had ever been in Japan–but it
was now there. He was around people, again.

Gojo had just started to piece that together when he felt something soft knock against his shield.

As the fluffy, long stems bounced off the limitless, Gojo outstretched his hand, bypassing the
block.

When Gojo felt the ribbon, he realized what he’d just caught. He raised the bouquet over his head
with a smile.

“Someone looking for this?” Gojo asked. He ignored the continued, high pitched shrieking and the
grabby gaggle of women he’d popped into in favor of looking up towards the bride. “This yours? I
could chuck it back, if you want.

The redheaded bride in her enormous white gown stared back at Gojo as if he’d just spoken a
different language. It wasn’t until Gojo saw that look that he had.

“Oh!” Gojo said. “I forgot. Not Japan.”

Gojo clapped his hands together, around the bouquet. He slid through the crowd of women who
literally couldn’t touch him, then stopped before the bride.. He held the bouquet back out to her and
spoke, slowly, in accented English. “Is. This. Yous?”

“Not anymore, no….” The bride blinked. Gojo held the stare. They faced each other until she
added “...You keep it.”

Gojo raised the bouquet towards his face, close enough that he could smell the flowers without
having tried to. He smiled broadly behind it. “Thank you!”

Sensing that the women behind him were somewhere between disappointed and at a complete loss,
Gojo walked away. He took half a step down from the dance floor, winding through the tables of
the banquet hall to spot what, and who, he truly needed here. He held the bouquet to his face as he
walked, hiding behind it on the way.

“Lilacs, huh?” Gojo pondered, taking a long, exaggerated sniff. “Good pick.”

He had just made it to the side of the banquet hall, along the head table, when Gojo heard Japanese
at his back.

“What are you doing here?” they sneered.

“Hey, onii-san,” Gojo waved, shaking the bouquet towards the group nearby. “This means I’m
getting married, next, right? I think I saw this in a movie.”

A bald, bearded middle-aged man with tattoos down his neck stared down from the head table. The
much meeker blonde man beside him started to turn, openly confused.

“You know this guy?” the person Gojo didn’t know asked towards the one he did.
The person Gojo did know didn’t move. All he said was “no.”

The name tags by each place setting gave Gojo a decent guess of who was where. He skimmed
what he sensed in front of him, including the name ‘Greg Harmon’, and switched back to English.

“Greg!” Gojo shouted, his fake enthusiasm sparking. “Just the guy I had to see!”

The complete stranger looked over, somehow even more confused. “Do I know you?”

“Nope! But Steve’s looking for you,” Gojo said with a nod. “You should go. He looked pretty
drunk! Think he needs a hand. And a bucket.”

“Oh,” Greg stood up from the table. He reached towards Gojo’s shoulder to pat it as he passed by.
“Thanks, man.” And with that, he walked off.

Gojo knew, as he’d looked to the side, that Greg hadn’t noticed his hand never touched Gojo’s
shoulder. The only person who had seen that was the tattooed bald man in a bow tie, glowering
away.

With the unwelcome company gone, Gojo walked back up to the table. He stuck the bouquet into a
glass vase, shifting the other flowers in the centerpiece aside to hold it.

“...I knew there’d be a Steve,” Gojo told him. “It’s America, right? There’s always gotta be a Steve,
here. Sometimes a Kyle, when you’re unlucky.”

“What are you doing here?” the voice Gojo knew asked, answering in Japanese. “You weren’t
invited.”

“True,” Gojo smirked, knowing it was accurate in ways that no one else here could know. “But you
know me. Where I shouldn’t be’s my favorite place. Next to Miyabian, or an Oreo factory..”

“Of course,” the bald man sneered. “My fault, for expecting you’d be anything but an egocentric
tyrant.”

“Yep! Yeah, that’s definitely your fault.”

Gojo kicked back into the open chair, flopping down into Greg’s open seat. Despite the fact that
they were sitting at the same height, Gojo could tell the man beside him was trying to look down on
him. His stare sank, deepening the bags under his eyes.

“Have you considered what would happen, if you came here?” Touta asked, cold. “I don’t want to
see you.”

“Then find a blindfold,” Gojo quipped. “I don’t need you to see. I need you to talk.”

Gojo propped his elbows against the table, perching himself at the edge. His thumb ran directly
over the petal of a lily in the bouquet. To anyone else, it looked like Gojo was touching the flower.
To him, he felt nothing.

The DJ in the next room changed the music. The rhythmic plops of footsteps changed as the Cupid
Shuffle started to play. Steps synchronized as the party guests stumbled through a drunken attempt
at the line dance.
“To look like that, at me, you must’ve heard about Kyoto, too,” Gojo guessed. “You’re pale, Touta.
You don’t look like you.”

“If you think I’d let it slide, coming near my children, I won’t,” Touta spoke into his hands. “They
aren’t sorcerers. They have no business with you.”

“You’re right,” Gojo agreed. “They’re not. Neither are you. And that’s why I’m here–because you
aren’t a sorcerer.”

Touta Maeda clutched his hands beneath the table. His head angled down. It was funny, in a twisted
way, just how this could have looked to anyone else. On the surface, someone built like Touta
looked like he belonged in a biker gang, or a paper towel commercial. Someone lithe like Gojo
should hardly have been able to threaten him, except, he could.

Touta raised his head, looking out across the crowd through his dark eyes. He watched a few faces,
specifically, honing in on the bride. She was bunching the skirt of her dress in either hand, hoisting
it enough that she could still dance, if clumsily.

“I don’t want to fight you, Satoru,” Touta said solemnly. “Not here. Not today”

“Well, obviously you wouldn’t. For one, you know you’d lose.” Gojo picked a petal from the
flower. He flicked it towards Touta’s face. “Think fast.”

As tense as Touta was, the thrown flower fragment didn’t make him flinch. The petal just floated
away, as if brushed off by a burst of wind that wasn’t there.

Gojo slid his chair across the floor, scooting closer. He leaned further across the table, his hands
folding under his chin. “I come here, into your house, on the day your daughter is to be married,
and I’m not even calling you Godfather. I’m… how would you put it… an insolent little punk, who
even sucks at sucking?”

Touta turned in his chair. Somehow, his bushy eyebrows found enough room on his face to furrow.
“Wrong. For one, this isn’t my house.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Gojo sighed. “It’s from a movie.”

“About the Sicilian mob. We’re not Sicilian,” Touta added. “I can refuse anything I want.”

“Oh, sure you can, Totes McGoats.” Gojo turned in his chair, one more time. “But I don’t think
you’re going to.”

Whatever intrigue Gojo was trying to build up, Touta wasn’t agreeing to it. Instead, he’d just kept
up the glare.

“How the hell did you find me, anyway?”

“Oh, that? I just told you.” Gojo rocked forward on the chair, tilting himself casually. “I went to
your house! Might want to hide your invitations. Kind of an easy guess, what with the reception
listed right on the fridge. Thanks for the sandwich, by the way. I’m starved.”

The flat look on Touta’s face turned a little more terse. He glowered. “I didn’t give you a damn
thing, Satoru.”
“Well, then–thanks for being easy to steal from.”

Before Touta could determine the right insult for that, Gojo spun his chair. He folded himself over
the back, nudging as close to Touta’s personal space as possible. Gojo had almost made it to the
point of directly bumping his nose into Touta’s beard when the invisible force of Touta’s own
barrier nudged Gojo back.

“Whoa,” Gojo raised one hand. He pushed against that space, forcing his way right up to the edge
of it. There was nothing anyone else could perceive, yet, to him, the distortion was clear. “So much
for ‘I’m not a sorcerer’. You’re still limitless-ing it up in here.”

“I’m done talking to you,” Touta dismissed, turning from him. “There’s no point in this, anymore.”

“Works for me. We’ll start a new chat, then! Hey, I’m Satoru Gojo. You’re Touta Maeda. Nice to
meet–”

“No.”

Touta stood up from his chair.

“No?” Gojo leaned across his chair. “You’re not Touta? Then what am I calling you onii-san for?”

There was an obvious retort, one that Gojo had wanted to bait Touta into saying. If he’d started
talking, to point out that Gojo hadn’t called him that before, they’d be right back to speaking.
Instead, Touta kicked in his chair.

As Touta shifted, Gojo braced against the table. He had just been about to push away from the table
when Touta reached back. The tattoos on Touta’s wrist shone under his shirt.

For a moment, Gojo considered the logical way to insist. He considered, and he swallowed it back
down, thinking over what he knew. In the brief flash of quiet, Gojo just watched him.

When Touta looked across the party, watching the clumsy, partially drunken steps of a line dance,
Touta didn’t look like what Gojo remembered. The bespectacled, by-the-book bore of a cousin was
gone. Where Gojo had expected he’d find Luke Skywalker at the end of The Force Awakens , what
he saw here was closer to Skywalker in The Last Jedi .

“Something’s wrong,” Gojo said, not fully realizing he’d even said it out loud. “You aren’t you.”

From the creases in Touta’s forehead to the lines beneath that beard, the aging wasn’t exclusively
one of stress and torment. In their own way, they looked more like marks of time. Most sorcerers
didn’t live long enough to get that way. Gojo saw the folds on his cousin’s face, and then, he saw
Touta say nothing at all.

The background noise came to the forefront, with glasses clinking until the bride and groom started
to kiss. Gojo kicked his legs under the table, turning back to Touta.

“Remember what you warned me about, right before you went all cuckoo banana pants and ditched
the clan?” Gojo asked, craning his neck towards Touta. “When you said the Infinite Void wasn’t
just a domain, it was an access point? Proof, to the tenth dimension, that there’s stuff to distort even
beyond the infinity and junk.”

Touta didn’t even turn towards him. All he did was watch the crowd, as if Gojo wasn’t there.
“Well, gold star to you, nerd. Turns out you’re right. There’s a whole other world out there, Touta.”
Gojo pulled the chair across the ground. He leaned against the back, standing against it as he
crouched into Touta’s personal space. “For one, I’m not your Satoru Gojo.”

That, not the theory, brought the first spark of life back into Touta’s eyes. He stared towards Gojo,
glaring. Gojo didn’t respond. He just watched. Within seconds, Touta leaned back. He folded his
arms across his chest, pretending not to hear once more.

A freckled girl with frizzy hair was grabbing beneath the bride’s skirt. A shoe flew out towards the
sideline. A boy with matching red curls snatched it from midair, then ran out to join the spat.

“Looks fun,” Gojo noted. “The life you’ve got here.”

Touta scoffed. “I know.”

“That they’re fun?” Gojo interjected. “I’d hope so. They’re your kids.”

“That you’re not that Satoru,” Touta corrected. “He’d know not to say."

“Huh. That’s the first positive thing I’ve heard about him! I mean, most people skip right to the
genocide. Not that I’m crazy about the genocide, either.”

“Your atomic composition has another frequency, also,” Touta went on, ignoring Gojo completely.
“Your cursed energy isn’t just wrong, it’s incorrect, too.”

“Oh, boy!” Gojo swayed in, still grinning. “Guess I just can’t surprise you, can I?”

Gojo’s barrier bumped against Touta’s, allowing him to slouch by his cousin without either of them
having to actively touch. Without budging his body, Touta pushed back. The extra energy against
Gojo’s own made him sit upright.

Had his sunglasses not been in the way, a spark of mischief would’ve passed through Gojo’s eyes,
too. He copied the move, and then some, forcing Touta’s chair to push back, too.

Just as Touta was backing away, Gojo raised his fingers. He popped away from the chair across the
room, then reappeared almost instantly with a slice of wedding cake.

“What?” Gojo asked, feigning innocence as Touta glared at him. Gojo shrugged. “Free cake.”

“That I paid for.”

“Fine,” Gojo shrugged. “Free to me.”

Gojo raised his fork, moving in to scoop up a bite. He had just been about to touch it when Touta’s
hand hit the plate on the other side. The fork Gojo had been plunging in kept moving, yet, it slowed
across the surface, never quite reaching the frosting.

“Touta!,” Gojo pulled the fork back, pouting at him. Touta’s forehead creased. ‘Let up! That’s not
fair.”

“If you’re telling the truth, the cake doesn’t matter.”

“No, cake’s always matter. Everything’s matter.”

While Touta was busy trying to find a new and improved way to judgmentally stare, Gojo plunged
his fork into the cake. He pulled the entire piece off the plate, impaling the fork through the center.
He took a bite, only to snap up when Touta slapped the plate against the table.

“Satoru!”

Gojo fell back in his seat. He held his other hand around the cake, blocking it from the spit that just
flew out of Touta’s mouth.

“You know what imbalance even one inheritor of the Six Eyes can cause,” Touta snapped at him.
“To have more than one of you, forging distortions–”

“--Could break dimensions, yeah,” Gojo agreed. “That’s why I’m here. Get some help and all.”

“And it’s why you can’t be shrinking spaces to get goddamn cake!”

“I don’t think God would damn a cake,” Gojo quipped. “Pretty sure they don’t have souls.”

“Stop being a smart ass!”

Gojo tried not to laugh as the next comeback rose up. “What, you think I need a himbo butt, now?”
he asked, “You’re racist against ass based IQ?”

“Will you shut up? Ass isn’t a race, it’s you.”

Touta tried to pinch the fork at the bottom of Gojo’s hand. Gojo pulled his hand up, bringing the
cake away from them both, where Touta couldn’t reach. The movement was so fast, Touta had no
time to stand up to make up the height difference.

The cake slice fell off the fork. It flopped, sideways, straight over Touta’s head. A glob of frosting
and fruit filling slid down the side of his bare scalp.

Gojo held the empty fork over his head, signaling innocence. “Not me! Gravity! All gravity.”

Touta sat there, glaring, as a drop of raspberry cake filling ran through the wrinkles of his forehead.
His bushy eyebrows creased, his glower deepening. Gojo put down the fork.

“So…” Gojo stalled. “You gonna eat that?”

Touta grabbed a napkin off the table. He wiped the front of his face with the cloth, getting as much
off as he could. He didn’t answer.

“You missed a spot,” Gojo deadpanned. “Unless that’s a new toupee.”

Touta chucked the cake-coated napkin back across Gojo’s plate. It wasn’t until it let out a satisfying
splat that he grumbled back at him. “If you’re serious, how the hell did you get here?”

There were times, and places, in which Gojo knew he should’ve been serious. This was one of
them enough that he’d answered, in complete and utter sincerity, “I got locked in a box realm of
enchanted skeleton men.”

Of every answer that Gojo had given, that was the one which made Touta stop glaring. “You were
in prison realm?”
“Mhm. That’s the one.”

“How? I thought that was under Tengen’s protection.”

“It was,” said Gojo, “There’s two. Someone snatched the other side.”

“Who?”

“Some body snatcher.” Gojo shrugged. “Dunno the guy. Steals faces, though. Powers, too.”

As unhelpful as that answer could’ve been, Gojo didn’t give Touta time to think about it. He
lowered his hand, turning his fork in front of himself.

“I don’t recommend it, really–the prison realm getaway. Everyone’s just bones and bones. Really
gives a guy body image issues,” Gojo explained, “Was pretty glad for the prison realm break,
really, until I was on the way out. Then things kinda… eh. Bada bing, boom and boom, zapped me
here.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

“I would, if I knew more than that. I don’t. That’s all I’ve got, I swear.”

Touta set his hands firmly on the table. He pressed down enough to keep the table from moving,
even when Gojo was.

“If you don’t know, then guess,” Touta prompted. “What do you think happened?”

The music in the distance changed. Gojo kicked his legs under the table, his posture swaying with
the new rhythm. “Ooh, good song.” The distraction, and the kick, let him think. He swayed into his
hands.

“I think something disabled my powers,” Gojo guessed. “Broke Prison Realm, and the limitless,
too, if just for a second.” Gojo kicked his legs out, still thinking. “And I think it wasn’t a thing. I
think it was a person. Silver eyes, bandaged legs, and pigtails half the size of her head. You ever
heard of someone like that?”

“No.”

The crowd in the distance shifted, more people heading towards the dance floor. Though Gojo
could feel the sway pulse through the ground, he knew Touta hadn’t moved. His cousin kept facing
forward, like he was searching for something in the crowd that would never be there.

“You think she created a paradox,” Touta said, not as a question, but as an understanding.

“Yeah, you got it.” Gojo folded his hands in front of himself, the handle of his fork folding between
his fingers. “I knew we were related. Still the smart one, though.”

The attempt at an insult went ignored.

“If that’s true, how would finding her even help?” Touta asked. “Even if you replicate conditions,
there are infinite universes. Unless you were to access the ninth or tenth dimension to pinpoint your
own, triggered the paradox from inside the anomaly, and still kept track of where you had to land,
the probability of returning to the exact point you left from is infinitesimal.”
It was a fair point, and one with a very simple answer. All Gojo bothered to do, then, was smile.

“What, like that’s hard?”

“Don’t get cocky,” Touta warned. “If you’re right, that’s insane.”

“If you’re right, then we’re both right. You, with your theories, and me, because I’m Satoru Gojo.
Who better to find the limit of infinity?”

The interruption was met with the blankest stare imaginable. Touta shook his head. He scratched
through his beard, picking out a last bit of frosting. Gojo’s head angled down.

“Or, better yet…” Gojo leered back. “Find Infinity, and beyond?”

For a fraction of a second, Touta’s seriousness shifted. He seemed to look not in horror, but in silent
criticism that Gojo had said that at all. He huffed.

“If you’re right, then, we’re in a state of reality that isn’t supposed to exist. If there are two wielders
of the Six Eyes in the same dimension, the number of temporal disruptions either of you could
cause goes up exponentially–not to mention the power imbalance of that much cursed energy in
existence at all,” Touta reasoned. “One of you caused the emergence of dozens of special grades.
That’s not even considering what happens if you inadvertently cross each other’s techniques.”

“Which is… bad?” Gojo guessed, trying to scoff it off. Touta closed his eyes.

“Yeah, snowball. It’s bad.”

“Like, you mean, meeting yourself when you travel back in time bad, or–”

Touta flicked the frosting towards Gojo’s face. The infinity allowed the globb to bounce right off
Gojo, rebounding right where it had been flicked from. Touta blocked the frosting ball just short of
him, too. It hit the invisible barrier, then fell to the tablecloth.

Gojo looked down at the frosting. “Hey. I would’ve eaten that.”

Despite his obvious frustration, or perhaps because of it, Touta turned away. His arms crossed as he
leaned forward at the table, watching the dance floor from a distance. The youngest of Touta’s kids
pulled at the bride’s veil while the bride tried to snatch it back. The failure to chase them off just
made the younger girl let go, releasing the veil straight into the bride’s face.

“That’s all the more reason to help me, you know,” Gojo reasoned, his words slowing at the sight.
“It won’t matter if they're not sorcerers. This goes wrong, it goes wrong everywhere.”

What should have been a fond sight didn’t look that way. When Gojo turned to check on his cousin,
Touta wasn’t grumbling, or smiling. All Touta looked like, now, was a man resigned to war.

“It’s already wrong,” Touta whispered. “You’re here.”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Gojo’s hands folded under his chin. He swayed forward in his seat. “So,
you’ll look for the girl?”

“It’s not enough to go on. You know it.”

“But, you’ll look.”

“If all you’ve got is gray eyes and a curse technique I’ve never heard a person have, it’s a lost
cause.” Touta rocked back into his seat, pulling into the exact opposite stance that Gojo was in.
“What about cursed tools? Can any of them nullify the technique?”

“Hm…” Gojo tapped his thumb on his cheek, considering. “Well, the inverted spear’s gotta be
gone. There might be a Black Rope, in Africa, that nullifies curse techniques. I mean, what
destroyed it back where I came from wouldn’t have happened over here, so… maybe you could try
to find that?”

“...You think an entire continent counts as specific? It doesn’t.”

“Well, it’s that or pigtail girl. Unless you’ve got a nullification technique hiding in your beard,
that’s all I’ve got.”

Touta’s hand pressed over his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose over the bend in it. “What
you need’s a miracle.”

“I am a miracle,” Gojo corrected. “What I need’s more cake.”

Touta groaned. It didn’t include a specific insult, but Gojo could imagine plenty. He ignored them,
then watched the crowd. A cluster of off-key voices started singing over the speakers, shouting
along to the chorus of a Backstreet Boys song without a care in the world.

This, Gojo thought, was what the true gift of not having power had to be. Every helpless,
insignificant face in the distance, didn’t need to worry about the talk at this table. It wasn’t that
non-sorcerers didn’t matter–it was that they’d been given the gift of not carrying the weight at all.

As Gojo was watching, he heard a chair skid. He didn’t turn his head, yet, he’d known Touta was
walking away.

“Where’re you going?” Gojo asked, craning to look. His cousin’s hand steaded at the back of
Gojo’s chair, but didn’t move him.

“To get cake,” Touta grumbled. “Until we know where your doppelganger is, you have to stop
poofing everywhere.”

“Oh, you know me. The eternal poofer,” Gojo dismissed. He only made it that far into the thought
before Touta pushed Gojo’s chair back into the table. Gojo stopped himself along the edge, his
stomach bouncing off the surface.

“Stay here,” Touta told him sternly. “Don’t talk to my kids.”

“Why–”

The temptation to argue flickered out when Touta left. Gojo cupped his hands to his mouth. He
shouted at his back. “Get one with a flower!” Gojo called. “I like the frosting! It’s good for
throwing at your face.”

Touta answered by flipping the bird over his shoulder, still walking away.
Gojo kicked his legs under the table. He draped himself across the surface, watching on. Had there
been any urgency, it stopped when an older red-headed woman in a green dress pulled Touta to the
side. Within seconds, her arms had draped around his shoulders, and her head into his collar. From
the matching rings, to the sway of their dance, Gojo assumed she was Touta’s wife.

“Seems nice,” Gojo mumbled, knowing no one was close enough to hear. “Normal.”

The music continued, setting the rhythm for each couple’s dance. A circle started to form. The
bride and the groom stood side-by-side, clapping along as the youngest of Touta’s kids dragged the
other one to dance with her. She forced him into a dramatic, ballerina spin that didn’t match the
music at all, then laughed as she smacked his shoulder, knocking him into a stumble. He pushed
back, only for her to sway like it was part of the dance in the first place. To her, it was.

The more Gojo let himself feel the party, the more he knew he wasn’t a part of it. This reception
wasn’t just foreign because of the country, or the dimension it was in. This reception was foreign
because of what this stood for.

From the day he’d been born, Satoru Gojo’s life in the Jujutsu world had been chosen for him. The
most he’d been able to dream for was dismantling the forces that put him there. For everything that
someone like Touta must have thought was taken from him, in the end, Touta had gotten here.

Watching the crowd, and having no place in it, Gojo reached across the table. He pulled the vase
holding the bride’s bouquet back towards him and plucked a petal from the bloom.

For all the things Gojo should have pictured, now, all he’d been left to do was wander in a fantasy
he never should’ve had. If Suguru Geto had talked to Gojo when they were still students–if they’d
left the Jujutsu world together, and cast it all behind–was it possible that it could’ve built a life like
the one Gojo saw here? Could their children have shoved each other around dance floors,
untouched by curses at all?

Gojo turned the petal across his lips, holding the softness there while no one else was watching. If
there were a million versions of the world, then, maybe somewhere, there was a world where he
and Geto had both been happy.

He would’ve liked to be there.

 Thursday to Friday

Suguru Geto

July 19, 2018

Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College

The door clicked behind Yuji, the last bit of light vanishing around the door. For this to go as
discussed, Suguru had to at least pretend to trust Tsukumo with Yuji Itadori. Pretending and doing,
however, were very different things.

Suguru stood at attention, watching the door. Mochi stood at his side. Her bright blue eyes locked
in on him. From the eager wiggle through her tail to the bounce on her front paws, Suguru could
tell she was ready to start barking.

Suguru raised a finger to his mouth with a “shh–”. Mochi rocked back, her paws firming on the
ground. Her tail stilled as she stood at attention beside him, waiting.
With a quick breath out, Suguru outstretched his hand, releasing a consumed curse. A spirit which
resembled a misshapen chameleon with eyes along its back coiled to Suguru’s finger.

“Keep an eye inside,” Suguru whispered to the curse. “If the boy is in danger, alert me. True
danger, not her test. I’ll trust you know the difference.

The beady, pinpoint eyes along the chameleon curse’s back blinked one by one, like a wave from
its head to its tail. The creature’s tail curled at the tip, snuggling against itself. Suguru lowered
himself in a partial bow. His hand brushed the ground by the front step.

“Go,” Suguru commanded.

Immediately, the surveillance curse scurried for the door. The colors on its back blended into the
wooden staircase. Within seconds, had Suguru not been feeling for the spirit’s cursed energy, he
wouldn’t have sensed the curse at all.

Suguru hunched over, pointing two fingers to his temple while his thumb pressed to his chin,
synchronizing. With the wall in the way, he couldn’t see inside, but this would have to be good
enough. He backed away from the door.

The midday shadows cast imprints of leaves across his face as he neared the forest. Mochi’s nose
prodded his hand, nudging and nuzzling him.

“No, Mochi,” Suguru reached for Mochi’s head, pushing her down. Mochi turned, angling herself
in such a way that Suguru couldn’t quite reach her. She barked softly, only for Suguru to pet right
over her nose and tell her “No chasing curses today.”

If there was anyone who doubted that a dog could understand human language, Suguru wondered if
they’d change their minds if they’d met Mochi. The instant he’d told her no, Mochi started pouting.
The quintessential example of puppy dog eyes stared up at him, begging.

Knowing full well how this was going to go, Suguru stopped. He crouched down beside a tree,
enough so that he could rest at eye level. Mochi trotted up towards Suguru, a new, hopeful spring in
her paws.

Suguru reached into his pocket. He held a dog treat flat in his palm. “Here,” he said. “Good girl.”

Mochi bowed her head to take the treat from his hand. Suguru ruffled behind her ear, petting her.

The summer air hung humid, cicadas chirping through the trees. Suguru leaned back into the tree
trunk. He wrapped his arms around Mochi, petting her as he focused on what he could see. He
couldn’t see through the chameleon curse’s eye, but he could still get a sense for what it was
watching.

Mochi’s tail swayed behind the rest of her, thwacking fluff to scatter by Suguru’s thigh. He
wrapped his hands tighter, only for Mochi to tilt her head down. Her snout nuzzled into his sleeve.

Suguru exhaled like a sigh. “You want to play, girl?” he asked, knowing full well how she’d
answer.

Mochi’s ears perked up. She barked excitedly, her tail flinging about. Stray hairs shed through the
air.
Suguru unwrapped himself from Mochi, releasing her from the hug. He stretched an arm into the
air, releasing a curse sphere without changing its form. If Mochi hadn’t been paying attention
before, she was now. Her stare transfixed on the curse sphere, the black ball swirling.

“You want the ball, don’t you, Mochi?” Suguru asked. Mochi barked back. “Then, fetch.”

With a forceful, high throw, Suguru chucked the curse sphere between the trees. He watched the arc
fly, and his dog took off with it. He brushed the dog hair off his pants as she chased away.

There was no signal from the room. Whatever was happening, the scouting curse thought Yuji was
okay. Trusting that judgment, there’d been nothing left to do but wait and, apparently, play.

Mochi ran back and forth, retrieving the curse sphere. By the third throw, Suguru had to wipe the
dog slobber off on the grass. He could hear the curse let out a sort of shrieking squawk in protest.
He tickled the side of it, calming whatever personality was left in it while Mochi sat in front of him,
waiting eagerly.

Suguru tossed the ball once more. As the curse left his hand, he heard a ding from his pocket.

“Hm?”

A vibration passed across Suguru’s thigh as another chime sounded. He reached into his pants, then
took out his phone. The screen lit up with the name of an account he didn’t know.

Suguru took a knee to the ground and held out his hand, reabsorbing the curse sphere when Mochi
brought it back. Mochi sat down at Suguru’s feet, covering them with her paws as he answered the
video call.

“Suguru!” Gojo’s all-too-familiar, even more enthusiastic voice called back from the other side of
the screen. He flashed a peace sign in front of the camera. “Greetings from the past! I’m in
Thursday, again! How’s it in TGIF?”

Whoever it was that Suguru could have been expecting, it shouldn’t have been anyone else.

“Satoru,” Suguru said, less like a greeting than a warning, “what are you talking about.”

Gojo craned his neck away from the phone to speak over his shoulder. “Why’d you let her throw a
wedding on a Thursday, anyway?! You’ve gotta do this when people can come! Weekday weddings
are totally wack.”

Whoever Gojo was speaking to, they didn’t answer with more than a groan. Suguru shook his head,
coming to even more of a loss than before.

“Do people still say wack, where you come from, Satoru?” asked Suguru, “...That’s not normal,
here.”

“Well, that’s lame! Next you’re gonna tell me ‘radical’ is just for politics.”

“...How did you even get this account? I didn’t give you my LINE.”

“That’s easy! You had the same account ID!” Gojo grinned. “Thank dimensions that didn’t change.
Otherwise, you’d miss my pretty face, wouldn’t ya?”
Suguru did his absolute best to keep a straight face as he said “Never.” It was about as successful
an attempt at being straight as the rest of this converation.

“Ah! I get it!” Gojo grinned. “You’ve already got screenshots of me on your phone. Good call.
Really minimizing the risk of missing me, there. ”

“No,” Suguru corrected, “I’m saying you don’t give me a chance to miss you. You’re around all the
time.”

“Well, isn’t that nice of me! If I were you, I think I’d thank me.”

“If I were you, Satoru, I’d stop bouncing the phone. The lens isn’t focusing.”

“Spoken like someone who totally doesn’t care about seeing this face,” Gojo teased.

“Spoken like someone with common sense,” Suguru corrected.

“Eh. That’s overrated. Only lameos do common sense. Uncommon sense’s where it’s at, anyway.”

Knowing full well that if Suguru tried to get in the last word that Gojo would just keep going,
Suguru let the point go. He leaned back against the tree and adjusted his hold on the phone, settling
into a more comfortable pose. Within seconds, Mochi had crawled halfway up his lap, cozying in,
too.

“What is this about, anyway?” Suguru asked. “You can’t just call me on campus. If someone
walked up and saw you, we could both get in trouble.”

“It’s about me being back in Thursday! Isn’t that cool? I called the future.”

“That’s not how phones work, Satoru. They aren’t time-traveling.”

“Says you,” Gojo huffed. “I could totally have a cursed phone.”

“I know cursed phones,” Suguru counted. “Nanako has one. You don’t.”

The background behind Gojo, if Suguru could even call it one, started to blur again from Gojo’s
erratic movement. Suguru pulled his phone back, distancing himself from the screen. Gojo tilted to
one side of the frame, allowing the room he was in to come into focus, too. A row of chairs was
pressed against the windows to a rather extravagant dining hall. The pixels were blurry, yet, in the
back of that frame, Suguru could spot a quarter of the moon.

As Suguru’s expression somehow found further to fall in exasperation, Suguru brought himself to
ask “what time zone are you in, exactly?”

The question made the camera, and Gojo, stop shifting. His free hand scratched at the back of his
neck, his head tilting to imply the stare Suguru couldn’t see had angled down.

“Don’t know,” Gojo admitted. “America Zone?”

“EDT,” someone Suguru had never heard interjected.

“...Thank you,” Suguru answered flatly. “Good to meet someone who can answer a question.”
The “hey!” that followed from Gojo had an obvious tone of offense. It was immediately followed
with a “hey, wait, you don’t know each other? How’d that not happen?”

Suguru raised his hand to Mochi’s head, petting her as he spoke. “Well, I suppose it started when he
and I never met.”

“Smartass.” Gojo scoffed. “Can’t believe you hog our last brain cell for your butt.”

“When did you ever have a brain cell, Satoru?”

“Can’t say. I’d know if you gave it back, butt brain.”

“...Satoru. The insult is butt-head. No one says butt brain. …Except you, apparently.”

Gojo rolled his eyes. He turned the camera, having chosen to win the debate by ignoring it.

“Touta, Suguru. Suguru, Touta” Gojo pointed between the screen and the guy beside him. “My way
less attractive cousin. Could still be a DILF, though, if you’re into yakuza.”

The near-stranger’s massive eyebrows flattened into straight, fluffy lines. “Would you stop
talking?”

“And deprive the world of humor? Never,” said Gojo.

“Never. He wouldn’t be capable of that,” said Suguru, his words overlapping Gojo’s.

“See? He gets it.” Gojo pointed at the screen, then nudged Touta’s shoulder so he would look, to
Suguru, too.

“Anyway…” Gojo continued. “Toto here and I are in America, and apparently I’ve gotta take the
long way back to Friday, so, if you can do ‘em, I’ll need a favor.”

Knowing there was no point in guessing, Suguru just nodded and waited for the unexpected.

“I need you to check Tengen’s vault for me,” said Gojo. “To look for prison realm, and a
nullification tool. Any cursed tool at all that seals cursed energy, too, if you’ve got them. That
combo’s what made me switch dimensions. With the right stuff, ball-head and I might manage to
replicate the conditions and get me out of your hair.”

There was enough anticipation that before Gojo had made a comment at all, Touta glowered over.
“Don’t. It’s not funny.”

“--Well, your hair,” Gojo said, talking over Touta. “Not his, obviously. Can’t get out of his when his
already got outta him.”

When his pulse had settled, and Suguru could hear his thoughts clearly form again, he found a non-
answer, flat and simple. “Satoru. We don’t have nullification tools. If we did, the higher-ups
would’ve already commandeered them.”

He hadn’t looked in the vault, yet, Suguru was absolutely certain that was the truth. Anything with
that power would have already been taken away, with the intention that it would be used on this
universe’s version of exactly who he was talking to, now.
“Then, prison realm, at least?” Gojo continued. “It’s this little box, kind of discolored, looks like
someone got a little outta hand with the googly eyes, except without the googly–”

“It doesn’t matter what it looks like, Satoru,” Sugurut told him. “The vault is under higher scrutiny
than the rest of the school. I wouldn’t have permission to use curses to scout, there.”

“Then don’t use a curse,” Gojo told him. “Go in yourself.”

“That’s–”

Suguru’s first instinct was to tell Gojo why he couldn’t do that. Before Suguru could will himself to
stop gaping, Gojo spoke over him.

“Don’t say you can’t, either. You’ll think of something. You’re you.”

It was such a flimsy reason, it hardly should’ve qualified as a reason at all. For as fragile to non-
existent as such a reason could be, and as much as Suguru wanted to call it a lie, he knew Gojo
didn’t think so.

“Fine,” Suguru relented, resigning himself. “If it’s what you need to get home, I’ll try.”

Suguru hadn’t meant for the words to sound hollow. The last thing he wanted, anymore, was to let
his walls down enough that Gojo could hear the truth.

The last thing Suguru wanted flared in Gojo’s eyes. He turned from the camera.

“Touta,” Gojo called, looking offscreen. “Hold some horses. I’ll be back in a second.”

The “don’t, and that’s not the saying,” that Touta answered with was sharp and blunt as a stone
arrow. Gojo ignored both points.

“Totally coming back,” Gojo denied. “Just gotta deal with something.”

It occurred to Suguru, as he watched the screen, that he didn’t have to let this go on. At any
moment of this conversation, Suguru could have hung up the phone. He could have, and yet, he
wouldn’t.

Mochi stretched across Suguru’s lap, one of her ears flopping against his leg. “Good girl,” Suguru
whispered, stroking her head. “We don’t have to talk now, do we?”

Somehow, when Suguru let those words leave his mouth, he’d already known someone else would
cut in.

“Why wouldn’t you want to talk to me?” Gojo asked, “Because I’d know something’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Satoru,” Suguru lied, “You don’t have to be polite and ask. Manners aren’t your
strong suit. Don’t start now.”

“Oh, I won’t. I’m not being polite,” said Gojo, “I’m calling you out. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Satoru,” Suguru lied again.

“Suguru. With no due respect, you couldn’t be a worse liar if you sprouted a wooden nose and
found a curse to be your conscience.”

As striking as that mental image was, Suguru chose to ignore it.

“Nothing’s wrong, Satoru,” Suguru repeated, trying to convince himself, too. “Except that you’re
here.”

For the first time that chat, Gojo didn’t immediately talk back to Suguru. Suguru let his head fall,
stroking Mochi’s head instead of watching the screen. The lock of his bangs swayed over his
forehead, his own hand slowing as Suguru’s understanding kept catching up.

The silence settled, so insistent, it was up to Suguru to break it.

“You can’t be here, Satoru.”

“You know, when I ask for help, you’re allowed to say no.”

“You need it,” Suguru said simply. “You asked for help.”

“That I asked doesn’t mean you have to,” Gojo insisted, “You can do and not do whatever you
want. This isn’t your problem.”

Suguru huffed, his patience waning–not just because he’d had this argument before, but because he
knew he would never believe it could be an argument.

“Of course there are things I have to do,” said Suguru. “All I’ve got left are things I have to do.”

“Yeah, right,” Gojo said sarcastically.

“Yes, right,” Suguru sighed, genuinely.

Suguru could tell Gojo didn’t believe him simply from how he chose to breathe before asking,
impatient and snapping. “Well, then, why did you have to kiss me?”

Suguru’s hand stopped. Mochi looked up, her blue eyes blinking as she tried to figure out why in
the world Suguru stopped petting her. Suguru’s hand hung in mid-air, his thoughts frozen.

If he hadn’t considered hanging up before this moment, Suguru would have started now. Suguru
was fairly sure he would have, had he any will left to bother. The closest Suguru could come was
lowering his head.

“It doesn’t matter.I apologize for what I did before, if I crossed a line. That was… presumptuous of
me.” Suguru lowered his head further, until he wasn’t watching the screen at all. “I don’t even
know you.”

“See, that’s funny,” Gojo argued, “Because I know you.”

That, Suguru thought, shouldn’t have been possible. Unless this was still some grand joke, then he
and this Gojo were literally from different versions of the universe. It wasn’t just that they didn’t
know each other, Suguru thought to himself. If something wasn’t severely broken, then he and this
version of this man should never have known that each other existed.
“I’ll do what you need. Don’t worry about that,” Suguru dismissed, “Goodbye, Satoru. See you.”

“No, you won’t,” Gojo denied. “I’ll keep the blindfold on. Then you can’t see boo.”

“Goodbye, Satoru,” Suguru repeated. His thumb raised towards the end call button.

Just as he might have brushed it, Gojo shouted out “wait!”

Even without looking, Suguru was sure that Gojo was pressed right against the cell phone screen.
Suguru didn’t raise his head to check. He just knew what kind of pleading look would be locked on
his face as he spoke up.

“One question,” Gojo insisted. “Then I’ll stop.”

“Can it wait?”

Gojo shook his head no. “Oh, for sure it could,” he said, still shaking his head in deliberate
contradiction. “Should it? Not really.”

Knowing Gojo, Suguru immediately pictured Gojo forming a loophole. It felt in reason for him to
try something like making a bunch of statements that passed for questions, and then only truly
asking a question half an hour from now.

“Then go,” Suguru said, relenting. He looked up. “Ask it. If you pull anything cute, then, it’s off.”

“Whoa,” Gojo shook his head again. “Rough. You know me. I play cute all the time.”

“You play yourself all the time,” Suguru relented. He stopped shaking, or fidgeting, to stare straight
on through his phone to Gojo. “One more sentence. Ask it now, or go. I don’t have time.”

Suguru didn’t know how much he might regret phrasing it that way. Of all the things that he
expected to see on the other side of his LINE call, Satoru Gojo’s genuine concern hadn’t been one.
The way that his bright blue eyes stared Suguru down, watching from the other side, was almost
calming.

It was calming until Suguru heard the question.

“Suguru,” Gojo whispered, in true seriousness, “Have you ever been happy?”

There was no good way to justify how Suguru’s breath stopped. There was barely even a bad way
to explain. The best Suguru could think of to do at all was blink and deflect.

“What kind of a question is that? …But, yes. I’ve been happy.”

Suguru had barely finished speaking when Satoru asked him “when?”

The answer in Suguru’s mind was immediate. It was also one that he couldn’t bring himself to say.

With you .

“No answer?” Gojo asked, talking over Suguru’s thoughts. “Figured.”

Suguru didn’t correct him. The lock of Suguru’s bangs swayed across his forehead, hiding the
creases in his skin.

“Remember when I said your last words sucked?” Gojo leaned in, invading the silence. “The you
from my world, not this you, obviously.”

Suguru’s expression fell, trying to look stern. He made it as far as a “no,” before Gojo talked over
him again.

“He said, he didn’t hate the people from the Jujutsu world, but that, from the bottom of his heart,
he’d never been happy. That’s what he told me.”

“Why does that matter?” Suguru asked back, forcing his expression to be just as severe. “I’m not
that Geto.”

“But, you are Suguru.”

It was an easy statement to deny. Suguru willed himself to list all of the reasons in which he was
obviously not the same person as the Suguru Geto that this Gojo knew first. Suguru considered it,
and yet, he couldn’t get himself to say so.

“You’re shouldering everything, for everyone else,” Gojo said, his voice drowning Suguru’s
thoughts. “Like for some reason, how you feel doesn’t matter over duty or some crap about honor.
Who gives a shit about honor, anyway? We’re not samurai, we’re people.”

“Satoru,” Suguru interrupted, trying to derail his train of thought. “Samurai were people.”

“Who cares? There can’t be two Six Eyes in the same place and time. We know that can’t change,
right? That that’s the problem with me being here?,” Gojo said, speaking right back over Suguru.
“That doesn’t exist for you. So, come with me.”

“I–” Suguru stuttered. “--what?”

“You heard me, Suguru,” said Gojo “When I leave, come with me.”

There were plenty of things that Gojo had said that should have sounded insane, but weren’t. As
much as this could have been one of them, Suguru couldn’t help but gape.

“Shouldn’t that break something?” Suguru asked back. “Some law of the universe, that I can’t exist
somewhere else?”

“Who cares? I want you there.”

The idea set a little extra warmth in Suguru’s core. He pushed it down, willing himself not to feel.

“You should care,” Suguru insisted, not just for Gojo, but also for himself.

“Wow,” Gojo cut in, forcing Suguru to stop speaking. “What we should do’s so lame.”

Whatever Gojo was or wasn’t thinking, Suguru was sure that it wasn’t lameness that was the issue,
here.
“I can’t leave,” Suguru said, internally scrambling to find the reason. “I can’t leave Nanako, or my
parents. They need me”

“Then bring ‘em,” Gojo argued, again, like this was some obvious conclusion to reach. It wasn’t.

Suguru, again, considered hanging up for a second. He adjusted his hold on the screen, squinting
back at it.

“Are you crazy?” Suguru asked, too gently to mean the question. “You can’t mean that. All we’ve
done is kiss. We basically just met.”

On some level, Suguru knew it didn’t feel that way to him. No matter how many times he’d
rationalized the reality of the situation to himself, this Gojo didn’t feel like a stranger. He felt like
the cocky, rude, overpowered idiot he’d fallen in love with, grown up into who he’d always been
meant to be.

“Satoru,” Suguru called through the phone, his voice firming with his name. “You’re serious,
aren’t you?”

It was a question that Suguru knew how his Satoru would’ve dismissed. He’d agree in a way that
was obviously sarcastic, or make another remark about how well Suguru knew him. Suguru
should’ve felt it coming, that the answer from this Gojo would have nothing to do with that at all.

“Wanna know what my last words were to you, Suguru? Since I spoiled yours.”

“Not especially, no.”

Had Gojo had any respect for other people, the blunt dismissal should have stopped him. It didn’t.

“I love you, Suguru.”

The words resonated in Suguru’s chest, humming exactly where they shouldn’t have. The person
they’d been meant for had Suguru’s name, and his face, yet it wasn’t him, exactly, either. Suguru
could tell himself that a thousand times over, and yet, he still felt like it belonged to him, too.

Suguru’s head fell to a bow. His hand barely held steady to the phone screen. His grip shook.

“I wish that was the last thing I told you, Satoru.”

“Then make it be. Duh. Why’d you gotta make everything so complicated? We’re still talking, now.
You haven’t gotten to ‘last words’, yet”

Suguru wasn’t looking at the screen. He could only imagine that Gojo was leaning too close to the
phone, poking his face into things that shouldn’t have been his business.

“I don’t even want you to pick me , Suguru,” said Gojo “I want you to pick yourself . Be selfish for
once. Trust me, me and my lousy personality are the experts on selfish crap. Could do you some
good.”

Suguru could imagine the look in Gojo’s eyes. His imagination was enough. Suguru closed his eyes
to it, any traces of a polite smile pulling tighter in deception.
“Far be it from me to impose on your expertise,” Suguru closed his eyes. Any traces of his polite
smile pulled tighter in deception. Before he could lie any more, Gojo spoke over him.

“You’d do anything for me, yeah? So do that. Be selfish, for me,” Gojo told him. “I don’t wanna
know there’s another world out there where you still aren’t happy.”

If Suguru couldn’t handle watching Gojo before, then he certainly couldn’t, now. The mental image
he had of Gojo’s expression was enough for Suguru to wonder if he could truly listen.

When Suguru had been selfish enough to share his burdens with Satoru, Satoru had become the
monster. In Gojo’s world, it seemed like Suguru Geto had kept his walls up. By keeping Satoru
Gojo at a distance, he had stayed himself. He had stayed ‘good’, if there were such a thing.

As tempting as it was to hear this voice, or feel his kiss, the possibility still lingered. If Suguru
wasn’t careful, couldn’t he do it again?

Suguru leaned his forehead to the phone. Below what anyone could see, in a spot that he hoped
Gojo wouldn’t notice, he kissed the screen.

“Goodnight, Satoru,” Suguru whispered, the words barely loud enough to make it to the other side.
“Enjoy yesterday for me.”

If there were other words to hear, Suguru didn’t let them. He hung up.

As Mochi settled her head back in his lap, Suguru tucked his phone into his pocket. He ran his hand
across Mochi’s back, centering himself into the pattern of petting her as his eyes set shut.

The cicadas in the trees chirped away, oblivious that anything could be wrong with a moment like
this.

In the quiet, Suguru wondered if he could ever truly let go of Satoru Gojo.

He doubted he would.
 Second First Encounters

Yuji Itadori

July 20, 2018

Saiwai Ward, Kawasaki, Kanagawa

Yuji huddled in the back seat of a car he’d never been in. He cupped his phone behind his hand,
practically willing it to buzz.

When it did, Yuji jumped. His seat belt knocked him back.

“C’mon,” Yuji urged. He opened the text file, hoping, but not expecting, to see Junpei’s name. He
didn’t. What he saw instead made him squint.

A picture appeared under Gojo’s contact. The selfie was pixelated and dark, distorted by the green
flush of fluorescent lighting. Gojo was flashing a peace sign at the camera. At his side, a bald man
with a bushy beard and eyebrows twice the size of any normal person’s was sleeping angrily. The
small, toilet-seat shaped window gave away that they were on a plane. Beneath the selfie, Gojo
wrote ‘Don’t worry about snacks, I’ve got leftover cake in my carry-on!! See ya soon!’

“What–” Yuji huddled over his phone, making sure to hide the text and the image from the window.
“Who’s the bald guy?”

If Yuji wasn’t stuck in a car, he would’ve let himself make more noise. Instead, the most Yuji could
get himself to do was wonder why Gojo was on a plane. His finger twitched as he debated calling
him, then decided against it. He texted back, instead.

‘Im on a test mission in Kawasaki! Think were hunting you-know-who. Dont eat airplane peanuts.
Theyre gross!’

The message loaded on his screen, before settling into delivered status. Once Yuji saw the message
resolve, he flipped back on his phone and deleted the conversation. His thumb shook on the screen
as the car bounced, bumping them. Yuji smacked against the window.

“Whoop–”

Yuji’s hand pressed against the glass, stopping his nose just short of smushing on the surface. His
eyes shifted to the street, watching the scenery roll by. The outskirts just outside of Tokyo, that
were usually so busy, weren’t. From the orange-painted bike path, to the folds of the sidewalk,
barely anyone was outside at all.

“Hm,” Yuji leaned down, trying to get a better look at the bike path. “Thought those were blue?
Huh.”

In Yuji’s attempt to lean over, he caught a glimpse in the side view mirror. As unfamiliar as an
empty orange bike path was, the bespectacled, sunken-eyed man in the driver’s seat was anything
but.

“Guess some things change less,” Yuji murmured to himself. “He still drives.”

At least, Yuji had meant to murmur the comment to himself. He hadn’t.

“Is there something wrong, Itadori?” Ijichi asked, all four of his eyes still fixed on the street. “My
apologies for the road. It seems the residual damage made it this far, too.”

“Residuals?” Yuji perked up in his seat and tried to check further down. “You mean, like, there’s
cursed energy out here?”

Yuji half expected, when he squinted, that he might’ve seen some sort of glowing from the street,
here. He didn’t spot that, either.

“No,” Ijichi corrected, “Not that kind. I mean the physical debris scattered here. For the scale of the
damage, it’s not unheard of.”

“Oh–” Yuji pocketed his phone. He leaned forward, enough so that he could poke his head into the
gap between the drivers and passenger seat. He turned to Ijichi. “What kind of damage are we
looking for, anyway? Tsukumo didn’t say anything. She’s–”

She was almost as bad as Gojo, was the way that Yuji intended to end that sentence. He swallowed
the thought, realizing what he’d almost blurted out.

The thought pulled to a stop. So, too, did the car. They pulled to a stop at the end of another empty
corner, and a cloud of smoke rose from the sky. Cursed energy or not, there was no need for a
question, anymore.

The smell of soot and wood mixed with things Yuji wouldn’t have expected. A heaviness like
rotting fish and sugar stung inside his nose. From the moving car, the clouds and buildings had
obscured what he could tell while standing still. A lower building was missing from the skyline. In
its place, a low, fading plume of smoke lingered–a distant, artificial fog, sweet and unappetizing all
at once.

Yuji nodded his head to himself, setting his determination. “We’re walking from here?”

The “yes,” Ijichi gave Yuji lacked any sort of inflection. It was good enough, anyway.

Yuji sheathed Slaughter Demon into a casing at his side. The fur of the cursed tool’s hilt brushed
the back of his hand as he ducked out of the car.

“There,” Yuji said, setting his eyes to the smoke. “What’s the plan?”

“I’ll deliver you to your examiner,” Ijichi told him just as stiffly.

Yuji’s head snapped away from the skyline. He looked back to Ijichi. “You’re not the examiner?”

“...No.”

The car beeped as the lock set into place. Ijichi’s eyes sunk further on the horizon, a shake passing
through the beads of his stare. With a swallow, he set forward.
“Follow me,” said Ijichi, “I’ll set the curtain once we’re there.”

There was enough tension behind that expression that, as much as Yuji wanted to find out more, he
knew not to ask. He gave a nod and fell into step behind Ijichi, matching his tread as they marched
into the wreckage. The closer they drew, the more apparent it became that the scene was just that.

The emergency lights of police cars and ambulances alike bounced off the remaining smoke,
replacing parts of the sun with the artificial glow. The rotations of reds and blues cast over the
aftermath, setting colors into what would otherwise be a stale, earthy gray. Aside from the long,
glossy strings of yellow and black tape across the barricade, any natural color was gone. The
pungent odor of copper, fire and lifeless destruction seeped through.

Yuji reached for the collar of his hoodie. He raised the fabric over his mouth to form a makeshift
mask, then held it there. He stopped as Ijichi did, suddenly, just outside the tape.

“Excuse me. Officer,” Ijichi called, still nervous, but just stable enough that his voice hadn’t
sounded like a question.

Ijichi’s shoulders set straight as he flashed his badge to the police, then gestured to Yuji. “Just him,”
he said. “I don’t need access.”

Again, Yuji’s head turned towards the case manager. “You’re not going in?”

“No,” Ijichi said, clearly putting forth an effort to sound professional and detached. Despite that,
the start of a tremble vibrated in his last words. “I’m not.”

As perplexed as the police officer seemed, he did as he’d been asked. The officer raised the yellow
tape around the barrier, lifting it for Yuji. He ducked beneath, crawling in.

All too aware of the tension, and the shake Ijichi was trying to hide, Yuji flashed him a smile.

“Thanks for the ride!” he waved, as casual as possible. “I’ve got it from here, so, do what you gotta
do, too, yeah?”

Yuji didn’t wait for an answer. He paused just long enough to see Ijichi fold his badge away into the
front pocket of his suit. Then, with nothing but the ruin ahead of him, Yuji marched inside.

Yuji had barely taken a step when he felt his sneaker slip. He planted his foot down firmly, leaving
a new print inside the soot. Clouds of uneven rubble kicked up around his sneakers. He watched his
next step, avoiding chunks of pipe, cement and drywall on the way.

If it weren’t for the intersecting metal beams towards the right top, Yuji wouldn’t have known how
tall this building must have been. The remnants of a neon sign held crooked. Yuji tilted his head to
make out the lettering.

“...Your?” Yuji questioned, reading it to himself. “Your what?” No one answered.

In the past, Yuji’s cases had always been scoped ahead of time, either by someone like Nanami, or
by a case manager like Ijichi. Starting like this, with nothing to go on, left him suddenly aware of
how little he knew about this part.

With no one to question, or even an awareness of what should have been here, Yuji did all he could
think to do. He dug his hands into the rubble, then hopped up, climbing deeper in.
At the other side of the hill, a muffled siren called. Emergency lights pulsed reds and blues across
the battlefield. Rescue crews of non-sorcerer firefighters and paramedics kept digging. The hook of
a fire truck’s ladder strapped parallel to the highest support beam, seeming to will the last fragment
of the building not to fall. A stranger’s voice shouted “fire department, call out!”, and before long,
his peers seemed to magnify the scream.

The closer Yuji looked, and the less context he had, the more Yuji thought this didn’t look like the
work of a curse. It looked like the aftermath of a bomb.

At the other side of the rescue efforts, in the midst of the chaos, a news truck kept its satellite
pointed towards the sky. A woman wearing a protective mask spoke through the cloth into her
microphone. Yuji could barely make out the words–but he did hear her.

“The third day of evacuations from the Kawasaki Warehouse attack, and emergency crews are still
hard at work in hopes of locating survivors. At least a dozen people are still considered missing.
Sixty three are confirmed dead, and two remain in critical care. At this time, there are no credible
claims of responsibility for this attack. Authorities are hopeful that at least one witness will regain
consciousness soon, so that the public can–”

Yuji stepped away, turning his back to the news crew. He tried to squint, to breathe, to focus on his
surroundings until he could sense the difference between mundane destruction and the work of a
curse. If this was indeed the work of a curse user, then, there was supposed to be something to find.
Something to feel.

Between the drifting soot and the infuriatingly fishy smell, the rot of familiar cursed energy stuck
in the air.

“I know this,” Yuji whispered. As much as it could’ve seemed like going mad, at least part of him
was sure. He’d felt this specific energy before, somehow. What he couldn’t place, yet, was why.

Yuji pushed his foot through the ash, marching along that invisible path. He crouched into a patch
of rubble, shifting through the soot.

“It’s not supposed to be like, you can sense the difference, though, right?” Yuji spoke to himself as
he dug a hand into the door. “It’s not chakra, like in Naruto. It’s just kind of there? Unless no one
told me. …but they would have told me, yeah? That sounds important.”

As Yuji said the last part to himself, he let his hand sink a little deeper into the ground with
understanding. A concept like ‘some sorcerers can distinguish individual cursed energies’ was
exactly the kind of thing that Gojo wouldn’t have told Yuji, wasn’t it?

Yuji snapped his hand back out of the rubble. He rocked back with a groan, gaping to the sky.
“Why doesn’t he tell me stuff? He’s a teacher–!!”

Something moved.

The exclamation, and Yuji’s focus, both cut off at the sight. In the other direction from the rescue
crew, two people in black suits, just like Ijichi’s, were poking by the rubble, too. One of them had
long, blue hair. Yuji had seen her before—she was a student at the school.

“Hey!” Yuji called. His hands raised into the air, waving for attention as he stepped towards them.
“Hey, over here–!”
Yuji’s eyes lit up as the girl turned towards him. Her long blue hair spiraled around her as her
matching eyes met Yuji’s. He started to smile, only to realize that his hood was in the way. He
pulled it down quickly to show his face.

“Hey, I–” Yuji started to say. He cut himself off as he saw the man beside her turn, too. Whatever
Yuji planned to say, it washed right out at the sight of the man she was there with.

His suit was charcoal gray, and his blonde hair wasn’t slicked back. The protective sunglasses he
was wearing were on basic, semi-rimless frames. The combination of changes made it just hard
enough to tell that Yuji hadn’t instantly recognized him from that far away. He did, now.

Every doubt or question Yuji had towards himself pushed far into the background. He scrambled
through the wreckage, leaping over a support beam and through chunks of the wall towards–

“Nanamin!”

Yuji’s arms outstretched, reaching forward almost frantically to wrap Nanami in a hug. The reach
fell short.

Nanami stepped to the side. Though his sunglasses obscured where he was looking, his lips drew to
a visible flatline. With the enthusiasm of a patient in a doctor’s waiting room, he said, “Please don’t
touch me.”

The request, and the shift, were enough to make Yuji back off.

“Roger,” Yuji snapped his hand up in a salute. His feet popped off the ground with the move.

The visible sparkle in Yuji’s eye was met with nothing but the same, tinted lenses and equally dull
reply. “If you were told my name is Roger, that isn’t correct. I’m only a quarter foreign.”

“You’re foreign?” Yuji’s mouth formed the shape of a circle as he questioned it. “Why didn’t you
say anything before?”

“...Because we haven’t met before,” Nanami answered plainly. The dry tone implied a growing
question for Yuji’s sanity. It wasn’t until he heard it that Yuji remembered something else, too.

“Ohh–” Yuji blurted out, rocking back. “Right, right. You don’t know me, either. You’ve got
bangs.”

“Those aren’t related,” said Nanami, just as exasperated as before. The tone of his voice brought a
different memory back to Yuji, too. They’d met so long ago that Yuji had completely forgotten until
this exact sentence that, when they first met, Nanami hadn’t liked him.

Oops.

“I assume Tsukumo told you nothing,” Nanami drolled, the flatness of both his tone and his mouth
betraying his judgment. “She would be petty and immature enough to put a child up to this.”

“I–” Yuji pointed back towards himself. “Put me to what?”

“To punish me,” Nanami said. “I disrespected her by speaking out of turn. It wouldn’t have been
necessary, if she behaved in a way worth respecting. That said, I did disobey the rules in her
presence. That I dislike the way she runs things is no excuse for circumventing her authority, even
if it is undeserved.”

“Whoa…” Yuji lowered his hand. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry for rambling,” Nanami told him. “Are you alright? If not, you should go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuji let go. He rocked back again. “Just… reminding me of someone, I guess.
Wild.”

Yuji was pretty sure that he’d heard very similar sentences before. Bangs and semi-rimmed
sunglasses or not, the person that Nanami was reminding Yuji of so strongly was, in fact, Nanami.
Was he crazy, or did this conversation feel almost exactly like when Gojo introduced them?

“Thank you, Itadori,” Nanami said, oblivious to this, “Please, stand.”

“I’m up–”

“Your posture is awful.”

“Oh– Oh, sure.”

Understanding the request, Yuji straightened his posture. He slapped his hands to his side, one of
them resting at the top of Slaughter Demon’s handle. His eyes darted up, watching for some sign of
a crack in Nanami’s expression. It didn’t happen.

“My name is Nanami. I am a first grade sorcerer, and a teacher at the jujutsu technical school,” He
said. “What I am not is a babysitter.”

“Wait, wait,” Yuji squinted. He bobbed forward, again, leaning in, “You work at the school, here?”

Nanami’s bangs fell into the frame of his sunglasses, parting around them.

“I was told that you, Itadori, were to be evaluated for your potential as a sorcerer,” Nanami said,
ignoring Yuji’s other questions. “I was also told you do not produce cursed energy.”

It took a second of hearing it explained to him for Yuji to remember that it was true, at least in this
world. He stayed quiet.

“I don’t expect you’ll prove to be useful,” said Nanami, blunt as ever. “If I still believe that after
I’ve observed you, I will say so in my report. Even if you have piqued Tsukumo’s interest, I expect
that interest is as a test subject, not a sorcerer. Prove me otherwise.”

Unlike the meeting with the principal, this moment, Yuji could almost drown in the deja vu. The
memory of Nanami in the lighter tan suit, with his hair slicked back, practically imposed itself in
the shadow of this one.

“Prove to me you can be useful in spite of the demon Sukuna inside of you,” Nanami had said, back
then.

The words weren’t identical. The situations weren’t the same, either. This time through, Yuji was
free from Sukuna. The only voices in his head were the memories of what he’d heard before.
“I can’t promise I’ll be strong. I used to, but, that’s not always something I can control,” Yuji
admitted. “I don’t know if I’ll prove you wrong, either. But…”

Yuji looked up to Nanami. As clearly as he could see this man, with his bangs and misshapen
glasses, in his mind’s eye, Yuji saw the other Nanami, too. In his last seconds, with his glasses
gone, that version of Nanami had watched him so calmly. He’d even forced a smile. Yuji could see
it, right here.

“I’ll leave the rest to you,” he’d said.

Yuji clutched the hilt of Slaughter Demon. His knuckles turned white, his own grip shaking.

“Whatever you leave up to me, if I can do it, I’m gonna try,” Yuji told him, his line of sight sticking
between the Nanami that was there and the one he remembered. “I won’t stop trying. That, I can
swear.”

Yuji paused, considering what he’d just said. The wording made his will buckle a little.

“I mean, swear, like, promise. Not swear like curse words,” Yuji tried to clarify. It didn’t matter.

“If you swear, it isn’t my business. If it vents frustration without generating a curse, I don’t care,”
Nanami answered back.

All the seriousness Yuji had been building up in his head slipped back when he processed that
thought. He turned away from the memory, facing the new, living Nanami exclusively.

“You don’t care about swearing? Yuji asked. “Really? You look like you’d get so uptight about it.
Like a grandpa.”

“I assure you, there are a great many grandparents who swear,” Nanami told him, the words just as
level as ever. “Please don’t refer to me as a grandfather. I’m twenty seven.”

“You–”

Of everything that Yuji had heard today, casually as it had been said, that was the one that made his
whole body go rigid. The realization brought his eyes to turn as small as they possibly could,
openly gaping.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Nanami scolded, irate, but only mildly so. His arms crossed over his
chest. “I’m quite young. In all likelihood, I’m closer to your age than your parents’.”

“I… don’t know,” Yuji shrugged, “My parents are kinda dead. So.”

“Ah. My condolences.”

It wasn’t until Yuji said it out loud that he realized something else–not that it was an awkward
conversation killer, but that Yuji didn’t know if his parents were dead, here. Even if Nanami had
sounded the same, plenty of things were different about this world. If their Gojo could be nuttier
than a pecan pie, then, who was to say that Jin, Kaori or maybe even grandpa weren’t around?

While Yuji was standing around, struggling to bounce through the rapidly expanding list of
possibilities, he failed to hear the other voice to their side.
“Nanami-sensei– should we–”

Miwa stopped herself mid-step. She backed away, then bowed, leaning over a cracked support
beam in the process. She bobbed back up to Yuji, her hand sliding back to the hilt of her katana.

“Hey, there. I’m Miwa the Useless,” she introduced mid-bow. “You were in our classroom before,
right? It’s nice to meet you.”

“I–”

It took a second of watching for Yuji to think back. His beady eye bounced between Miwa and
Nanami before, quickly, the mental switch flipped back to remembering where he’d seen her, here.

“Oh yeah! You went under the desk, right?”

“Of course. We had instructions from Geto-sensei.”

“To protect Mochi?”

Miwa seemed to perk up at the mere mention of the dog. Professional as she’d been trying to be,
the second Yuji said it, she looked ready to squeak. Her eyes shut into her smile. “She’s such a
sweetheart–”

“Yeah!” Yuji beamed. “Total best girl!”

“She really is, isn’t she?” Miwa reached past the hilt of her sword, taking her phone from her
pocket. Her lock screen flashed with a selfie of her, Nobara, Tsumiki and Mochi. “I mean, look at
how cute she is! They’re all really precious, aren’t they? She’s so fluffy we could die.”

Yuji grinned along, bobbing his head. “Like Despicable Me!”

“I would hope you’re not despicable,” Nanami interjected. “I’d prefer not to file the paperwork that
comes with witnessing human casualties.”

The sudden shadow of the supervising sorcerer nudged Yuji to back off. Miwa, too, straightened
up. She set her phone down, blinking with a second of alarm before fading to seriousness.

“I, uh,” Yuji stuttered, mentally stumbling to find his explanation. “It’s not a label? That’s a movie.
With, like, Steve Carell? And talking corn puffs.”

“It’s a very nice story,” Miwa added. “You might enjoy it, Nanami-sensei.”

“With no due respect, I don’t care,” Nanami told them. “It’s not relevant to the mission.”

Yuji looked back to Miwa again, briefly. Aside from the baseball event, he realized that he and
Miwa had never really been in the same place before.

“So, you go to the Tokyo school, now? With Kugisaki?” Yuji asked. “I thought you were a second
year? Why are you in our class?”

The composure that Miwa had put back on faded at the question. She blinked. “Why would I be a
second year?”
“Also irrelevant,” Nanami interjected. “If you want to socialize, do it after. We aren’t paid for
chitchat.”

“We’re paid?” Yuji asked quickly, confused.

Miwa bobbed her head, raising her hand in a salute. “Yes, Nanami-sensei.”

“Nevermind, doesn’t matter,” Yuji corrected. He followed suit, saluting Nanami, too. “You got it,
Nanamin!”

As soon as Yuji realized which nickname he’d used, he lowered his hand to his mouth. He could
practically see the exhaustion in Nanami’s twitch.

“...Don’t repeat that,” Nanami said flatly. Yuji nodded again, his head moving twice as quickly.

With one last sigh, Nanami stood tall before the pair.

“As I would hope you were informed beforehand,” Nanami gestured to Miwa, “And am sure you
were not,” he motioned to Yuji, “There was an incident at this location three days ago. Earlier
findings identified this as the work of a special grade curse. We have no reason to believe that curse
is still present. If it were, you would not be here.”

At the word ‘you’, Nanami’s head turned slightly. Though his sunglasses obscured his line of sight,
it didn’t take seeing it for Yuji to know he’d been singled out again. Yuji nodded.

“A major disaster of any kind is a source of great stress. A significant disaster caused by a curse
creates a fallout effect, in particular,” Nanami explained. “An event on this scale will continue to
attract smaller curses which were in the vicinity before. The media coverage, and distress of the
populace, will also gather here. Imagine the effects of negativity from a hospital or school. Then,
imagine if the country had just one school to attract that energy. That’s the scale of magnitude
currently in effect.”

Yuji folded his hands on his lap, his posture adjusting to be as alert as possible. If this was the first
time he’d heard any of this, he was sure he’d be lost.

“Have you noticed what’s around us?” Nanami asked, making no effort to slow the explanation.

While Yuji was squinting, he didn’t spot anything else. He looked down. Miwa raised her hand.

“Miwa?”

“There’s no open ground, sensei,” Miwa told them both. “This whole site is a residual. We can’t
perceive tracks because they're everywhere.”

The “huh–” Yuji sputtered wasn’t one he’d meant to say. He looked down, away, and then, he saw.
When he’d looked before and felt something familiar, yet hadn’t seen a path, Yuji had thought it
had more to do with having crossed universes. Now, he saw it had less to do with that, and more to
do with why you couldn’t tell Japan was an island while you were standing on it.

“We can’t tell how much active cursed energy is still here, as opposed to what statement the
original curse left behind,” Nanami told them, composed as ever, “So, be careful. We can’t gauge
what other curses might manifest around the first responders, here.”
Miwa’s “yes, sensei,” was obedient and clear. Her composure wasn’t shaken. For all Yuji heard of
it, he just looked down.

As he stood in place, Yuji’s breath hung visibly in front of him. A brief, internal chill shifted
through his core. He couldn’t see a thing, or place what was there, and yet, somewhere in him, it
was too familiar a presence for him not to know.

“...Sukuna,” Yuji whispered, realizing who he felt. His hair rose at the back of his neck,
remembering the sound of the King of Curses in his head. “This was Sukuna.”

The weight of Yuji’s hand felt heavier as it fell to his side. Of all the things he’d considered, before,
this one had never crossed his mind at all. His stare went blank into the wreckage, connecting the
image to something else he’d known.

The last time Yuji had seen something like this, it felt at least partially his fault. He’d decided to
live, and in doing so, created the scenario where Sukuna could kill. It had been up to him, the only
one who could contain Sukuna, to hold him back, and he’d failed.

But this world’s Yuji Itadori was dead–not in the way where he could be resurrected in secret. This
world’s Yuji Itadori was dead in the way where his ashes had contained a finger of Sukuna, with no
body to resurrect into.

Yuji’s hand drifted to his side. That too heavy grip brushed Slaughter Demon’s hilt, the fur twisting
through his fingers as two questions twisted in his soul.

Who, if not Yuji, was manifesting Sukuna? And if someone else could be a vessel, was Sukuna’s
destruction not a task only Yuji could have accomplished from the start?

The mental spiral of questions without answers cut off with an order.

“Miwa,” Nanam called. Though it wasn’t his name, Yuji looked up, too.

“Take the far side,” Nanami told her. “If you sense anything above a semi-grade two, retreat, then
call me.”

“Understood, sensei.”

“Itadori,” Nanami ordered. It hadn’t been the command, yet, his name alone had such authority,
Yuji knew it was coming before he was told. “Imagine I’m not here. Where do you go?”

The lingering doubt made Yuji still more than he meant to. He looked back to the wreckage.

“With Miwa?” Yuji guessed. “It helps to work in a team.”

“Ignore Miwa. She isn’t here.”

The immediate temptation on Yuji’s part to point to Miwa and mention that, no, he could definitely
see her still around popped up. He considered it enough to raise his hand, gesturing towards her.

“It’s okay, Itadori,” Miwa called back over. “I get ignored all the time! Useless Miwa isn’t here at
all!”

Yuji couldn’t help but think, if only in passing, that made him feel even worse about ignoring her.
“That doesn’t mean it’s okay!” Yuji shouted back, unable to help himself. He cupped his hand to
his mouth, miming a projection. “You matter, Miwa!”

“Thank you very much,” Miwa waved back. “I don’t, but thank you!”

“For your purposes, there is no other sorcerer present,” Nanami cut in. He stepped directly in front
of Yuji, blocking his line of sight to Miwa. He folded his arms.

“Picture that you alone were assigned to identify and exorcize all curses present in this field,”
Nanami told Yuji. “Where would you go? Look for your path, then do it. Show me why you should
be called a sorcerer.”

With a last nod of determination, Yuji reached back. His hand tightened around Demon Slaughter’s
hilt, squeezing until the blood had all but left his hand.

There was no way to know that this was the right path. If Yuji thought he knew before, then, what
he could feel of Sukuna’s presence made it even harder to be sure. All he knew, or could promise,
was exactly what he’d vowed before.

Yuji raised his chin, then drew his blade. He marched ahead, following instinct alone. He heard
Nanami follow in his wake, but didn’t look back. All he let himself see, now, was the wreckage.

There were no guarantees to what Yuji could find, or what would have become of him with other
choices. All Yuji could do now was both simple, and the hardest thing he could ever force himself
to do.

Try.
Curtain Call
 Yuji Itadori

July 20, 2018

Anata no Warehouse, Kawasaki, Kanagawa

It was a miracle that the passageway in front of Yuji was still a hallway at all.

Flecks of sunlight passed through the cracks in the drywall. The fake metal doors of artificial
storefronts crumpled, their graffiti obscured with debris. The sneaking glow of sunlight crept
through the cracks, highlighting which parts of the damage were real.

The voices of the rescue workers muffled in the distance, present, yet far removed from this part of
the wreckage. Whether it was the obscured path, or something else that kept them back, Yuji didn’t
know. The wind snaked around bent support beams, shaking the exposed frame. From the craters in
the floor, to the slant of an open stairway, with rubble running down itself, the maze of the crime
scene was ready to fall.

That didn’t matter.

Yuji came to a stop outside the broken gate. He leaned in to peer through the crack. The steady, soft
footsteps of the person following him paused, too. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Nanami.

“Here,” Yuji decided, thinking out loud. “We’d need a curtain here, yeah? So when we find
something, it won’t get out.”

“If you find something,” Nanami corrected.

“When I find something,” Yuji repeated. “Something’s here. It’s gotta be.”

“You can sense it, then?”

For all the expectation in that question, Yuji went quiet. He pulled away from the gate.

“It’s here,” Yuji said, ignoring the question. “It’s gotta be.”

“That isn’t logical. You realize that, yes?”

Yuji didn’t back away. He gave a nod, and added nothing else at all.

Nanami’s shadow bent along the remains of the wall. His thumb, middle and index fingers raised as
he formed the outline of a sigil.

“Normally, the assistant manager would perform this before you enter the field,” Nanami told Yuji,
flat and factual. “Because we can’t issue an evacuation order, the circumference will be smaller
than average. We don’t want to encourage more curses out of hiding than a lone sorcerer can
handle.”

Yuji nodded along. “Right.”

He already knew how a curtain functioned, but there was no need to point that out here. As far as
Nanami knew, Yuji was an utter beginner.

“I don’t expect you to learn the incantation,” said Nanami. “It wouldn’t do you good, anyway. Even
with cursed energy, most of the first year class is incapable of creating such barriers, too.”
Yuji nodded again. It wasn’t until the second shake of his head that his hand cupped under his chin,
pondering something.

“Huh…” Yuji murmured, his eyes shifting down. As much as he tried to remember it, he couldn’t
picture Nobara casting a curtain. “Weird. You’re right…”

With a turn of his head, and a side-eye through his sunglasses, Nanami ignored the question of why
Yuji would know he was right in favor of casting.

“Emerge from darkness, blacker than darkness,” Nanami recited, his hands shifting slightly as the
cursed energy formed above. “Purify that which is impure.”

The sorcerer’s fingers pressed tight together, firming the will until the cursed sludge condensed
overhead. The sphere of an invisible bubble stretched across the sky, overtaking the clouds of
smoke and rubble as an indigo black sunk over it all. As the curtain swirled and steadied, the
midday light vanished, plunging their surroundings into an artificial night.

Yuji’s head tilted back, taking in the sight. His mind wandered right back to the curtain. “No one
makes curtains? Weird. I thought that was supposed to be basic…”

“It is,” Nanami agreed. “Sorcerers are dramatic and dumb. The more basic the ability, the less
likely the skilled are to bother.”

As the last drops of the curtain eclipsed the building, Nanami lowered his hand. He reached over
his shoulder, then pulled his wrapped machete from the holster on his back. The familiar black dots
of the wrapping cloth seemed to warp in the shadows.

By logic, it should have been difficult to see inside the curtain. The rubble of the ruins had no
electricity. Without the daylight to go off of, or the gleam off the moon, Nanami and Yuji both
should’ve been surrounded by black.

The neon light of a crooked sign flickered. A hazy, muted glow kicked in from the storefront,
rotating to blue and back. On the second pulse, a yellow streetlight popped to life, trembling with
the glow. The pulsing steadied, and the yellow glow turned white. Just as Yuji felt himself adjust to
the hue, the closest lamp flashed off. An array of red emergency lights flooded down the hall, the
neon signs fighting back against the crimson glow.

Yuji’s shadow stretched beneath him, splitting across the walls. His form twisted into quarters, each
one the same width as him and at least three times as tall. He barely noticed. All he looked at was
ahead.

A smoggy, suffocating heat snuck down the path. On instinct, Yuji raised his blade. Slaughter
Demon’s hilt slid across his palm, heavy, present, and most importantly, in his grip. Only now, at
the edge of the arcade’s ruins, did Yuji see the ‘Exit’ sign painted jaggedly against a wall.

“There,” Yuji decided, his words falling along with his line of sight. “Through the door.”
Nanami didn’t say a word. His silence formed all the approval Yuji needed to hear. Whether he
agreed or not, this was Yuji’s mission. If he failed, it was his choice.

Yuji twisted Slaughter Demon’s hilt in his grip, adjusting the blade. The tickling brush of its fur
swiped his hand as he took the next, single step.

What should have been cement flooring disintegrated at Yuji’s foot, the solid slab shifting like sand.
Yuji stomped to a standstill, then skidded across the floor, catching himself on the closed gate.

The crack in the doorway shone with a narrow, sickly green, the sole proof of something standing
on the other side. The solid, weathered bumps of metal scratched his fingertips. Yuji raised his
shoulder and slid back, bracing with the blade.

“I’ve got this,” Yuji said, speaking back to Nanami without looking towards him. “No worries.
Not–”

As he was speaking, Yuji thrust Slaughter Demon through the crack. He pried to the side, the tip of
his blade shifting in the crevice. He grunted, straining to force it through.

“Stay open,” Yuji complained, adjusting the angle. He rammed his side towards the crack, forcing
the seemingly welded doors to stretch.

The resistance stopped. Yuji’s arm, and the dagger, both passed through the widened hole. The
automated doors slid back onto their tracks, casting open in a brighter, blinding red.

A gurgle passed through the gap, rasped to the point of being inhuman. “Large fries–”

“Huh–”

In the time it took Yuji to process that he’d heard something, the door shook away. His foot slid
back, his heel planting against a side wall. His elbow raised as he brandished Slaughter Demon
towards the blur.

The stubby, thick-toed feet of an elephant, yet half the size, smacked Yuji’s chest. He rolled to the
side, dodging the blunt of the impact. A trail of cursed energy glowed in the foot’s wake, marking
its trail as Yuji’s back smacked the wall.

When his eyes snapped open, Yuji could see the monstrosity.

A cluster of interconnected, wrinkled balls poured through the open doors. It scurried in a quick,
scuttled crawl, slithering like a centipede. A head with no eyes and a crooked mouth snapped first,
shrieking “large fries and soda–” as it charged.

By curse standards, Yuji had seen a lot worse, actually.

The wrap of Nanami’s machete blurring as he readied his own technique. He slid ahead, planting
himself between Yuji and the curse.

“My technique forcibly creates a weak point on my opponent,” Nanami announced clearly. Though
his eyes were obscured by his sunglasses, the angle of his nose made it obvious where he was
looking–and what, exactly, was meant to understand the threat.
“Hey,” Yuji called over. The sound of his voice was meant for Nanami. “You don’t gotta do that,
alright?! I’ve got it!”

“Itadori,” Nanami said, calm and critical, paying no mind to the curse at all. “You should never
look directly at a curse before attacking. Acknowledgement increases their aggression. It’s best to
conceal your line of sight, then surprise them.”

There was a time when Yuji was a student where that information might have felt useful. That time
wasn’t today.

Yuji turned Slaughter Demon in his hand, spinning the blade. He faced the curse head-on.

“Well, bring it!”

The curse’s mouth stretched further to the side, warping the shell by its lips.

“Nator–” the curse gurgled, the guttural rumble visibly shaking its head. “Baco–n–!”

Between the sound, and the stare, the curse brushed right past Nanami. A cloud of debris puffed up
in its wake as it wound away from Nanami, straight towards Yuji. Yuji did the same, charging
towards the curse.

And then, he kept going.

Right at what would’ve been the point of impact, Yuji changed directions. He jumped up and aside,
leaping to balance at the ledge over the automated door.

The curse rose to its hind legs, exposing its underside as it rose to face Yuji. The fangs in its mouth
chittered, deciding where to move.

While the curse was still choosing, Yuji acted. He pushed away from the wall, leaping through the
air. His arm outstretched in an outward slash, his momentum creating the force behind the blade.
He caught himself by the ceiling light in an opposite wall. His sneakers squeaked against the stone.

From the odd angle, for a second, Yuji’s perspective inverted. A new puff of rubble formed by
Nanami’s feet as he stood in the center of the hall, unbothered. The curse turned, searching for the
impact.

As the curse turned, its right half slumped from the left. An even line formed across its back,
severing the creature in two. The doorframe rattled with the impact as the creature’s body rolled
into the door. It laid still, severed and bloodless.

“You could have been more efficient, had you aimed horizontally,” Nanami noted from a distance.
“The presence of a mouth identifies the head. A decapitation would have sufficed, here.”

“Oh!” Yuji nodded along. “That makes sense.”

The overhead lights dimmed, a deep red flooding the crumbling corridor once more.

“Geez,” Yuji noted, taking in the rubble. “There's a total Dredd vibe in here. Or Resident Evil…”

“Dread and evil are the nature of curses,” Nanami noted back. “If you aren’t prepared to face that,
then, you’ll have no business in sorcery.”
Not expecting the answer, Yuji popped up. “I know,” he countered. “I meant, like, the movies.”

Before either’s thoughts could stray farther, a flash passed through their eyes. At the end of the red
tunnel, a burst of green flashed, strobing with a ghoulish glow.

“There,” Yuji decided, pointing ahead. He didn’t wait for Nanami before running towards the light,
deeper down the hall.

The form of the corridor narrowed with each step. What had started out as open, rounded space
began to point. The lines along the ceiling reformed, warping the gap to an octagon. Yuji turned a
corner, undaunted.

The hallway stopped. The floodlights flashed green, inconsistent, yet persistent, eclipsing any other
color but the one it cast from below. A single stare loomed at his feet, guiding him towards the
raised stepping stones in the floor. Broken, jagged pipes ran along the pathway, blocking the rest of
the pit from reach. The light bent, wavering. With the haze of fog below, Yuji couldn’t tell if the
gaps were water or ground.

The light intensified. A new shadow stretched across the space. The form of a human head eclipsed
Yuji and the path.

Yuji leaned onto his back leg. He raised Slaughter Demon, bracing for the next curse. Then, he
saw.

The breath ripped from Yuji’s lungs. The pulsing underlights seemed to still, every intention
freezing. He’d seen so much worse than this, before, that Yuji should’ve been numb to it. He should
have, yet, he wasn’t.

A lone, teenage boy, about the same age as Yuji, was propped against the wall. Half of his face had
melted off, as if an old wax prosthetic had been left in the sun. He was missing an eye. As Yuji
looked closer, a glint of green shone through the center of the boy’s head. Narrow as the gap was,
Yuji could see the slit. From the part of his hair, down his neck, his body was cleaved in two.

“That’s…” Yuji whispered, processing. “...A person.”

He’d done almost the exact same thing to the curse he’d just fought. A pang struck the back of his
neck, not a pain, but a feeling.

Yuji knew what he sensed had done this. If this person–this human being–had, in fact, been killed
by Sukuna, then they’d used the same attack.

The so-called King of Curses wasn’t inside Yuji anymore, and yet, he could still see Sukuna.

Yuji’s head turned over his shoulder. He looked back to the mentor he both knew and didn’t,
desperate to cast aside a thought he couldn’t voice.

Nanami’s expression didn’t budge. He didn’t even nod. Yuji swallowed.

“We should bring him back. Right?” Yuji questioned, his eyes darting between Nanami and the
body. He remembered this well enough to know the answer, yet, his conscience twisted him enough
that he’d felt the plea anyway.
“We’re not that far from the exit. We could bring him out,” Yuji strained, desperate, “We can’t save
him, but at least, someone would know what happened. Give him a grave. Or, an answer for his
family. Something more than just, another guy who disappeared from a curse–”

Nanami’s expression didn’t move.

“Back away,” Nanami told him. “Towards me.”

Yuji swallowed. He didn’t move. All he did was ask, “why?”

Nanami’s expression stayed cold.

“We have no means to guarantee that the body isn’t possessed,” he said plainly. “To remove him
while inside the curtain would only encourage a curse to show itself.”

Yuji squinted. “Huh?” He stretched up, looking closer to Nanami. “Curses can do that?”

“Yes.”

Nanami’s rigid face stayed unreadable. The pulse of the wind knocking through the frame of the
building cast a whistle through the room.

“Some cursed spirits are capable of possessing inanimate objects,” he explained. “In some
instances, this may stabilize their form. The result is called a cursed corpse.”

“Oh!” Yuji realized, practically springing upright with the understanding. “Like Panda.”

If Nanami realized that Yuji and Panda hadn’t met for Yuji to know that, he didn’t mention it.

“There is a reason why the terminology was coined that way,” Nanami stated. “While any object, if
possessed, is capable of becoming a cursed corpse, there was once a tendency. Have you ever
considered why humans came to bury their dead?”

The “...no,” Yuji answered Nanami with felt as if it should’ve prompted Nanami to explain further.
He didn’t.

The artificial green light from the floor twisted as one of the railings bent. A hand rose across the
bar, crushing the metal with a rusted screech. Half a human form leaned against the wall, staggering
upright.

Yuji grabbed the railing closest to him and hopped up, bracing towards the other side. Slaughter
Demon clutched in his hand, his posture readied to face the risen corpse as the body split in two.
The right half stood firm, staring ahead through an empty eye socket.

Nanami raised his machete. He stepped ahead of Yuji, blocking his path again.

“With my technique, I divide the subject into tenths. If I am able to strike the critical fraction at
seven to three, a strong opponent will take substantial damage,” Nanami said quickly. He planted
his dress shoe into the rock.“A weak opponent may be exorcised with this alone.”

Yuji kept Slaughter Demon raised, too. He shifted to the side along the railing, watching the
trajectory of the half-corpse. He had just managed to find a spot with a clear view when Nanami
struck the remains.
The central dividing point of 7:3 ran along the entirety of the creature’s form. Nanami struck at the
fraction, slicing above the shoulder. The cleave ran straight through, fracturing the curse, and its
host. The body fell to the floor, uninhabited, but still human.

Nanami held his machete against his thigh. He looked back.

“Should you choose to turn away, anyone to blame you would be wrong,” Nanami said, just as
calmly as before. “If you continue down this path, you will witness worse. You may even have to
perpetrate it. Most sorcerers are trained too young to handle what you’ll endure.”

Yuji could see, in the way the green lights kept bending, that there was no blood left in the
exorcized fractions of the body. They shriveled, pale, still, barely human–another victim of
Sukuna.

Yuji’s head lowered further. He turned away from Nanami, towards the wall.

“It’s not a choice,” Yuji answered, “not really. I can’t leave knowing there’s something I could’ve
done, and didn’t.”

Nanami’s shadow shifted. He reached back, securing his machete to the holster on his back.

“...That there’s someone I could protect, and I didn’t,” Yuji added, knowing full well one of those
people was with him right now.

Nanami’s hand fell, indifferent and severe as before.

“You are capable of it,” Nanami corrected, “That you would choose to is another matter.”

Yuji leaned back against the railing, the weight of his cursed tool heavy in his grip. He stood
upright, his chin raising.

“I won’t live that way,” said Yuji. “I don’t want to.”

Though he wouldn’t say it, Yuji thought as loudly and as clearly as a person could that there were
two ways that stood true. If fate still took them down that dark and deathly path, then, this time
through, Yuji wasn’t going to stand with the survivors.

“You don’t have to protect me, okay, Nanamin?” Yuji tilted his head over his shoulder. He forced a
broad, cheerful smile. “It’s my test. I’ve got this.”

“I’d prefer you not call me that,” Nanami said. “It’s annoying.”

“Oh! Sorry. How about Nana-sensei? Does that work?”

If it were possible to see Nanami’s stare dull behind his sunglasses, Yuji spotted it.

“No,” he said.

“Hmm… The mathematical radical?”

Nanami didn’t blink. He didn’t even move.

“I’ve gotta call you something,” Yuji prodded.

“You, in fact, do not.”

It was a reasonable enough statement that Yuji didn’t argue.

“Nanami-sensei, then?”

Whether the silence was agreement, or simply giving up, it didn’t matter. Yuji raised his blade. He
willed himself to check the room, his smile fading to determination once more. While there was
only so much he could see, what he could sense still rang clear.

The glow of a residual cast along the wall. Yuji raised his hand, blade first, pointing towards the
spot.

“There,” said Yuji, “Then, to the right, right? I see tracks.”

Nanami didn’t look that way.

“It’s your choice,” he said, giving as little away as ever. “If you don’t actively die, I don’t care.”

The first condition was enough to make Yuji smile again, if far more gently. “Well, that works out. I
don’t want you to die, either.”

Nanami scoffed.

“What difference would my demise make to you? If you die, I”m left with the paperwork. You
won’t be.”

“Uh… the difference is I like you?”

Nanami didn’t answer that, either.

Yuji gripped the bent pipe on the pathway. He hopped over the side, landing on the stone path. He
strode from stone to stone, passing through the rubble to the other side. The green underlights
stretched their shadows across the ceiling, scattering their forms until they turned to nothing at all.
As they walked through the archway into the next room, a dust of debris drifted, raining flecks
across their heads. Yuji waved in front of his face, then cupped his hand across his eyes to block it.
He squinted down the hall.

“Something’s off, still,” Yuji murmured. Nanami didn’t answer. Yuji looked to the floor. The harder
Yuji squinted, the clearer he could see the change. Between the drifting specs of dust and debris,
spots of cursed energy were glowing.

A hazy, red glow burst from an exit sign. The spots stopped beneath the doorframe. With his breath
held, and his hand moving slow. Yuji opened the door.

A narrow, cement stairwell stretched before Yuji. The occasional broken step gave way, showing
fractions of the curtain’s black sky. In the underside of the jagged angles, Yuji saw something shift.
Dozens of curses were swarming, a flying tornado to themselves.

Yuji felt Nanami come to a stop at his back. Neither moved.

On purpose, Yuji looked past the tornado. He focused on a broken step, where none of the curses
were.
“They’re not seeing us,” Yuji whispered, noting it to himself. Somehow, this time, the silence felt
like approval. He squinted deeper, looking for the residuals again.

The glowing footsteps continued on, winding along the stairwell, straight towards the upper floors–
and through the flock of lower-grade curses, too. If Yuji wanted to know where they were going,
that meant he’d have to fight his way through.

Yuji nodded to himself, away from the curses. “Ok.”

The tip from Nanami had proven true. Not one of these curses was paying attention to him. Sure,
there were a lot of them, but the fact there were a lot of them proved they wouldn’t be that hard to
fight.

Yuji motioned to Nanami, signaling for him to get back. He did.

With enough room to move, Yuji planted his left foot back. He waited until the flow of the tornado
was at its closest point to him. Then, with a running start, he jumped along the stairwell, blade-first.
He struck through what he could reach, then landed on the railing. The bar bent under his foot as he
leapt from the opposite side as a few of the curses popped like bubbles, bursting into nothingness.

The flock turned towards Yuji, the remaining curses spotting him. Yuji crouched down, deeper.
Then, he sprung, leaping to the opposite side.

Slaughter Demon’s side struck through anything it could reach as Yuji charged in head-on. His
body contorted, allowing himself to land crooked across the stairs.

The cement steps cracked under the pressure of Yuji’s weight. New specs of debris drifted down
across Nanami. The stone crumbs speckled his sunglasses. Yuji didn’t take the time to look for
details. All he did was wave, then strike.

The tornado of curses thinned. At least seven flying creatures fell from the air, their bodies
vanishing before they hit the stairs.

An exceptionally slimy, worm-looking curse plopped right into Yuji’s face. Yuji shook himself off
as the curse’s body burst straight over his nose, erasing with an audible pop.

What had been left of the curses started to scatter. Most fled away, veering towards the shadows. A
few larger curses bounced off the walls, then charged.

On reflex, Yuji took a step back. His heel fell through the step. The rest of his body buckled,
straining to find his balance. What looked like a mutant, flying porcupine curled to a ball as it
aimed for his nose.

With a quick swing, Yuji jumped over the railing. He bounced off the railing, left foot first, then
jumped back to a lower stair. He landed with a skid at the bottom step, one arm outstretched, his
other leg bracing. The curse followed.

Yuji raised Slaughter Demon, blade first, over his head, then slashed. The last bastion of charging
curses struck down, their remains falling, then vanishing into the dust.

As the last curse fled, Yuji stomped on the step. He craned in, then shouted overhead. “Anyone
need help?! We’re coming!”
The sudden crack summoned a little one-eyed curse to poke through the hole where a step had
been, checking down.

Yuji spun Slaughter Demon in his hand. He tossed the blade overhead, spinning it. The metal
pierced through the curse, exorcizing it, too. A shriveled wing rolled down two steps before
washing into nothingness.

Yuji outstretched his hand, then snatched the falling Slaughter Demon from midair. He bent at the
knee to take the impact out, then looked back at Nanami, the hilt firm in his hand.

“Hear anything, up there?” Yuji asked, hoping Nanami felt something he didn’t. Again, Nanami
didn’t move.

“...Tough crowd?” Yuji asked. “I hoped you’d see something.”

“One isn’t a crowd.”

Yuji took a breath, steadying himself. He wiped Slaughter Demon’s blade against his leg, then
squinted up the stairwell once more. The path of the residuals shone even brighter than before.

“Up there,” Yuji said, pointing with his free hand. “Can you jump? We’d have to skip a few steps to
get up there. Not exactly stairs.”

“It’s unstable,” Nanami told him. “If it couldn’t support your weight before, it won’t support two.”

“Ah,” Yuji nodded. “Right…”

“The structure is already unstable,” Nanami reasoned. “Any further structural damage risks
collapsing the structure.”

The more Yuji looked, the more sure he was that the trail of residuals he was looking at were
correct. Now that he looked closer, the blobs seemed wider at the front than the back. Were the
steps running backwards?

“If you break the stairs, you could bring down the building,” Nanami added more directly. “Don’t
use them.”
“Another path, then?” Yuji asked, “Something’s up there. I just… got a feeling, you know?”

“That would be best, yes.”

It crossed Yuji’s mind, however fleetingly, what Nanami hadn’t pointed out just as much as what he
had. In theory, if they collapsed the building, the risk wasn’t to the building. The risk was to
survivors–unless, that was, Nanami suspected there weren’t any survivors left at all.

Yuji nodded past that thought. He raised his free hand in a salute.

“Roger that.” Yuji lowered his hand in a wave. “Here. This way.”

Turning his back to the residual glow, Yuji headed back into the corridor. Without the light of the
residuals, the details of the wreckage started to fade. He squinted again, not to look for tracks, but
to simply try and see at all.
The wreckage rolled before him, the artificial decorations almost indistinguishable from the real.
Yuji walked towards a rusted UFO catcher. He waited at the side, watching until Nanami had
caught up. Then, he wound back through the game floor.

A cluster of video games strayed through the arcade floor. A row of racing games embedded in the
wall. The screen of a single console flashed with the track, casting highlights through the rest of the
room. In the center of the space, an escalator stood still, a second stairwell in the wreckage. The
shreds of someone’s shoe ground into the bottom grate, holding it still. A jagged pipe slanted down
from the ceiling, straight into the back of a lone body on the steps. A metronomic drop of water fell
across her back.

The sight of the stranger made Yuji stop. From the angle of the debris, he couldn’t tell if the woman
had a head. His blade stilled in his hand.

“Is it… another cursed corpse? Maybe?” Yuji asked quietly.

“It could be,” Nanami stated. “Be prepared. I won’t take it, this time.”

The pronoun was so simple, it had no reason to make Yuji hesitate. He did, anyway.

“It?” Yuji whispered. “That’s… a her.”

“Not anymore.,” Nanami corrected, somehow even more demanding than he’d sounded before.
“Once life left her body, it stopped being human.”

Yuji stared ahead, longer than he should have, at the form before them both. His breath stilled
almost as much as the unmoving body, taking it in.

“This is so wrong,” Yuji whispered, trying to process it. “How’d this happen?”

“A curse,” Nanami answered. “That’s all.”

After everything he’d been through since Gojo’s imprisonment, Yuji hadn’t thought there was
anything left he’d been sheltered from. He knew now that was wrong.

Yuji gripped his shoulder, stilling himself. He watched on for some kind of sign. The woman’s
body didn’t move. The water kept dripping. His stomach churned.

The screen of the racing game turned brighter, casting new shadows across the escalator. A spark
shone at the second step from the bottom, a silver glint against the black.

Slowly, Yuji stepped forward. The woman’s body didn’t move. The stillness in the air clashed with
the screen as Yuji took a knee. He bent down across the steps, leaning into the glimmer. His hand
brushed the form stick in the grate.

A frayed black cord brushed the back of Yuji’s hand. A metal clasp was attached to the strap, but
the fabric had frayed in two.

“It’s a charm…?” Yuji guessed, leaning in, “Like, for a cell phone or something…”

Yuji squinted at the charm. In the shifting dark, he could barely make out the outline.
“A movie camera…?” Yuji guessed. He pinched the charm between his fingers, pulling up to
dislodge it from the grate.

“Itadori,” Nanami called, “Move on. If it has no cursed energy, it doesn’t matter.”

The “right,” Yuji answered with was as automatic as it was doubtful. He lingered, anyway, his
finger curling to the outline. “I know.”

The smallest possible weight of the metal phone charm felt cold on his skin, pressing into the
heartline on his palm. He straightened up, meaning to step forward. The charm swung in his hand,
the silver lens dangling, familiar.

Yuji had seen this dangling, before.

Yuji’s fingers clenched around the camera charm. His memory snapped in place. He’d seen this cell
phone charm before.

“No,” Yuji stuttered, his breath catching. “No way. That’s… not right. No.”

When Yuji had first arrived in Kawasaki, he’d reached for Junpei’s cell phone. There’d been a
charm on the end of it–a black strap, and a black and silver film camera, just like this one.

“Itadori,” Nanami repeated, his voice sharper. “Do you need to leave?”

The “no,” was quick, immediate, and despite Yuji’s intentions, not meant as an answer to Nanami
at all. Focused as he was, the start of tears trickled down as frustration twisted his throat.

“...Shit,” Yuji muttered, the last understanding snapping in place. Junpei hadn’t been answering his
phone. Yuji figured he was just busy, or had assumed Yuji was crazy and ignored him, but what if it
wasn’t? What if Junpei hadn’t picked up because he was just… gone?

“Damn it,” Yuji whimpered, “How–?”

“There’s no shame in it, if this is too much,” Nanami told Yuji. “You’re a child. It’s unfair to
expect this of you.”

Yuji’s fingers tightened around the charm, his hands turning white. The form of the camera pressed
into his hand. His grip shook, his will crumbling into rage.

“No,” Yuji repeated, his voice trembling. “No, it’s not fair. It doesn’t make sense–”

“Even the most futile of losses had its reason, Itadori,” Nanami said, the words so detached, Yuji
wasn’t sure if Nanami believed them himself. “They’re simply ones it’s more comforting to not
know.”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s not–” Yuji stuttered. He cut himself off, then corrected it in anger. “It’s not
supposed to be like this! He’s not supposed to die like this! When he died, it’s to Mahi–”

It wasn’t until Yuji had almost finished speaking that he realized what he’d just started to say.

The “...to,” that finished the other curse’s name faded like a breath. Yuji looked away, then down,
back to the stairwell, his rage falling into a different question.
In his own timeline, it had felt so normal to Yuji for them to manifest this way, he hadn’t thought
anything of it until now.

“Nanamin,” Yuji spoke up, suddenly leaning straight into his face. “Nanamin, wait. The curse in
the hallway. Did you see it vanish when I exorcized it, or did it still have a body? Like– like, you
could’ve photographed it?”

“Of course they would have vanished,” Nanami said. “It’s the basics of a curse. Upon their
exorcism, they will cease to have a form. They can’t be photographed, either” Nanami told him.

Yuji’s expression turned cold. His blood did, too. Nanami may not have had an answer, but Yuji
did. He couldn’t remember seeing that curse vanish.

“It wasn’t a curse,” Yuji said quietly, piecing it together. “Go back, and find it. That one wasn’t a
curse. It was human. Because he’s here.” His breath caught, his thoughts turning with it. “Mahito,
he’s already here.”

Nanami’s sunglasses flashed. Even by his standards, his expression had turned deliberately
unreadable.

“I don’t believe you’re suited to this, as you are,” he said. “Tsukumo was wrong to send you. You
should go.”

Any other time, or version of events, that was the instant where Yuji should’ve said no, or at least,
insisted he be given another chance. He didn’t. Instead, he stepped right into Nanami’s face.

“You gotta trust me! I know who did this!” Yuji snapped. His pulse spiked in his ears, his urgency
rising with it. “There’s a curse that changes human souls. He did this! He took my friend! He–”

“Itadori,” Nanami spoke over him, his severity hiding traces of pity, “I will not recommend you. I
suggest you go.”

Somehow, Yuji’s fist found a little more space to tighten. He backed away from the escalator.

If Junpei had been completely destroyed, then, his phone would’ve stopped working completely.
Any tries to call him would go straight to voicemail. When Yuji had called before, Junpei’s phone
had rang. That was yesterday.

The site that Yuji was standing in, now, was reported days ago. Yuji had called more recently than
that. If the phone was still working yesterday, then Junpei's phone was still alive. Maybe he was,
too.

That was enough.

Yuji shoved a hand into his pocket, tucking the cell phone charm away. “Yeah,” he agreed, almost
breathlessly, as his last understanding was set in place. “Yeah, I gotta–”

In place of the charm, Yuji pulled out his phone. Within seconds, he’d found Junpei’s name on his
missed calls list. He pressed in to call. A dial tone sounded in his ear. The ring of an attempted
connection pulsed at his ear.

The unnatural wind pulsed within the curtain. The turn of each chime tolled clear, identical to the
last. Even now, Junpei’s phone was still working.
“Pick up,” Yuji muttered, his stomach falling to his feet. The ringing cycled again.

“Itadori,” Nanami called, the name turning stern. “We have to go.”

The ringing repeated, rotating through the speaker. Yuji let it keep going. He pressed the receiver to
his ear, hearing what he needed to.

There was no sound of his voice on the other end. Still, each tone pulsed with the same, distant
feeling. Hope.

This wasn’t done, yet.

“This voice mailbox is currently full,” the automated voice turned in, “Please call again.”

“Don’t follow me,” Yuji said, almost panting through the desperate warning. “And if a curse with
stitches comes near you, don’t let it touch you. No matter what, he can’t touch you, got that?”

The “Itadori–” Nanami called back didn't imply that he had.

Yuji stood up. The phone raised as he waved back, signaling a goodbye. “Oh, and say goodbye to
Miwa! She seemed nice!”

It was the last thing he’d bother saying before he ran.

“Itadori–”

Whatever it was that Nanami was going to say, Yuji didn’t stop to hear it. He didn’t have time, not
when he’d already screwed up.
The sequence of what he should’ve done ran parallel to what he needed to. Yuji should have
insisted on sticking with Junpei the moment that he saw him alive. He should’ve taken the time to
explain, instead of letting Gojo run off with him. He should’ve remembered to call sooner.

Of all the things that Yuji should’ve done, the only one more important was what he still could do.
He plugged in an address he had no business remembering, then ran.

There was no guarantee this would work, either. Maybe it was too late, or it wouldn’t matter at all.
If this Mahito was different enough to show up at the same place as Sukuna, Yuji couldn’t
guarantee that Mahito’s hide-outs were the same. He knew all of it, and yet, the only thing Yuji
knew more was that he had to try.

He ran through the ruins, winding down the path they’d just come from. The pebbles of the rubble
shifted under Yuji’s feet. He’d barely stopped to blink before he’d passed through the much of
Nanami’s curtain, back into the midday sun.

The screen of Yuji’s phone washed out in the sunlight. His fingers shook, barely keeping their grip
as he sent a text to the other side.

I’m coming.
The Guy in the Chair
 Suguru Geto

July 20, 2018

Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College

Suguru’s hand cupped over his ear, adjusting his bangs. The lock held in place for as long as he
held it, only to fall right back.

“You do realize this isn’t necessary,” Suguru muttered. “If anything, we’re wasting your time.”

“Time schmine. My time’s drunk. It wants to be wasted,” Suguru's earpiece crackled with Gojo’s
laugh. “Besides! I always wanted to be the chair guy.”

Suguru rubbed his hand against his forehead. “What in the world does this have to do with being a
chair?”

“No! Not being the chair . The guy in the chair. The chair guy,” Gojo insisted, as if this made any
difference to Suguru at all. It didn’t. “You know! Like in spy movies.”

“I don’t watch them.”

A brush of fur passed across Suguru’s leg. He reached down without looking, petting Mochi on the
head. Her ears flopped with his ruffle.

“Fine, fine, I’ll enlighten you. Every spy worth his double-os has got the guy with the gadgets on
the other side of the phone. I’ve been spy guy. I never get to be chair guy. So, I’m gonna be chair
guy with you.”

Ignoring the background noise entirely, Suguru bent over. He gave one more stroke to Mochi’s
head. “Good girl,” said Suguru, “Wait here.”

“Awww,” Gojo cooed. “You know it! I’m a great girl.”

If it were possible for the sudden pause to be audible, that one was. Suguru stood up. He adjusted
his hand against his ear one more time, fixing the speaker. He sighed. “I meant my dog, Satoru.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gojo dismissed. “Like I wouldn’t be a dog for you.”

“You’d be a terrible dog. You don’t listen.”

In his imagination, Suguru could practically see Gojo flick his wrist to bat the idea away with a
“psh”.

The horizon of the campus waved ahead of Suguru, grand, still, and foreboding. The slanted roofs
and archways that marked the Tokyo grounds were engulfed in rolling hills, leaving few traces of
where he was at all. An array of trees, tall grass, and more trees stood tall, their details erased by
the shadows of clouds in a storm-ridden sky. This deep in the wilderness, there should’ve been
something chirping, or rustling. There wasn’t. The only noise left was the static of his earpiece.
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to pull you out,” Suguru tried to chastise.

“You’ll make me pull out?” asked Gojo. Suguru could hear him hold back a snicker before adding.
“But I just got in! Rude.”

“What was that?” Suguru asked back, speaking over Gojo on purpose. “You’re cutting out.”

“Oh, come on! You totally heard how hilarious I am.”

“Are you there? Can’t hear you.” Suguru asked, still playing it up. He tilted his head into his
shoulder, freeing his hands so he could start to secure Mochi’s leash around a tree. “I–”

As Suguru was trying to tie her in place, Mochi bounced up to reach him. She sprung onto her back
paws to leap straight on him.

“Mochi, no–”

Before Suguru could finish the sentence, Mochi had planted both paws on his knee, climbing across
him to reach him. She ran her tongue straight over half his face, coating his cheek and the earpiece
in slobber.

“Mochi–” Suguru waved, trying to nudge her off. Instead, Mochi climbed higher. She nudged her
nose against him, then lapped at his neck. Her paws pushed against his arms as Suguru fought to
draw the dog whistle.

The chain caught between his fingers. Suguru blew down. The inaudible sound shot through the air.
In the second that Mochi hesitated, Suguru let go and barked. “Mochi, down!”

The silver chain fell, and the dog whistle along with it. Even without the sound, Mochi sat up to
watch. Her lake blue eyes met his. Then, Mochi lowered herself onto her front paws. She laid
beneath the tree, perfectly still, watching.

Finally able to catch his breath, Suguru plucked the earpiece from his ear. He wiped the slobber off,
then set it back inside.

“I’m back,” Suguru spoke back in a mutter. “If you become a distraction, I’ll remove you again.
Understand?”

It was a simple question with what would’ve been a simple answer, had Gojo gone along with it.
Naturally, he didn’t.

“You really should’ve brought spy specs,” Gojo said, seemingly oblivious to what he wasn’t
saying. “I can’t tell where you are unless you narrate the scene.”

“Which, of course, I won’t do. That’s ridiculous,” said Suguru.

“You could do it.”

“I could, yes,” Suguru paused for effect, “I could also be caught.”

Fully aware that his point was made, Suguru adjusted his earpiece one more time. Mochi, too, sat
up attentively. Her tail swayed across the grass as she stood guard, watching for someone who
wasn’t there.
If someone were to come out this far, they wouldn’t just find Mochi. As long as she was tied up
here, Mochi would also find them. Suguru had no doubt she’d start barking if she saw someone. It
wouldn’t be ideal, to explain what either of them were doing this far from the main paths, but it
would at least give Suguru a warning.

“I’m by the south border, by the cusp of Tengen’s barrier,” Suguru whispered towards his own ear.
“Which direction, from here?”

Suguru could practically hear Gojo’s excitement in his breath.

“Is there still a really big shrub by the wall?” Gojo asked. “If so, turn right! If no… I dunno no.”

Suguru turned away from Mochi, checking the wall. A large bush grew along the metal siding of a
building. He stepped closer.

“Then, how fortunate. It’s not no,” Suguru noted. “The whole place is shrubs.”

“Then, walk to the edge of a long one,” said Gojo, “You’ll find a folding door. You know, like the
ones for a garage.”

“If I knew, would you have to specify for me?” Suguru asked. He didn’t expect an answer.

“Need? Nah. Want to? Totally. Can’t deprive you of the dulcet tones of Satoru Gojo.”

“...If the emphasis is on dull, maybe.”

“Nope,” Gojo joked, “It’s on being a smart ass.”

Rather than dignify that with an answer, Suguru reached for the earpiece. He bowed his head as he
took in the brush of the hidden warehouse and the dulled, rusted gleam of metal hiding beneath the
trees.

“Bye, Satoru,” Suguru whispered into the air, and what he knew couldn’t stand beside him. “I’ll see
you on the other side.”

The frustrated, staticky cry of “Suguru–” chirped from the earpiece.

Suguru snickered. He pushed his hand against his ear, nudging it tighter in.

“Kidding,” Suguru whispered.

“Start seriousing, then! Kidding’s my job.”

“It is?” Suguru whispered. “I thought yours involved chairs.”

“It’s my second job!”

Knowing full well that Gojo would either have the last word, or never shut up, Suguru stopped
talking. He strode into the tall grass, until the point where he could no longer see grass at all. In its
place, he saw a wall.

Just like Gojo had said it would be, the door to the warehouse was folded down. Where every other
part of the building looked ancient, the barrier was as modern as it was out of place. With how
close this building was to the barrier, and how little effort had been made to hide it, Suguru
wondered how he hadn’t seen it before.

Despite his quiet, Gojo spoke up once more. “Code name goody two lips, over. Operation sticky
finger is a go.”

The best thing Suguru could’ve done right now was stay quiet. He knew that, and yet, he couldn’t
help but shake his head and mutter. “Please don’t call it that.”

“Why not?” Gojo asked, no doubt pouting. This time, Suguru knew to ignore it.

Suguru raised a hand towards the folding door, his palm running parallel to the folds without
brushing it.

“What now? Should I just… open it?” Suguru asked, the question starting quiet, and ending even
quieter at a whisper. “There’s no lock.”

“Yeah, that adds up,” Gojo told him. “Pretty sure there were curses that just busted straight in.”

“That’s… horrible security.”

“Well, you know what they say about sorcerers. They’re all so insecure.”

Suguru knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut. He knew that, still, and yet he couldn’t help
adding. “That explains the other you being a curse user. You’re the most secure person I know.”

“Ouch,” Gojo complained, clearly feigning the offense, “Says more about the rest of the people you
know.”

That time, Suguru kept himself from talking back. He took a knee in front of the lowered door.
With care, his hands settled along the lower ledge. He pushed up with force, expecting resistance at
the other side. There wasn’t. He had hardly tapped the bottom when the gate rose away.

A dark corridor stood ahead, devoid of any detail but the shadow of stone walls waiting inside.

Suguru thought, at first, that he heard another chirp from his earpiece. The crackle of a
“remember–” died out at the word.

“I’m losing the signal,” Suguru turned his head, trying to speak into the earpiece. “You cut out.”

There wasn’t an answer.

“Satoru?” Suguru called. Still nothing.

Slowly, Suguru started to lower the door behind him. He took his time releasing it, stopping at a
kneel. Just as the darkness had started to engulf everything but Suguru’s ankles, the last whispers of
Gojo’s voice broke through the static.

“Back– the cube or– central–” Gojo spoke, “Stitches through–”

It stopped.
Knowing what had happened, Suguru closed the door. He took the earpiece from his ear
completely, then blew on it. The adjustment made no difference. When he held the speaker in his
palm, there was nothing left but static. No matter what they’d planned or discussed going into this,
all Suguru had left, now, was him.

Suguru reached into his sleeve. He took out his phone, then shook it, turning the flashlight on. The
beam from Suguru’s camera stretched out into the warehouse. Shelves of clutter wound through the
box of a room, like a library of discarded things. No matter where Suguru turned to look, cursed
tool after cursed tool was lying about, coated in the dust of misuse, or no use at all.

With a nod to himself, and an imagined voice in his ear, Suguru reminded himself that he knew
what he was looking for. The flesh-textured cube of the Prison Realm was smaller than most of
these cursed tools. If either side of Prison Realm was in here, then, it was most likely being stored
somewhere high, like a shelf.

The closest shelf to Suguru’s back was empty. In the spots where objects should have been, Suguru
saw nothing but equal circles of dust. He could tell that something must have been there until
recently. What it was, or why it wasn’t anymore, he couldn’t say. All Suguru knew for sure was
that, whatever had been there, someone was here recently to take it away.

Along the back wall, an arsenal of different weapons had been mounted haphazardly. The random
pattern left some weapons overlapping others, blocking not just the back of the wall, but the other
objects, too.

Suguru stopped, taking the pattern in. He reminded himself, in stillness, why he was here. Then, he
steadied his light, and stepped closer. The outline of a three-piece staff hung on the wall.

It was a distant memory, yet, the sheen of the red metal brought that thought to the forefront of
Suguru’s mind. He shifted the phone to one hand. The other reached for the staff. A familiar chill of
cursed metal pressed into his palm as the pattern of flames shone against him.

“So this is where it was stored,” Suguru realized, “Everything I relinquished from the inventory
curse, back then.”

For as much as Suguru had deliberately distanced himself from anything that reminded him of the
Star Plasma mission, something about the weight of this tool, in here, didn’t feel foreboding
anymore. It almost felt right.

Suguru's hand ran along the length of the lower third, turning his wrist across the cold surface of
embedded flames.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Suguru whispered to Playful Cloud, as if the tool could hear him. “Though
I’m not sure this is where you should be, now.”

The deeper he gazed into the metal, the more Suguru thought he saw the memory. He watched his
own eyes in the flames as he lifted Playful Cloud from the wall. The second section dripped with
gravity’s weight as the first and third settled in either side of his hand, the chains bending.

The wall squeaked. Someone else hadn’t just been here recently–they were here now.
Suguru’s hand stilled around Playful Cloud. He folded all three poles behind his back, parallel to
the katana at his side. The rumble of a voice passed through a wall, the words indistinguishable, but
human.

“Being emotional isn’t going to help, you know,” Shoko said. Suguru couldn’t spot her, but he
recognized her voice. The one that followed, he wasn’t as quick to know.

“I understand, of course,” they agreed. “However, that doesn’t make feeling any less an
inevitability.”

Unsure of how to hide, but well aware he had to, Suguru bound silently behind a solid-backed
shelf. Rows of scrolls and leather bound books obscured him from view, and, by extension, blocked
any view from him.

There was a pause for breath. What Shoko or the person with her had done in the exhale, Suguru
couldn’t see.

“Ieiri-sensei,” the other voice asked, composed to the point of tension, “How is anyone supposed to
fight this without becoming irrational, when every rational outcome means there’s no fight at all?”

“No one said we had to fight,” Shoko answered, off-handed as ever, “Some sorcery comes down to
accepting when you aren’t in control.”

“And you propose this is then, sensei?”

“Has it looked like any of us are in control? Didn’t realize I’d become an actress.”

Suguru’s hand steadied on the closest shelf. WIth caution, he slid his arm across the surface,
steadying himself to contort just enough to steal a glimpse without leaving streaks in the dust. He
bowed forward enough to spot a sliver of gold trim on the black Ao Dai of one of the custom
school uniforms. Even without seeing their face, Suguru knew which student it was–a third year,
Yun.

The lower half of Shoko’s lab coat shone bright in contrast, giving her presence away. Faint spots
of stains she couldn’t wash out dotted yellow through the ends.

“What if I can’t accept that?” Yun asked in a hush. “I’m not so certain I have the capacity to detach
from an apocalypse.”

“Then, you’ll stay irrational, like the rest of us,” Shoko said bluntly. “You face enough days at the
end of the world, they’ll stop being normal. Start being Thursdays.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Must not be ending yet, then.”

Suguru’s shoulders tensed, his body stilling as he listened along. He clutched tighter to Playful
Cloud as he rocked away. He’d completely forgotten the weight of the discarded earpiece in his
pocket until it crackled with Gojo’s voice. “Geez, this– boring–”

The sound shot through Suguru’s ear. The spark of static stung through his pocket. He winced.

“Shit–”
Suguru reached into his pocket to smother the sound. The last whispers of Gojo’s voice, gurgling “-
-never– chair–” broke as Suguru snapped the power off.

At the same time as Gojo’s voice stopped, Yun’s started. “Hello? Is someone–”

“It’s fine, Yun,” Shoko cut in, calm to the point of disinterest. “If there were an external threat,
we’d see the alarm.”

“How can you be sure?” Yun asked, taking on the urgency she didn’t have. “Satoru of the Six Eyes
penetrated the barrier–”

“--And immediately set off the alarm,” Shoko interrupted. “If something were here, it should be.”

Suguru held tighter to the wall, nearly contorting into the shelf.The unmarked spines of the books
at Suguru’s back looked out of place. He turned his head, checking that he hadn’t left a print.

The dust on the shelf was unsettled, but not where Suguru’s arm had brushed. What he saw, instead,
was an indent. One of the books was pushed back further than the others, recently, leaving a track
where the spine must have sat before.

His curiosity settling, Suguru slowly, silently pulled the book from the shelf. The inscription of the
kanji embedded in the cover. Dim and faint as the imprint was, the lettering was unmistakable.

The cover of this book said Satoru Gojo.

The light pattering of Yun’s footsteps drew deeper into the room. “Ieiri-sensei,” they called. The
sheer density of clutter swallowed their echo.

“Are you ever going to drop the honorifics with me?”Shoko asked.

Suguru didn’t see Yun shake their head. He imagined it from the pause before they spoke once
more.

“We aren’t alone.”

As Yun was speaking, and Suguru’s pulse was falling out, he lurched back. Suguru’s shoe had
barely touched the ground when he saw a spark in front of him. An array of faint blue glowing dots
swarmed before his face, illuminating him.

Suguru’s arms wrapped tighter to the book. The bars of Playful Cloud clinked against his shoulder,
his body tensing.

“...Fuck me, you’re right.” Shoko’s bag-laden eyes fell directly to the shadows by the shelf, and
Suguru’s startled face. “Hey, Geto.”

“I imagine that’s not an invitation, sensei?” Yun added, sounding as formal as ever.

“Well, aren’t you bold today,” Shoko mused. Though she must have been speaking to Yun, her eyes
never left Suguru’s. They lingered for long enough that, despite the context, Suguru started to
wonder if the one Shoko thought had been bold was him.

With the faintest raise of their shoulders, Yun backed away. Their posture corrected to an almost
eerily statue-like formality, one that Suguru might have questioned were it not for Shoko asking
“So. What’re you up to, here?”

Of all the ways to answer that raced through Suguru’s brain, he knew the only one he couldn’t
share was the truth. He forced a breath, scheming an answer.

“The same things as you, I would think,” Suguru said through a closed-eyed smile, “Something we
shouldn’t be.”

It was the kind of answer that Suguru didn’t think Shoko would press into that deeply. Either she’d
have to defend what she was doing in the cursed tool warehouse, too, or they’d agree to trust each
other and go on with their days. Regardless, either outcome would give Suguru time to come up
with an explanation of his own.

At least, Suguru had thought so. He thought wrong.

“Ah,” Shoko reached out in Suguru’s direction. He stood still, not resisting her, until her hand
reached the front of the bound journal. She stroked her hand along the top. “You open this, yet?”

The tone, and the casual nature of it all, brought Suguru to rock back. He blinked.

“No. I haven’t.” Suguru paused, uncertain what she knew. When she said nothing, he finally
relented to confessing, “I didn’t even know the higher-ups kept this sort of thing.

“Why not? With all the lines they’ll cross, stealing a diary sounds like exactly their deal, right?”

The label repeated in Suguru’s mind before the word even escaped his lips. “...Diary?”

Suguru knew, without saying, what that combination must have meant. The name etched into the
journal’s cover stared back, not just familiar, but a label. This misplaced book amidst the rest
wasn’t just a relic. It was Gojo’s.

Shoko’s shoulders shook with a puff.

“You should put it back. You’re by-the-book, but not that one.” Even without the cigarette, Shoko’s
posture twisted as if she’d exhaled a cloud of smoke when she paused. “...Some things, it’s better
when you don’t know.”

“You, generally, or you specifically?”

“Either.”

“You say that like you’ve read it,” Suguru noted. Shoko didn’t answer.

Yun stood still at her back, their arms folding across their chest. Shoko tilted the journal’s cover
towards herself, tipping it as if she was bracing to take it away from Suguru. Suguru didn’t let go.

“What, did you have some kind of radar sense, I’d found this?” Suguru asked, meeting Shoko’s
eyes. She leaned in.

“No,” Shoko dismissed, still sounding casual. “I’m just here for the same as you. The kinds of
things we shouldn’t be.”

The lack of clarity lingered as exactly what it was–an implication towards the mutual benefit of not
asking questions.
Suguru’s eyes trailed from the diary, to Shoko, and finally, to Yun.

“My apologies,” he told Yun. “I hadn’t meant to interrupt. There’s important business I need to
speak with Ieiri about.”

Suguru could practically hear the implication in Shoko’s sinking stare. She didn’t speak up.

Yun’s head lowered in a bow. “Of course. Should I deliver your cursed tool to the classroom on
your behalf, sensei?”

“My–”

It took a second for Suguru to even remember what was still perched on his shoulder. With how
tightly he’d clung to Satoru’s diary, the folded weight of Playful Cloud had simply felt like an
extension of him. He looked at the cursed tool, then back to the student in understanding. “That
would be helpful, Yun. Thank you.”

“Then it’s my honor to oblige.”

With a slight bow forward, Suguru lowered the cursed tool into his grip. Yun, too, lowered
themselves, until they had reached a deep, steady bow. The midnight blue folds of their ponytail
cascaded over their shoulder as they lowered themselves, head down, to accept the special grade
tool.

There was some risk, Suguru supposed from relinquishing an object like this. It was a risk that, for
the circumstance of getting time with Shoko and without Yun, seemed worth it.

Suguru removed Playful Cloud from behind his back. He set it directly over Yun’s hands, then
nodded, imitating the bow without falling into one himself. “Take care,” he said, quietly. “I imagine
you can lock the door.”

“Then, you imagine truth. I shall.”

Yun lowered both hands, turning Playful Cloud so that it aligned directly under their arm. In a
silence so stifled, it made the air itself still, Yun slinked into the shadows of the warehouse. A last
sliver of light shone through the room where he opened the door, only to vanish once more.

Shoko reached into her pocket. She flicked a lighter, holding the flame steady as she watched their
student leave.

“Ah,” Geto noted, looking down. “So, you do have a lighter.”

“I do,” Shoko agreed. “What’s your excuse for being here?”

For all the time he’d had to consider one, Suguru should have had time to imagine an answer.
Instead, he’d said, “I don’t know.”

“Should’ve known.”

Shoko raised a cigarette into her mouth. The flame of her lighter drew closer to the tip.

Just as Suguru was ready to speak up, his attempt at a “don’t–” was spoken over.
Shoko pulled the cigarette between her fingers, freeing her lips to speak. “Then be straight with
me.” She paused. “Assuming you’re capable of straightness.”

“Quite the assumption,” Suguru answered. It sounded like he was joking. He wasn’t.

As the door shut, Shoko took a drag from her cigarette. She exhaled into the closed room, the bitter
swirl engulfing them both.

“Did you really not know those journals were in here?” asked Shoko.

Suguru didn’t say anything. His hand ran along the cover once more, feeling the imprint of Satoru’s
name.

“...Have you read them?”

That time, Suguru answered quickly. “No,”

Shoko tipped her cigarette. The first fleck of ashes drifted towards her feet. “So, are you done
pretending it doesn’t matter to you?”

Yes. No. Either would’ve been a simple answer. Suguru knew that, and yet, he said nothing.

Knowing the silence and the stillness were their own form of reply, Shoko turned her cigarette
between her fingers, twisting away.

“Don’t bother trying.” she spoke towards her hands. “Reading them. They stop making sense pretty
quick.”

The ambiguous statement was enough to turn Suguru’s head. He angled himself to lean back
against it and speak to Shoko as directly as possible. “Do you mean, as in his equations on infinity
theories?”

“No,” Shoko dismissed. “I mean like he’s mad.”

“Mad, as in anger? Or mad like madness?”

What could’ve been a simple question was met with no answer at all. Instead, Shoko took a drag.
She held the stick between her lips, seeming to savor it. The silence fell between them for so long,
Suguru didn’t have to hear the truth. He felt it.

Shoko leaned against an empty shelf. A streak of dust formed where she found her grip. She
hopped up to sit along an open ledge, one foot dangling off the floor.

“Remember when Gojo first started using infinity all the time?” she asked, speaking towards the
wall. “How we both wondered if it would fry his brain?”

She hadn’t said the conclusion, and yet, Suguru felt he knew the end before she brought it up.

“If I ever dissect him, I wonder if that’s what I’ll find,” she mused.

The thought was grim enough on its own. Suguru put no thought into dismissing. “I hope not.”

“Odd,” she countered. “I’d hope I do. For one, I outlived him, that way.”
“...Fair point.”

Of the thousands of places where Suguru’s mind could stray, not one of them gave him comfort.
The best he could think to do was sigh.

“I suppose you can hope to live long enough that you dissect both of us,” Suguru tried to agree.

“No. Him first,” Shoko corrected. “Because if I did, and I found this damage was internal, then
you’d know it’s not on you.”

Suguru’s mind froze. His breath stopped with it. Shoko’s expression didn’t shift. Didn’t blink.
When she spoke, she did it clearly.

“What Gojo did isn’t on you, Geto.”

A small voice in his mind reminded Suguru that he needed to look calm. He didn’t. He only made it
as far as to blink.

“You act like it is,” Shoko added, “All the time. Like you’re on some solo quest for vengeful
redemption. It doesn’t make sense, living that way.”

Shoko paused for long enough that the thought could sink as far as the smoke from her mouth
could rise. She tapped the cigarette, a longer string of ash falling through the stagnant air.

“If you could prove it was him, and this was always going to happen, then, maybe you can let it
go.”

There was a time when Suguru might have believed that was true. A year ago, a month, or maybe
even a week, her argument could have had merit. Now that Suguru had met living proof to the
contrary, he didn’t hear it.

“...I don’t think I can,” Suguru admitted, then paused in thought. “Let go, I mean.”

If there was more he could say, Suguru didn’t know how.

Shoko tipped her hand. Her cigarette twisted between her fingers. “Here,” she offered, tilting the
remnants towards Suguru, butt first. “You need it more.”

Suguru’s eyes flattened. Shoko’s stayed the same.

“I don’t need to smoke,” Suguru told her. She didn’t budge.

“Good,” she said. “Take it anyway.”

Knowing too well that he wasn’t going to win, Suguru took the cigarette. He closed his eyes, taking
in the sour, bitter scent of addiction that helped so many of his friends endure the unthinkable. Such
a small source of damage, where the vice’s main victim was the one who consumed it, didn’t have
to matter to Suguru. Maybe, if he tried, he would understand what tethered Shoko and Nanami to
its pointless indulgence.

Suguru held the end close to his lips. Then, he dropped the cigarette to the floor. He ground his
shoe into the remains, putting it out.
Shoko’s head started to shake, albeit barely. There’d been no doubt in Suguru’s mind that she was
readying herself to scold him. Instead, her hand brushed Suguru’s shoulder. She pat him softly.

“It’s okay to do things you don’t need to do, Geto,” Shoko told him, “A lot of the time, those are
what make the things we had to do worth doing.”

Suguru’s hand stroked the spine of Satoru’s diary. The temptation to do something he shouldn’t do
wasn’t what was at his feet. It was in his pocket, or right in his grasp. He kept his eyes shut, closing
himself off to the thought. Instead, Suguru faced her.

If there was any adult on campus that Suguru was sure he could trust, it was Shoko. If she knew the
answer, she wouldn’t judge.

“Shoko,” Suguru called. He waited until he saw her eyes meet his own. Then, in that quiet, he let
himself indulge. He asked a question. “Have you ever heard of Prison Realm?”

“Not put together, no,” said Shoko, clearly confused that he’d asked. “Why?”

The true answer was too complicated. Suguru knew that, and yet, his delay started to give an
answer anyway.

“What does it have to do with Gojo?”

There were plenty of ways to answer that question. Somehow, one of the most complicated was the
truth.

Suguru drew a breath, long and unsteady. “I–”

Footsteps raced through the warehouse, rushed and rapid. The door slammed open.

“Geto-sensei–”

A familiar horror churned as Suguru turned to the exit. The urgency was different, as was the voice,
and yet, Suguru felt something, clear as could be. He had been in this moment before, in third year,
with Gojo, as Shoko herself barged into the room. The only difference, now, was that she was with
him as a startled third year loomed in the doorway.

“Geto-sensei, you’re needed to dispatch immediately,” the student told him, the words rushing to
escape. “There’s been a distress call. Nanami-sensei and the first years in his observation–”

Suguru stepped away from the cigarette, and Shoko. Whatever he could’ve done to try and find
Prison Realm, or a tool, it would all have to wait.

“Where?” Suguru asked, in complete severity.

Playful Cloud shifted on Yun’s shoulder as they rose from their bow to speak.

“Last reported coordinates were a residential home in Kawasaki,” they said, “First district,
sixteenth block.” For now, that was all Suguru needed to know. He turned to Shoko.

“I left Mochi by the side gate,” Suguru told her. “Watch her.”
Suguru didn’t wait for some sign Shoko had heard him, or for someone else to take his hand and
lead the way. All Suguru did, now, was go.
Origin of Regret
 Nagi Yoshino

July 20, 2018

1st District, Tamami, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

The weight of her own eyelids fought against her face. Nagi bobbed to attention, trying, and failing,
to make herself stay upright. Her forehead smacked into the headrest in front of her. The seat belt
dug into her neck.

“Goddamnit–”

Nagi swallowed the yawn, and her anger. She gripped the back of the seat to push back. The seat
belt snapped over her chest.

If she complained that the day couldn’t get worse, it would have.

Too exhausted to bother groaning, Nagi reached into her pocket. A vein throbbed in her forehead so
intensely, the whites of her eyes shone red. She exhaled at the screen. However far she’d had to
fight to get back to Kawasaki, this was why.

The lock screen of her phone flickered to life. The last breath of her battery shone at two percent in
the corner. Nagi pulled the phone between her hands, shielding the screen to see. No notifications.
All that was there, now, was the lock screen of her son. The fireworks of a summer festival shone in
the background while he hid his face with a candied apple. No doubt, he’d complained she’d taken
a photo at all.

“If he’s not dead I’m gonna smack him,” Nagi grumbled, ruffling her hair. The start of a yawn
made her wince. She had just managed to swallow it when a pothole shook the car.

“...Dammit–”

Nagi had just managed to finish the question when the light extinguished in her hand. The image in
her palm went dark. She shook the phone, then smacked the back of it with her palm. The screen
held black.

Nagi’s eyelids lowered at the screen, not from exhaustion, but exasperation. “Seriously? Stupid
funking–”

As Nagi started to spurt words more colorful than ‘funk’, a thin plastic cord tapped against her arm.
The prong of a phone dangle poked into her hand. She leaned up to spot the driver, not turning
towards her, passing her the charge cord.

With a deflating sigh, Nagi took the cord. She jabbed the end clumsily, but persistently, until it
clicked at the port in her phone. The screen didn’t change.

It would take a second to charge. Nagi knew that. Still, some part of her mind worried that, despite
logic, this was the one time that logic would stop working. That, this time, her phone would be
dead, and the easiest connection she’d have to find her missing kid would be gone.
Nagi let a little piece of her anger push down into another, long breath.

“Thanks, man,” she said. “Last thing I needed was the robot brick dying, too.”

The driver nodded with sympathy. He kept his head on the road, not answering.

The black of her phone’s screen flashed, the image of a battery appearing. A cycling green bar
appeared inside, pulsing to signal the connection. The last fractions of that anxiety turned away,
leaving Nagi with the pressure of everything else.

“Not too,” Nagi corrected, watching the icon change. “Better not be too.”

There was a pause from the front seat. The quiet, and the rattle of the road, gave time for Nagi’s
eyelids to start drifting back over her stare. The digital battery blurred, the little green streak
twisting to a smear. She had almost closed her eyes when the driver spoke up.

“Who has you so worried?” he asked, then added, “Must be a special guy.”

The corniest, saddest attempt at flattery made Nagi snort anyway. “He is, yeah. My kid. Little
weirdo.”

Nagi raised a hand off the phone to wave it in front of herself dismissively. “I know, I know. I’m
too young for a kid. He’s in high school, so, I won’t have a kid soon, anyway. I’ll have an adult!”

The last statement, which ordinarily would have been nothing but a joke, landed heavy. She felt the
air go still.

She pulled her hand back into her lap, clutching the phone. The screen stuck, showing nothing but
that one, green bar. She hunched over the screen, her thoughts folding in.

In the past, every time Nagi had left home, she hadn’t worried about her son. She’d had no reason
not to trust that Junpei and the good, over-thinking head on his shoulders would handle himself
when she wasn’t there.

Not now.

Nagi lowered a hand, covering her face to shield herself from her own thoughts. Bright as it was
outside, the ache of exhaustion was only weaker than the need to keep moving.

A flood of adrenaline cast Nagi’s eyes wide as her lock screen came back in view. The phone
chimed as the signal reconnected.

Nagi had known not to expect anything. She’d known, and yet her stomach dropped all the same.
No new messages.

“Ugh. Stick a hand up my ass and call me a dummy,” she grumbled, the sense of the catastrophe
twisting to irritation, “...excuse me while I threaten a child.”

The driver didn’t answer. The lack of acknowledgement was permission enough.

Nagi adjusted her hold on the phone to avoid the charge cord. She hit the last known number, then
hit call. Her curls stuck to her mouth as the dial tone kicked in.
The phone rang. Each tone felt longer than the last. Had there been any hope of Junpei answering,
it died well before the voice mailbox kicked in.

“This voice mail box has not been set up at this time,” a digitized woman’s voice answered, “to
leave a message–”

Nagi snapped the phone back. She pulled the receiver to her mouth, speaking down into the screen.
“Hey, kid. If you’re alive and wanna stay that way, call me back right now. You got that? Great.
Love you, you idiot.”

In a new huff, Nagi ended the call. She shoved the phone into her lap, then craned her neck to
check the front seat of the car.

“When do you think we’ll get there?” she asked the driver. “I need to prep for when I strangle
him.”

The driver paused, not answering. The car stalled at a stoplight. Nagi leaned a little further forward,
straining her seat belt in the attempt to make eye contact with the mirror. Her mouth opened with
what she’d meant to have be an apology when the driver answered, first.

“Get where?” the driver asked back. “All you said was Tamami. We’re in Tamami. I don’t know
where else you want to go.”

“I–”

Nagi meant to say something, and yet, the more she thought about how to debate that she had
specified a place, the more she realized she couldn’t.

“Huh,” Nagi realized. “Did I not say Block 16? My bad.”

The driver didn’t say a word. He hadn’t needed to.

Nagi fell back against the seat. Her hair stuck to the ceiling.

“Block 16, then. First district. Thanks,” Nagi corrected, too tired to be embarrassed. “I’m building
13, if you can get there. If it’s closed off or whatever, that’s fine. I’ll walk.”

“Understood,” the driver said. “District 1, Block 16, Unit 13.”

“You got it.”

“I’ll put it into the GPS now,” the driver said. “You’ll still be good for the fare?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nagi said. “Price doesn’t matter.”

A digital chime sounded as the driver adjusted their coordinates. The taxi took a sharp turn at the
next corner, adjusting their path on Nagi’s way towards home.

Whether home was where she was looking for, here, she didn’t know.

Nagi shifted in her seat. She reached into her back pocket, fidgeting. “Mind if I smoke? I haven’t lit
up all day.”
“I’d prefer you not, no.”

“Well,” she sighed, mumbling to herself, “It’s what I get for asking.”

Nagi took a cigarette from her purse all the same. She twisted the stick between her fingers,
fidgeting with it. Her eyes glossed off the window.

“Hey,” she thought, speaking up again. “What if I stick my head out the window? Then I’m not in
the car.”

“That sounds unsafe,” the driver countered.

Nagi sighed. “Yeah. Well. You hear my son say it, so’s smoking. Hasn’t killed me yet.”

“Do you regularly put your head outside windows?”

“Well, no…”

The cigarette shifted between Nagi’s fingers, the center squishing. That didn’t help, either.

Understanding this relief wouldn’t last, Nagi tucked the cigarette away. She rummaged through her
pocket for a pack of nicotine gum, then bit down and tucked it in. Her foot jiggled as she waited for
the tingle to numb her cheek, her face swaying towards the window.

The familiar scenery on an unfamiliar block stared back at Nagi, each building too bright and
peaceful to be what she’d imagined. From the descriptions on the news, and what she’d gone
through to get back, some part of Nagi had expected the city to be a warzone. From here, as the last
wisps of white smoke nearly faded, it looked suspiciously like home.

Maybe, Nagi thought, the disaster hadn’t reached this part of the city where people actually lived.
Unless you’d been on the train, or known someone who had been in the wrong spot at a worse time,
to you, maybe there’d been no disaster at all. To those people, maybe the smog of all that had
transpired just looked like a cloud.

If it didn’t feel so life-and-death, the contrast might’ve made Nagi snicker. Instead, she felt off. Her
hands folded in her lap as the scenery turned, the weathered roofs of the townhouses meshing into
the identical mush on the way. The relief in the prickling nicotine numbing her wasn’t enough.

Nagi’s eyes closed to the scenery. Without the buildings to blur by, the image at the back of her
eyelids took hold. Her imagination turned, envisioning her apartment burning, dusted with soot,
with tree limbs striking the windows.

When she opened her eyes, and the car stopped, it wasn’t a disaster. It was home.

The all too familiar sight of white walls and tall windows stood on the hill, nestled just as
innocuous as anywhere else. There was no reason, from the sight of her house, to suspect anything
had gone wrong here at all.

“There.” The breath of Nagi’s words fogged over the car’s window. “The white one.”

The taxi pulled to the curb outside her home. It hadn’t fully stopped when Nagi opened the door.
She scrambled out of the seat belt.
“Thanks, man,” she slurred, pushing the nicotine gum against her cheek to talk more clearly., “I’ll
tip ya later. Not just life advice, either.”

“There’s no need,” the driver told her.

“Nobody’s gotta be decent.” Nagi hopped back, moving away from the door. She yanked her phone
back from the charge cord, knocking the cord inside. “But impolite’s not my brand of indecent, so
thanks.”

The driver had just started to turn around and ask “would you like help with your bag–?” when the
door closed against them. Nagi took her suitcase from the trunk herself. She booked it towards the
door, already wrestling in her pocket for her keys.

“Come on. Come on,” Nagi spoke to herself. She stopped patting her front pocket to check the
back, instead. She was still checking for the key when she stopped by the door. Her head rocked
back, jerking up towards the sky. “Some joke, right–”

The midday sun sifted back through a barely sunny sky. Nagi started to groan. She reached towards
the doorknob, readying herself to fight with the lock, key or no key. Only then, in that moment of
desperation, did she look down.

The door was cracked.

Nagi’s hand hovered over the handle, noticing the gap. Nagi tapped at the side of the door. The
wood slid, opening the way inside.

“Junpei?” Nagi’s sneakers sank into the welcome mat. She kicked her shoes off as she reached for
the lightswitch.

A single lamp on the ceiling beamed out into the rest of the apartment. Despite the daylight, the
curtains drawn cast the space so in shadow, she could barely make anything out past the front
corner.

“...Junpei?” Nagi called, again, her voice raising with uncertainty. She swallowed. “What, you
taking a nap or something? It’s too dark here. You’re like a bat boy.”

On a normal day, at this point, Nagi would’ve assumed Junpei was out. It was the middle of the
day, after all. If he wasn't hiding out at the movies, then Nagi would’ve heard the tv, or at least a
dishwasher. Instead, the still air itself crawled down the nape of Nagi’s neck.

“Junpei!” Nagi shouted, her voice raising urgently. “Junpei, I’m back.”

The churn of the fridge whined in the distance. Nagi rounded the corner to the kitchen, then turned
the lightswitch there, too. It didn’t work.

Nagi stood in the doorway, still and squinting. “Junpei, you in here?” she asked, knowing full well
she wouldn’t get an answer. She didn’t.

The closer she squinted, the more Nagi could see. The shadow of a fruit stand grew along the wall–
a woven basket that, for the life of her, Nagi couldn’t remember ever buying. Multiple dishes sat in
the sink, most of them with flat water. The sunlight passing slivers through the blackout blinds. One
of the chairs sat askew.
“When’d we get fruit?” Nagi asked, her voice falling enough that, this time, she’d meant it for
herself. That didn’t change the answer. Nothing.

A pair of bananas and an orange sat tall in the fruit bowl. Nestled between them, something
shivered waited, so still, Nagi could almost have sworn it turned.

Had Nagi had a shadow left, hers would’ve covered over the kitchen table. She reached down,
picking a small, shriveled sphere in her palm.

“Huh.” Nagi raised her palm, looking closer at it. ‘What’s this?” Whatever Nagi was holding, it
seemed to sink against her hand. She raised it higher, looking close for what she could see.

“At least it’s not a bug,” Nagi noted, turning the object over. From how deep the wrinkles ran
across the leathery outside, it almost looked like a prune. The strangest thing about the trinket,
though, wasn’t the shape. It was that this thing was warm.

“Weird,” Nagi noticed. Her eyes sank into the object, concentrating on the little she could see. “It
kinda looks like a head.”

Whatever she was holding, Nagi wondered how it got here. She wouldn’t know.

“Yoshino-san!” a voice she didn’t know called down the hallway. “Don’t move!”

“Don’t move?” Instinct made Nagi look up. She set her hand down on the table, dropping the
object along with it. “What, you trying to rob me? Tough tits, then, I’m poor.”

“No! No” the stranger shouted back, “I’m trying to find Junpei.”

“Junpei?” Nagi turned. Finally, she saw.

There was a complete stranger in her kitchen.

The boy she didn’t know–at least, she thought it was a boy–had dull pink hair and earnest panic in
his eyes. His jeans were torn in such a way, she could spot his knees. His footprints tracked soot on
the wood floor.

“Who are you?” Nagi asked, failing to process all but the most basic conclusion. “You’re too pink.
You’d get arrested right away.”

From the context, some part of Nagi didn’t expect the truth. Whoever this guy was, he’d been in
her house when it was unlocked, and her son was missing. There was no reasonable context in
which this guy wasn’t suspicious.

“I’m a friend,” he said, the dots of his eyes meeting hers earnestly. “Do you know where he is? It’s
important.”

“A friend?” Nagi repeated. “Didn’t know he still had those.”

There was no reason, in this context, to believe that some kid with a cosplay knife was telling the
truth. The spot where Nagi stood in the kitchen turned cold. There was no justification for any of
this, yet, she felt it anyway. She could trust him.

“Does anything else look off?” Yuji asked quickly, cutting into her thoughts. “Other than me?”
“You mean, like, how the lights won’t work?”

From the lack of a quick reply, Nagi figured it was the other kind of off.

“In that case, the rotting fruit bowl, I guess? I mean, I’ve been gone for a while, but not
spontaneously moldy peaches long.”

Nagi pressed her tongue into her cheek, shoving the nicotine gum further in. Odd as talking felt,
she could at least get the words out more clearly. She pulled her phone part way from her pocket,
slyly checking the sliver of her screen.

“What’s so important about finding him, to you?” Nagi asked Yuji, watching closely, “You think
something happened?”

There were some answers given without words. The delay from when she spoke, and Yuji didn’t,
was that kind of reply.

“Well, shit,” said Nagi. “You call him?

“I tried. I can’t reach him.”

“Yeah, yeah. Me, either” Nagi agreed, despite it having been her question to begin with. “What
about that find-a-phone thing? You see him on that?”

“You can do that?”

“Well, yeah. I pay for it. I can track his phone all day.”

If there’d been any doubt that the pink haired boy in her kitchen wasn’t a threat, it was cast away
from the way he perked up. “That might work! You should try that!”

“I already have tried it,” she answered. “Last few days, it’s been here.”

The fading 6% of Nagi’s barely-boosted battery loomed in the corner of the screen. The same
grimace of her son hiding behind festival food watched back. Nagi entered her passcode, then
jumped to the app.

“Come on,” she grumbled to her screen, “don’t conk out again. Piece of malarkey.”

The map of the find-a-phone app faded in as the battery drained down to 4. The map showed her
own phone at the center of the page, the obvious green dot blinking at her address. Nagi clicked
into the side bar, selecting Junpei’s number to track, instead. The screen should’ve changed. It
didn’t.

“Huh,” Nagi muttered, looking down.

The pink-haired boy leaned over her shoulder, checking the screen, too. He pointed to the center.
“What’s that mean?”

“That this isn’t working,” Nagi told him, “Or Junpei’s phone is still here.”

Four percent battery turned to three. Nagi switched back to the call screen.
“Hold on,” Nagi told him, before he could ask. “I’ll check.” Then, she dialed his phone.

The churn of a dial tone cycled as Nagi held the phone to her ear. That the cycle started at all meant
Junpei’s phone hadn’t died. If it was off, she’d go straight to voice mail.

A muffled siren pulsed down the hall. At first, it sounded like the police. Nagi rocked forward,
shifting towards the sound. She had just started to sway when the pink-haired boy cried out.
“Junpei!”

Then, Nagi remembered, too.

“Oh, that’s his stupid ringtone!” she realized, “It always sounds like the cops.”

There were times when the sudden siren had caused problems in the car. More than once, Nagi had
been sure that the sound meant she was being followed.

In the time it took her to remember, the pink haired boy took off.

“Junpei!” Yuji shouted. He’d sprinted past her so quickly, Nagi hadn’t heard or seen him move until
he was already ahead of her. “Junpei, you here?”

Nagi stepped in his wake. A cold spot pressed into her foot. From the other side of the hallway, she
could see the gap of a shadow by her son’s bedroom door.

She wished she was surprised there wasn’t an answer. She wasn’t.

Junpei wasn’t the type to forget his phone. If he’d meant to sneak off, he would’ve turned the
tracking settings off completely. She’d noticed him do it a few times before.

The last two days, Nagi had made it through without freaking out because she’d already spoken to
Junpei. She knew, despite the uncredited terrorist attack mentioned on the news, that her kid was
okay. He’d told her himself that he was fine. She’d never stopped to question if that was a lie.

“He’s not here,” she realized, her stomach dropping into that chill. “...then, where?”

“Junpei!” Yuji shouted one more time, his voice muffled through the wall.

Nagi stepped towards the sound. Her bare foot sank into the carpet. A shadow of something she
couldn’t make out stretched along the wall.

“Huh?” Nagi murmured, her voice so low, she wasn’t sure she’d heard it herself. She started to
turn. “Who’s there?” she asked. No answer.

The light down the hallway flickered, pulsing with the electric shock. Nothing moved. A moment
of absolute silence swallowed the dark. Then, it broke.

“Yoshino,” Yuji shouted, “Yoshino-san, run!”

Nagi turned her head over her shoulder, instinct pulling her towards the voice. “Where?” she
asked.

She didn’t get to ask more.

An inexplicable shadow rose from the floor, a mass of sludge and misshapen limbs. The substance
rose, tangibly, gurgling like boiling tar. Tendrils burst from the center, stretching until she could
see, beyond doubt, that this thing wasn’t a shadow at all.

“You run!” she shouted back.

The sludge warped further, until the form had solidified. A being with eight limbs, long enough to
be a spider, yet ending in hand, sprawled the width of the hallway. At the point where a spider
would have had a body, or a head, Nagi saw an enlarged version of the prune-like glob she’d left in
the kitchen.

The creature gurgled, vocalizing in a warped, anguished growl. “Sort recycling.” The wrinkles of
its body shifted, a breathy, coughing cackle following through.

For all of the useful things Nagi could’ve done, the best she could bring herself to do was gape.
“What the fuck–”

The creature’s hind legs straightened, the hands at the ends of its limbs planting on the ground as
the other six rose into the air. With a sudden swell, it grew again, until the other hands smacked the
ceiling. A light fixture smashed to the floor, the glass shattering in her face.

Too slow to run, Nagi did the next thing she could think of. She grabbed the closest thing to her–an
unlit jar candle–and chucked it at the monster’s center. The glass container bounced straight off,
into the wall.

“Well, shi–”

The spider lunged for her. Nagi backed into the doorframe. Her own arms stretched, too, steadying
on either side to block the way. She hadn’t seen the pink haired kid in a second. At least, then,
maybe he had made it out, she thought.

That thought was wrong.

A blur passed between her and the creature, forcing both back. Yuji brandished the furry-hilted
dagger between them.

“Stand back!” Yuji shouted. “I’ve got you!”

Nagi blinked, still confused. “Got me what?”

“Uh– safe? Safety? I’m like a Ghostbuster?”

In the complete and utter absurdity of the moment, somehow, Nagi forgot to be afraid. She just
gaped. “What’s a Ghostbuster?”

“You know? If there’s something strange in the neighborhood, who you’re gonna call?”

“Emergency services?”

From the “uh–” Yuji stuttered, Nagi knew she was missing something. What that something was,
she didn’t know.
Yuji’s reach nudged Nagi back through the doorway, into Junpei’s bedroom. The body of the
mutant creature loomed. An array of eyes of different sizes blinked open from its center. Despite
the proportions, every one of those eyes looked human.

Yuji raised his blade towards the creature as its limbs twitched, readying itself to attack.

“Later!”

“Later, what?” Nagi asked. Yuji didn’t answer.

The fuzzy-handled dagger spun in Yuji’s hand. He charged opposite the creature, slashing straight
through it. Its topmost limbs fell to the floor. Even in the shade, Nagi could spot the black blood
pouring into the rug as it tilted towards one side.

The first thing Nagi thought, in terror, was just how human that limb looked when disconnected
from the rest of it. The second thought spurted out of her mouth. “Well, shit. There goes the
security deposit…”

Where Nagi backed off, Yuji chased on. Before the hexapodal giant could find its footing, he wove
between the spindles of its overlong legs, then jumped to strike the center. The top of Yuji’s blade
pierced the creature’s largest eye.

With the anchor of the knife inside the creature, Yuji planted himself upside-down along the center.
Inverted against gravity, the posture in which he grappled the creature looked suspiciously like
exactly the kind of thing he’d just attacked.

Nagi stepped back further. Her hand pressed along the side of her son’s unmade bed, trying, and
failing, to find anything that could have helped. The best she could spot was a cup of pens on
Junpei’s desk.

The last leg of balance under the monster gave way, the creature flopping sideways across the floor.
Half of its visible eyes rolled as it fell. Though the creature stayed still, those eyes stayed open, red
veins flashing as they broke through the strain.

Yuji tugged his blade free from the creature. He tumbled to a stop against Junpei’s desk chair. A
stain of blood formed to his footprint, marking his stop.

“Is it later, yet?” Nagi asked, urgently turning towards Yuji. “What the hell’s going on?”

Yuji’s chin raised, his eyes snapping open in alarm.

“Mahito!” Yuji snapped, the name piercing the air, sharp as the blade in his hand.

Knowing this was yet another item on the list of things she didn’t know, Nagi backed up. She took
a pen off the desk, then clicked the cap. A thought crawled under her neck. If this thing had been in
the house, in this room, then, what happened to her son?

“If these were curses, they’d disappear, so they’re not, right?!” Yuji snapped into the air.“That was
a person! You did this, right?”

For all the vitriol Nagi could hear, even by the standards of madness, she couldn’t tell how that
made sense.
“A person?” she asked, too confused not to seem calm. “What are you talking–?”

About, was how that sentence should have ended. It couldn’t. The word froze as a twinge stabbed
into her neck.

The sudden burst of cold snapped Nagi upright. What was left of the nicotine gum fell down her
throat. She couldn’t gag, or cough. All she did was hold still, because it was all she could do.

The sting of the cold pressed deeper, at a specific point on her neck. Nagi thought to swat
backwards. She thought to reach back with her pen. The thoughts didn’t matter. Her body wouldn’t
comply.

“Get away from her!” Yuji snapped, his glare sharpening even more than his knife.

The crawl passed along her cheek. From the angle she was facing, Nagi couldn’t see anyone
directly. Her eyes sunk into the window. A flash passed across a reflection of her own face, and
nothing else at all.

A giggle from nowhere crept through Nagi’s ear.

“What’s the saying, again? The apple won’t rot far from the tree?” a girl’s voice sounded behind
her. At least, it had sounded that way. Nagi couldn’t see one at all. Still, the cold breath stroked her
cheek. “He looked so much like you…”

Nagi meant to ask. Without seeing anything, an earlier question came back. She forced her mouth
to open just enough that the words could form, weak and crumbling. “What. Did you do. To my
kid?”

“Ah! So you can see me?” the girl’s voice asked. Though Nagi couldn’t spot the change, she heard
the curl of a smile pull through her laugh. “You really are alike, that way.”

The reflection flickered. Nagi’s eyelids stayed open. She couldn’t even blink, and yet, the image in
the window gave way. One second, all Nagi could see was herself. The next, a schoolgirl’s hand
had wrapped around her neck.

The black sailor uniform contrasted with the pale of her skin, and the deep, decaying stitches that
ran across her body. The patchwork skin looked like something Dr. Frankenstein would’ve thrown
away.

The girl’s dull blue hair draped over Nagi’s shoulder, sending pinpricks of numbness into her skin.
The stitches across her cheek creased with the curl of her expression. A glint of interest flashed in
her lone blue eye.

The girl’s hand slid forward, a finger brushing right over Nagi’s cheek. Nagi tried to snarl.

“Who cares?“ she snapped. “Where’s my son, you–”

“Don’t touch her!” Yuji shouted, crying over her.

“Oh! I care,” the girl purred, ignoring Yuji. Her nose nuzzled into the side of Nagi’s cheek,
numbing the spot completely. “A human should know their place.”
The flash of irritation turned to a threat. Nagi glowered. “And your place is out of my house,
you–”

The sentence washed out of Nagi’s mouth, the air freezing in her throat. The girl called Mahito
pulled back on her hair, yanking Nagi still like a leash. Nagi’s hand twitched, her bones seeming to
stiffen under the weight of the cold. The streak of hair in Mahito’s hand turned grey.
“Shut up!” Yuji wailed “Let her go!”

“Or what?” Mahito asked, her voice chiming so bright, it was almost playful. “You’re supposed to
put a threat at the end, you know. Make it matter.”

For as gleefully distorted as her face could get, Yuji’s turned just twice as cold. “Or I’m gonna kill
you again.”

“Again? Ha!” The girl’s laugh deepened “I think I’d remember death, don’t you?”
“No,” said Yuji. “I don’t.”

The girl’s hand pulled at Nagi, snaring her in. Every part of her body felt like a weight.

“Mahito!” Yuji snapped, the name no longer a label at all. “I mean it. I’m gonna kill you!”

“Tell me, how crazy are you to believe that’s true?”

The sutured hand pushed hard against Nagi’s head, forcing her down. Nagi curled her fingers at her
side. The weight of her body lessened, again, almost normal, as she willed herself to move more. It
worked, if barely.

The creature called Mahito asked over Nagi’s shoulder, no longer focused on her at all.

“I see it, in your soul,” Mahito called Yuji. “You really think you killed me. How interesting.”

With a firm and heavy clutch, Nagi forced all her momentum and will to gather. She raised her fist
around the pen, then jabbed it towards Mahito’s head. As the surprise attack plunged in, Mahito
didn’t duck from her.

Because she hadn’t needed to.

Nagi’s hand smashed into Mahito’s skin as if she’d hit solid rock. The force recoiled through her
hand, shattering her body. Mahito, meanwhile, didn’t move at all.

With a pulse of pain shaking through her, Nagi tried to pull away. It didn’t work. The same skin her
hand had connected to stuck directly on Mahito’s cheek, as if her skeleton had magnetized to match
the stitches. The skin by the stitch opened, forming a hole. The pull inside Mahito sucked Nagi’s
fingers under Mahito’s skin.

The same, slow bubbling that had covered the other creature formed on Mahito’s face. The flesh
reformed around Nagi’s hand, trapping her.

“You really are like your son,” Mahito murmured, entranced in interest. “Your soul is so malleable!
So… weak.”

The space inside Nagi’s throat twisted. It was the most she could manage to open her mouth.
A chill flashed so deep it turned hot, the sudden, overwhelming shift of sensations cutting off.

Then, there was nothing.

 Idle Handed

Mahito Sugawara

July 20, 2018

1st District, Tamami, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

“You bastard. I’ll kill you!”

The pure anger coursing through Yuji was so intense, all Mahito could do back was smile.

“Kill?” Mahito chuckled. “Don’t you mean ‘exorcize’, sorcerer?”

The body of Nagi Yoshino stayed still under Mahito’s touch. The woman’s eyes stayed locked
open, disconnected from the flow of life inside her. The only visible change left on her body was
the imprint of Mahito’s hand across her shoulder. The pale pink of her skin seared violent red under
Mahito’s grip.

“Ugh,” Mahito complained, turning in to nuzzle her cheek. “There’s so much I could practice. If
only he wasn’t so specific, that you can't die."

Mahito pressed her hand flat to Nagi’s face. The form of the woman’s soul distorted under Mahito’s
touch, collapsing away. In the time it would’ve taken to blink, the woman’s form shrunk to a
limbless, limp skull. Mahito tossed the figurine into the air.

“Oh, well. I’ll put you back before Toru gets home. He’ll understand,” Mahito mused, catching the
form in her other hand. Her aqua blue eye honed on Yuji, her curiosity straying back. “...What’s the
saying? Four's a crowd, three's accompanied?”

The pink-haired sorcerer’s fury went cold. The currents of his soul churned visibly, choppy and
rapid, like a river at the base of a waterfall. Though his emotions swelled, his cursed energy
compressed so tightly, Mahito wasn’t sure it existed at all.

“You know, I can’t disappoint Toru, hurting her…” Mahito chucked Nagi’s shrunken form into the
air, again. She banked the shrunken rock from the ceiling, then caught it in her other hand. “He
didn’t mention you, though. So, we must be free to play.”

As what was left of Nagi’s body fell to gravity, and Mahito watched the air, Yuji’s presence
vanished. What little energy he held in his soul and his blade fled into speed alone.

Mahito’s bright blue eye flashed, her own energy focusing. She slid towards the center of the room,
then caught herself along the table.

The second that Mahito stopped moving, she checked for traces of Yuji’s energy. Her sight
obscured as her braids swung into her face. She brushed the hair back with a turn.

She hadn’t finished moving when something struck through her leg.
A throb pulsed through Mahito’s calf. The base of the table’s leg attached to her own, pinning her
in place. Her teeth clenched at the twist of the metal.

“Ow–” she yelped, “What was that for?!? That’s how you greet a girl?”

“It’s how I greet a murderer.” For all her pouting, Yuji’s glare didn’t shift. He shoved the cursed
tool in deeper, drawing out another, involuntary, cry.

With a dramatic flop, Mahito bent over. In the move down, her hand almost casually brushed by the
weapon, and the sorcerer’s hand still holding it.

Yuji’s hand tightened on the hilt. He didn’t avoid the touch. All he did was twist, plunging the
weapon uncomfortably in. For as much as it stung, and how easy it would’ve been to take the
weapon out, it was even easier to follow along.

Mahito didn’t try to move away from Yuji’s strike. Instead, she joined in. Her hand wrapped over
Yuji’s, pushing his cursed tool not sideways, but deeper. The hilt of the blade passed straight
through the widened hole in her calf, leaving it stuck in the table alone.

When the weapon broke contact, and the stinging dulled, Mahito slid along the table. A stray place
setting and a glass of water cracked on the ground, toppling over. She kicked her injured leg into
the air and stroked her hands across it, reinforcing the shape to fill the hole.

At the same time she moved, Yuji did, too. He slid under the table, extracted the cursed tool, and
skidded to a stop at the other side. The purple-black residue of the curse’s blood stuck in the fur.

“Oh, man,” Mahito pouted. She tapped her newly healed leg along the floor, her shredded sock
falling to her ankle. “Do you always try undressing girls you just met?"

The joke landed so poorly, the core of Yuji’s emotions churned as he spat back “You’re not a girl!”

“I’m not? Ha!” Mahito giggled. "News to me! And I think I would know.”

Yuji’s hand curled into a fist. The movement took mere fractions of a second for him to form. Still,
as her aqua eye gleamed, Mahito saw.

“So informal, you are,” Mahito mused, reading the intent. She raked her right braid over her
shoulder casually. “Someone should teach you manners.”

“Someone should teach you to shut up!”

“You think women should shut up?” she asked, teasing, “how sexist.”

“Not women,” Yuji snapped back, “ You .”

Mahito didn’t need to look to know what she would see. Still, she watched the depths of Yuji’s
emotions churn.

“If you know me enough not to use my last name, I would think you’d know my gender,” Mahito
pondered. “So, how are you so wrong, yet so sure it’s true?”

It was a simple question, and yet, like most simple things, the answer stayed unclear. Whatever it
was that Yuji thought back, Mahito couldn’t see it that way. All that she could make out from this
distance was the lack of fluctuation in his core.

“Interesting,” Mahito mused, taking in his silence for the answer it was. “Tell me more.”

There was a knock at the door.

The sound had barely started when Yuji snapped towards the shake. His neck craned to watch over
her shoulder, his composure turning to alarm as he shouted. “Nanamin! Don’t touch her!”

Two questions started to form in Mahito’s mind, each as instant as the other. Why would he know
that, when she hadn’t mentioned her technique, and what the hell was a ‘Nanamin’?

She’d get an answer to one.

In the blink Mahito spent thinking, the door split straight through. The wood splintered, the pieces
of the door swaying, then cracking to the floor. A force she hadn’t seen struck her back.

Mahitio crossed her arms in front of her chest, reinforcing her form with her cursed energy. The
burst across her soul still fractured where the slash struck her back. The strands of her long hair
parted where the cursed tool split through.

Mahito collapsed forward, intentionally sprawling her soul and body across the ground. Whatever
blow had caused the fracture, the rest of its momentum passed over her head. A picture frame
shattered on the wall, glass tinkling where it fell. At the end of the chatter, the pink sorcerer was
still talking.

“Nanamin!” Yuji shouted, the hatred at his center parting with relief.

The split ends of Mahito’s hair floated towards her face. She shook her head and slid backwards,
retracting under the table. Whatever focus Yuji originally had on her, he was distracted enough by
the other sorcerer not to follow along. She crouched forward on one knee, watching the crowd.

The new ‘Nanamin’ was a man–tall, blonde, and in urgent need of someone to tell him that
Rorschach tests were for psychological conditions, not fashion statements. Beside him, a girl with
crooked bangs and a katana was watching quietly. Both of them overflowed with cursed energy, the
currents spinning in a circle–the tell-tale sign of a sorcerer’s soul.

Under normal circumstances, the presence of more than two sorcerers was unusual. It was so
unusual, in fact, that Mahito could only think of one time she’d seen this convergence before.

With the sheer numerical advantage, it would’ve made sense to panic. Instead, Mahito stayed quiet.
A single finger of her form expanded across the ground, flowing where the sorcerers weren’t
watching. She poked, then picked up, the shriveled raisin still left of Nagi Yoshino.

The longer she spent in hiding, the more Mahito could hear. The sorcerers were speaking as if she
weren’t there.

“Go, both of you,” the blonde man ordered. He raised his cursed tool like a cleaver, the splotch-
covered fabric barely shaking in his grip. “Send a report back to the school of a special grade. I’ll
handle this alone.”

“No! You can’t!”

For all his relief, earlier, a newfound wave of panic pulsed through Yuji at the statement. His arms
outstretched as he tried to block the adult’s path. It didn’t work.

“I will not leave this in the hands of a child,” the blonde insisted, “Now, go!”

The crooked girl gave a salute and a bow. She seemed ready to speak. Before she could, Yuji ran
right past her, straight into the man’s face.

“You can’t touch him!” Yuji blurted out, the earlier fury in his center twisting to fear. From the
context, Mahito could only assume that the ‘him’, in this case, was her, “It’s his technique, he’ll
hurt–”

That seemed as good a cue as any to pop in.

With a quick stroke of the finger, Mahito re-expanded the soul in her grip. With the exception of a
few purple splotches along her arm, and maybe a missing finger, the form of Nagi Yoshino’s soul
expanded back to what it had been. The table rocked as Nagi’s head smacked the top.

“Since it seems you don’t mind talking,” Mahito said, watching the sorcerers from below. “Then,
maybe you’ll talk to me, too.”

Everyone else stopped talking.

With a smooth slide forward, Mahito emerged from the table. Her finger stroked the side of Nagi’s
cheek, feeling the pulse of life still inside. The woman’s consciousness quelled under Mahito’s
finger, forcing her to stay under.

The blonde man lowered his weapon with understanding. She hadn’t made the threat, yet, he could
already tell what she meant to say.

Mahito tapped her fingers along Nagi’s shoulder, positioning the unresponsive body as a shield.
She smirked behind the woman’s shoulder.

“Since we’re getting to know each other, answer me this. Which do you think came first?” Mahito
asked. “The soul, or the body?”

The pink haired irritant puffed up, nearly growling in mindless anger, “your mom came first, you
monster.”

“Ooh, testy,” Mahito jeered. Just as quickly as it formed, her smile snapped away into a leer.
“Except, I wasn’t talking to you …”

Mahito’s eyes slanted towards the doorway, angling towards the others. The blonde with
cheekbones sharper than his cleaver didn’t give a reply.

“Come on,” Mahito nudged. She tapped her fingers along the still shoulder in her grip, shaking the
body. “What do you think? I’d like to know.”

“I have no interest in philosophizing with curses,” the blonde said, deliberately masking any
emotion. The turn of that determination flashed in betrayal of what he really aimed to do.

Mahito hummed. “Well, I don’t like small talk. I can still talk about the weather” she said, “Oh,
well. I suppose if you’re this boring, I’ll just have to make things interesting on my own.”
Mahito’s arm stretched up, then pressed in, wrapping all the more snugly around the woman. She
tapped a finger under her eye.

“Toru only said to keep her alive,” Mahito added, “That wouldn’t mean I can’t hurt her. How much
of her could I remove before she wakes up, I wonder…?”

As much as that could’ve been the real question, the way that Mahito hesitated implied what she
was really looking for. Sure enough, Yuji didn’t falter. He glared as if he hoped his eyes alone could
decapitate her.

“Ah, ah,” Mahito added, speaking to him, specifically, “Careful, there! If I can’t dodge, neither can
she!”

Where Yuji didn’t move, however, someone else did. The blue haired girl towards the back, the one
with the most worry in her core, spoke up.

“The soul?” she guessed. “I mean, I’ve met someone who didn’t always have his body. Either way,
he was still the same person, so… it’s gotta be the soul, first, right?”

The blonde raised his weapon, not to Mahito, but to brace himself and block her path. “Stay back,”
he ordered.

Mahito lifted one hand from Nagi’s shoulder, waving him off. “No, no, ignore him! That’s what I
want you to say! Even if it’s not quite… true.”

With one hand still firmly wrapped around Nagi, Mahito took a step through the room. Her bare
foot pressed into the wooden floor, first, followed by the click of her loafer as she crept closer
towards the girl.

“It’s a trick question, really,” Mahito lulled as she bowed in, “Body to soul, soul to body. Either
way, they feed each other. It’s the same way that to a dog’s world, there’s no color, or to a goldfish.
No memory. The world of a soul is defined by its body, and the damage to the body… well, most of
that’s accrued by the choices of the soul.”

“That sounds like there is no answer,” the girl uttered.

“Yup,” Mahito bobbed her head, her braids bouncing along, “There’s not.”

“Then why ask?”

“Why not? Are there questions which don’t deserve their air? Beyond the obvious, of course,”
Mahito countered. “I mean, I guess ‘is a vodka and ketchup martini your favorite drink’ or ‘is the
Da Vinci Code worth reading’ would be questions, too. I wouldn’t ask them, though.”

Despite the math of the layout, Mahito hummed through a smile. Her hand tucked beneath her
chin.

A look passed between the blonde and the pink-haired puffball, an unspoken signal.

“Now,” said Nanami.

There was no nod. No second of debate. In the time it had taken for Nanami to say one word, all
three souls unified in a motion. Yuji landed first, the onslaught too fast to see. The most Mahito
could do, then, was guess where he’d go.

She guessed right. She also guessed correctly.

When Yuji lunged for Mahito, he’d veered left. That left Mahito to land, cleanly, by an end table in
the broken glass.

As the residual current of Yuji’s movement blew across her, Mahito cackled. The chuckle bubbled
through her lungs, bursting free. As soon as it formed, she felt the energy change, too. From the
opposite direction, the blonde sorcerer’s cleaver struck straight for Mahito’s arm.

Sensing the strike, Mahito raised her hand. Her cursed energy swelled, trying to reinforce the point
of impact. It didn’t work. The sting of Nanami’s cleaver split straight through her seams, splitting
her arm to fall.

“Ow–” Mahito blinked, adjusting. Her remaining hand clutched over the wound, leaving Nagi to
fall face-first in the floor, glass and all. Fragments of plates popped off the ground, stretching
towards the sorcerers. The lack of cursed energy in the pieces left Mahito untouched. Her foot
stepped down, flat, across Nagi’s thigh, maintaining contact with the woman’s soul while still
mending her own.

The flesh at Mahito’s arm pulled together with the socket, the sutures naturally attracting each
other. The pieces had just snapped into place when the crooked haired girl raised her blade, too.
Despite the glass fragments, both of the girl’s feet planted firmly to the floor.

A circumference of cursed energy rose as she unsheathed the blade, a burning blue rising around
her.

Mahito raised her remaining hand. However fast she could move, the cursed blade moved faster.
Quick as it was, the swirl lacked power. With enough reinforcement, even a bare hand could catch
the strike.

Mahito braced to do just that. She raised her hand from her stitches, abandoning the wound to focus
her energy over her palm. The cursed sword bounced straight off Mahito’s body, repelled by the
will alone. Just as the point bounced off, Mahito’s fingers wrapped back around the blade.

She had just gotten to that position when Yuji’s dagger hit straight through her core.

The pierce of a cursed tool she didn’t know the name of hit the point where her heart should’ve
been. The basic reinforcement failed, her stitches crumbling at her torso. One moment, she’d been
standing. The next, what was left of her broke apart. The form of her body faded, bubbling to
mush.

It was the way, in most cases, a curse appeared to have died. Without cursed energy to sustain their
forms, the body of a curse was little but soul putty. This was no different. Except, of course, that as
long as the putty was there, Mahito’s soul wasn’t gone.

Knowing full well where and how she was, Mahito didn’t try to reform. As dangerous as it was to
leave her physical form unable to attack, the moment of respot gave her something more valuable–
surprise.
The pink-haired sorcerer looked down at the floor, straight at what currently remained of Mahito’s
soul. From his unsettled composure, Mahito knew that Yuji hadn’t spotted her eyes in the slurry.

“This feels weird,” Yuji said, staring towards those remains, “Like, it shouldn’t be that easy.”

The blonde, and the girl, both hadn’t looked down at all.

“Should I report this to the authorities, still, Nanami-sensei?” the girl asked, breathing in relief.
From down here, her bangs looked even worse.

“Later,” Nanamin told her, asserting his status as the one in charge unintentionally, “Miwa, you
should escort the woman to campus. Ieiri can evaluate her there.”

The girl’s “yes sir,” was answered almost in unison with Nanami’s next words.

“Itadori,” Nanami said, looking at Yuji, “When you left, was this curse what you were looking
for?”

There was a flicker of surprise in Yuji. Then, he shook his head. “Weird enough, no. It's not.”

Her consciousness followed along, drifting curiously as the older sorcerer asked, “Do you know
anywhere else it would be?”

“Huh,” Yuji thought. His eyes shifted away from Mahito’s remains, too, as if looking at the ceiling
would help him remember. “Maybe his school?”

“Then go there,” Nanami told him, “Keep your phone on. I’ll follow the coordinates and report the
suspected site to Ijichi.”

Between this Ieiri, Ijichi and Miwa, Mahito was tempted to roll her eyes. These sorcerers knew too
many people.

“Be careful, both of you,” Nanami cautioned, “That curse was capable of independent speech,
which means it was a special grade we weren’t aware of. We don’t know what other forces may be
involved, or what they’re after. If either of you see danger, retreat.”

It was a foolish recommendation, if not for a reason that this man seemed to sense. As much as he
may have believed that was the correct advice, he couldn’t feel the fire in Yuji’s soul. He might as
well have been pouring gasoline on a bonfire, then telling it not to spread.

“Understood, yeah,” Yuji agreed. “You, too.”

With all eyes set on each other, and the plan they’d just laid, not one of the sorcerers had looked
down to the pale ivory goo as it vanished into the floor. Mahito morphed through the cracks of the
wooden planks, then pulled herself together in a smooth slither. Her head sprouted from the worm
of her torso, laying flat and silent as the footsteps of others concealed anything else.

While it wasn’t ideal to let any sorcerer leave, Mahito had to prioritize. The possible pest of the
pink-haired boy intruding felt minor. The greater goal, in this case, was to follow the orders she’d
been given. Keep the hostage. Toru could handle the rest.

Mahito watched, and waited, as Yuji left the room first. Nanami watched the door. At the same time
as the door shut, the one with crooked hair lowered herself in a kneel. She bent over the form of
Nagi’s limp, sleeping body.

“Hello?” the girl whispered, “Ma’am, I’ll have to pick you up, now.”

If there was some other pleasantry she would’ve used, the girl didn’t make it that far.

With a twitch in the mush that she’d been, Mahito forced her soul to reform. A hand sprouted from
what would be her torso, first, twice as large and long as any single part of her had been. The flesh
of her body pulled together, consolidating in a sutured, expanding clump, as she pulled the sorcerer
in.

The crooked-haired girl’s breath shortened at the touch, her throat and lungs shrinking inside her.
The constrictions left her pale, shaking at the verge of unconsciousness. The lag of her body’s
responses gave Mahito room to grow–and to knock the sorcerer and the captive away.

Mahito’s body twisted. What would have been her legs twisted together, weaving to the form of a
tail. The force of a cobra pulled around the girl in a coil so tight, her feet couldn’t hit the ground.
Her arms pulled tighter, too, one hand pinned to each hip. Only then, when no part of her could
move past a writhe, did Mahito let her arms and face take form.

From how close Mahito held to the girl, it didn’t matter that this new reformation had left Mahito’s
stolen uniform on the floor. From the constricting wrap of her arms, to the rattle on her tail, the
most pressing thing to notice was the threat.

Mahtio raised one hand along Miwa’s body. She pinched a thumb and a finger over the girl’s nose,
forcing her airway to shut. The remaining sorcerer raised his cleaver.

“Ah-ah,” Mahito chirped, “You wouldn’t want to hurt her, now, would you? This one, you know.”

Where the pink one’s anger tried to burn, the resentment in the blonde stayed cold.

“I don’t appreciate people being used as shields,” Nanami sneered, his expression still stiff, “It’s
cowardly.”

Genuine as the judgment might be, Mahito shrugged it away.

“To you,” she dismissed. “To me, cowardice is cleverness.”

Miwa squirmed, trying, and failing, to fight back. Mahito squeezed harder, concentrating her
pressure across the girl. The restraints of Mahito’s squished into Miwa. Soon, her cursed energy
turned, too, pulling in to stretch out the surface of her soul. Had it not been for the hand over her
mouth, Mahito knew the girl would scream.

Then, the compression snapped in. The surface of Miwa’s skin hardened, shriveling, but not
shrinking, until the surface burst away. Where, before, the sorcerer had flesh, the skin turned coarse
and crystalized, shining like a sculpture of what the form once had been.

“I can put her back, you know,” Mahito mused, “For the right price, if you know enough not to
make trouble. You seem more interesting to play with than her, anyway–”

She didn’t finish the thought before Nanami cut in.

“My cursed technique,” he started to say, “can divide a subject with lines and forcibly create a
weak–”

Mahito pressed her hands over her ears. She melted the forms straight off her soul, muffling the
noise entirely. She could feel, if not hear, her own words back as she screamed back.
“No way! I’m not about to let you divulge your technique to me for an advantage! That’s so
cheap!”

There was some disadvantage, of course, to Mahito cutting off her own sense of sound. Nanami’s
lips kept moving, no doubt trying to continue the conversation. Whether it was more information to
give his cursed technique a boost through her own understanding, or if it was some other utter
nonsense, she didn’t know. More importantly, as long as she was like this, Mahito couldn’t hear
anyone else coming. That made it all the more important to watch.

Mahito’s silver eye locked open, her focus setting so wide, the pupil vanished on that side
completely. Then, she lunged.

Mahito uncoiled from her latest human shield, leaving Miwa’s crystalized body to stand like a
sculpture in the center. Her tail changed forms as she pounced through the air, her legs
outstretching into hooves, then human feet, as she bounced out of range.

With each pass at the other sorcerer, her hands aimed to brush him, her cursed energy pulling
towards the surface of his own. Nanami’s soul knocked back, his cursed energy pooling to deflect
her own. Through the corner of her eye, Mahito saw his lips part.

“Why are you still talking?” Mahito asked. She shook her hand off, then ducked down, lunging for
him once more. “So chatty!”

The boost in speed helped Mahito as she charged in. Even if his cursed energy had the instinct to
fend hers off, that kind of instinct was finite. Something with his strength would only fend hers off
so long. There’d been little reason left, then, to bother hiding her movements at all.

At least, that’s what she’d thought. Then, the lines of his cursed technique set right through her.

She hadn’t heard the full technique, yet, Mahito could guess the rest. Her own insight struck against
her as she felt what he must have meant. This sorcerer divided the body, and forced cursed energy
to flow away from the weak point.

A light of understanding flashed through that silver eye as Nanami changed positions. He raised the
wrapped cleaver, then struck down, directly to the weakened spot.

Mahito felt the tear just in time to reach back. Her reinforced hand intercepted Nanami’s blade,
catching it, too, with a hand at full strength. The wrappings around his cleaver left so much
cushion, Mahito didn’t even feel the point. She ripped the tool straight from his hand, then flung it
across the room. The hilt knocked straight into the crystalized soul.

A fracture formed along the sculpture’s head, cracking the crystal in two. On the right side, all that
was left was the start of the girl’s jaw. What was left behind of her former body shook. That, too,
cracked against the floor.

“Oops. Look what you got me to do, now! What a mess!” Mahito laughed, her eyes closing into her
giggle. “I did say you shouldn’t make trouble for me…”
In the split second where the blonde surveyed where his weapon had fallen, Mahito stepped back.
She planted one foot on top of his cleaver, trapping it between her toes. The only bit of modesty she
had left was masked beneath the cover of her hair, hiding her torso below.

“A person’s soul is more tied to their body than a curse’s,” Mahito mused, “So you should know
she’s just gone.”

Confident in her stance, Mahito allowed herself to look down. Her gaze watched the remains, the
manic grin starting to calm into something giddy, yet mystified.

“It’s beautiful, sometimes,” she considered, “the way the body shines, when there’s no soul left at
all. It’s the only time they’re at peace. Or, pieces, I guess.”

A new fracture spread through Mahito’s energy, parting a piece of her soul to its will. As she was
talking, even without his weapon, Nanami had still taken aim.

Mahito stopped talking. She raised her head just enough to spot the center point of the ratio. Her
hand pressed over the weak spot, blocking it, only for her energy to flow away from her palm, too.

“Ah,” she noted, “it’s not tied to proportions, then. It’s the actual point of the body.”

In the time Mahito spent figuring that out, an ashtray smacked into her gut. A pulse of cursed
energy infused into the object, giving it just enough presence to sting.

The stitches through Mahito’s hip slipped through, her thigh disconnecting from her torso. She
pulled together, again.

“Aha!” she laughed, “Now, that’s clever! What’s next, you’ll throw the kitchen sink?”

In Mahito’s reinforcement of her soul, her ears must have sprouted back. Though she’d meant to
mock Nanami to herself, she heard him answer.

“It’s my job to eliminate you,” Nanami added, “and I’ve been working since eight.”

There was a pulse in his soul, a flicker so fast, Mahito almost couldn’t see it. Whatever it was, she
decided not to care.

“Let’s finish this quickly,” he said, as if the invitation could itself be a threat. The sound of his
detachment was so eclipsed by the swell inside him, Mahito couldn’t help chuckling at him.

“So, you can infuse any object with cursed energy to utilize your technique. You just choose things
as dull as you,” Mahito teased. “Why not a katana? You and the glass girl could’ve had a club. If it
weren’t for the whole being-dead thing, at least”

The baiting, as blatant as it was, didn’t feel like it should’ve worked. Nanami’s soul wasn’t dull so
much as it was stubborn, a deliberate detachment that could so easily make him border on boring.
Mahito felt that, in him, just as clearly as she felt him churn.

It didn’t matter that it was blatant. From the second that sculpture had cracked, Mahito was under
his skin.
“What’s wrong, Nanamin?” Mahito asked, feigning innocence to goad Nanami even further. “Did
that girl matter? If she did, then, you should really be upset with yourself–”

She didn’t finish the taunt.

Another ratio started to form, this time, in a different direction. The weak point melted away along
her width instead of her height.

For the first second of Nanami’s approach, Mahito didn’t move. Nanami charged forward with a
table lamp in his grip. His cursed energy flowed into the base, forging a bludgeoning weapon. The
momentum charged straight for Mahito’s shoulder, striking the weak point.

Mahito’s eyes curled. Her right arm outstretched, literally, changing the proportions of her body. As
her limb elongated, the weak point changed, too. Her cursed energy clashed with the lamp’s, easily
countering his with the flare of her own.

The second the technique failed, Mahito snaked her leg between Nanami’s. She hooked her ankle
around his long enough to reach for his side, too. On both ends, her cursed energy channeled in, her
cursed technique stretching deep to grab his soul.

“Surprised?” Mahito asked through an overstretched grin. “You explained your technique pretty
well, sorcerer!”

She let her voice trail, deliberately, to make it sound as if the sentence wasn’t over. Nanami, not
wasting time, retracted himself and braced back to strike. His foot was still sliding into a new
position as Mahito gave chase, thrusting her hand against his chest. At the same time, she
transmuted the form, shifting her hand to a spike. The narrowed point struck through his chest,
impaling Nanami through.

“Interesting,” she rumbled, watching the change. Nanami’s body hung in place, strung bloodlessly
straight through her arm. “Most people would have changed, by now! And yet, you… you still look
human.”

Mahito extended her lone remaining hand, ruffling into the part of his Nanami’s. Even with that
touch, his cursed energy pooled there, shielding him.

“I wonder if this is all sorcerers of your strength, or if it’s unique to you,” Mahito mused, “Which
grade are you? One?”

Nanami didn’t answer. When his mouth opened, all that came out was a cough.

“Ah!” Mahito looked down, watching him sputter. “There it is! Blood. I’ve been waiting for that”

Nanami’s eyes set, weakly, in a glower. His hand started to raise, the wrapped machete rattling in
his grip. Even now, his determination seemed to set on survival, along with something else.

“You hate me now, too,” she observed, “That’s nice.”

The blood drew her eye in fascination, entranced by the outpour. Usually, by the time a person had
succumbed to her technique, the trauma couldn’t show this way. With Nanami’s form as it was, the
functions of his body were still working. The deep maroon of what should be inside him turned red
as it hit the air.
As Mahito was watching, Nanami rocked forward. His hand raised, bracing for one last attempt to
strike. He swatted at her chest, spitting up into her hair.

“Yuck! Gross!” Mahito’s nose creased. She pulled back in disgust. “You’re getting your human all
over me.”

The spike of Mahito’s hand retracted, shooting Nanami away. His arm fell, followed by the rest of
him, crashing down into the floor. The hole at his center started to gush.

“Hm. I guess it makes sense, that you started to hate me, now” she noticed, “A few inches to the
left, you’d be heartless!”

Knowing full well that the joke wouldn’t get an answer, Mahito lowered herself to a kneel. Her
hand brushed over the wound she’d caused, entranced as the red seeped further. She wondered
exactly how much was inside him-and how much of that she’d see before he died.

She stroked her hand through his hair, smearing his blood off her hand, back across him.

“This was fun,” Mahito noted, “Another day, we could’ve played so much more. Shame. I just
can’t disappoint Toru.”

Mahito’s head raised, her shoulders correcting, as she heard a shift by the door. The essence of
another soul pulsed just out of sight. She closed her blue eye, allowing the silver one to dilate past
the lifeless wall, searching at the other end. The rough outline of another body started to seep into
view. Then, two. The first seemed human. Then, the other–

“STOP!”

A stranger’s voice cracked through the door. The wood shook under the force of the command, as if
reality itself bent to its will, too. Mahito meant to raise her hand, to block out the sound. She meant
to, yet, she couldn’t. From the breath she couldn’t steal, to the smallest toe, her entire body had
gone stiff.

It was a technique, obviously, if not one she’d heard of–and from the feel of it, an annoying one.

Mahito focused inwardly, doubling in on the shape of her soul. At least, she’d tried to. Even the
current of that flow stuck still in the wake of it. It wasn’t just her, either. The man in front of her
had stopped moving–not just in death, but in suspension of existence at all.

The front door cracked open. A trace of daylight snuck in from the outside. In the shadow of that
sun, Mahito saw the human’s form on the floor. In the rest of the space, she saw a curse.

A beautiful being loomed before her, with pale lilac flesh, a mouthful of fangs, and a soul too pure
for the form it held. The monstrosity of the curse’s existence, ensnared in a form that didn’t belong,
was almost enough to bring Mahito to smile. Or, it would’ve been, were it not for her body being
stuck.

Without warning, the flow of cursed energy started to erode. As soon as she felt it, Mahito pushed
past the compulsion to freeze. Her soul reinforced, freeing her movement once more. She started to
reach for her ear, to erase it from her body. She didn’t make it before the scream.
“Be destroyed,” the black-haired man commanded into a megaphone. A cursed sigil Mahito didn’t
recognize shone black along the cone. The cursed energy reverberated through, triggering the
technique again.

“Oh–”
Whatever form the room held before, it stopped. Mahito moved back, scrambling as far from the
onslaught as she could get. She ducked down, slipping towards the refrigerator, as her soul
demolished all over again.

It wasn’t just her.

As the attack struck through, the kitchen fractured. The fridge burst apart, exploding into nothing
from the outside. The cabinets on either side burst, too, casting slivers and sawdust like hail and
snow. Plates and pans clamored against a breaking floor. The onslaught of human objects, without
cursed energy, did nothing to hurt Mahito–yet the force that caused them all struck just the same.
The stranger’s cursed technique twisted through Mahito, pulverizing pieces of her soul. Fragments
scattered away from each other, shredded by the onslaught. It was the most she could do to shrink
down, deliberately cooperating with the effort to make a scrap of herself complete enough to pull
back together again.

She vanished into the debris, as fallen apart as everything else the outburst had touched.

But not for long.

Sugawara Mahito
 Suguru Geto

July 20, 2018

1st District, Tamami, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

The distress signal had been clear. Nanami had left the site of his original assignment in pursuit of
potential first-year Yuji Itadori. Nanami’s last known coordinates, as broadcast, had been a
residential address in the middle of no known sites of curse activity.

Until, apparently, now.

“Nanami–” Suguru called out. He wasn’t the one to answer.

Rika circled behind Suguru. The bulk of her arm blocked Suguru’s step. She pulled him in,
shielding him in the crook of her elbow. A strained grunt rumbled from her neck.

“Rika,” Suguru’s voice stayed as calm as it could, soothing her despite his exhaustion. “Rika, you
can set me down. I’m okay. We–”

We need to help Nanami, now. It’s what Suguru meant to say. He didn’t finish the statement.

“Agh!” Rika shrieked towards the floor. “Aaaagh–”

The shattered plates and broken cabinets shook, the pulverized debris of the aftermath of Suguru’s
attack rattling with life it never should’ve had.

Suguru’s hold on his katana went still. He stabbed the blade into the floor.

“Rika,” Suguru called, speaking more clearly. “There’s a man here from the school. You’ve met
him before. Help him.”

The order, on its own, didn’t mean much, especially if Suguru didn’t have the cursed energy stores
to help her. He heard Rika fall still.

“Please,” Suguru added, his voice lowering in sincerity. “He’s helped Yuta.”

The whimper of “Yuta,” was a predictable one. Suguru nodded in sympathy. His free hand stroked
the cursed spirit’s arm.

“I know, Rika. You miss him,” Suguru hushed, “I understand. There’s someone I miss, too.”

Another time, that might have been a conversation. Perhaps because there was no chance for it to
be one, here, Suguru had been willing to admit it, now.

The Queen of Curses set Suguru back down on the floor. The second Suguru’s sandals hit the
rubble, he outstretched his hand. He cupped his palm together, honing his technique to condense
the curse he’d struck before. The mere act of it felt heavier than normal, weighted with the effort it
took to power Rika’s techniques for himself.
The instant Suguru started to pull, he saw a trail of black streak across the floor. The faintest stream
of cursed essence began to swirl, condensing in front of him. Just as Suguru started to see the dot
spin, the pattern broke apart.

“How rude!” a girl’s voice twisted beneath the surface, “You could at least feed a girl before you
try to eat her.”

Whatever questions Suguru would have asked, they silenced inside him. His outstretched hand
clutched back over his mouth. A lurch burned in his throat, the taste of bile rising as he forced a
second, lesser curse to emerge from his stores.

Rika may have been a trump card, but she was a trump card it placed strain on him to use. If a
lower grade curse could help, it wouldn’t take the same toll to use. More importantly, Suguru
would allow Rika to concentrate on Nanami.

In the time it took for Suguru to come up with the plan, the curse he didn’t control countered a
question he hadn’t asked.

“Do you think destroying something means it can’t be fixed?” the woman’s voice continued,
“...How simple.”

Suguru turned towards the noise, following the presence. He’d known from her human speech that
the curse was a special grade. What he couldn’t know, until he’d seen her, was that she’d be exactly
what she sounded like. For all the things that a curse could be, Suguru was looking at a girl.

A tattered sailor uniform hung off her. Half of the collar was missing. A single braid hung loose
and knotted on her right side. If it weren’t for the stitches on her limbs, or the odd dilation of her
silver eye, the curse looked almost human.

“You must be a special grade,” Suguru said, speaking to stall her, “What’s your name?”

If Suguru could get this thing to talk, he thought, it would give Rika time to heal Nanami. He
would also have a chance to determine just what, exactly, this curse was at all.

The sphere of a once-eaten curse spun in Suguru’s hand. He held still.

While the pinpoint of the silver eye looked right past him, the blue eye at the other eye honed in.
She leaned back against what was left of the kitchen counter. The corners of each eyelid turned up
with a smile. Dark as the room was, Suguru could still see the shine on the blue side, gleaming in a
way he couldn’t place, yet knew all too well.

“Look who found their manners, after all,” the curse mused. “Most of your kind can’t think to ask.
That, or they don’t see.”

Her right leg crossed tightly over her left. Her foot jiggled as she leaned across her knee, almost
casual. Suguru knew he hadn’t seen her before, yet, he knew this stance, too.

“I’m Sugawara,” the curse said, “Sugawara Mahito.”

Again, Suguru reminded himself of the best thing he could do. Stall.

“Sugawara-san,” he repeated, stalling again.

The curse’s hand settled over her thigh, strumming across another suture there.

“A suffix! Oh, wow, someone’s overcompensating, aren’t they?” she laughed. Though Suguru
could’ve called the sound a giggle, the echo of her words rasped with mockery. “Don’t start now!
Far better to be rude than a liar.”

“Sugawara,” Suguru drew out the name, again, still thinking. In the end, he decided to ask, “Were
you human, once? The only curses who should have them are born of sorcerers.”

While it was understood that most vengeful curse spirits had once been a sorcerer, the only true
requirement was to have once been human. The Queen of Curses off in the rubble, now tending to
what was left of Nanami, was evidence of that.

Mahito tossed her head to the side, her braid bobbing with it. “And you expect us to do what we’re
supposed to do, hm?”

The tone made Suguru step back. “No, I don’t.”

The urge to add on a ‘but’ swelled up. Suguru knocked that down. Until he’d consumed them,
curses weren’t known for their obedience.

“I’ve never heard, before, of a curse who’s taken a family name, without having once had a
family,” Suguru said, the thought still coming out as a fact. “That’s all.”

“So…” Mahito tapped her foot, again. She leaned slightly further in. “You think a curse lacks a
family?”

From the way that she kept talking, Suguru wondered if she was stalling, too. He tilted his head up,
meeting her stare with the point of his own.

“Unless they’re a vengeful spirit, yes.”

“And are all curses not vengeful, to you?”

The curse named Mahito tapped her foot against the counter. The sound of her breath seemed to
mimic a hum. “Personally, I think most of us are vengeful. Although, it is people who excel at
vengeance…”

“Why Sugawara, then?” Suguru asked. “I’ve never met a curse who chose, either.”

Suguru didn’t feel much like talking about this. Whatever this thing had done, it had decimated
Nanami. There was no trace of Yuji Itadori or Kasumi Miwa here, either. If there was something
Suguru would’ve wanted to say, what he’d wanted was to hear the truth.

Mahito’s blue eye met Suguru’s. For the first time, she didn’t answer. The quiet made him wonder
something he hadn’t meant to ask, at first. He knew, now, where he had heard the name before.

“Unless you mean to reference Sugawara no Michizane?”

The vibrant neon of Mahito’s stare met Suguru’s own, a knowing tilt settling in. Again, she didn’t
say. He knew, regardless. If it hadn’t been true, she’d have called it a lie.
In the time Suguru spent wondering, Mahito hopped off the counter. She charged for him so
quickly that by the time Suguru blinked back, her ankle was already brushing his foot. The skim
against his clothing was so faint, he should’ve barely felt it at all.

It didn’t feel faint.

The sudden flash of an invading force made Suguru snap backwards. The current of his cursed
energy redirected, pooling around the point of contact to knock Mahito’s ankle away.

“What was that?” Suguru snapped. Mahito just chuckled. What remained of his cursed energy
seemed to amplify, not from her presence, but from the need to repel. Again, she didn’t say.

The cursed sphere in Suguru’s hand expanded. A tail sprouted from the sphere, a curse wriggling
free.

“Have you forgotten about someone? Or did the gentleman just not care?” she asked, her tone just
as teasing as before, “Here, I thought you’d rather play with mine.”

The natural question, “what are you talking about?”, did eat up time, but it didn’t help stop her.

The curse in Suguru’s palm expanded further, the tips of wings flapping as it began to reform.
Whatever form his servant curse had taken, Suguru wasn’t paying it mind, now. What he saw,
instead, was the wrinkled mass in Mahito’s hand.

Mahito cupped the object in her palm, juggling it about. She clapped both her hands together,
reshaping its form until it was no longer an object at all.

A woman with mostly black hair, maybe a decade Suguru’s senior, was being held up by her head.
Her feet dangled low, the tips of her house slippers dragging on the floor.

“Ah! I was right, wasn’t it?” asked Mahito. “You would want to play.”

For all the things Suguru had seen, none of them had been like this.

A quick charge of cursed energy flowed through the curse’s hands. As the shock struck, the
woman’s eyes snapped open. The second she’d found consciousness, she started to claw at Mahito.
Her fingers scratched for Mahito’s arms. Before they could scratch, the curse swiped her palm over
the woman’s face. The touch pulled at the woman’s skin, erasing her mouth.

As the woman strained to breathe, her clawing intensified. As much as she struggled, her kicks and
scratches didn’t seem to reach anything. Mahito outstretched her arms literally, expanding her body
to hold the woman further out of reach. The woman’s flailing intensified, swinging wildly from one
side to the other. The curse hadn’t so much as blinked.

“How about a trade?” the curse asked. “You let me leave, without you, and I don’t keep
transmogrifying her soul?”

Suguru’s blood went cold. “I don’t make deals with curses.”

“You don’t?” Mahito asked, her tone as light as his was dark. “Then what are you doing with that
sweetheart, back there? You know, the one with the big eye you keep assuming I’ve ignored.”

Suguru stopped. The cursed sphere he was so ready to expand hovered, churning.
“Or, if the blonde’s more important to you, I could always threaten him, instead.” Mahito
continued. “It took a while to get him, but, by now he’s pretty helpless back there! Hah!”

Suguru’s glare stretched so deeply, he may have started to show teeth.

“Oh!” Mahito moved her hold on the woman to one hand. Her freed hand extended, as if offering a
shake. “Forget sorcerers or curses. How about you make this deal with a friend of a friend?”

Somehow, the question started to sound as if the curse was the one stalling.

In the time Suguru spent staring, quiet, the stranger in the curse’s grip had turned around. Her hand,
which could so easily have clawed for her own face, slapped straight across Mahito’s.

The audible smack of the woman’s hand cracked through the room, so loud, even Rika looked
away. Mahito’s face froze. The hand print turned red against her cheek. Then, she laughed.

“Ha!” Mahito let go of the woman, dropping her to the floor. The woman flattened on her stomach.
Whatever she’d intended to do, Mahito stopped by stepping down on her head.

The curse bowed forward, unscathed and unbothered. “I mean it, you know. We can be friends of
friends,” Mahito said, as if nothing had happened at all. “After all, Toru would trust me.”

“Toru–”

No.

Suguru knew, full well, that shouldn’t have been right. He thought he knew, and yet, hearing that
name that way made him pause for real.

Mahito tilted her head. Her remaining braid swayed against her shoulder. “Maybe he’s more formal
with you? You seem uppity like that. With me, he’s a Toru, though. He had a different name,
before. The sir kind. What was it, again?” Her hand tapped under her chin. “Satoru Gojo, was it?”

Suguru should’ve known better.

A monstrous kind of smile pulled across the curse’s face distorting across the rest of her. She knew,
then, that she had him–and Suguru didn’t quite have it in him not to ask.

“You know Satoru?”

Both of Mahito’s eyes closed into her smile. “Yup. For a human, he’s pretty fun! You ever see
Saw?”

The answer didn’t matter.

Suguru reached down to the floor. He grabbed the first thing he could reach, then infused the cursed
sphere inside. The force of his will alone infused the random scrap of wood with the curse,
changing it to a cursed tool. Then, he charged.

Suguru’s fist moved, first, plunging towards Mahito. Mahito didn’t duck. The form of her palm
changed into a net, reaching back to engulf Suguru in her touch. The same overheated nip as the
first time she’d touched him pulled for Suguru’s insides.
On reflex, Suguru shifted his cursed energy towards the contact point. The pushback from his
resistance sapped more cursed energy from his body, but it did hold Mahito away. The wavering net
of her hands swayed around him, her energy repelling with his own.

“It’s a fine instinct, you have,” Mahito observed, “If a pointless one. Your soul may not want me
in… but it’s not the only soul you have in there, now, is it? The others want me.”

In the same time it took Mahito to babble her threat, Suguru struck again.

The wooden scrap plunged into Mahito, the cursed silver impaling through her throat. The stitches
by her neck split partway, creating a gap where the rest once had been. Had she been a person,
she’d have bled out instantly. Instead, there was no blood at all.

The net of Mahito’s hand shifted forms, again, strangling closer to encase Suguru’s hand. As the
webbing tried to latch on, Suguru flexed his fingers. He focused not on trying to stop her from
touching him, anymore, but on his own technique touching her. He willed her form to compress,
shrinking her down from the spot at her neck. Her own essence turned black.

As she was concentrating, Suguru pushed what little cursed energy he had left into his sandal. He
stepped down.

Mahito’s mouth gaped open, the strike from a different kind of cursed tool dealing just enough
damage to split her in two. However much damage she’d been trying to do to his body, it wasn’t
half as much as his cursed technique could deal to her. The essence of the curse began to spiral,
what was left of her neck pulling the rest of her into a vortex of black. A burning set through
Suguru’s palm, his own flesh stretching and bubbling where she’d tried to strike back. His
fingertips pulled into the curse sphere.

Suguru leaned down, bowing in towards the sphere. He wasn’t nearly close enough to take it in,
yet, he could already sense it on his tongue. The tastes of bile and rotten soap crashed the walls of
his throat.

The webbing of what had been Mahito’s hand vanished, too, the last of her pulling into the sphere.
Suguru lowered himself further in a cold sweat. He opened his mouth, willing himself to do exactly
what he’d been trained to do. Consume.

The taste washed off Suguru’s tongue. In its place, nothing lingered yet the over-sweetened air.
What should’ve been relief instead fell to dread. There was no cursed sphere left in Suguru’s hand–
yet, he hadn’t swallowed.

The curse’s laugh distorted, the giggle rumbling with two tones, as if she’d passed through a filter.
Suguru turned towards the sound, expecting someone he didn’t see.

The older woman Suguru had never met knelt upright. Where, before, her skin had been smoothed,
her mouth had now reformed. Her lips seemed to stretch wider than they should have, a manic
cackle blooming in her throat.

For all the things Suguru had seen a curse be capable of, this, too, was rare. What was rarer still
was for a host to survive. The curse was trying to possess her.

“You won’t touch me, in here, will you, sorcerer?” Mahito mocked, her own voice meshing with
the host’s. “Or, should I call yo-”
Before the sentence could finish, the woman shoved her own hand down her throat.

There wasn’t time to summon something new. The best Suguru could do, now, was to call “Rika!”

In the time it took for Suguru to speak the name at all, the woman reached deeper inside her. She
chucked a speck out of her throat.

“Oh, shut up!” she wheezed, chucking it across the room.

Spotting the black lump that must have been the curse, Suguru raised his hand to condense her,
again. He tried, quickly, to pull for what was left of the curse. Where Suguru expected to see a
cursed sphere form, instead, all he saw was his hand.

The footprints of Mahito’s former presence glowed large, a strange, distinct shade of violet aglow
beneath the rubble. Though her residual was visible, the true essence wasn’t there.

The woman coughed, wheezing. Her hands clutched either side of her neck, visibly shaking.

“Rika!” Suguru shouted, waving for her, again. “Rika, help!”

The screech of the curse, in any other context, would’ve sounded retaliatory. Knowing her
temperament, Suguru assumed it was from the same strain as he had in himself. Suguru forced
himself to breathe. He closed his eyes, willing calm back into his words.

“It’s alright, Rika. You’re doing well, thank you…”

“Rika is good.”

“Yes, you are,” Suguru nodded, “Rika is excellent.”

For as much as Suguru would’ve hoped she’d stay calm, the answer she gave wasn’t an answer, at
all.

“Where’s Yuta?” Rika asked, her own voice strained, too. Each time she spoke, no matter how
gently she might have meant it, her words sounded like a cry.

As Rika started to float towards him Suguru raised his hand higher. He set it towards her arm,
patting her.

“Rika is good,” Rika told him, the natural tone of a curse twisting with the young girl’s desperation,
“Rika wants Yuta.”

If the world was kinder, Suguru would be able to say more than he did. Beneath the exterior of the
Queen of Curses, at her core, this force of nature was a lovelorn child. No matter how much he
would want to deny it, Suguru remembered how it felt, too.

“I’m sorry, Rika. I don’t know where Yuta is. No one in Japan does,” he told her, truthfully. “That’s
why he’s safe. He’s protected.”

“Not fair,” Rika cried. Her tail swiped through the debris, thrashing beneath her. “Not fair! Rika
wants Yuta!”

Despite what he should’ve thought, Suguru didn’t disagree.

He raised his hand a little higher, holding tight to her, again.

“He’ll be happy when he’s home, Rika, if you help me. Helping me helps him, too,” Suguru
pleaded. “Tell me, can you feel the curse who attacked Nanami?”

Rika turned her head. The tendrils attached to her skull thrashed in each direction.

“No,” she answered. The first word was uncertain, only to build more and more definitively. “No,
no, no. No more. Bring Yuta.”

“I can’t bring Yuta, now,” Suguru tried to reason,. “All we can do is stop the people he has to hide
from, and save the ones who would save him. Do you understand, Rika?”

“AGH! No!” Rika wailed. “Rika wants Yuta!”

If Suguru had really wanted to, he supposed he could’ve washed her free will away. It was the
nature of his technique that the curses under his control were subservient to him. Rika had been so
powerful, and required so much of his own energy to form, that Suguru used to think of her as the
exception. That had been over a year ago. By now, he suspected it would’ve been easy to finish
taming her. Not once, before now, had Suguru consumed a curse he couldn’t ultimately control.
There was no reason to think Rika was different.

Yet, Suguru knew he wouldn’t, anymore. When he’d first tried to tame her, and couldn’t quite get
there, the Queen of Curses had seemed like a miracle. She’d been the one manifested curse with
any chance that Suguru could face off with Satoru Gojo and not just survive, but defeat him. Now,
when he’d nearly proved that theory true, Suguru didn’t see a Queen of Curses, anymore. Now,
beneath all her might and infinite potential, Suguru saw a girl.

“Do you want him alive, for a long time?” Suguru asked, finally, “Or do you want to see him for an
hour, only for him to die? If I brought you back, they’d kill him.”

“Kill who?” Someone who wasn’t Rika asked.

At the same time, Rika answered in a growl. Her hand set on top of Suguru’s head, pushing in with
the same, weak attempt at comfort Suguru had shown her.

Suguru glimpsed over his shoulder, checking who, exactly, had spoken.

“Hey, you,” the older woman from before called. She sounded different now that she wasn’t
fighting off a possession. “Yeah, you. Piercings McGee.”

Suguru looked away from her, quickly, back up to Rika. Given how well the woman was speaking,
he felt comfortable whispering the order to “Keep healing Nanami, thank you.”

In the time he’d spent looking away, the other woman had marched right on over. Her foot planted
unsteadily through the debris as she leaned in to snap at him.

“Yeah, you,” she said, “Who are you, and what the hell’s going on?”

At least the questions were easy,

“Suguru Geto,” he’d said. “We finished the exorcism. …For now, anyway. The curse is
unaccounted for.”
The woman looked back at him. Her mouth hung open, at the verge of asking multiple questions
which flattened out into a simple “Wha–”

From the context, Suguru supposed at least one aspect of the situation. She’d been able to grab the
curse assaulting her, so, it stood to reason she was spiritually aware after all.

“Were you from the Fukuoka campus, ma’am?” he asked as politely as he could muster, “Forgive
me, but, I’ve never met a sorcerer with your description before.”

The possibly reasonable conclusion began to look anything but as she squinted at him.

“I’m from this house ,” she struck back, offended, “Who the hell’re you ‘ma’am’ing at?”

The “you, of course, ma’am,” on Suguru’s part was apparently not the right answer.

A vein popped at the side of the woman’s cheek. “Me?I’m about as much of a ‘ma’am’ as Takuya
Kimura.”

Only then, as the woman’s cheek twitched, did Suguru see exactly where he’d gone wrong. It
wasn’t just that, whoever this was, she didn’t want to be treated as an elder. It was the fact that,
despite that whole curse extraction thing, she must not have known about sorcery after all.

Suguru did his best not to sigh. Of course, it was possible for non-sorcerers to gain awareness of
curses when their life was endangered. Most of the time, they’d also forget right away.

“My apologies. To you, and your home” Suguru hesitated to add. It was easier to say that, at least,
than to answer the rest. “How much do you know, exactly?”

“That my kid’s missing, some gang broke in, knocked me out, and you broke my house. What’d
you think I’d know?”

“Ah.” Suguru blinked. “Good questions, then.”

As much as it would’ve been helpful to be direct, there was a significant problem in the way of
Suguru doing so.

“So, you’re not a sorcerer?” Suguru asked.

“I’m about to be the source of a headache, if no one tells me how to find my goddamn kid,” she
snapped back.

“...Fair point.”

“Damn straight, it’s fair. Might as well have a Ferris wheel.”

Although she technically hadn’t answered him, the context let Suguru know exactly what he was
dealing with. While a non-sorcerer may have seen the curse, the information she’d be able to
understand and provide were going to be limited. It was far from the first time Suguru had to be on
the scene with someone who had no true sense of what happened to them.

That thought, they usually weren’t quite this lively.

The woman’s foot tapped against the rubble. For someone who had just been assaulted, her trauma
sure seemed ready to twist into aggression.

“So, you see Pinky get somewhere?”

“Pinky–”

Suguru guessed, immediately, that she must’ve meant Itadori.

“Did you see anyone else, directly, before me, besides the boy with pink hair?” asked Suguru
“Like, a blonde man, or a teenage girl with blue hair? They would’ve worn black suits, either of
them.”

“Men in Black?” the woman’s voice raised, implying a question where she hadn’t phrased one.
“...Huh. For once, I know that reference.”

“I wasn’t making a reference. I was giving a description.”

“It’s not? Well, it should be. If it’s supernatural superpower gunk, and they’re wearing black suits,
aren’t they asking for it?”

The question was so blunt, Suguru didn’t know what to do with it. He shook his head, willing
himself to veer back on topic.

“The–”

“I did see a girl, though. With blue hair,” the woman cut in, “She wasn’t in a suit, though. It was a
sailor uniform.”

“A uniform?”

Suguru turned his head over his shoulder, checking. He had just started to make eye contact when
something else shone in the debris. Between the broken scraps of wood and china, at the same point
where the curse had fist emerged, a sliver of metal shone in the rubble.

“White and black, with a red tie,” the woman said, “never seen it around here, before, so, she
wasn’t local. Pretty goth for a school, though. Could’ve been some kinda fashion thing.”

Suguru stepped away from the woman. He brushed his foot through the rubble, tapping at the metal
scrap. The deep gray shine of carbon steel turned almost silver at the tip. The sheen in the blade
waved in a familiar curl of his student’s katana.

There was no residual from a curse technique on Miwa’s blade, anymore. Even when Suguru
squinted, he didn’t spot the glow. His eyes set shut, his posture sinking to a kneel over the blade.
Suguru clutched it, close.

“A pink-haired boy was here, before you fell unconscious?” Suguru asked stiffly, “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Rika stayed at work across the room, still trying to mend Nanami. Suguru could hear it, still, the
same way he heard the memory of Nanami cursing during the mission that took Haibara. The same
way he could remember pulling Shoko off of Yaga’s body in her morgue, only to be told that Satoru
had done it.

Suguru remembered this feeling, the same way he’d known Mimiko.

Suguru clutched the hilt of Miwa’s katana, trying not to feel something he knew was true. His
determination twisted along with his grip, his knuckles going white.

At least, for once, he hadn’t been there to watch it happen. As selfish as it was, for once, Suguru
didn’t bear the memory of watching someone else he cared for die.

As terrible as it might be for Nanami to repeat the trauma, he’d survive it. Nanami knew, far better
than Suguru did, that this risk was part of the job. He’d prepared himself for it, from the day they’d
lost Haibara. Somehow, that one loss had hardened Nanami enough to keep him going through
anything–as if the worst thing that would ever happen to him was already long gone.

It hadn’t been that way for Suguru. No matter how many precious people he saw slip away, the pain
never hardened him. It just compiled, breaking new wounds in his scars.

He wasn’t ready for another.

Suguru felt, in quiet, for the flow of Rika’s energy as she worked, stabilizing Kento Nanami’s
pulse. No matter what else had happened, Suguru assured himself, he wouldn’t see his
underclassman die.

As Suguru held his old student’s sword, he wondered if that was enough.
Distract the Distraction
 Junpei Yoshino

Satozakura High School

Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

The morning air, which he was so used to breathing, felt like sludge. The path to school, which he
was so used to taking, stretched on almost infinitely. For something that should have been so
ordinary, each step felt wrong.

The collar of his uniform tightened around his neck.

“What’s taking so long? Cat got your foot?” Satoru asked behind Junpei’s back. He stretched both
arms into the air, cracking his knuckles mid-stride. “I’d ask ‘tongue’, but you’re not bleeding from
the mouth or anything. You’re just quiet.”

In the shadow of the trees, Junpei’s visible eye looked almost black. He said nothing. Satoru just
smiled.

“Wow,” Satoru answered himself, “I’ll have to get earplugs to hang around here much longer.
Loudmouth, you are.”

The silver-haired sorcerer lengthened his stride, dramatically pulling ahead. One of his arms fell
from the air, brushing Junpei by the shoulder. Between the shadows of the leaves, the black lenses
of his goggles caught just enough sunlight to gleam almost blue.

“You know the plan, right?” asked Satoru, “I’m a little mind-reading short of knowing that on my
own, so, you’ll have to keep talking and tell me.”

Satoru’s hand pressed into Junpei’s shoulder. With his goggles in the way, the only hint to his
expression was his broad, chipper smile. On another face, or a different day, that look may have
seemed friendly. Here, now, Junpei knew it for what it was. A lie.

“Or do I have to remind you who’s waiting back home?” Satoru added, casual as ever. “Wouldn’t
want one less MILF in the world, would ya? Although you shouldn’t have the ‘ILF’ part, since
she’s your actual mom. You’re not that kinda messed up, right?”

Junpei’s shoulders turned as stiff as his collar, snapping, “Then don’t threaten her!”

Whatever threat Junpei meant to make, it went quiet as Satoru flicked his cheek. Junpei flinched
back.

“Then don’t make her so easy to threaten you with! Sheesh,” Satoru complained. “My God, you’re
like one bad dress and some taxidermy away from Norman Bates over here. You’ve even got the
Kubrick stare down.”

“That’s…”
“Pretty funny, yeah?” Satoru beamed, “Although Norma Bates still might be nicer than old Sucks-
on-ya in there.”

Satoru leaned in, the point of his nose falling just short of hitting Junpei’s own. Somehow, despite
how close he’d drawn, not a single part of Satoru was in reach to threaten back.

Satoru’s hand pressed down, setting straight on top of Junpei’s head. He ruffled through Junpei’s
hair. Though Junpei tried to reach back and swat him away, his hand brushed right off.

“Chill, chatty Charlie,” said Satoru, “You’re a smart kid, right? You know what to do.”

As much as Junpei didn’t want to, he did.

“Cause a distraction,” said Junpei, quietly. Satoru nodded along.

“By?”

Junpei didn’t want to answer that, either.

“Letting go of control,” Junpei whispered, his head lowering to the ground. He closed his eyes,
blocking his sight into the answer, “Releasing... him."

“See? I knew you were clever! Two-face is a perfect distraction.”

Satoru said it so off-handedly, Junpei had no problem asking back, “A distraction from what?”

It didn’t work.

“Nice try.” Satoru raised his hand away from Junpei’s. He wiggled his fingers in a wave, then set
them back into his pocket. “On second thought, nah. Bad try. Terrible, even. You could’ve done a
lot better."

With a rock in his step, Satoru headed down the familiar path, planting unfamiliar footsteps along
the way.

“Thinking about why would just distract you,” Satoru dismissed “Why distract the distraction?”

The why, in this case, loomed almost as much as the person in front of Junpei. As unhinged as
Satoru seemed, he didn’t strike Junpei as stupid. Whatever he intended to gain from using Junpei,
and the monster in his head, he had a reason. The reason wasn’t something Junpei would get to
know.

In silence, Junpei fell into step. He matched his pace to Satoru’s trailing behind him down a path
he’d never meant to take again.

The outside of Satozakura High School stood, steady and blank as ever. The gray, blemished walls
stood like a prison with an open gate. The afternoon sun confined the shadows it could have cast to
little more than a puddle.

Satoru’s steps went quiet. He leaned against the flower box by the outer gate, one leg crossing over
the other. From the pose that he’d kicked back into, it either looked like Satoru was trying to be
cool, or was holding back the urge to pee.
“I’ll give you… hm…” Satoru hummed. His hand tucked under his chin. “How’s fifteen minutes
sound?”

“Terrible.”

“Perfect, then. Fourteen minutes, it is,” Satoru nodded to himself. “You used up three seconds
telling me it was terrible, then another twenty listening to me. So, fourteen, by now.”

For all the things Junpei wanted to say back, he couldn’t voice any of them. All he could do was
watch Satoru keep smiling, while imagining what he really meant.

“Fourteen minutes,” Satoru repeated, “If you don’t get an obvious distraction going on by then, I’ll
text Mahi-chan that she can do whatever she feels like to your mom. Which, given the whole ‘she’s
a curse’ thing, to be clear, that’s usually murder.”

The top of Satoru’s converse squeaked against the sidewalk. His hand rolled under his chin, still
pondering.

“Wait,” he perked up, “Is it murder if it’s not a person on a person? I dunno. Should I just say
‘she’ll kill her?’” His eyebrows furrowed as he tapped at his chin. “That sounds so much less
intimidating than murder. Is this why most villain speeches suck? There’s only like three cool ways
to threaten people, tops.”

In the middle of this babbling, Junpei barely managed to snip back, “then don’t threaten her–” He
didn’t finish the sentence before Satoru was swatting at his face, knocking him back like a fly.

“Nah, nah,” Satoru dismissed, “That won’t work. I’ve gotta do the threat part. Otherwise, you’ll
walk away.”

The same hand that had been swatting at Junpei reached down. Satoru pulled his phone from his
pocket. Junpei had barely spotted the shift in his posture when the phone was shoved into his face.
The screen squished against his nose, the image of the lock screen blurring. A broken charm strap
knocked against Junpei’s cheek.

It wasn’t until he flinched, and the strap swayed away from him, that Junpei realized it wasn’t
Satoru’s phone he was holding at all. It was Junpei’s.

“See here? The phone tracker thing?” Satoru tapped at the side of Junpei’s phone, poking the blips
on the screen. “Your mom’s in the house now, so she and Mahi-chan must be getting to know each
other. If you don’t hurry up, they’ll stop getting along.”

Between the blur of the screen, and the untouchable monster hiding under his goggles, Junpei
couldn’t stop himself from imagining what else he could do.

“...I’ll destroy you,” Junpei mumbled.

Satoru shrugged. “Not really. You’d just die.”

The silver-haired man tucked Junpei’s phone back into his pocket. Even through the tinted lenses,
Junpei knew, without question, that this man was looking straight through him.

“Do you want to die, Junpei?” Satoru asked, in the same tone a normal person might’ve asked his
favorite color. “If she’s decent at the ‘parenting’ thing, might defeat the purpose of keeping your
mom around. A halfway good one’ll be pretty upset. The ‘I outlived my kid’ thing’s usually not a
good look.”

The entire time, Junpei hadn’t heard Sukuna speaking. He didn’t need another voice to torment
him. There was plenty of hostility, and hatred, swelling in himself, all on his own.

Satoru pointed towards the door. “Thirteen minutes,” he corrected, “You’re sure wasting your time
talking to me.”

Junpei wondered, through his glare, if there was any way he could destroy the phone. If he cut the
communication off between Satoru and Mahito, then, maybe there wouldn’t have been a way for
Satoru to signal it was time to follow through with his threat. He considered it, and yet, the only
thing he came up with was nothing at all.

Satoru pointed towards the door. “Twelve minutes, forty three seconds,” he said. And Junpei had
nothing else he could think of but to go.

His heartbeat echoed in his mind as he took the first step. The familiar path wound just as it always
would have. The only difference was, where he normally saw hostile faces and the judgment of
people who didn’t bother to know him, now, he was alone.

The school gates stood open. Junpei passed through. He took the first step, leaving Satoru for
somewhere else he didn’t want to be.

If it had been a normal day, Junpei would’ve stopped to change into his school shoes. Instead, he
walked right past the front lockers, heading deeper in. He wasn’t sure where he was going, yet,
only that it needed to be somewhere else.

The loudspeakers crackled through the empty hallway. The static of a live mic carried through the
speakers. Faintly, Junpei could hear voices in the background–white noise that the mics hadn’t been
trying to catch. A dulled roar of inane chatter turned into little but mush. He guessed, if not knew,
that the people on the broadcast didn’t know it was a broadcast at all.

The passing murmurs of a ceremony he didn’t care for buzzed through each room, casting echoes
in the corners. Without other students to crowd their desks, the rooms looked so much bigger.

“As we prepare for this term to close, we would like to congratulate our Kendo team. The senior
members will be traveling for the inter-high tournament in the coming weeks,” a teacher dithered
on. Who, specifically, Junpei wasn’t sure. His hands settled into his pockets, watching the click tick
on.

As the same stranger started to mention “the volleyball club, track team and football team will also
be traveling for camps. We ask all students participating to remember their duties as representatives
of our school…”

Junpei’s hand twisted the fabric in his pockets. The instructions and the threat repeated in his mind.
Cause a distraction. Unleash Sukuna.

Maybe, Junpei thought, if he stayed this far back, he could limit the destruction. There were no
people in this part of the school. If the building erupted, it would cause a panic. Would screaming
students, feeling a distant threat, be enough?
Junpei’s hand twisted in his pocket. His head fell into a bow.

“Walk away,” Junpei told himself in a mutter. “It’s not right… right?”

“...And we thank you for another year, with your friends, at Satozakura.”

Whoever was speaking, Junpei wondered if there were good people at all.

The words blurred out as Junpei drowned them in his mind. He unbuttoned his top collar, his hair
falling more with the motion of a bow. The overgrown strands of pink hair hiding beneath his
natural black stuck inside his collar, crawling down. And then, he walked in deeper.

He knew, by implication, what Satoru must have meant. Junpei couldn’t risk acting on a
technicality. If he was going to cooperate, then, it made more sense not to gamble. He thought, in
resignation, that anyone else in his position would’ve done the same thing.

A narrow hallway turned, moving away from the classrooms. Past the winding, square staircases,
along the cafeteria, then more, Junpei found the double doors to the gymnasium. Each side stuck
shut. The voices that had been on the speaker blurred together through the cracks, mumbling things
he could’ve heard better if he tried.

Junpei knew, by most standards, that the moral thing to do was to leave. If he’d had more time,
maybe he would’ve found some clever workaround. The human thing to do, however, was exactly
what he’d resigned to. He opened the door.

“For those who are members of on-campus clubs, please remember to split cleaning duties evenly
between your members over the holiday,” the same voice drolled, “If you aren’t registered for a
club, or your club has become defunct, then the gardening committee is looking for–”

As the representative rambled on, Junpei crept inside. He shuffled through the background, sticking
to the furthest row from the makeshift wooden stage. His head held low, and his sounds lower,
trying to avoid others’ eyes. If he didn’t loom close enough to recognize anyone, then maybe they
also wouldn’t know him.

The maybe didn’t work.

“Ew,” Tsubasa muttered at him, just quiet enough that no one else would’ve heard her sneer.
“What’s with your hair? Pink’s so lame.”

Junpei ducked down. His head turned away from her, ignoring her as best he could. If he acted like
he hadn’t heard her, then, maybe Tsubasa wouldn’t say anything else.

A light burn tingled through Junpei’s cheek. A mouth formed through the open skin beneath his
eye, allowing Sukuna to form.

“Better than the pink of the inside of your stomach, woman,” Sukuna sneered, “I should show
yours to you, too.”

Tsubasa looked back, alarmed. “What the hell?”

From the drop of her mouth, to the general revulsion, Junpei knew that look all too well. The
disgust in her eyes wasn’t for Sukuna, but for him.
If he wanted, all Junpei had to do was to stop fighting for control. If he closed his eyes and slipped
back, he could do what he’d been asked to do. It might even save his mother.

Junpei’s hand pressed down across his face, smothering Sukuna’s mouth. He shouted at Tsubasa,
instead, “Run–!”

The squeak of his voice caught more than Tsubasa’s attention. The other girls standing by her
backed off, too. One girl reached her hand over Tsubasa’s shoulder, nudging Junpei away from her
as she whispered. “He bothering you?”

“Uh, yeah!” Tsubasa gaped, “He just threatened me!”

Revolted as she was, Junpei barely heard the shout. When he could’ve been listening, instead, he
saw something shimmer. Through the window by the back of the balcony, Junpei spotted the black-
blue lenses of Satoru’s goggles still gleaming.

The distant dot of Satoru loomed by an upper window. The man kept one hand in his pocket. The
other cupped Junpei’s phone, seemingly watching the screen.

Sukuna’s teeth slid across Junpei’s cheek in a cackle. The sound echoed through his head, out into
the air.

Tsubasa crossed her arms tighter. “What’re you laughing at? Leave me alone!”

Between each laugh, Sukuna started to answer, “Brats like you are only good for one–”

“SHUT UP!”

Junpei’s cursed energy slipped out through his other hand. The torrent sputtered from his pointer
and index finger, then streaked across him, swelling as the air stoked the blaze. Although the glove
of the fire stretched across his whole arm, the flame didn’t burn him.

Where Junpei saw the fire, Tsubasa didn’t. She stomped forward past her friends, huffing at him.

“No. You shut up, creep–”

The sound of her voice made another flash of irritation spark. Sukuna’s cackle dipped lower. Junpei
outstretched his hand. His teeth clenched shut, growling “no–!”

A new burst of energy stretched through Junpei’s hand. A flood of flame poured out above the
crowd, stretching straight over their heads, into the same, waiting window that Satoru had been
standing at.

As the flames struck the window, the frame set alight. The glass inside each panel started to glow, a
vibrant, honey yellow spreading through it. Within seconds, the solid would be liquid, and the
liquid would melt away.

It was time for a scene.

The licks of heat and smoke pushed across the gathered students. One of Tsubasa’s friends pressed
her hands to her head, screaming as if she, too, had just caught on fire. Between what was left of
the window panes, Junpei could see Satoru’s silhouette vanish.
“Run!”

A pulse of white light flashed from the ceiling. A steady, high pitched beep shrieked, overtaking
Junpei’s voice in its blare. As the sound built, one of the students started to scream. Others charged
for the door, crooked stampedes forming as the crowd started to scramble.

The girls closest to Junpei backed off. Tsubasa’s sneer melted into shock.

“Holy fu–”

A short-haired girl next to her pulled Tsubasa by the shoulder, pulling her with them. “Get back!”

“Fire!” Someone else shrieked. “He’s on fire!”

“No shit!” snapped Tsubasa, “What isn’t?” She coughed.

The flames from the curse stretched over Junpei’s hand, flowing from the back of his palm to his
fingers on the opposite side. The tension inside it drew taut. It would’ve been so easy to fire it at
Tsubasa–or anyone here at all.

“Go!” Junpei shouted, even louder than before. “Get out!”

The water from the overhead sprinklers did nothing to quell the flames. As soon as the droplets hit
the air, they evaporated to mist, useless. The wave stretched across the ceiling, engulfing the roof
and lighting fixtures like an ocean of a blaze. The smoke dripped down, pooling at their feet, an
exact inverse of what a normal flame would’ve done.

As the students fled for their lives, Junpei held still. The fire at his hand still turned. The frame of
an exitway collapsed, dropping wooden beams in the paths of the students. Between the screams of
scrambling kids, Junpei heard one of them shout “this way!” as the fleeing crowd scrambled in new
directions.

“Weren’t you supposed to give me control, brat?” Sukuna asked, tinging his words with judgment.

“I was,” Junpei mumbled, “...Yeah.” Despite the light in the distance, not a single reflection of it
reached into Junpei’s eyes. The hand that had been blocking Sukuna’s mouth from view fell from
his cheek. “...I don’t think you need it.”

“ You think you have a right to an opinion? ” Sukuna jeered, “You’re weak.”

The morning air turned hot. An unfamiliar drift stung through Junpei’s nose. If he closed his eyes to
it, he wondered if the smell might have seemed like a bonfire.

While the other students kept trying to flee, Junpei set his hand against the ground. A new wave of
fire burned by his fingertips. He brushed the wave across the floorboards, searing through the
planks. The fire waved, pushing outward, then up, joining the fire at the ceiling. From the outside,
he imagined the whole building was about to go.

The rush of footsteps intensified, more and more students running away. Not one of the students
had stopped moving. Even the few who’d been crushed during the stampede were still writhing,
crawling on their stomachs on the floor.
Junpei was supposed to feel something, he thought, as he watched the destruction. It was human to
feel something. He did, and yet, he wasn’t quite sure if the sinking in his stomach was what that
‘something’ was supposed to be.

The glove of cursed flames reached higher along Junpei’s arm. The base of his sleeve set alight,
holding destruction in his grip. Even as the flames wrapped tighter, singing the hair from his arm,
Junpei felt their current match his own–as if the fire itself was a part of him, now.

The trails of fire pushed away from the fallen bodies, leaving the few remaining students alone. For
now, as Junpei held steady, the only person in the room that the flames had licked at all was Junpei
himself.

“That’s enough.”

The echo in Sukuna’s voice sounded in Junpei’s head. He could hear the words outside his body
seconds after they’d formed inside.

“Leave these children to me, vessel,” the curse ordered, “They’ll have the honor of being my
entertainment.”

The “no,” came out of Junpei at a whisper, so quiet, there’d been no echo in his head left to hear.

“No?”

The flow of the crowd kept turning, the last few hundred finding their ways towards the door. In the
distance, Junpei thought he might have seen his homeroom teacher Sotomura waddling off like a
toddler.

The flames stoked around Junpei’s hand, sparks catching through the dust in the air.

Junpei stood still. He raised his chin, gazing up at the window. The mouth beneath his eye stretched
with a sneer. “Fool.”

Behind the honey yellow glow of the molten glass, Junpei couldn’t see where Satoru was watching,
specifically. He couldn’t see, and yet, he knew. If Satoru had been paying attention at all, he wasn’t
far.

Junpei stepped forward, towards the window frames. The fire flashed brighter as the frame pulled
apart. The edges of Sukuna’s mouth turned up, a toothy grin stinging through Junpei’s cheek.

“I see,” the curse noted, “Fair enough! Sorcerers are annoying.”

“How–”

Before Junpei could finish forming the question, he tasted the smoke in the air. He swallowed back,
stifling a cough. The smile under his bangs grew even wider with mockery. “Or you can remember
your place, and leave this to me.”

The mad crackle of the fire and the coughs of the people who hadn’t been able to flee spun
together. Whatever else Sukuna had to say, or mock him for, Junpei didn’t hear. The fire swelled
around his hand, stoking brighter and tighter, engulfing his body inside the cover of the blaze. The
cursed flame hovered around him like a shield, even as the wood at his feet started sinking away.
With a light, quick step, Junpei strode towards the melting window. The liquid glass parted around
the fire, allowing him to pass through without so much as a drop on his head.

Satoru sat on top of a storage shed. One of his legs crossed over the other, creating a pocket for him
to lean his phone against. He watched the screen with one hand while eating a cream puff. He
didn’t look up.

The cursed energy flowed through Junpei’s veins, a power that wasn’t supposed to be his flaring
brighter than the blaze behind him.

“C’mon, brat,” Sukuna urged inside his head, “ Allow me. I’ll take the sorcerer.”

“...And then, everyone else,” Junpei finished in a whisper.

The flare stoked further at the mention. Junpei let his hand drift back to center. His fingers curled,
twisting in an unfamiliar pattern straight over his heart. The cursed energy pushed out through his
fingers, stoking the flame.

Junpei said nothing more. Instead, he lowered his head into a bow. His burning hand pressed
against the ground.

He thought it loud enough, Sukuna could hear him, even if Junpei hadn’t said it.

No.

The flame at Junpei’s palm outstretched, following an invisible path. It slithered like a snake,
veering behind the shelf, then up, catching along the shed. The roof burst in a flash, falling to the
flame. Satoru’s form fell with it, disappearing in the flames.

As the figure of the stranger vanished, Junpei stared at the remains. He squinted through the blase,
straining to make out the image of what was left inside.

“Causing trouble, again?” Though Satoru said it as a question, he didn’t seem to expect an answer.
“Sheesh, at this rate, you’re making me look like I respect authority.”

The walls of the shed collapsed inward, too, leaving nothing but a bonfire behind. Satoru stood well
ahead of it. He licked a glob of filling from his fingers, finishing the cream puff, unscathed.

The fire stoked at Satoru’s back, the explosion intensifying as Junpei clenched his fist. The flames
waved forward, drifting to lick at Satoru’s back.

“Heh. You’re really gonna make me act the bad guy, aren’t you?” Satoru pinched his phone
between his fingers, brushing the ashes away. “Guess you’re like me. I wasn’t so good at learning
from threats, either.”

Satoru’s mouth stayed open. The start of another word formed. Before Junpei could hear what it
would’ve been, he raised his hand. A narrow flame burst from his fingertips, shooting like an
arrow. The beam of flame clipped the corner of the phone, burning straight through the screen. A
waft of smoke rose as a crack split down the center, rendering the phone blank.

“Ugh. So smoky,” Satoru complained. He pulled the phone from his cheek, pinching it straight
through the hole. “How hot is that fire? This had an OtterBox and everything.”
With a flick of his wrist, Satoru dropped the phone to the ground. The grass where he’d dropped it
burnt through, too.

From the angle of the reflection in Satoru’s goggles, Junpei could guess where he was watching.
For everything else happening around them, the silver-haired sorcerer was still facing him without
a care. His posture, and tone, were both far too casual for a fight.

“You think breaking the phone’s enough?” Satoru asked. An eyebrow raised behind his goggles,
showing a sliver of an expression under his bangs. “You won’t stop me, you know. I’m too fast.
Like the Flash. Except no red suits. Red makes me look pale.”

An arrow of fire formed inside Junpei’s palm. The arrow shot low, aiming for Satoru’s gut.

The flame died as it left Junpei’s palm, extinguishing in the air, just short of Satoru. The fire singed
the bottom of his shirt. Just as Junpei spotted the burn, Satoru grabbed him by the hair.

“Some say it’s supposed to be an honor to fight Sukuna,” said Satoru, almost calm. “Not to be too
obvious, kid, but, you’re not Sukuna.”

Satoru’s hand clenched tighter. He pulled up, hoisting Junpei by his bangs with no effort at all. His
feet dangled over the ground, the toes of his sneakers just short of grazing the cement.

“So get in your shell, will you?” Satoru asked, “I’d rather fight Sukuna. Beating you’s like bullying
a baby rabbit or something”

“Back–” Junpei sputtered. The throb in his head made him stop. He reached up, flailing and failing
to grab Satoru off of him. The embers of what was left of his flame died in his palm.

“Let me out,” Sukuna sneered, “I’d rather not waste energy healing your corpse.”

Junpei didn’t answer. The most he could do was squirm. His foot dug into the ashes, kicking up
what little he could. A clump of his hair tore out of his scalp. Then, Satoru let go.

Junpei crashed into the ash, the burnt flecks of grass sticking to his arms. What had been left tinted
green dried and withered around him, still burning from the temperature of the flames swelling
inside. Satoru kicked at the ground. “Oh, man. My pants got dirty.” Satoru shook one leg. A puff of
gray rose from the fabric. “Now, I’ve gotta do laundry. That sucks.”

Whatever had allowed the untouchable man to be touched, Junpei hadn’t been able to see. He
coughed into the ground, both of his hands pressing into the dirt he’d helped dry.

“You know how many bottles of detergent you need?” Satoru asked, casual as ever. “It’s one per
load, right? I forget. Or I’ll just buy new pants, I guess. Might be less annoying.”

Satoru’s sneaker stomped into the ground, just short of stomping over Junpei’s hand. The pressure
hovered over him, close enough for Junpei to sense without it touching him.

Junpei leaned against his elbows. His neck craned back, the rest of him still sprawled in the burnt
brush. Satoru stretched down, meeting him there.

“You look like you do laundry, right?” asked Satoru. He lowered himself at a casual bow, straight
into his face. “The emo-you, not the psycho guy.”
Junpei had seen plenty of people look at him the way Satoru was right now. No matter who wore
that derision, or how broadly they could smile, they were all the same. And no matter who they
were, or how powerless he was, Junpei had never been good at keeping his mouth shut. He spit in
Satoru’s face.

The spit bounced off of Satoru before it could hit him. The splatter struck back against Junpei,
instead.

“Hey, what’s the point of that, huh?” Satoru whined. “It’s not like you thought you could hit me, is
it? You’re just being gross.”

Junpei didn’t raise his hand to wipe the spit from his cheek. He didn’t even move. His own eyes
reflected off the lenses of Satoru’s goggles, reflecting his fear to no one but himself.

He barely heard another voice in the background cut in, surprised. “You’re not Gojo.”

“You’re right,” Satoru answered, “I’m not.”

The sound, and the statement, didn’t make Satoru turn. He kept staring on, straight at Junpei, as he
spoke up. “Who’s asking?”

As he stared into his own terror, his pulse racing through his mind, Junpei wasn’t sure what to do.
He froze. His mind reeled, stuck, until he heard the stranger answer. “Yuji Itadori!”

The fog from Junpei’s breath set across the lenses of Satoru’s goggles. The black on each side
turned a murky, obscured gray. He turned.

“Itadori? Huh,” Satoru mused, turning, too, “You’re not very good at dying–”

In the time it took for Satotu to ask the question, a blur passed by his nose. The narrow edge of a
bloodied blade struck between Junpei and Satoru, knocking them apart.

By the time Junpei could turn his head and blink, he saw. The guy from the movie theater stood
between him and Satoru. A knife with fur sprouting from the hilt held steady in his grip. His other
arm outstretched, blocking Satoru’s path to Junpei.

“Itadori–?”

For all the other things Junpei meant to think, or say, not one of them made it out before Satoru
spoke, instead.

“Huh,” Satoru mused, “...And here, I thought I killed you.”

The mouth on Junpei’s face shifted, breaking not to a cackle, but to pure, maniacal laughter. The
sound started to crack. Then, Yuji stifled Sukuna under his hand.

The softness in his smile, assuring as he’d tried to make it, stung even worse than a strike.

Junpei lowered his head, wincing away. A tear fell from his eyes, streaking through Yuji’s fingers.
For all the shifting Junpei could feel Sukuna trying to do, Yuji held steady just the same.

“I’m here, Junpei, alright?” Yuji asked in a way that was less a question than an assurance, “I’m
gonna help you.”
For some reason he couldn’t place, somehow, Junpei believed him.
 Sorcerer, Non-Sorcerer

Suguru Geto

July 20, 2018

1st District, Tamami, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

Suguru’s hand steadied at the hilt of Miwa’s sword. His head lowered, falling into a bow. He
allowed himself one moment to hold a weapon someone else left behind. One moment was all he
could take.

“Rika-chan?” Suguru felt the presence of his curse long before he could hear her. “How’s
Nanami?”

Before Suguru could look up, he heard someone else answer with a question of her own. “Who’s
Rika?”
Suguru turned, his head snapping from a point he’d expected to watch to one he hadn’t. In a space
where he’d expected a curse to be, instead, he saw a woman. The non-sorcerer stood behind him, a
lone hand on her hip, surprisingly intact for what she’d been warped to before.

Rika rose. The shadow of her form stretched across Nanami. Despite her eyes staying hidden, the
slump in her shoulders somehow looked ready to cry. Each wrinkle in her head was as close as
Suguru could come to tears of his own.

As deeply and carefully as Suguru looked into the distance, not one of his senses felt the patchwork
curse was nearby. Her presence vanished through the bloodstains she’d caused on the carpet, all
traces of a residual gone. All there was, now, was her gore.

“It’s alright,” Suguru said in a deliberate quiet, “Stay calm.”

Rika didn’t answer. Her posture, which could so easily have seemed aggressive, slumped
somewhere closer to a whimper.

“Not sure what calm you think’s around here, but, it sure as heck’s not me,” the non-sorcerer spoke
back. Though to her, it was an answer, for Suguru, it felt more like an invasion. Whatever he’d
wanted to hear, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t her.

Why was it, he wondered, that it was so rarely the sorcerers who survived? Nanami was fighting to
hold on. Miwa was nowhere to be found. The curse vanished. All Suguru could see, or hear, was an
utter, thankless stranger he had no current need to know.

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Suguru uttered. The words were so quiet, the non-sorcerer may not
have heard him at all.

“The city exploded,” the woman rambled on, “there’s some kind of invisible demon that took
squatter’s rights in my kitchen, apparently, and I can’t find my son. I’m not calm. And unless you
pull my kid out of your parachute pants, you’re not gonna fix that!”

Suguru’s eyes fell flat as his feelings twisted, fighting back resentment. He forced himself to
breathe through his nose, resisting the urge to shout about things this woman couldn’t know.
Instead, he set Miwa’s sword down, handling it with care. The hilt lingered in his palm a second
longer than it should have, another weight left behind.

It wasn’t the first time Suguru had to deal with a civilian on-site with a curse. Unless he was
uncharacteristically lucky from here out, it was far from the last, too. Time and again, since he was
a student, he’d learned how to de-escalate the situation. Placate them with a flimsy excuse, tell
them to wait for the authorities, and lie. It wouldn’t take long before their ignorance kicked back in,
and the non-sorcerer forgot anything supernatural had happened at all.

Suguru knew, from over a decade of living, what he should have done. Hundreds of times, he’d
gotten himself to. Today, he stood still.

“Who’s Rika?” the woman asked, stepping closer into Suguru’s personal space, with no sense of
what he was thinking. She poked his chest. “That’s not the blonde guy, right? He need help?”

The closer the non-sorcerer leaned towards him, the more Suguru could see the state of her. Though
her clothes were intact, under her jacket, patches of her skin had turned a pale, withering purple. To
a layperson, it might have passed for an odd bruise. Suguru knew better. The only thing that would
left wounds like that was a curse.

The violet shade seemed to ripple, as if the bruise itself was moving. The bigger miracle, in this
case, was that the woman was still standing at all. How was she still talking, like this?

Suguru took a breath.

“I can’t explain,” he said, definitively, trying not to leave room for her to argue, “There isn’t time.
Now, hold still.” It didn’t work.

“Then what’re you still standing around here for? Redecorating my apartment??”

“My colleague is hurt,” said Suguru, speaking as simply as possible, “We’ll need to stabilize him
before I can leave.”

The ‘we’ that Suguru had meant to refer to, in this case, had felt obvious. As far as he perceived his
surroundings, he was with Rika. The non-sorcerer, however, hadn’t thought that way.

“Or you can do that, man-buns” the non-sorcerer cut back, a vein throbbing in her forehead, “and
I’ll go get my damn kid.”

“You–”

“Agh–” the non-sorcerer grunted, “Shit–”

Suguru held back a sigh. “I told you, you have to stay still. Something’s wrong.”

The bruise of the cursed infection pulsed inside the non-sorcerer’s neck, her skin shifting. He
realized, watching her like this, that her posture had never been effortless. Whatever consciousness
she had, it was stubbornness that kept it there. Her breath staggered as she fought, not against
Suguru, but her own ability to stand up.

“Whatever,” she grunted, her breath still breaking, “If he’s out there, so am I!”

Suguru’s hand outstretched, hardly an inch from touching the non-sorcerer’s shoulder. Beneath the
shadow of his finger, the smallest bead of a black eye opened along her neck. The infection in her
was spreading–and it would keep doing so, until she collapsed, if he didn’t stop to fix it, whether
she wanted him to or not.

“Sit down,” Suguru tried to tell her, “You’re hurt.”

“Who gives a crap?” The strain of still standing burst a blood vessel in her eye. The red spot poured
through the white of her sclera as she spoke, and she didn’t care. “My kid’s out there. What kind of
parent am I if I don’t try?”

“A living one,” Suguru told her, “Now, sit still.”

The woman’s insistence, which before had looked like simple huffing and puffing, turned to a
glare, “no! I’m getting my kid,” she strained to argue. “You won’t stop me.”

Suguru lowered his hand, intending to keep her from moving. Before he could touch the wound at
all, she pushed him away. A pang of sympathy froze his hand, taken in with the near-feral focus in
her eye.

This wasn’t the time to stop. Suguru knew that. Whatever curse had struck was still out there.
Itadori was missing. So many things were going wrong, falling completely out of his control. It was
his job, as a sorcerer, to keep going. No matter how many people left the world without a grave, it
was Suguru’s duty to keep going, even if he hadn’t chosen this.

As he looked at her strain, fighting against something she couldn’t understand, or see, Suguru
understood. As much as he wished anyone else in this room was the one standing, he understood.
He and his colleagues hadn’t chosen to be sorcerers–and she hadn’t chosen this, either.

“I know,” Suguru whispered, the words lowering in his chest. His empathy warped to sympathy as
he listened to the strain in her breath.

“I know,” Suguru repeated, willing the sense of his own powerlessness to stop.

The woman cut back. “Then stop trying to stop me.”

The non-sorcerer tried to brush past him, her arm outstretched to nudge Suguru away. She had just
managed to grab Suguru by the arm when the wound pulsed. She flinched.

“I won’t stop you.” Suguru put one hand on each of her shoulders, propping her upright. “This
will.”

“Then what the hell’re you calling this?”

“Helping,” Suguru countered, the word exhausted, hollow, and true.

Behind this woman’s back, Suguru could still see Rika. Nanami’s body lay still as his curse worked
to heal Nanami on his behalf. The more she worked, the more he felt his own energy sap away. The
lifelessness passed for calm, artificial as it might be.

Suguru closed his eyes. His own exhaustion weighed his shoulders down. He willed himself to
ignore it.

“Rika,” Suguru called the curse. Again, the woman’s head bobbled.

“Who’s Rika?”

Suguru ignored the non-sorcerer’s question. Instead, he stayed still. The curse swayed away from
Nanami, leaving his classmate to brush across Suguru’s back.

“Heal this woman, too. Quickly,” Suguru whispered to the curse. “Please. She won’t last long,
otherwise.”

Suguru felt another wave of his own cursed energy receding, the force siphoning out of him to help
sustain Rika. His head started to feel lighter in the worst kind of way, his thoughts losing all focus
past a growing, unshakeable exhaustion.

As the weight of his own body fought against Suguru, Rika released him from her hold. Her long
fingers outstretched for the non-sorcerer. The surface of one pale hand alone eclipsed both of her
shoulders, nudging her jacket away.
“Help her,” Rika told her, speaking words there was no way the woman would hear. “Help you?”

The non-sorcerer looked at the only place she could think of–at Suguru. “What’re you talking to?”

Suguru didn’t answer. He just nodded along, letting the weight push down on his head. Rika
steadied her hand.

The mark on the woman’s shoulder stopped spreading. The eye blinked away, sinking back into the
wound. While the infection of the wound receded, the mark itself did not. It simply withered away
into a raised, violet scar.

When Rika’s hand lifted, Suguru nodded back. “Good girl.”

In the seconds he’d spent changing directions, Suguru still felt the question that would’ve followed.
He turned back to the non-sorcerer before she could ask. “Not you. Someone else.”

“You’d better not think I’m good.”

Suguru breathed like he was sighing. “I assure you, I do not.”

The non-sorcerer’s hand reached into the pocket of her jacket, the leather rumpling as she
rummaged inside. “Now, where’s that phone-”

Drained as he felt, it was only now that Suguru felt some kind of clarity.

“Did he say where he was going?” Suguru asked quickly, realizing that was possible, “the pink-
haired guy that you mentioned before?”

If Itadori had simply said where he was headed, then Suguru wouldn’t have to guess where to head
from here. He’d just know. So, naturally, the woman shook her head.

“Nope,” she told him, “Report his phone missing. If you know him, the cell provider’ll let you
track his phone. Unless you’ve got ‘find my phone’ installed, already. Then it’s just there.”

The woman shook the smartphone in her hand, starting to grumble something about the ‘stupid
battery’. Suguru spared listening for the details as he understood.

“I don’t,” said Suguru, realizing, “...but I know who will.”

“Let me guess. Rika?”

As Suguru told her “No,” and Rika started shouting, he reached down for his own phone. The lock
screen turned on at his touch, showing nothing but black light and the time.

“I can’t explain everything to you clearly. I apologize for that,” Suguru told her as sincerely as he
could. “Difficult as this is, I’ll need you to trust me. I’ll do everything I can for your child, and for
the boy he was with. However, you need to stay here.”

Suguru knew when he’d said it that this woman would argue. He knew it so well that, before she’d
fully opened her mouth, he already countered what he knew she would say.
“You don’t know what’s out there. If you were to go, you’d be a distraction. If you stay here, you
can help me, too. You do what you can to keep my colleague safe, and I’ll do the same for your
son.”

This woman was a stranger to him. Suguru still hadn’t asked for her name, or for her child’s. There
was no rational reason for her to believe him, except that he meant every word of it.

“I’ll explain to you if you ask again later,” Suguru added, knowing full well that this wasn’t a
promise he’d have to keep. Non-sorcerers had a way of correcting their memories on their own. “I
promise, I’ll do everything I can.”

There were natural questions, or counters, that this woman could have tried to answer him with. If
she’d asked the wrong question, or even any question at all, there was a chance Suguru wouldn’t
know what to say.

She held out her phone.

“Take mine,” the non-sorcerer told him, pointing at the blip of a tracker on her screen. “It’s gonna
die any second, but, that’s Junpei’s signal.”

Suguru accepted the phone. He’d barely spotted the map before the screen died.

“Damn it,” she cursed, “I swear. Stupid phone’s got worse charges than my credit card.”

That he’d barely seen it didn’t mean Suguru hadn’t seen a glimpse of the screen. From the quick
flash he’d spotted, Suguru had still seen the automated map. The map, and the dots on the screen,
had still appeared in Kawasaki.

Suguru pressed his hand over hers, nudging the phone back towards her.

“You keep it. For safety, once its battery is back,” Suguru told her. “I caught a glimpse. He isn’t
far.”

Given that he’d given the vaguest description possible, Suguru hadn’t lied. The sincerity behind the
statement, if not the specifics, were enough for the woman to fall back. She peeked over her
shoulder, watching where Nanami laid on the floor in some form of consideration. What she was
thinking, specifically, Suguru wasn’t sure.

Without the stranger’s phone in his hand, Suguru reached down for his own. He unlocked the
screen, then selected Gojo’s new number. He hadn’t even pressed the phone to his ear before he
heard a reply.

“This number, 03-0427-0994 has not set up a voice mail box at this time,” an automated voice
kicked in, “Please return your call another time. I repeat, this number–”

Suguru hung up.

In the fractions of silence and stillness Suguru had, he typed a message into their text chain. If he
was in the air, or otherwise occupied, he’d read faster than he’d hear.

“Call me back. Urgent,” Suguru texted. His finger lingered on the unsent screen, debating what
else, if anything, he could say. If the cell signal was restored, and the text did go through, there was
no telling who else might see a message, especially if Gojo was in public. If Suguru went into
detail, or thought too much, he easily could give something away.

So, without thinking, Suguru added, “I love you.” He hit send.

“So, what am I supposed to do?”

The woman’s voice pulled Suguru back into the room. Suguru pocketed his phone.

“Good question.”

“Thought so,” she answered, “Wouldn’t ask, otherwise.”

For all the places in this battlefield of a room, Suguru knew who to look at. His attention fell right
back to Nanami, lying on the floor. If it weren’t for the tears in his suit, or the flecks of dried blood
still left on his cheek, his underclassman could’ve easily looked like he’d fallen asleep.

“We’ll want to move him away from the debris,” Suguru decided, “He’ll wake up more safely, that
way.”

“Sure. Are we gonna head out, after that?” the woman cut in, “Because if you’re not, I’m taking
off.”

“Not you and I ‘we’, no,” Suguru told her, “you stay.”

“What other ‘we’ is there? Of course, that we.”

Suguru looked away. He didn’t answer her directly. Instead, he called.

“Rika,” Suguru looked back towards the curse. “Pick up Nanami, for me. Carefully. Don’t hurt
him.”

“Who’s Rika?” the non-sorcerer asked. Naturally, Suguru didn’t answer.

Obediently, Rika bowed down. Her long, white fingers pulled under Nanami, pulling him into her
grip. His body fell into her hands, easily lifting him into the air. When her hands had settled, she
held him in much the same way a waitress would’ve carried a tray.

To Suguru, Rika’s help was a perfectly normal thing to see. He raised a finger in a point, and then
gestured down the hallway. To the non-sorcerer, with no ability to see a curse, all she could see left
her gaping.

“He’s floating?” she asked, raising a finger to point. “Hot foreign guy’s floating?”

“...Being carried, but yes,” Suguru corrected her. “The one helping him is Rika. Although you can’t
see her, I assure you, she’s a very nice young woman.” Suguru chose, deliberately, to leave out the
part where she looked less like a young girl than a faceless, albino genie who spent extensive time
at the gym.

“...Sure,” the non-sorcerer gaped back, her expression starting blank, and washing out even more.
“Adds up.”
As Rika hovered towards Suguru, she held Nanami still in both hands. Although she had no eyes to
look at Suguru with openly, the stillness in her floating told Suguru that she didn’t know where to
go.

Suguru looked away from Rika, openly craning to watch the non-sorcerer, instead. “You don’t have
a safe room in here by any chance, do you?”

The woman’s shoulders raised close to a shrug. “I’ve got a bedroom with a lock and a fish tank.
That safe to you?”

It shouldn’t have been. Suguru didn’t know why that even occurred to her as an option. He sighed.
“...Good enough. Where?”

The woman pointed down the hall. “Second door. Y’know, the one that’s still door shaped. The rest
are pretty busted”

True to the description, the second door across the hallway had been knocked off its hinges.
Without opening the door, Suguru could see the other bedroom. Books, blankets, and clothing had
scattered out across the floor.

Suguru stepped ahead of Rika, taking the lead. He opened the closed door, entering the other room.
A perfectly ordinary, only slightly messy bedroom stood at the other side. If anything, for how
strange this woman seemed, the room was surprisingly normal.

As Suguru held the door, Rika followed him inside. Her head ducked as she floated in, her narrow
tail flicking behind her. She carried Nanami across the threshold, tilting him through the open door.
Behind him, distantly, Suguru could hear the woman mumble, “he’s floating. Floating guy.
That’s… normal.”

Suguru tapped Rika’s finger, adjusting how she was holding Nanami. He guided her finger to tuck
one of Nanami’s hands under his head, shifting him into a recovery position. Once Rika began to
make the adjustment without him, Suguru finally looked back to the non-sorcerer.

The woman who was hosting them–who, logically speaking, Suguru had to trust to look over
Nanami from here–was dumbfounded.

For a fraction of a second, Suguru wondered if it was actually safe to leave Nanami with the non-
sorcerer. It wasn’t. Even if he left a scouting curse behind, they became ineffective the moment
they were destroyed.

From this second on, if not long before, everything Suguru chose to do was a risk. It wasn’t a
matter of avoiding those risks–it was one of choosing the least likely option to fail.

With a deep breath in, Suguru reached inside himself. He felt the strain as he gathered what was left
of his cursed energy, and, with that, called forth a new curse.

A head the size of a human child’s, with bulging eyes and lips, poked up from Suguru’s shoulder.
Its tail wrapped around Suguru’s arm as its mouth opened, expelling what Suguru would have
asked for before he could even think of the name. A pair of rectangular, black-rimmed glasses slid
from the inventory curse’s mouth, straight into his hand.
To Suguru, the actions of the inventory curse were normal. To the non-sorcerer beside him, it
looked as if Suguru had pulled the glasses from midair. A string of curse spit still lingered on the
edge. Suguru wiped it off on his sleeve.

“Here.”

Before the woman could finish asking “where?” Suguru had set the glasses down on the end table.
He nudged them across the surface, towards her.

“When I leave, put them on. They’ll help you see what I see.”

As the glasses left Suguru’s hand, another object began to emerge from the inventory curse’s
mouth. A pair of wrapped hilts rose at either side of its mouth.

The woman pointed at his shoulder, towards the objects falling from the inventory curse. “And
what’re you seeing, there?”

“Huh.”

“Huh?” the woman repeated. “Well, I’m seeing a whole lotta ‘huh’, too, here–”

Suguru reached over his shoulder, taking each hilt in his hand. He bobbed his head with a low
“thank you” towards the inventory curse.

The “thank who?” that the woman asked didn’t get a clear answer.

Suguru opened his mouth to tell her. At the second when he’d meant to speak, the potential for his
words was overtaken by the clink of metal hitting the floor. The inventory’s mouth spread wider,
dropping a pair of sickles at his feet. The c-shaped blades, which would’ve seemed rusted to a
layperson’s eye, were saturated to the tip with cursed energy.

The cursed sickles weren’t exceptionally rare. Each blade carried equal power, but they held no
specific techniques. Under ordinary circumstances, it meant they weren’t anything that Suguru
himself would have needed to use–which meant there was no issue leaving them behind.

“Put on the glasses when I leave, please,” Suguru told her again, deciding on the plan as he spoke it
into being, “Once you’re wearing them, if you see anything that isn’t human or animal, don’t look
at it directly. If they come at you, anyway, use those blades to strike them through. Don’t attack
with other objects–only those blades. They’ll be impervious to anything else.”

Automatically, the woman asked “why?”

At the same time, Suguru told her, “Don’t ask why.”

Suguru finished speaking a split second after.

“Fine,” she relented. “You’d better bring back my kid. Otherwise, I’ll test if these fish hooks fit up
your butt.”

The empty threat was met with a shallow, thoughtless nod from Suguru. She was a non-sorcerer,
after all. Most of what they said, now, she’d forget.

“I’ll do what I can,” Suguru told her, sincerely. What it was that would mean, he didn’t know.
Suguru’s hand slipped into his pocket. He wiped any last traces of the inventory curse’s spit into the
pocket, then let that curse recede back into his body. As the tail vanished into his sleeve, Suguru
reached back for his phone. He opened the text chain between himself and Gojo, seeing his own
message, and only his message, on screen.

Quickly, Suguru added an emoji to the text chain. A single, white heart appeared below the other
messages. Within seconds, Suguru watched the status change to ‘delivered’. It didn’t change again.

He hoped that was enough.

“Rika!” Suguru called, hiding his exhaustion with his composure. His curse turned to him,
slumping, too. Her hands nearly dangled on the floor. Even without looking, Suguru could tell she
was watching.

No matter what it was that Suguru wanted to do, at this moment, he said the only thing he could.

“Let’s go, Rika,”said Suguru. Then, he opened the door.

 Domain
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Yuji Itadori
 Satozakura High School

Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

The howl of Sukuna’s laughter sounded higher outside Yuji’s head. In the space where Yuji should
have heard the menacing echo reverberate, instead, there was nothing.

Yuji’s hand moved over Sukuna’s mouth, covering the form on Junpei’s face. The familiar sting of
Sukuna biting back didn’t stop Yuji. He pressed down harder, smothering him with every bit of
strength he could muster over someone else’s skin.

When Yuji did this to himself, it hadn’t mattered to him how roughly he’d handled himself or
Sukuna. Now, the cheek under his hand was pale and fragile–almost too warm to touch. An
unwilling tear dripped silently from Junpei’s horrified stare.

The twist in Yuji’s gut, to see this, felt so much worse than for that mouth to grow on himself. To
Yuji, a lot of the time he’d been able to limit Sukuna to being a pain in his ass. In Junpei, it was
simply pain.

Yuji’s hand let up, if just a little.

“I’m here, Junpei, alright?” Yuji uttered, willing the words not to break, “I’m gonna help you.”

Junpei shifted. His body bobbed clumsily, swallowing back.

“...Leave,” Junpei whimpered, wilting in place, “Get my mom. He’ll hurt her.”

“Sukuna won’t touch her, okay? I won’t let him.” Yuji countered. Gently, he grazed a finger along
Junpei’s cheek, stroking over the curse marking to wipe Junpei’s tears away. In a thought he
couldn’t form, he understood this was why eating Sukuna’s finger hadn’t done a thing. When Yuji
had been trying to save the Fushiguros with the last thing he could think to do, there hadn’t been a
Sukuna left to awaken. He’d already been awoken, here.

Yuji’s hand stroked lower. His fingers stroked along the tips of Junpei’s hair. Beneath the black
strands he knew, an underlayer of a deep, almost bloody pink flashed through–an inverted, messed
up imitation of Yuji’s own.

“...How?” Yuji asked, his own voice falling.

The marks hadn’t been there when Yuji had first met Junpei at the theater, had they? It hadn’t been
too late, before. It was a difference of a day, or maybe even hours.

“How’d this happen? Junpei–”

He didn’t finish asking.

“Hey, mouths off! Even you, Sucks.” A voice sounded behind either of them. “Pretty sure that’s my
question.”

A man with shoulder-length white hair and tinted goggles over his face stood behind them. From
his posture to his voice, Yuji knew the form, and yet, the only thing he knew about this person was
his name.

“...Gojo.”

“Yeah, nah,” Satoru dismissed, casual as ever. At least, as casual as the other Gojo had always
been. “I ditched the clan thing a long time ago. So stuffy. Might as well be allergy season.”

From the man’s height to his build, to the way he shoved one hand into his pocket, everything
about this guy matched up with the eccentric teacher Yuji knew so well. Even the tone of his voice
was the same.

“So, Itadori, right?” Satoru swayed casually, a smirk sneaking through his words, as if he were
talking to a friend. “Tell me, how’re you still alive? You some kind of curse, now, too? Cause I
don’t sense you that way. It’s weird. In fact, if you weren’t such a talker…”

Satoru’s other hand rose from his side. His fingers pointed into the shape of a gun, then twisted into
a sigil. A glint shone across his goggles, as he motioned between them both.

“...not sure I’d feel you there at all. That’s not normal. You know that, right, Pinkie Pie?”

Yuji stepped in front of Junpei, blocking the path between him and Satoru. He said nothing.

Satoru tucked his other hand into his pocket, too, sliding back onto his converse. “I’m assuming it’s
still pink, at least. Figuring you weren’t going for makeovers in the morgue.”

When Gojo acted like this, Yuji never understood why, but he understood that it was just part of
Gojo being Gojo. To hear someone with that same voice, that same tone, like this, made Yuji stop
hearing the comfort in that.

Yuji’s head snapped up, focusing ahead. He broke his own silence. “And why would I tell you?”

“I dunno.” Satoru shrugged, his red converse squeaking. “How about, cause as long as we’re still
talking, that means you’re still alive.”

Junpei pressed against Yuji’s back, falling into step behind him. Whatever will had kept him
standing to this point, even without looking, Yuji could feel it starting to fade. He wouldn’t last
long.

“Didn’t know you knew folks outside of Sendai,” Satoru noted, still speaking like it was a normal
conversation. Maybe to him it was.

“Kinda seems like you don’t know a lot of stuff,” Yuji countered.

“Eh,” Satoru shrugged, “Off day, then. Usually, I do.”

Satoru had just said he couldn’t sense Yuji. Satoru was still standing on the ground. If Yuji moved
fast enough, there was a chance he could get to Satoru before he could trigger his technique…
right?

As quietly as he could, Yuji turned. He leaned over Junpei’s shoulder, whispering, “Can you
speak?”

The “Yeah…” Junpei murmured back so softly, Yuji wasn’t sure it was a sound at all.
“Ok. Then, you’ve gotta be loud, at him…” Yuji mumbled under his breath. “...and you’ve gotta
trust me.”

There wasn’t enough time to be more specific than that. For everything Yuji had said, he’d had to
trust Junpei, too–to know what it was Yuji was asking for. He did.

Junpei paused, his own breath laboring from the strain to speak up. Broken as he might’ve been,
he’d at least managed to speak up.

“Who cares what you think, except you?” Junpei shouted. “If you want to be a terrorist so bad, find
a plan that wasn’t also in Clockstoppers .”

“How’s that a problem? Clockstoppers was pretty good. For a Nick flick, at least” Despite the
goggles in the way of his face, Yuji could still see Satoru raise an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, kid?
What, you more of a Jimmy Neutron kinda guy?”

Junpei screamed between his tears, “what the hell is your problem?!”

Satoru barely tried not to snicker. “My daddy didn’t love me. What’s yours?”

While the insult tried to land, and both people stood their ground, Yuji moved fast. Just as Satoru
opened his mouth, Yuji leapt off the ground. He turned Slaughter Demon’s hilt in his hand as he
lunged for him. He could still see Satoru’s mouth moving as he drew in.

The tip of Yuji’s blade hit resistance. Satoru kept going.

“Let me guess,” Satoru smiled back at Junpei, “You’ve got a bunch in your binder?”

As Satoru started to step forward, towards Junpei, an indistinct blur passed by him. The corner of
Slaughter Demon’s blade struck straight through his cheek.

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to wear those more than eight hours, yeah?” Satoru added, clearly
amusing himself. His smile grew, laughing at his own joke before he said it. “Hey, when you buy
them, d’you think the cost’s a flat fee? Should be–”

As the joke finished slipping, the strap of Satoru’s goggles split straight through. A red line swole
through his cheek, a trickle of blood falling right beneath his goggles. If it had been any further up,
the wound would have looked like a tear.

Yuji’s foot planted into the ground, the blur of his movement coming back into focus. The fur of
Slaughter Demon’s hilt wove between his fingers. He braced on the back of his heel, already poised
to strike anew.

“Huh–” Satoru raised his hand. His fingertips brushed the mark on his cheek, then tapped them
together, feeling the damp spot. “...blood? You… touched me? That’s weird.”

While Satoru was distracted, Yuji charged in again. This time, he jumped high, springing from a
diagonal so he could strike from a new trajectory.

Satoru caught him by the leg.

“Pfft,” Satoru snorted. “Why’d you think that’d work twice? Not the brightest glow-stick at the
rave, are you?”
On instinct, Yuji tried to twist from Satoru’s grip. His ankle turned, first, aiming to break from the
weak point between Satoru’s thumb and finger. While Yuji tried to contort himself, Satoru did, too.
Yuji’s foot broke away–and, in unison, Satoru’s hand overlapped Yuji’s on the hilt of Slaughter
Demon’s blade. Satoru held tight, his fingers, too, snagging on the hilt.

“If you keep attacking while I’m talking, kid, I’m always gonna know when you attack,” Satoru
told him. “You should pick another tell. Otherwise, it’s gonna get pretty boring.”

Yuji didn’t move. He saw, without meaning to, the other person at the sidelines. The fear in
Junpei’s dilated eye mixed with anger. His hand raised, his fingers twisting in a sign Yuji had never
seen. He meant to wonder, quickly, what that twitch was meant to do.

He didn’t have to wonder much.

The second after Yuji saw the shift, a spark formed from midair. The cursed tool in his hand caught
on fire. The tips of Slaughter Demon’s fur burned away, incinerating in a noxious, black plume.

Yuji’s grip loosened on the blade, the fire licking the back of his hand. He coughed, his hand
twitching. Satoru’s, which had been on top of his, repulsed from both, the invisible force of infinity
knocking both the flame and the blade away from them both.

Slaughter Demon smacked into the ground. Yuji stepped across the base, trying, briefly, to stomp
the flame out with his heel. A new sting of rubber hit his nose as the sole of his shoe burnt through.
He stepped back.

“Wowza! Way to go, Yoshino! Really getting used to the whole ‘arson’ thing!” Satoru grinned,
looking away from Yuji to focus elsewhere. He raised his hand, brushing his bangs deliberately in
the way. “Hey, I’ve got an idea! Since you’re such a fast learner, next time, you should learn your
place!”

As Satoru was speaking, Yuji ducked low and lunged. His fist plunged forward, charging at a blur.
His fist stopped just short of Satoru’s nose.

Satoru outstretched a single finger. Though Yuji reached for his arm, Yuji’s hand was repelled
straight off of him. The millimeter between them might as well have been a mile.

“Boop.” Satoru poked Yuji’s nose. “Gotcha.”

Before Yuji could swat at Satoru, the infinity knocked him straight back into a wall. His back
slammed against a storage shed. An indent formed in the rubble, leaving an imprint in the frame.

Yuji pushed off the ground. His sights set ahead. To try and attach, here, was to go after someone
literally untouchable. The strongest sorcerer, which had always seemed so impressive, before,
loomed as a threat.

And Yuji had no time to care.

“Junpei!” Yuji called, speaking just as quickly as he could think, “If he touches me, do the fire
thing again! Light me up, I can take it!”

It most likely wasn’t true. As far as Yuji knew, he was mostly human. Whatever resilience he had, it
probably wouldn’t put up with being flayed alive. That part didn’t matter. Getting Junpei out of
here did.

Yuji pushed off of the ground. He had barely finished standing when the same invisible force
pushed him back. Satoru hadn’t budged, but the space between them did.

“Cute plan,” Satoru shrugged, unimpressed, “I like the part where you gave it away when you made
it up. It’s very sorcerer.”

There was hardly a breath at the end of ‘sorcerer’ when Satoru vanished. When his space had
finished bending, he was standing directly behind Junpei’s shoulder.

“Ignore him, Yoshino. The deal’s the deal. Ours stands, if you let it. You’re smart enough to stick to
that, right?”

“Junpei!”

Yuji turned towards the sound. Within a blink, Satoru was nearby–inches from Yuji’s face, and yet,
much too far to reach him.

With an outstretched hand and a sharpened stare, Yuji planted himself between Satoru and Junpei.
Even if the infinity could block Yuji out, if Satoru was trying to get to Junpei, Yuji could force
Satoru to go through him.

The second Yuji had found space to stand, Satoru changed positions again. He brushed past Yuji’s
shoulder, close enough to feel, and too fast to touch. Yuji tried anyway. His hand hovered in
midair.

“Junpei, don’t listen,” Yuji tried to interject. “Whatever he said, or Sukuna’s saying, those don’t
matter–”

“If you make a big enough scene, Mahi-chan might still see it from your house,” Satoru spoke over
Yuji. “Just let go, already! It’s not like you have other options, right? You don’t even like these
people.”

“What? No. Junpei–”

Yuji couldn’t even let the question of why form in full. He stopped watching for Satoru completely,
to make absolutely certain he could speak to Junpei directly.

Yuji had just formed the thought when he saw the look in his eyes–and the marks still beneath him.
As much pause as it gave Yuji to see this curse in someone else, that pain and pause broke when he
felt a breeze that shouldn’t have been there. In the split second Yuji looked away, Satoru was
already

“Junpei!” Yuji called out, already moving with the order, “Duck!”

“Huh–”

Junpei fell first. Whether it was by instruction or Yuji’s nudge at his back, either way, he laid flat
against the ground.

When Yuji moved, Satoru did twice as quickly. He followed the direction of Junpei’s fall and
grabbed him by the collar. For that one, split second, Satoru’s infinity parted to hold Junpei’s
jacket.

A split second was enough.

Following the trajectory, Yuji plunged Slaughter Demon towards the exact point between Junpei’s
jacket and Satoru’s fingers. The strike seemed to flash, the blade of the cursed tool reflecting a light
that wasn’t even there.

There shouldn’t have been time for Satoru to pull back. There was, anyway. No matter how fast
Yuji had moved, it had still been slow enough for Satoru to let go. He stepped back so quickly, it
would’ve made sense for his heel to sear a track into the grass. Instead, each blade stood as tall as
what had parted it.

Where mere moments ago, Satoru had been bleeding, now, there was no scratch at all. The only
trace of the damage he’d borne was the dried blood left behind.

“You gonna give up already?” Satoru asked, teasing. “Huh. You didn’t look that smart to know
you’re outclassed. You’re more like a baby himbo. A boybo?”

Yuji turned Slaughter Demon’s hilt in his hand. His posture telegraphed before he could speak that
he was again bracing to strike. The intention in his glare drew Satoru’s eyes to match his own.

“Not a fan of boybo, huh? What, too much like blorbo, to you?”

The “no” Yuji shot back with was quick enough to make Satoru laugh.

“Oooh, defensive!”

This time, Yuji didn’t let Satoru start a new sentence before he moved. He plunged forward, fist
bared, and focus set sharper.

A fist full of what started off as grass burned in the air. The sparks of future ashes shot between
Yuji and Satoru as Junpei tossed them between them both. Yuji pulled back, falling into step in
front of Junpei as he held back a cough.

The cloud of dust still lingered in the air, an array of sparks fluttering towards the ground. Specks
of ashes fell against Yuji’s cheeks, dotting him as gravity took over. Not a single drift fell on
Satoru.

“Geez,” Satoru complained, swatting the air away. “That’s getting annoying”

Satoru’s mouth was still open when Junpei folded his hands. A flicker of cursed energy bent in
Junpei’s grip. With it, the debris in the air flashed, an array of dust catching flame as the air itself
started to burn.

The temperature in the air tripled, if not more. The hair on Yuji’s neck felt like it was singing. For
as hot as it had turned, Satoru looked calm as ever. His mouth shut, holding his distance.

Yuji’s face tingled, the hair on his cheeks burning away. His eyes pulled to Junpei just in the worst
time to see. A third, red eye formed on the right side of Junpei’s face, Sukuna’s mouth pulling to a
smile of its own. The familiar threat looked so much worse when it was no longer through a
mirror.
In the time Yuji might have registered what he was seeing, something else shifted, too. Satoru
raised his left hand. His fingers crossed.

Where, before, the world had looked steady, now, the darkness started to spread. An overlay of
endless constellations sparked across his view. The flicker was faint, yet Yuji knew the sight. He’d
seen this before.

“...Gojo’s domain…”

A long time ago, Gojo had shown him this on purpose. The lesson, at the time, had been simple–a
domain expansion improved one’s technique, and the best counter was to override it with your own.
Whoever had the more polished technique would overtake the rougher, with exceptions. What those
exceptions were, or why they happened, he didn’t know. All Yuji knew, for sure, was what was
coming.

And as against intuition as it should’ve been, and as much as he hated to even think it, Yuji knew
which one gave Junpei better odds to survive.

Satoru’s fingers twisted. The Unlimited Void started to wash their reality away, Yuji shouted
through the space, holding to the ground.

“Junpei, let out Sukuna!”

“Wha–”

Yuji didn’t let him finish. He shouted faster. “One minute, then switch back!”

Gambling on what Sukuna would or wouldn’t do had never been a best option. Yuji knew first hand
what he’d do to keep control. All he knew was that, between Satoru Gojo and Ryomen Sukuna,
Satoru was the bigger threat.

“He won’t want to die!” Yuji shouted, “Trust me!”

“Maybe I won’t listen,” Sukuna sneered through his perch on Junpei’s cheek, “I don’t take orders
from brats.”

The last trace of their reality washed away. Where, before, there’d been grass and buildings, now, a
constellation eclipsed the view. Though the school wasn’t there, somehow, Yuji could still sense its
presence. The entirety of the universe moved around them, leaving them to hover, helpless.

“Who said you should talk? I didn’t invite you,” said Satoru.

Yuji hadn’t heard, specifically, where his voice was coming from. The sound seemed to cycle from
everywhere at once. Then, a hand touched the back of his head. Yuji felt the direction. He knew
where he should move. Yet, no matter how much he willed himself to do it, he couldn’t.

“What’s going on with you, then? You’re not the same as the other one. It’s not like you got reverse
curse technique out of nowhere,” Satoru mused, seeming to consider the options mid-ramble. “Hell,
if I’m not looking at you normally, I can’t sense you at all. You’re a blank.”

In all the time Satoru spent talking, Yuji stayed still–not from the desire for stillness, but the
inability to do anything else.
The endless stars in the distance seemed to shrink as Yuji watched on. The glow of each light
refracted off an archway of bones. Rib after rib connected along a spine, deep in the remains of
something too decayed to place.

The domain was corroding. In its place, something else took form.

The clouds and the stars reflected off the liquid in the floor. In the lack of light, if it was water, or
something more, Yuji couldn’t tell. All he knew for certain was that gravity had kicked in. His feet
tapped across the surface, casting ripples over water he hadn’t quite crossed.

A pile of bones stood before Yuji. Satoru’s hand clutched the back of his head. From above them
both, Junpei’s body was watching–except it didn’t look much like Junpei, anymore.

Junpei’s flat hair slicked back, sending it into spikes at random. The markings on his face, and the
turn of his sneer, had distorted him into someone unmistakeable. He kicked a horned skull down
the side of the hill. It landed at Yuji’s feet, sinking into the floor.

The so-called King of Curses stood atop his throne of bones. He raised one hand, the sleeve of his
kimono flapping. Then, he struck.

The slash moved so quickly through the air, Yuji had barely seen the blur of the fabric when the
strike flowed away from him.

In the time it would’ve taken any reasonable person to blink, the skull at Yuji’s feet had been tossed
into the air. The skull split in two, sliced clean. Both sides splashed into the water.

“Strange,” Sukuna sneered, almost impressed, “My technique should be quicker. My domain being
superior.”

“That’s infinity for ya.” For all the seriousness this should’ve warranted, all Satoru did was shrug.
“My mommy said I’m special.”

“Did she tell you children are best seen, and not heard, as well?”

“Nope,” Satoru beamed, “I sounded like an angel.”

“Great. Angels sound best when they scream.”

The bickering between the two of them gave Yuji a moment to watch on. He moved away from the
broken skull, gathering his distance and himself for what little good it would do.

The best thing Yuji could think of, if he bothered thinking at all, was to say nothing. Sukuna and
Satoru would strike at any second. If he’d been at all interested in himself, this was his one chance
to move away.

Yuji watched, his breath heaving, as someone else’s face warped with Sukuna’s laughter. His hand
clenched into a fist as his reason broke away.

“Leave him alone!” Yuji shouted, cutting in. “Take me! I’ll be the vessel! Just, get out of Junpei!”

If he’d given himself a second to think, Yuji would’ve known this was the wrong thing to beg for.
He didn’t give himself that time. The limit he’d set for Junpei in the first place didn’t leave it.
“Laugh at me! I don’t care!” Yuji shouted on, “Just get out! It can’t be him, again!”

Some part of Yuji already knew the answer. He heard it in the curve of his lips, and the poke of a
sharpened tooth, as the last bit of a pointless plea fell out.

“Not him…”

“Heh,” the curse sneered, not leaving his perch behind. The botched amalgamation of Ryomen
Sukuna and the vessel that never should have had him looked down. “Is this your idea of a
distraction? How pathetic.”

“Shut up!”

Yuji bit down on his lip. His gut plunged, exactly how he should’ve expected it to. It hurt, anyway.
Not only was this the face of someone he had every reason to hate–someone who’d turned him into
the last thing he would ever want to become–now, he’d stolen Junpei a second time.

As Yuji watched on, the water not shifting, he’d almost forgotten there was someone else to sense
at all.

Something was wrong. Yuji couldn’t place what it was, yet, he still felt the distortion at his back.
For a flash, even Satoru went still.

Satoru blinked back. He raised a hand into the air. If Yuji watched the hand alone, the gesture
looked pleasant, even casual–yet the rest of his body went still.

“Well, good chat! Except the part where you’re boring,” said Satoru, just as chipper as ever, “See
you later! Unless someone offs you, first. Hope they don’t, though, or you’re even less impressive
than I expected. And I wasn’t expecting much to start.”

Yuji knew better than to blink, or even talk back to this Gojo. His hand clenched, bracing for some
kind of shift in either Satoru or, from the corner of his eye, Sukuna. His brace wasn’t enough.

“Huh–”

One second, Satoru had been standing perfectly still. The next, he’d appeared at the top of the
mound of bones that passed for a throne. A single finger poked into the center of Sukuna’s
forehead.

The domain broke apart.

Where the mound of Sukuna’s throne had appeared to be, now, there was nothing but air. Even
Yuji’s feet plunged back with gravity, pulled to the ground. The encasements of both domains
dissolved together, dripping black across the sky as reality gave way.

Yuji tried to move, anyway, charging through the open air. Without realizing what he’d yelled, the
name left Yuji in a scream. “Gojo!”

By the time the last syllable left, the name didn’t feel like a name anymore. Yuji clutched at his gut,
doubling over from the bend of gravity alone. There’d been nothing left to catch him but the
ground.
The last image of the domain gave way, the midday sun beaming back into view. The burnt,
shredded residue that had once been decorative grass bent between Yuji’s fingers. He had just
found his own grip when he heard the next collapse. At the other side of the field, at the top of the
cement steps to the gym, Junpei was falling, too.

Yuji didn’t think. He just moved. His hand caught under Junpei’s chest before he hit the bottom
step. The warped black lines of Sukuna’s cursed markings shrank back, dissolving into the pale,
frail skin of Junpei’s face. The shake of an unsteady breath flowed through his chest, against Yuji’s
hand.

The remains of the Satozakura High School gym burned brighter. Like a signal fire on an island of
disaster, a column of smoke rose steady into the air. A support beam collapsed, breaking at the
center. The rest of the school stood tall, an unblemished backdrop to the catastrophe in motion.

Yuji had seen so much worse. When he closed his eyes, he could still remember the end of a broken
road in Shibuya, an empty chasm ripped through the city. The ground had been so barren, it hadn’t
even been a ruin. It had been as if nothing had ever stood there at all.

Yuji knew what it felt like to see the world fall apart, and think he was at fault. He knew what it
was like to be a murderer. No matter what the timeline, that part of him was too tarnished to
change.

But was it too late for Junpei, too?

Junpei’s body felt limp in Yuji’s arm. Yuji held tight to the shell of someone he’d already lost, his
own eyes closing to the destruction.

“You’re okay,” Yuji told him, or tried. He didn’t know if Junpei could hear. Hell, Yuji didn’t know
if he’d found his own breath. “You’re okay,” Yuji huffed. “No one died.”

Yuji had seen so much worse than this. There was no reason why, here, this was when he’d feel the
weight crush inside his chest. There shouldn’t have been a reason, now, why he would start crying.

But he was.

Even with his eyes closed, Yuji could smell the destruction.

“No one died,” Yuji repeated, staggering the words out through his tears. “I’ve got you.”

For so long, Sukuna had been his Yuji’s burden. To bear that curse, and someday take it to his
grave, was one of the few things Yuji still had left to offer the world. Even if that curse had made
him into a murderer, and forged a destiny where the only good thing left for Yuji to do was to die
alone, it was his to bear and bury.

“It’s mine,” Yuji swallowed, clutching tighter to Junpei’s body. “It’s not you. Not your fault. It’s–”

When Yuji held this tight, he could barely feel a pulse in Junpei’s throat. Even when he did, he
wasn’t sure. The sense of something moving inside him could so easily have been an echo of Yuji’s
own, tricking him into feeling what wasn’t there.

Junpei didn’t answer, because Junpei couldn’t answer. The force of hosting something else,
however briefly, pulled him under to unconsciousness.
Yuji willed himself to stop, silencing himself. He wondered what gave him the right to cry at all.

Even without him in his body, Yuji could still hear Sukuna mock him.

“You’re mine!” the curse had taunted, back then, “ Your future and everything you will ever
possess! You don’t have a say in this! You’re helpless!!”

Yuji held tighter to Junpei’s body. His hands steadied, propping him upright. The tighter he held,
the more Yuji could feel the burning heat dull, and the sweat around him turned clammy.

“Hey, brat,” Sukuna had said, back then, in Shibuya, “Take a good look.”

Yuji opened his eyes.

Between the sting of smoke, and the tears still stuck, Yuji saw something else in the distance. The
outlines of two people drew in, nearly black in the backlight of the flames. One, Yuji couldn’t
place. The other stood familiarly, crooked, with a lean in his step and a hand in his pocket.

Yuji knew, immediately, who the second shadow belonged to. He rose to his knees, his shoulders
tensing as he held tight to Junpei’s body. The shadow took his hand from his pocket. He waved.

“Wow. What’s the deal with that look?” Gojo–the real Gojo–scratched at the back of his head.
“This is why I don’t do weddings.”

It was nonsense, again–but it was the exact kind of nonsense that Yuji needed to hear to know.

“Goodjo,” said Yuji.

“Good joe? That’s new.”

In the midst of the destruction, with barely any sense of where to run, or why, Yuji found the will to
stand. His legs felt numb beneath him, his feet weighed down with the tingle of having sat on them
just wrong. Junpei’s body still laid heavy in his arms.

“Oh! I get it,” Gojo snapped his fingers in front of him, realizing almost excitedly. “You met the
other guy, didn’t you? Number two.”

Who the other guy was at Gojo’s side, what he’d seen, or why he’d taken so long to get here–all of
them were questions that Yuji could’ve asked, and all of them, he didn’t bother. In the time it took
most people to blink, Yuji ran right to him.

“It’s not me, here, it’s Junpei!” Yuji shouted, desperate, “Someone–”

Yuji swallowed back. He adjusted his arms slightly, pulling beneath Junpei to keep his body close.
The undersides of Junpei’s knees pressed into Yuji’s left arm, while his right kept his back. He got a
good look at Gojo, directly, as well as the bald bearded guy in a bow tie at his side.

Another day, maybe it would’ve mattered to ask what happened. It didn’t.

“You’ve gotta help him,” Yuji pleaded, “I can’t watch him die! I–”

“Whoa. Slow down, okay? Believe it or not, I’ve got jet lag!” Gojo’s hand settled on Yuji’s head,
stilling him.
 The bald guy next to Gojo muttered in frustration, “If you’re about to say it’s because being on a jet
made you laggy, don’t.”

“Yeah, well, now I’m not gonna,” Gojo dismissed, speaking normally, “You just said it for me.”

The dumbest joke in the world wouldn’t have made Yuji smile, now. The most he could manage,
here, was to keep holding on. His head fell against Gojo’s hand as the next sob stopped him.

If there was anything Yuji should’ve said, he couldn’t get himself to do it. Every question or plea he
could’ve formed all ended in the same, stifling cry. Gojo ruffled his hair.

“We’ll figure it out, okay?” Gojo asked, in such a way that it wasn’t a question at all. “We’ve got
this. Nothing’s impossible for Satoru Gojo, right?”

The “shut up,” the bald guy mumbled barely reached Yuji as a sound. Whatever bickering might
have followed, the best Yuji could do to sense anything was hold still. The weight of Gojo’s hand
held steady on his head, propping him up the same way that Yuji was holding Junpei.

“That’s the kid from the theater, right?” Gojo asked, oblivious, but well-meaning.

Yuji meant to nod along. He started to. He hadn’t realized until he’d already started shaking that the
mere twitch would knock his composure back, too. Every tear he’d meant to hold back started
falling.

The silent stream heaved out of him, gasping for air he couldn’t capture, anymore. Every cold
determination moved forward washed away in tears. For that one, helpless second, all Yuji could
bring himself to do was cry.

It was the one mercy that Gojo could give Yuji to let him. Whichever universe they were in, their
world couldn’t offer anything else.

Chapter End Notes

SPOILER WARNING! DO NOT READ THIS NOTE IF YOU AREN'T UP TO CHAPTER

212 IN THE MANGA!! (I'll still be a little vague in case someone reads on accident).

This chapter was an odd one to be working on with the events of the canon chapters being
published. Chapter 212 was released the same week as this chapter. For context, the full
chapter had already been written and I was in the process of editing when the leaks started.
And, oh boy...

There are some elements of this fic that are deliberately close to canon. There are elements of
the fic which I accepted would likely not contradict canon when I wrote them, but would over
time. For example, Tsukumo's cursed technique doesn't match her canon abilities, which were
explained after the chapters featuring her here were published. I have a few ideas to explain
why this is the case, and am considering if it's worth ever bringing up in the story, or if I
should just leave it be.
That said, I did NOT expect that I'd have to be concerned with canon over what happens if
more than one person could conceivably be a vessel for Sukuna! Oops...

Ultimately, I think that Mahito having to mold Junpei to be a vessel as happened here would
justify why their attachment doesn't work exactly the same way as an authentically compatible
vessel does, so I'm leaning away from updating the story outline at all. I think it's the
difference between the opposite sides of a magnet being drawn to each other (Sukuna and the
canonical vessels, like Yuji), and attaching a magnet to a rock with super glue (Sukuna and
Junpei). I hope this makes sense!
After Arithmetic
 Suguru Geto

July 20, 2018

1st District, Tamami, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

Suguru opened the front door.

The hinges creaked, whining under the weight of the metal. His foot raised, hovering just short of
moving. Every part of Suguru knew that he meant to move somewhere. He didn’t make it one step.

A figure stood at the other side, white hair clinging to closed eyes. A pale body draped in his arms.
The summer sun stretched across Gojo’s back, a bloody sunset falling behind him. Suguru knew,
consciously, which version of Satoru Gojo had appeared on these front steps. He knew it, and yet,
what he saw was a memory.

A young girl’s body dangled under the cover, her upper features obscured. That Suguru couldn’t
see her face hadn’t helped him not to know. From the soles of her shoes to the bend of her ankle
alone, Suguru had known who he’d lost. What he’d lost.

Had it been about Riko Amanai, back then? About the loss of an innocent, and the first true defeat
Suguru had ever known? Or had the innocence he’d lost been his own?

Suguru wasn’t sure.

“You’re late, Suguru,” the memory of Satoru’s eyes fell down, his shoulders along with it. “No. …I
guess you’re early.”

The strongest of the sorcerers, special and untouchable, had somehow looked so small that day.
Suguru froze in the doorway, too stunned to do more than listen to what he had to say.

Except, Gojo hadn’t said that at all.

“Suguru,” Gojo called, his voice stronger than before. Though the outside world blurred together,
the doorframe solidified in view. Where, before, Suguru saw a boy in uniform, now, he saw who
he’d become. A body Suguru didn’t recognize still lay in Gojo’s arms, limp, but uncovered. Two
cursed markings embedded under his eyes. Another marred his wrist.

Rika’s presence shrunk away. Her form condensed in Suguru’s hand, the last of his will to fight
forward breaking into exhaustion. The black spiral of her cursed energy vanished in Suguru’s
palm.

“Can we come in, Suguru?” Gojo asked, his words cracking through Suguru’s haze. “It’s not heavy,
but he's not getting lighter, either.”

Yuji stood one step behind Gojo, his head snapping from one side to the other in a swivel. From the
confused blinking, Suguru wondered if Gojo had just teleported them in.

“Is–” Suguru started to ask. “...is that you, Satoru?”

The last time he’d seen this, Satoru hadn’t answered. All he’d had to show was a hollow stare,
matching the innocence lost with his own. In that memory, Satoru raised his eyes, and the infinite
blue went cold.

Gojo opened his eyes. His stare set back, not in rage, but understanding. “The one and only.”

“Satoru…” Suguru whispered.

“...Yeah?”

“Satoru,” Suguru repeated, “There are literally two of you, now. That doesn’t tell me anything.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “Then what is the right way, huh? Say I’m not the first and the worst? I’m
second and beckoned?”

If there was any way to joke back, Suguru wasn’t thinking of the answer. He shook his head. “No.”

“Oh, well,” Gojo dismissed, “I‘d do better as a tigger. Should be your only one.”

He leaned forward on his foot, swaying over the boy in his arms. His head tilted as he peered to
peek over Suguru’s shoulder. “Is there anywhere to put him down, back there? I’m hungry. If I’ve
gotta keep this up, I’ll need to eat with my feet.”

Gojo said it in such casual passing, somehow, Suguru found the will to answer calmly, too. “Please
don’t. You’re not a monkey.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. As far as jam goes, I’m more into strawberry than toe.”

For all the inane chatter they might’ve managed to sound somewhere close to normal, a new hand
pushed through.

Though Suguru should’ve been able to push back, instead, he swayed aside. From the voice that
followed to the frantic white set in the woman’s eyes, Suguru could tell there was no point in
retaliating.

“Junpei?”

The woman’s hand kept on reaching. Her breath seemed to stop as her palm settled on the boy’s
cheek. Her son’s cheek, rather.

“Oh, that’s his name?” Gojo asked, peeking back at her. “We didn’t get to that part. Just kinda
dragged ‘em back here.”

Before the woman could answer, Yuji leaned in. “Yeah, that’s Junpei.” He seemed to pause for a
second, blinking back with a mumble. “...didn’t you meet him before? At the movie theater.”

The confusion snapped away on both parts as the woman looked to Yuji.

“Pinky?” she asked, “You’re back, too?”

For all the confusion he’d been wearing before, Yuji managed to nod back, a smile settling on his
face. “He’s okay, okay?” Yuji told her, seeming sincere. “Just sleeping.”
There was a second, in the turn, when Suguru spotted Yuji’s smile shifting. Where the woman had
looked relieved to see him, there was a hesitation on Yuji’s side. The momentary flicker passed in
little more than a blink, yet, it was more than enough for Suguru to recognize what he did so often,
himself. Whatever smile Yuji showed this woman, he’d faked it for her sake.

The start of relief set through the woman’s shoulders. She breathed out with a “thank you”. The
relief lasted just long enough for her to turn to the side, her relief flashing to a snap. “Now hand
him over.”

“Nah,” Gojo dismissed with his own, even faker, smile, “It’s good. I’ve got him.”

“Good for who?” she snipped. “That’s my kid.”

“And my arm workout,” Gojo countered, “For a twig, he’s getting heavier! Must have some rocks
in his pockets.”

A vein popped at the side of her cheek. “I don’t care about arm day. Hand him over.”

The woman raised her hand again, trying to nudge into Gojo’s personal space. Were it not for the
infinity in the way, she might have managed to smack him. Before she could get in a clear shot,
Yuji stepped between them both.

“It’s okay! All good! I’ll get him,” Yuji said. He checked from the woman, first, then back directly
to Gojo. “Then, you can talk to Geto, right? Catch up.”

“Better have fries, too,” Gojo quipped back almost instantly, “Ketchup’s no good alone. Too salty.”

For all the standing back he’d meant to do, Suguru hadn’t stopped himself from speaking back.
“That’s not the time.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s-”

Suguru sighed over him. “Don’t say it’s five pm, either. I don’t mean the clock.”

“Well, yeah. Why would I say that?” Gojo asked back, seeming sincere until he’d added, “Besides,
it’s seven twelve.”

Gojo looked back. His hold relaxed on Junpei’s body, allowing him to sink into Yuji’s arms.

Whichever the answer had been, either way, Suguru leaned forward. He exhaled heavily, watching
from a sideline no one had drawn as Yuji brought Junpei into the house. The woman followed not
far behind.

As the two walked through the hall, Suguru heard her ask quickly. “Hey, how’d you know which
one’s his room?”

Despite holding the boy, Yuji found just enough room to shrug. “Did it change?”

“Change from what?”

“Oh–” She patted Yuji on the back, ushering him in. “C’mon, I’ll show ya. Assuming there’s not a
black hole in the bed by now.”
Little as Suguru knew about the woman, he had no reason to stop either of them. He allowed
himself the time to stare at something that still felt wrong. The apartment he’d already been in,
where he’d seen another life lost, felt all the more foreign for the lives still inside.

A dirt stain sank through the carpet. When the shadow hit just wrong, it looked like blood. The
thought turned in Suguru’s mind, striking the rest of him still in the doorway.

“There’s no remains,” Suguru whispered, still looking down at Miwa's sword, lost in the mess of
the living room floor. Without a hand to wield it, the metal looked dull. “...Did it even happen?”

He’d been at so many battles before where the enemies didn’t exist in the end. It was the way of a
curse, that Suguru would either consume it, or its essence would simply cease to be. That was the
way it had always been with curses. Not sorcerers. Not this way.

Suguru wasn’t sure what he’d meant to say, or do. If there’d been an intention behind him kneeling
here, he’d lost it just like everything else.

“Did what happen?” the most familiar voice he could’ve heard spoke behind him.

Suguru turned away, his hands falling to his side. They dangled down, limp and empty, as he
looked at Gojo.

“Itadori’s curse. The one he was hunting. It killed a student. I think, anyway,” Suguru explained.
“...It didn’t leave anything behind.”

“Sounds about right. For that one’s MO,” Gojo said. “Nanami’s reports said it was a brat, that
patchwork guy.”

“Not a guy, in this case,” Suguru corrected, just as distantly as he’d said the rest. “This one was a
woman.”

“Oh,” Gojo said, with the least amount of enthusiasm someone could make an exclamation.
“...Weird shift then, I guess. I go evil and a curse swaps genders?”

“Unless there’s more than one,” Suguru offered. “It’s possible.”

Gojo put his hand to his neck, scratching back. He took a breath. “...Better not be.”

As still as Gojo was standing, less than inches away, he was still too far off for Suguru to touch
him. Even if they’d been side by side, their hands raised to each other, Gojo was always too far, and
he always would be. If Gojo didn’t specifically let him through, whether he was on the other side of
the universe, or so close that Gojo’s hair could brush Suguru’s cheek, if Gojo didn’t let him in,
Suguru would never reach through.

The fact hung heavier than his hands.

“Itadori met him. The other guy,” Gojo explained. The words were so close, Suguru should’ve
heard clearly–yet for some reason, it felt like Gojo was at the other side of the room. “Apparently,
he’s a goggles guy? Psycho-jo.”

Suguru nodded. He chose, for now, not to mention the name.

“They’re replicas. Changed the lenses, though,” said Suguru, instead, “They’re Taichi’s. Like
Digimon.”

“Wait, evil me is a cosplayer? Wow,” Gojo knocked back. “And I thought a goatee would’ve been
bad.”

As much as Suguru felt like he should’ve known, he wasn’t quite sure if Gojo was making a bad
joke, or telling a worse truth.

A light breeze passed through the bottom of a broken window. The summer wind shifted through
Gojo’s bangs, the last parts of sunlight shining through his hair so brightly, it washed all the color
away into light. For as tarnished as the rest of the world looked, that white looked pure.

Suguru looked away.

“Nanami reported the encounter when he arrived. The higher ups will dispatch someone soon,” said
Suguru. “We’ll have an easier time preparing if we’re inside.”

“You’re still calling that inside?”

“Well, yes,” Suguru told him, “There’re walls and a ceiling. What do you call inside.”

On another day, Suguru could imagine Gojo countering with a stupid joke. Today, Gojo took a step
ahead of him, first. His head poked around the corner of the front hall, taking it in. Then, he
gestured emphatically at what was left of the furniture.

“Sheesh. What’d you do, let out uzumaki in here? I saw better housekeeping in 28 Days Later ,”
said Gojo. “Or Maid in Manhattan .”

“No, I used Rika. Could you–” Suguru stepped forward, crossing inside, too. Only when he’d
stepped inside did he turn, processing what Gojo had just said. “--could you have come up with two
more different movies?”

“Obviously!” Gojo snickered. “ Life is Beautiful and Shrek 2 .”

Suguru deflated with a sigh. “Why’d I even ask…”

“Because you like hearing my voice?”

“Not at all, no.”

Gojo fell into step at Suguru’s side, just enough so he could call towards his ear. “Could’ve been
worse! Feel lucky I didn’t bring up Vase de Noces .”

“You just did…”

Suguru set the bolt behind him. The door squeaked on its hinges as Suguru shoved the pieces in
plank. He stepped over a coat rack, which was broken in two, and the torn cushions of a damaged
couch before he could stand beside the sword. Suguru lowered himself to his knees, almost bowing
to the blade. He reached a hand forward to pick up the hilt, the grooves marking spaces between his
fingers.

For once, Gojo hadn’t said anything.

The metal beneath the fabric of the hilt felt cold to touch. Suguru held his hand across it, setting his
focus. He held tighter, until his own warmth could settle in.

Before Gojo could make some other remark he thought was clever, Suguru let out a sigh. “Sit
down. Please. Let’s talk about what matters.”

“Which… is not Vase de Noces ?”

Suguru closed his eyes. “Unless you find a cursed pig spirit, it will never be Vase de Noces …”

“Thank God for that, right? That movie’s crazy. The bad way.”

Whether or not that specification implied there was a good crazy, Suguru chose not to ask.

There were dozens of things that Suguru knew he should’ve been talking about, and none of them
were what he wanted to ask.

Suguru raised his head. “Satoru–”

“Think there’s something to drink here?” Gojo pointed into the kitchen. “I’m thirsty.”

“Yes. Water,” said Suguru. “There’s a faucet. I assume it’s working.”

“Ew, water? That’s so basic.”

“People need water to survive. Believe it or not, you’re included in people, Satoru.”

The second he said it, Suguru could already hear Gojo’s smart ass remark. He spoke up, first,
cutting in. “And don’t say ‘you won’t steal a catch phrase from Naruto’,” he added, “I’m just
telling you facts.”

Gojo didn’t answer Suguru at all. Instead, he turned his head around the corner, poking past the
opening, and shouted back into the hall. “Hey, hottie! You got something to drink here?”

For a second, Suguru considered how to tell Gojo that the answer wouldn’t change with a
compliment. Before he could determine how, she’d shouted back. “Yeah! Booze! Help yourself.”

Gojo rocked back into the wall. One of his legs crossed over the other, settling in. “I guess booze,
apparently.” Gojo’s enthusiasm dropped. “Guess the ghosts must be happy.”

“Wrong kind of booze.”

“Wrong kind for me, too. Yuck,” Gojo stuck out his tongue, overly-exaggerating his disgust. Once
he’d stopped entertaining himself, he pushed away from the counter, mumbling, “You want coffee,
then? You seem like a coffee guy.”

“It’s afternoon,” Suguru dismissed, “If I drank now, I wouldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah, sure. Sure,” Gojo answered, “Do you want some, though? I’m still making it.”

“Why? You don’t like coffee.” The statement had made it out of Suguru’s mouth before he realized
the assumption. He set his hand down, his shoulders falling back. “I mean, you didn’t used to like
coffee,” Suguru corrected, “Before.”
Suguru realized, in dread, that it was the Satoru Gojo he knew who hadn’t been able to stand
coffee, or anything bitter at all. The one in front of him, familiar as he felt, was still a mystery.

Gojo shrugged. “I like sugar.”

“So, what. You’re making sugar with a little coffee in it?”

“Sounds about right,” Gojo nodded, “Coffee’s way better crunchy.”

Suguru felt his breath fall from his nose. He collapsed, his head shaking. “You’re gross.”

“Good for me, then,” Gojo nodded again, “I won’t share.”

Gojo turned on the water. He poured a pot full into the top of the coffee maker. It wasn’t until
Suguru heard the lid click into place that he let himself exhale.

The ceiling light hung from its wires, swinging halfway out from the drywall. The refrigerator
tipped on its side, leaning over a garbage can. Plates and glasses toppled out from the counter,
spilling out across the floor. Through the half-wall to the kitchen, Suguru saw nothing but
destruction.

“Fine,” Suguru gave in, “I’ll have coffee.”

Gojo picked up his feet. He climbed over half a plate, his shoe repelling the rubble. A shard of
broken glassware clinked against the wall. Suguru leaned against the ledge at the kitchen wall,
watching through the mess. Gojo turned on the coffee maker.

“At least it’s not instant.” Gojo’s breath steamed along the glass as he spoke over the pot, “Could
be worse.”

“Nanami’s still here, you know,” Suguru told him. “He’s injured, but he’ll survive, I think. Rika
healed what she could.”

“When you can move him, you should get him to Shoko. Just in case. It’s her thing to know. She’ll
know best.”

“Yeah…”

When they’d been talking about nonsense, somehow, Suguru knew what to say. The rest felt quiet.

The coffee maker gurgled, water passing through. From the strain of the noise, he wondered if it
was safe to even be here.

“When there’s a sign that she’s coming, you should go,” Suguru told Gojo. “If you’re caught, this
gets complicated.”

“And it’s simple, now?”

Suguru leaned back from the wall, standing upright. “...Fair point.”

“You’re right about that,” Gojo nodded along. “Might as well be a carnival.”

“Busy and full of clowns?”

“And good food, and people we can’t trust, yeah.” The way in which Gojo said it, so quickly and so
sure, almost kept Suguru from hearing the ‘we’.

Suguru shouldn’t have taken comfort in that. He did, anyway.

“...I’ll find mugs,” Suguru decided, willing himself not to think about it. The last thing he deserved,
anymore, was the indulgent illusion of believing they were a team.

“Sure thing,” Gojo answered, the words muffled behind Suguru’s back. “I’ll keep watching the
coffee.”

Suguru opened a cabinet door. The first one held nothing but plates. He stared inside, anyway,
looking for something he already knew wasn’t there.

“Satoru.”

“Yeah?”

Suguru clutched the handle, readying himself to close the cabinet. He braced to move on, yet, he
didn’t.

“What happened, back there? With the other you. Did Itadori say?” Suguru told himself to move.
His fingers twitched. He didn’t. “There wasn’t time to speak with Nanami, so, I don’t know.”

“He ran into the other me. Guy took off as I got there. Other than that, no.”

“Because you got there, or before you got there?”

“Not sure.”

Suguru closed the door.

“I left Touta to deal with the rest,” Gojo added on. “If No-jo left residuals or something, he’ll check
for it. Old coot like him knows not to confront him, if there is, so he’s fine.”

“And the boy you brought back? Should I call Shoko for him?”

“Don’t know that, either.” Gojo admitted. “I’d trust her, sure. Don’t think she can help, though.”

Despite himself, and the rest of the situation, Suguru felt a little sympathy for the woman who
owned these plates.

“It’s irreversible, then? Whatever damage he’s taken.”

“Guess so, yeah.” Gojo shrugged. “If that’s what you call being Sukuna’s vessel.”

“Satoru–” Suguru closed the door. “What are you trying to say?” He looked over his shoulder,
checking for some clue in Gojo’s body language that wasn’t there.

“Exactly what I’m saying. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

The coffee pot stopped dripping. The last ripple cast through the liquid inside. For as often as he
would’ve been smiling, Gojo wasn’t at all.
“A vessel… for Ryomen Sukuna?” Suguru spoke, repeating himself. Gojo nodded along. “...but the
odds of that are, what? One in a million?”

“More.”

“More?”

“At least, that’s what they told us in school, right? What you’d tell your students, too?”

Gojo nodded along with himself, not waiting for the answer. Despite the situation, the slightest curl
of a smile settled back in as he went along.

“Should be one in a million that a curse matches a host to incarnate. A million times more, that said
host can overpower the curse. When it happened where I came from, it felt more like one in
infinity. Once a thousand years, if not more.”

“This happened, before?”

“Bingo. Where I’m from, it’s Itadori.”

“Wait–”

Suguru couldn’t catch up. Gojo tapped his foot. “Waiting.”

Suguru leaned forward, anyway. “You’re saying that this happened, in your world, before–with a
completely different person?”

The coffee stood still, in place. Suguru did, too. For all the things he should’ve focused on, the only
one he bothered with was Gojo.

“If no one was trying, it would've been one in a trillion that a vessel to contain a special grade curse
would happen on its own,” Gojo reasoned. “That it happened twice, and not even to the same guy?
I’m starting to think this didn’t happen on its own.”

“So, what? You think someone’s making a vessel for Ryomen Sukuna, intentionally?” Suguru
pushed away from the counter, watching closer, “Then why is Itadori alive in your world at all? A
cursed vessel would automatically qualify for special execution.”

“He would, yeah. I didn’t want to.”

Most of the time, if Gojo was speaking, there was a smirk in the corner of his mouth. As he spoke,
now, that smirk washed away. “Why would someone kill a kid? All he did was eat a finger.”

Gojo opened a cabinet. Without even trying, he’d immediately found the mugs. He poured a cup of
coffee as he kept on.

“I figured, back then, the higher ups were scared for no reason. Odds were way higher the next time
Sukuna got a vessel, he’d have full control, right? With a vessel in the driver’s seat, we don’t gotta
worry about that. He’s contained. Besides, most of the stuff the higher-ups wanna do is dumb. If it’s
what they want, that’s almost a sign it’s a bad plan.”

“If he lapsed in control, thousands would die, if not more,” Suguru reasoned back. “Not to mention,
the imbalance in cursed energy a presence like that would raise. Everything exacerbates in its
presence. A vessel of Sukuna, it instantly skews power towards the curses.”

Before Suguru could finish his sentence, Gojo cut in. “Like the Infinity skews balance to sorcery?”

That time, it was Suguru who didn’t answer.

Gojo finished pouring the coffee. He set down a mug on the counter, close to Suguru’s hand. “If
that’s what you think, Suguru, then, why didn’t you kill me?”

Suguru closed his eyes. A slurry of images he’d rather forget imposed across his eyelids. Whether
he looked, or didn’t, he could still see Satoru smirking his way.

A light clink sounded. Gojo spun his spoon through his coffee. The metal clashed against the mug.

“I can make a vow, if it helps,” Gojo offered, “Unbreakable pinkie promise, cross my heart and
hope not to kick a bucket.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true,” Gojo dismissed, “Unlike most of what you’d tell me.”

Suguru held his hand over the top of the coffee mug. The rising steam pushed into his palm,
warming him where the rest of him had gone cold.

“Do you think you should kill him, Suguru? The other me?” asked Gojo, “Or is that what the
higher ups expect you to say?”

The question Gojo had asked was so simple. It should’ve been easy to hear. It should’ve been, and
yet, when Suguru willed himself to look, that wasn’t what he saw at all.

An image of Satoru’s younger self stood in Gojo’s place. The lone gold button on his Jujutsu High
uniform gleamed against the black of everything else. He gazed back, his six eyes unobscured, their
vibrance somehow dull as he asked distantly, “Do you want to kill them all?” Spots of someone
else’s blood sank into Gojo’s undershirt, staining them through. “Right now… I probably wouldn’t
even feel anything.”

As the reds turned brown, those blue eyes didn’t blink away. Satoru’s just watched on, blank,
waiting for some sign of where to go. Riko’s body dangled limp in his arms.

Suguru closed his eyes, willing the picture away.

“No,” Suguru told himself sharply, “Forget it.”

He’d made the demand so abruptly, Suguru almost forgot there was someone else there to hear.

“Forget what?” Gojo’s question forced Suguru to open his eyes. His hands slid down across the
mug, holding still. Satoru watched on, expectant. “Forget what, Suguru?”

It took a blink, and a breathless gape of his own, for Suguru to remember the connection. Despite
what he’d thought, or heard, the man sitting in front of him wasn't that Satoru.

Suguru’s fingers tensed around the mug.

“Forget killing him,” Suguru decided, willing it to be true. “The vessel. You’re right. It’s not fair to
the child. So long as he maintains control, he’s done nothing to merit eradication, like that.”

There were question marks, of course, Suguru thought to himself. The earlier incident in the
Kawasaki Warehouse may have been explained by the emergence of Ryomen Sukuna. If that was
the case, and any of the unexplained cursed activity was the fault of Sukuna himself, then the
higher-ups certainly wouldn’t see it the same way.

Whatever the cause was, there was no proof, at least for now. Without that, Suguru assumed, it was
fairest to claim the boy he didn’t know had done nothing wrong. Even if he had, then, it was a lot
less wrong than Suguru himself.

Suguru lowered his head. His eyes closed, inhaling into the steam of the coffee. Even now, when he
knew full well who was near him, he could still see Satoru’s eyes flicker shut. His cheeks brushed
with debris.

“Pointless, huh?” Satoru asked in the memory, “Does there need to be a reason?”

“Of course. It’s important,” Suguru’s younger self lied. “ Especially as Jujutusu Sorcerers.”

Suguru folded his hands over the mug. He took his breath, one puff at a time, resigning himself to
the act of breathing and the truth it held inside.

“We never should’ve done missions together, Satoru,” said Suguru, “It only made things worse.”

“What?”

The confusion in that single word made Suguru turn quiet. He held the mug of coffee to his mouth.
Tempted as he was to take a sip, if only to have a reason not to speak, he didn’t.

“Suguru,” Gojo called from across the table, “What’re you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Suguru lied, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

Suguru kept his head low. He held the mug tighter, feeling the steam off the coffee he hadn’t
drank.

“Suguru,” Gojo called, again, “What’re you talking about?”

Suguru’s eyes closed to his own reflection. Finally, he took a sip from the mug. The coffee singed
his tongue.

“Gross…” Suguru mumbled, “Guess there’s one thing your Six Eyes can’t do. Make decent
coffee.”

“Which was it, the Star Plasma mission?” Gojo guessed, speaking over Suguru. His words sped up
as he spoke, his thoughts racing with his tongue, “I would’ve screwed up, either way. If you
weren’t there, I think it would’ve gone even worse.”

How, exactly, that mission could’ve turned out worse than it did, Suguru didn’t know.
Gojo leaned across the table, swaying towards his personal space. “Did something happen that you
didn’t tell me?” Gojo guessed, babbling on unimpeded. “Like, with Toji? That–”

There was an end to the sentence. Suguru knew there would’ve been. What Gojo said after that,
Suguru hadn’t heard quite as clearly. His chest froze as he cut in.

“No–” Suguru sat up, turning rigid. “No. Not him.”

“Then, where?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“If it doesn’t matter, then you won’t mind saying. Which mission?”

For once, unfortunately, Gojo’s argument had a point.

Suguru took a breath through his nose. He let his hand fall, tapping his mug back onto the counter.

“Not the Star Plasma mission,” Suguru insisted, his feet settling on the floor, “The redacted village,
outside Misasa in Tottori.”

For the first time since they’d come into this broken room, Suguru heard Gojo breathe. He’d
stopped talking. His blue eyes set wide, the whites setting across either side, as the memory came
back to him, too.

“Ah. So, that’s the same? For both of us,” Suguru assumed, out loud. “I wasn’t sure it would.”

It made sense to Suguru, at first, that it would be a common thread. The corruption at Nageiredo
had been so substantive, he imagined it must have started well before he or any Satoru Gojo had
been born. If there were changes between their timelines, that shouldn’t have been one.

Suguru had just determined that to himself as a logical, reasonable conclusion when he heard Gojo
question back, “I was with you at the village?”

His tone rose at the end, so high, it crushed Suguru’s expectations flat. That moment had felt so
key, he couldn’t picture it any other way.

“...Were you not, where you’re from?”

“No,” Gojo told him, “I wasn’t. The way I knew it, you went to the village by Misasa, alone. Then,
you never came back.”

Of all the times Suguru had watched this Satoru Gojo speak, he had never seen him look this frantic
before. The whites still shone across his eyes. It wasn’t a fear of Suguru, yet, the dread of
something else held true in that stare.

Did he really not know?

“Suguru,” Gojo called, the name sharpening like a knife. For everything Suguru thought he
should’ve felt, hearing it, the syllables seemed empty. “What happened, here, outside Nageiredo?
Was the village destroyed?”

To the second question, Suguru let himself nod. The lock of his bangs swung lower.
Gojo’s voice stiffened. He barely managed to speak at all. “Did you destroy the village?”

“No,” Suguru told him, sincerely. “I considered it, but no. I didn’t touch them.”

A quick yet elaborate quiet stretched on. At the end, Gojo asked over. “Then what happened,
Suguru?”

Of every question Gojo had asked him, that one had the quickest answer. Suguru folded his hands
together. His head hung lower, ensuring he couldn’t meet Gojo’s eyes as he admitted a truth he’d
never spoken before.

“I didn’t destroy the village, or its people, for what they did. I didn’t touch them,” Suguru
confessed, “…I let you.”
 White Hearts and Black Coffee
Chapter Notes

Thank you to @roymustangshumbleservant on TikTok for providing this week’s chapter cover
art!
Satoru Gojo
 1st District, Tamami, Kawasaki City, Kanagawa

In the middle of a mess, at a stranger’s kitchen table, Gojo’s Six Eyes saw the person he knew best.
So often, this Suguru had looked like a memory. In Gojo’s version of the world, this man was gone.

“Guess there’s one thing your Six Eyes can’t do,” Suguru into the brim of his mug, his voice falling
with his gaze. “...Make decent coffee.”

There had been no one there to answer Gojo, if he’d asked what had broken Suguru Geto in his
timeline. All Gojo could have, then, or now, was the suspicion that he’d failed that version of him.
And yet, here Suguru was, avoiding his gaze, deflecting his questions, just like before.

If there would ever be an answer to what happened to Suguru Geto, it was in front of Gojo, right
now, pretending nothing had happened at all.

“Which was it, the Star Plasma mission?” Gojo asked, leaning towards Suguru. “I would’ve
screwed up, either way. If you weren’t there, I think it would’ve gone even worse.”

Although it was hard to think of ‘worse’ than having lost their target, and nearly died, there were
ways. For one, Gojo could’ve kicked the bucket completely. For the other… if Geto hadn’t talked
him off the ledge, back then, Gojo could have crossed a line.

Gojo leaned in, waiting for a twitch or a tell from the other side. He knew Suguru was listening. He
hadn’t moved. If Suguru had tried, he would’ve been able to touch Gojo. The barrier of the
limitless was down, for Suguru.

That barrier had been down for a very long time.

“Did something happen that you didn’t tell me? Like, with Toji?” Gojo tried again. He spotted a
twitch. “Did you take something he said seriously? Guy was full of more crap than the sewer under
a Taco Bell. I wouldn’t take that to heart. He sold his own child. A moral compass like that would
only point down, you know?”

“No,” Suguru answered, his words sharper than the clank.

Gojo’s eyebrow creased. “No, you don’t know?”

Suguru didn’t blink. “Not him.” From the hollow look in Suguru’s eyes, Gojo wasn’t even sure
he’d heard him.

Gojo put his hands on the table, leaning closer. “Then, where?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Gojo lowered his head. “If it doesn’t matter, then you won’t mind saying. Which mission?”

Gojo needed this answer. When Yaga had told him at the school that Geto killed his own parents.
When he’d confronted Geto, on the streets of Tokyo, and he’d spoken plenty while saying nothing
at all. From the moment Geto left campus, to the last breath he’d taken while still hosting himself,
Gojo needed this the whole time. Even if this Suguru Geto hadn’t made the same choices,
something had caused that change.
Suguru paused to breathe. Even the length of his breath felt like him, hesitating. Gojo wondered,
for a second, if he was the crazy one, that he could feel someone’s breath and think he recognized
them for that alone.

The mug clanked on the table as Suguru set it down. The lock of his bangs swayed into his face, a
pendulum at his forehead.

“Not the Star Plasma mission,” said Suguru. “The redacted village, outside Misasa in Tottori.”

Gojo opened his eyes.

Gojo wasn’t supposed to know the name of the places on those records. The investigation had been
covered up as far as possible. A redacted city, in an unnamed prefecture, wiped off the map with no
answers beyond the fact that Suguru Geto was now a curse user.

“Ah. So, that’s the same? For both of us,” said Suguru, “I wasn’t sure it would be.”

Suguru sounded calm, now. Resigned. His head set at a tilt, leaning over coffee he hadn’t wanted in
the first place.

There were two ways Suguru could have meant, ‘for both of us’. In the first, Suguru meant to infer
the event was the same in both of their timelines. In the other, it was something else. Gojo’s mouth
fell slightly, his instinct falling towards the second possibility. Maybe it was the wrong assumption,
but, if it was, Suguru would correct him right away. So, he tried.

“I was with you at the village?”

“...Were you not, where you’re from?”

“No,” said Gojo. “I wasn’t.”

Suguru’s hands folded. His shoulders went still. Whatever sense of understanding had been there,
before, it closed off.

“The way I knew it, you went to the village by Misasa, alone,” Gojo added. “Then, you never came
back.”

Gojo’s teeth start to grit. The tension burnt up in his spine. He was standing this close to the
information–this close, to an answer for a question that should have died with his Suguru Geto.

“Suguru,” Gojo said, the name sharpening in his throat. “What happened, here, outside Nageiredo?
Was the village destroyed?”

In this world, it wasn’t some stranger, wearing a shell. This body–this Suguru, who was actually
Suguru–knew.

Suguru’s shoulders turned stiff. His head stayed down, the slight cover of his bangs swaying. The
rest of his hair draped over his shoulder, the bun so loose, there were barely wisps of a knot at the
back of his head at all. He didn’t reply.

“Did you destroy the village?” Gojo asked, his own words cracking.
“No,” said Suguru, the words controlled, but sincere, almost vulnerable. “I considered it, but no. I
didn’t touch them.”

“Then what happened, Suguru?”

Gojo leaned in more, so close, he could feel the breath he’d thought he’d heard. Suguru folded his
hands on the table, his arms blocking Gojo away.

“I didn’t destroy the village, or its people, for what they did. I didn’t touch them,” Suguru
confessed, not meeting Gojo’s eyes, “...I let you.”

“What?”

Gojo had spoken so loudly, Suguru raised his hand. He placed a single finger towards Gojo’s lips,
just short of touching him.

Gojo’s shoulders set back. His stare pointed in, blank. “What do you mean, I took out the village?”

Suguru should have been lying. Gojo knew his body language better than anyone else’s. If it was a
lie, he would have seen it. He didn’t.

“There’s no way,” Gojo insisted anyway, barely keeping his voice down. He stood up from the
chair, swaying over the table, leaning in. “Why would I–”

“Not you,” Suguru spoke over him sternly, just short of yelling, “This world’s Satoru.”

Suguru exhaled, his eyes closing. His voice fell to a murmur. “I suppose that means it’s not the
same, where you came from. You wouldn’t be so surprised.”

Gojo clutched the table. He pressed in. “But, why?”

Suguru didn’t move. “I don’t think there’s any more to it,” he said. “If there is, I don’t know. You
never told me.”

“Great,” Gojo huffed, “Then I’m full of shit, too…!”

The words were the same. The essence was identical. Every part of Gojo knew that the man in front
of him was Suguru Geto. The timelines may have changed, yet, Suguru was still Suguru, standing
at the edge of the exact same cliff, close enough to touch and yet too far to reach. Gojo knew, from
the context, that this wasn’t the same Suguru Geto he’d failed to save before.

But this was Suguru Geto. And any Suguru Geto was more than Gojo deserved.

Gojo reached into his pocket. He flipped through to the screen, flashing the message he still hadn’t
opened.

“And what’s with the heart thing? You love me?” Gojo pushed the phone into Suguru’s face. “And
you tell me that over text ???!”

Suguru’s eyes met the screen for a second, if that long, before falling away. “I needed your
attention, without disclosing your identity, if someone else saw.”

“Well, you’ve got it!”

“Satoru–” Suguru’s hand crept up to cover his face, hiding himself in the gesture. “Please. People
are asleep.”

“If you wanted attention, why not yodel for it? No one said you had to love me.”

Suguru squinted back with exhaustion, his eyes sinking. “You want me to yodel…?” he repeated,
confused, “...over text?”

“Ngh.” Gojo shook his head, exasperated. “Not the point!”

“You said it.”

“You wrote it!”

Gojo slammed his hand on the table, pressing the phone down. The table shook under his palm.
Then, it didn’t stop shaking. It wasn’t until the vibration passed through his elbow that Gojo
realized it wasn’t the table at all. A ring tone stifled under his grip.

“...Huh,” Gojo looked down. “A call.”

Suguru’s stare lingered low, his eyes level with the screen. “You should answer.”

“So should you.”

“...I should answer your phone?”

“No!”

Gojo slid his hand across the screen, blocking the text, and the call, from view. A string of numbers
he didn’t know flashed back. Unless he’d managed the non-miracle of getting spam calls in another
universe, it was presumably someone he knew.

Whoever they were, they didn’t matter as much as this. He put down the phone.

“When you texted that, which Gojo did you mean?” Gojo asked back, looking straight for Suguru.
“The complete asshole, or me?”

The last ring passed through the phone. Suguru blinked back. “You think you’re not an asshole?
That’s bold of you.”

“Compared to Genocide-jo? Yeah. I think I’d win that one.”

There was a brief but distinct temptation for Gojo to throw in a Guardians of the Galaxy reference
about being part a-hole but not 100% a dick. Suguru spoke over the thought.

“Which answer do you want?” Suguru asked, simply. Gojo answered the same way.

“The truth.”

Suguru paused. His head stayed down. “I think I wasn’t thinking.”

“So, it’s a mistake?”

“It should be,” said Suguru. “I hadn’t loved Satoru in a very long time.”
The abruptness with which Suguru said it, as if he hadn’t had to think about that part anymore,
made Gojo still. Suguru lowered his head further, bowing with resignation.

“The one I knew, before–he hasn’t been Satoru for a very long time,” said Suguru. “He may be the
strongest, but there's no meaning left in that. Not now.”

The way that Suguru hadn’t spoken wasn’t quite as important as how he’d phrased it. Maybe Gojo
was imagining things, yet, one of the words caught his ear before the rest.

“Hadn’t,” Gojo repeated, catching it for himself. “That’s past tense, twice. Hadn’t loved.”

“Ah,” Suguru kept his head down, his hands still folding. “You did say you were a teacher. Good
catch, then.”

“I know I am,” Gojo joked. “I’m looking at a better one.”

It wasn’t until after he’d said it that Gojo realized it hadn’t been the time for that.

Suguru had deflected. He wouldn’t shift back. The signs pushed Gojo right back to what he’d
thought before. He pressed in. “So, you think it’s a mistake to text that, and you love me?”

“No,” Suguru said, almost definitive. Then, he paused. “I’m not sure.”

For some reason, it didn’t feel right to press again.

“When I look at you, and I see the version of him from before,” Suguru admitted. “When he’d
claim we were the strongest, together. I don’t know if I can call that ‘you’. Not when so much of
what I’m seeing, you weren’t there for.”

The question should’ve made Gojo’s head hurt. A part of him wished that it did. “...You think too
much,” he muttered.

Suguru nodded, a few strands of his hair falling from the bun. “One of us has to.”

“What, like you have a thought quota?”

Gojo didn’t give the time for Suguru to answer that, if he even would have at all. Gojo inched in.

“Pretty wild how you think this whole ‘I don’t know you’ thing’s some kind of guard for feeling,”
said Gojo. “I could say the same thing. It doesn’t change what I know. Who you are.”

Suguru didn’t let him meet his eye. “You don’t know me, Satoru.”

“The hell I don’t–!”

If Gojo left any space for himself to think, Suguru’s existence would fill it twice as much. So, he
didn’t. Gojo stood up. He grabbed the ledge of the table with both hands, and hopped up to sit on
the table. His right leg crossed over the left, his posture shifting. Even from the new bend, Gojo
still swayed towards Suguru, hovering over him.

“You’re the guy on the plane who puts everyone else’s oxygen mask on before you’d put on your
own. So, you suffocate, and deny you’re losing air,” Gojo told him. His words sped up as he spoke.
“You’re the guy who eats a curse off someone’s back, because someone somewhere told you that if
you could do something, then you had to. And you listened, because you’re that guy. The good guy.
The hero guy. Who hoards burdens like they’re rubber bands in a spare drawer. And even after the
drawer clogs, and the curses eat you back, for some shitty reason, you still think that changing the
world is all on you.”

Gojo shifted in. He barely saw the shift in Suguru. All he’d looked for before he spoke was that his
eyes were still open. Still watching. Still hearing.

They were.

“You try your best, and over-commit, and go too hard on yourself,” Gojo went on, “You try so hard
to be ‘good’, that if the world isn’t perfect, you don’t know how to accept other people’s misery
and be happy. That’s who I know. That’s Suguru. You’re Suguru.”

Gojo knew, from the quiet, that Suguru hadn’t known how to disagree to that.

Gojo lowered his head. He nudged the side of his sunglasses, shifting them back over his eyes.

“Not that my world’s version of you would’ve scared me off if he’d opened up, but that you didn’t
stay too on the rails, either, you know. Had this whole monk phase. Pretty tragic,” Gojo dismissed,
trying to sound far more casual. “...Couldn’t even see his ass through the robes. Sad.”

“You don’t see my ass now…”

“Also sad. Sir Mix-a-Lot is crying.”

Suguru sighed. His hand fell across his forehead, his posture slouching into his exasperation. “...At
least mine exists. Yours is a pancake.”

“Hey!” Gojo snapped back. “At least call them fluffy pancakes!”

Gojo’s phone vibrated against his leg, the chime starting over. The light from the screen pushed
into the table as it buzzed along the surface.

“Also, pancakes are delicious,” Gojo added, “So on second thought, you’re welcome for the tasty
breakfast treat of my ass.”

The dull look Suguru had been pointing towards Gojo shifted downward.

“You should get that,” said Suguru. “They’re calling again. Could be important.”

“More than you? No way.” Gojo didn’t move towards the phone. Instead, he swayed towards
Suguru. “I want to know you’re okay.”

“What does that have to do with what I’d text you?”

“Nothing.”

For as close as Gojo had leaned, Suguru hadn’t pulled away. He’d just stayed still.

“So, that’s not what you’re asking,” said Suguru.

Gojo’s eyes met Suguru’s, his blue falling into a brown so dark, they’d almost looked black to take
in.

“...Think I should make another joke?” Gojo tried to, hoping it would lighten the shade. “I’m sure
I’ve got some, in here. Pancakes get toppings. There’s gotta be something with that, right?”

“Please don’t.”

“What, you’ve never had a pancake with strawberries? Blueberries? Whipped cream?” Gojo
grinned. “Man, your topping experience isn’t what I expected.”

“Stop talking.”

If it had been anyone else, Gojo would’ve said ‘never’. For Suguru, he listened.

Suguru placed both of his hands flat on the table, too. He forced a breath, his eyes closing all over
again–as if the act of not looking would have changed the circumstances.

“You’re here, from another timeline… From a world I don’t know. A world that, presumably, could
break reality apart were the two to intersect, if not worse. Even in your best case scenario, you’ll
have an obligation to go back,” said Suguru. “I can’t ask Nanako and my father to leave this
universe. Their friends. And I can’t leave them, either. If the message were sincere–if I meant it–
how would that change anything?”

“That changes everything! That changes me !”

Gojo rocked at the ledge of the table. His legs uncrossed, sprawling out as he crawled over the
surface. His knee nearly knocked over the coffee cup as he crawled into Suguru’s face.

“What kind of self-righteous streak are you on? ‘You have an obligation to go back’,” Gojo raised
his fingers in air quotes around the comment, gesturing at either end. “I’m not even obligated to not
eat a carton of Oreos for breakfast! I can do what I want! Believe it or not, so can you.”

Suguru squinted back, rocking away from Gojo. “...your Oreos come in cartons?”

“Whatever. What kind of business said I’m some guardian of the timeline? I trust my students, and
my friends. Whatever’s going on where I came from, I think they’d have it under control. You
don’t. So I could stay.”

Gojo shifted on the table, bending both knees under him to kneel. He pressed his hands into the
table to invade Suguru’s space, personal or otherwise.

“It’s not like the world’s falling apart yet, right? There’s not some MartyMcFly magic fading
photographs showing people disappear. I’m here, you’re here, so what rule’s saying I’ve got to go
back to where I came from at all?”

“Not a rule,” Suguru countered. “It’s common sense.”

“You found common sense that discusses multi-dimensional travel?”

Suguru blinked back. “...fair point.”

“Thank you!” Gojo huffed. “Now that you’re back, alive, and you say you love me, how am I
supposed to walk away from that?”

A shared breath passed between their lips, silent. Without words, all there’d been left to hear was
each other.

Suguru closed his eyes into the bow. He stood up, shifting into the rubble. His hands wrapped
around the warm mug of coffee.

“It’s what has to happen, though, isn’t it?” Suguru asked, already resigned. “By all logic, you
shouldn’t be here. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“...With you, you mean,” Gojo finished. “I’m not supposed to be here, with you.”

“...Yeah.”

“Why?” asked Gojo.

“You know why.”

“Then pretend I’m stupid. Explain.”

“Satoru,” Suguru exhaled. “If you need me to explain, that’s not pretending. You are stupid.”

“You like stupid, then.”

There was a reasonable argument to the core of what Suguru had truly meant to say–that there was
some inescapable need for Gojo to go back where he’d come from. Gojo had already heard some of
the theories from Touta. His existence here was the result of a paradox, and even the most basic
understanding of the rules of the Six Eyes meant that he and the psychotic evil ex-boyfriend
version of him shouldn’t exist at the same time.

Whatever was happening in the version of the world Gojo came from, it wasn’t good. He’d screwed
up enough to land here in the first place. As bad as that might be, this world seemed a lot worse
off–all except for one thing. The Suguru Geto in front of him, here, was still Suguru.

“So, we get rid of him,” Gojo decided, “The other me. He had to go anyway, right? Once we’ve
stashed Nega-Gojo away, and saved your world, there wouldn’t be another contradiction. I can stay.
Then, it matters.”

Suguru folded his hands together, his shoulders tensing. “It shouldn’t.”

“If you don’t like it here, or we can’t kill him or something, you could still come back with me, if
you wanted,” Gojo told him. “So, come on. Tell me you love me. Like, for real. With your mouth.”

Suguru stayed standing, at a distance, his posture rigid as could be. “That shouldn’t matter.”

“A lot of stuff that shouldn’t be, is.”

“Fine,” Suguru said back, “Then, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does to ME.”

“Do you always need the last word?”

Gojo nodded. “Only if the other guy’s not saying what I want to hear.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Works for me,” said Gojo. “You’re into suffering.”

“No. I’m not.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Oh, no. Call the mood police. There’s an emo being positive.”

It had always been the same way. As long as Gojo had known Suguru, there’d been no good way to
argue with him. In its own way, the fact Suguru kept insisting was just all the more proof they were
the same person.

Suguru bowed his head. Gojo stretched off of the table, landing back on the floor. He stood up, a
few inches above Suguru.

“You still have a joke, don’t you?” Suguru asked, still exasperated.

Gojo nodded. His hand stretched further out, reaching towards Suguru’s shoulder. His fingertips
stopped just short of the collar of his coat.

“You’d still have to tell me you loved me. Until then, I’m holding it hostage.”

Suguru sighed. “You’re not bribing me with a joke.”

“What if I am the joke?”

Gojo’s hand raised up, reaching through the strands of Suguru’s hair. He pushed the lone lock of his
bangs aside, cupping it over his ears. His skin molded to Gojo’s fingers, the soft, warm comfort of
feeling anything at all foreign to them.

Whatever words Suguru had meant to answer with, he didn’t. Gojo drew in. His lips brushed across
Suguru’s, quieting him with the ghost of a kiss. The peck parted almost as soon as he’d approached,
leaving just his breath to flutter across the surface.

Gojo’s mouth pulled into a smile, one too close for Suguru to see. “Still think it doesn’t matter?”

Suguru didn’t move. When he willed himself to speak, the words tickled Gojo back in a whisper.
“You should sleep.”

“Then do it with me. I’d sleep with you.”

Suguru’s breath staggered with what would’ve been a sigh. “...I wish I was surprised. You’re still
joking.”

“I am?”
Gojo held his position, and his stare, the ground and air he’d leaned into looking in like a challenge,
unflinching. Suguru didn’t flinch, either. The end result made Gojo huff.

“Time might be different, but you're still the same guy. If you weren’t, the Six Eyes would know
the difference,” Gojo told Suguru. “So, if you meant the text… Hell, even if you didn’t… I’d mean
it, to you.”

“...That you’d sleep with me?”

“What you texted. I mean, I love you,” Gojo teased, his smile growing. “Now, who’s dumb?”

“Still you.”

The phone rang once more. The light of the screen stifled against the tabletop. Suguru’s hand
raised, lifting to reach for the phone. Before Suguru could brush the back, Gojo’s hand did, too.
The barrier of infinity cast Suguru’s hand away from the phone.

Suguru shook his hand with his opposite wrist. His head followed slowly, settling in disapproval.

“That’s cheap.”

Without checking the screen, Gojo slid his cell phone across the table, tucking it from reach.

“You mean cheap like it’s a problem?” Gojo asked, leaning right back in. The tip of his nose
pressed into Suguru’s own. “...or cheap like a price you’re willing to pay?”

Gojo didn’t cross the barrier of their personal space. He held his ground, and left his own down,
waiting for something he’d hoped would draw back.

There wasn’t a word, back, in the way that Suguru answered. In its place, Gojo tasted black coffee.
The bitter sting of a black cup passed through Suguru’s lips to meet Gojo’s own in a kiss.

From anywhere else, the taste would’ve made Gojo gag. The only sweetness in the flavor had been
the sugar already in Gojo’s mouth. He didn’t. He took in the taste on Suguru’s lips, exactly how it
was, and met it with his own.

In the middle of the wreckage, when the rest of the world was ready to fall apart, Gojo kissed
Suguru–and as long as it lasted, the rest of the world didn’t matter. The only thing Gojo was sure
of, without question, was the same thing he’d known since he was a teenager. Through heaven and
earth, he alone had been blessed. First, with the Six Eyes, and now, with Suguru.

Whatever else happened from here, Gojo wasn’t giving this blessing back.
Malevolent Vessel
 Junpei Yoshino

Unknown

The last thing he remembered was Yuji calling his name.

“Junpei, let out Sukuna! Then switch back in one minute!”

Through the clouds and the stars invading reality, Junpei had barely heard Yuji in the first place.
What he had made so little sense, the most he’d thought to do was stare.

The surrounding world melted away. Yuji’s eyes had sharpened on Junpei, desperate. Junpei could
still see it, now.

“He won’t want to die! ” Yuji screamed, “Trust me!”

The second mouth on Junpei’s cheek burned, foreign lips stinging like an open wound being
twisted from the outside. A voice sounded through his head, then echoed outside.

“Maybe I won’t listen,” said Sukuna, “I don’t take orders.”

Junpei closed his eyes. The last specs of an artificial starlight–of Satoru’s domain–pushed back.

From the time he’d woken up with a curse in his body, there’d been a constant struggle for lucidity.
His awareness had been unstable, dangling over the edge of an open cliff, holding to a jagged edge
until his knuckles went white. To keep control had taken effort, strength of will.

For all the fight he’d needed to keep control, it took nothing to let go. So, he did. He stopped
fighting.

A count started in Junpei’s head as his eyelids set shut. The numbers sank like a metronome.

One. Two.

“You’re a wretch, you know, brat,” Sukuna sounded in his head, deriding him in a smirk. “ To think
you’ve believed yourself better than, yet all you do is snivel and cry. If you weren’t my shell, a louse
like you would have no use at all.”

Junpei opened his eyes. His feet fell, any sense of his own body falling into nothing at all. He
couldn’t see anything.

There was no sign of Yuji, Satoru, or even Satozakura High School ahead of Junpei. Where, before,
there had been stars, now, the world looked nearly back. A corridor of bones and liquid too dark to
identify rose behind him. Ahead of him, a shrine of skulls loomed. The form of a body in a white
kimono stood atop it, black claws snagging at the cloth.

“Wha–” Junpei stuttered, turning towards the sound, “What’re you–” His question stopped at the
sight of the curse.

Even through the darkness, Junpei could see the Sukuna’s markings on his face. The slashes of
black embedded in his skin, and the second eyes narrowed beneath the first, were too distinctive to
mistake. The curse Junpei felt inside him stood separate–but that wasn’t the problem. If Junpei
stared past the markings and second eyes, the curse of Ryomen Sukuna looked like Yuji.

“Don’t look up at me without permission,” Sukuna scolded, as if he had the right, “A peon like you
doesn’t deserve my witness.”

For a split second longer, Junpei watched in the worst kind of awe. He wondered how it was
possible–if, somehow, maybe, the curse had left him completely and went into Itadori, instead.

Sukuna’s sneer lowered. “Now.”

Junpei hadn’t thought about listening. He just did. His head lowered, his bangs falling over his
scars.

A single skull rolled down the mound of bare bones. The curse descended from the pile, drawing
closer. Junpei could hear, even without looking, that Sukuna was leaning over him.

“Better. Now, bow to me,” he ordered. “If you’re going to be this pathetic, you can at least show
your reverence!”

Where the curse stood over him, Junpei cursed himself, too. He had seen, so many times, exactly
what this was. Mundane or supernatural, fifteen or fifteen hundred years old, different souls sank to
the same tricks, looking down, mocking him. All Sukuna was, in that second, was the same kind of
creature as the one who’d hated him enough to put their cigarettes out across Junpei’s forehead. A
bully.

A bead of sweat dripped down Junpei’s neck. His head lowered more. Junpei knew the right thing
to say was nothing at all. He knew how to comply. It was logical, even, to concede to this.

But he couldn’t.

“No,” Junpei mumbled, the word so weak, it barely sounded at all.

The word had barely left his mouth when Sukuna rose from his own lean. Junpei’s foot slid back,
bracing himself for something he couldn’t prepare for.

Junpei hadn’t even found his footing when Sukuna’s form turned to a blur. His elbow smashed into
the back of Junpei’s neck.

For a split second, Junpei heard something crack. He’d barely had the sense to know it was him
before he crashed into the water. His body fell limp beneath the surface, the splash pushing a wave
into his nose.

Black nails dug across Junpei’s scalp, shoving him down. Junpei tried to lean away, arching his
back to find room to breathe. He had just started to inhale when Sukuna’s sandal smashed into his
back, shoving him in.

Junpei sank into the liquid, the taste filling his mouth. Only then could he tell it was water. The
inhale burned in his lungs. He coughed out, wheezing in the strain not to choke.

Sukuna’s knee pressed into Junpei’s back, effortlessly holding him down. He took a seat on top of
him, pinning him in place.
“That’s better,” Sukuna mused. “You sound better silent.”

Junpei’s hands thrashed at the water. He tried, again, to find someplace to inhale. When he couldn’t
manage, he started to hold his breath. His hands pushed down, knocking through the waves to try
and steady himself below. The only thing he felt were bones.

Sukuna raised himself from a kneel to sit back, leaning away from Junpei’s head in the process.
The new leeway in the pressure gave Junpei just enough room to snap his head above the water. He
coughed drops into the pool below, wheezing out.

When the burn of the water turned to the sting of the air, Junpei tried to speak back. “Huh…” his
voice cracked, still straining, “...I think, we’ve got that in common.”

“No.”

Sukuna turned where he sat, reorienting himself again. He smashed his foot heel-first into the back
of Junpei’s head, smacking him back into the water. Junpei’s head bumped against a horned skull,
then sank right back below the surface.

“Damn it–” Junpei gasped out, gurgling into the pool. “Fu–”

Sukuna kicked him again.

Junpei’s eyes snapped shut, straining for something he couldn’t win. The burn passed through his
lungs as he took water where he should have had air. He strained and twitched, writhing at the
verge of collapsing. Sukuna laughed.

Junpei’s eyes closed, not because he’d meant to, but because he had no room to do anything else.
The water muffled the sound, each cackle blurring in his ears. Where Junpei should have seen the
curse, he saw his classmates hovering over him, finding humor in his pain.

Junpei’s hand pushed further down, his muscles aching to his will.

A spark pushed through Junpei’s hand. The beginning of an ember fought through the water, air
rising in a bubble.

The laughter stopped. His memory held tighter, old anger rising new. Back then, when that kept
happening, Junpei kept telling himself it didn’t matter. There’d been nothing he could do.

A burst of warmth wrapped Junpei like a glove. Junpei pushed deeper, fighting the bones shifting
by his hand for room to push back.

The weight at his back let up, allowing Junpei to breathe again. Sukuna’s hand wrapped around his
wrist, forcing Junpei to kneel. He dragged him up by the wrist, a new sneer setting. “What is
that?”

Sukuna’s hand gripped tighter, twisting Junpei’s hand. Without the cover of the water, Junpei’s
hand was on fire.

“Huh–”

Junpei’s hand was on fire, and it didn’t burn him.

“Worse than a fool, or a brat,” Sukuna sneered. “You’re a thief.”

“No! I’m–” Junpei stuttered, gaping away from Sukuna, into the flame. The spark leaned towards
Sukuna with no wind to guide it, the flare brushing into his face. The blaze held steady, smokeless
and pure.

Sukuna shoved Junpei by the same wrist. The force of the chuck sent Junpei flinging across the
way. He smacked into an enlarged rib in the archway, then slumped against the bones of someone
else’s back. His breath caught in his throat as he raised his hand higher. Even now, when the rest of
him was soaked, that fire still burned.

Sukuna looked out into the distance of red flesh and bones, taking in his surroundings with the start
of a smile. The light of the flame made the shadows stretch.

“You are a thief,” Sukuna snipped, speaking straight over Junpei. “As it happens, I’m not opposed
to negotiating with thieves. For now.”

“For–” Junpei stuttered, gasping back. “I didn’t do anything! You–”

“You dare to say I would lie?” The water by Junpei’s feet swelled. Sukuna’s arm waved, the
oversized sleeve of his kimono still fluttering. “As If I’d lower myself to deceive you.”

The water thrashed at Junpei’s side, rising in the same arc as Sukuna’s hand to swat for his face.
Junpei raised his arm back, blocking the blast with his elbow. The cursed flame rose across his
palm, down his arm. A puff of steam rose where the elements clashed, blocking the attack.

Where, before, Sukuna had looked down in superiority, now, he did so with exasperation. He
sighed at the sight.

“Like that, you brat,” Sukuna huffed. “That shouldn’t happen.”

Junpei didn’t even give himself the chance to stutter. He just held his mouth shut, watching Sukuna
draw back in.

“This is my domain. Everything in this space should serve me,” Sukuna mused, “If there were an
exception, it shouldn’t be a brat like you, with no cursed technique at all”

The flame around Junpei’s hand fluctuated one more time. His hand curled into a fist. Through the
licks of the blaze, a black mark seeped across the surface of his wrist.

“Shut up!” Junpei cried back, “I’m sick of people like you! You–”

“There are no people like me.”

Sukuna’s voice called from behind Junpei’s back. On instinct, Junpei pivoted to the noise–but not
fast enough.

Sukuna’s hand wrapped around Junpei’s wrist, gripping him mid-motion. His nails dug into the
black flesh as he pulled through the marking, twisting so deeply, he might as well have tried to
shred the skin.

The glove of cursed fire clung tighter to Junpei’s arm. It waved towards Sukuna, pushing against
him in an ever-brighter, yellowing glow. Bright as it burned, it didn’t stop Sukuna from twisting
Junpei’s arm around his back.

Junpei’s neck strained. The rest of his body bowed forward with him. “You–”

As the curse pulled at him, from the corner of his eye, Junpei spotted the markings across his body.
From the bridge of his nose, to the cuffs on each arm, an array of symmetrical black markings ran
across Sukuna’s body. Most of them were symmetrical–except one. On Sukuna’s left wrist, he had
two black cuffs. On the right, he had just one, lower down, in the exact opposite spot from the one
now on Junpei.

“Wha…”

Before the word could form, Sukuna’s other hand gripped a blade. The flash of the technique
ripped straight through Junpei’s arm, cutting it off.

Junpei didn’t see. He couldn’t see. The blast of the fire and the blinding pain that flashed so vividly,
every other sense went dark.

“Damn it!” Junpei’s voice cracked in the strain of it all, sobbing, “Leave me alone!!”

What was left of Junpei’s body thrashed with the remnants of the fire. Then, it bloomed across the
rest of him. An inferno so vivid it bled through his eyelids fought the shadows back in its wake.

The curse’s hand ripped across Junpei’s scalp, shoving Junpei back into the water. The smell of
burning flesh washed out below the surface. Junpei thrashed against the push, sheer instinct
writhing him in whatever uncoordinated flop that he could muster. The light dimmed around him,
the inferno dying out into the water until the water and the flame evaporated, together.

New air hit Junpei’s lungs. His knees scraped against the ground, through flecks of bone and other
broken pieces. Sukuna’s hands stayed steady on Junpei’s head, grabbing him by the hair. A wave of
sensation Junpei couldn’t place quelled the pain back to a dull ache, and then, into nothing at all.

The arm Sukuna had shredded through appeared on Junpei’s body, as if Sukuna had never touched
it at all. Junpei’s hand clutched his own wrist, holding the black marking.

“You’re annoying. You should know,” Sukuna told him, less like a complaint than a fact.
“Disobedience is a poor trait in a servant.”

“A–”

Sukuna stood in front of Junpei, watching through four unblinking eyes. “Yes. Servant. Vessel. To
be either, that’s what you are. Although you’re not a very effective one, like this. You’re frail. It’s
inconvenient.”

“You’re insane!”

“To a human mind, yes. You’d think this is madness, wouldn’t you? Fools that you are.”

Sukuna’s hand dropped from Junpei’s head. The release let Junpei’s feet hit the ground. He
stumbled to catch himself, and narrowly did. He crouched low, bracing for an escape he’d never
get.
Junpei’s visible eye set into Sukuna’s own. The glint of eyes, the color of drying blood, passed
from Sukuna’s glare into Junpei’s own.

“I would, yeah,” Junpei spat back, “But if I am, you are, too. I didn’t ask for a bully monologuing
in my head.”

“So, that’s what you think I am, then?” Sukuna asked, speaking slowly, as if he were tasting the
words before he let them form. “A bully?”

“Yes.”

Junpei knew, once his feet steadied on the ground, that he shouldn’t have said the truth. It wouldn’t
help to say it; and yet, he couldn’t stop.

“Anyone superior doesn’t have to tell you that they are. You aren’t different,” said Junpei. “The
more you push people around, fighting to force respect, then, the more you prove you had to fight
at all. That you couldn’t be respected without it.”

The curse’s eyes set in on him, almost aglow in judgment. Sukuna grinned into his words. “And
what’s wrong with a fight you can win? If I force my strength, that proves I’m strong. It’s simple.”

“You take damage from a fight,” Junpei reasoned in return. “Even if you won, that doesn’t prove
you have respect, or control. The strongest wouldn’t have to fight in the first place.”

“The strongest aren’t the ones who avoid fights,” Sukuna interjected before Junpei could finish,
“...They’re the ones who win. It’s simple. Even a human can understand how to end a war.”

From one point of view, Junpei supposed that could be the answer. Sukuna could insist on it, and
yet, Junpei still had a counter.

“Do you think that the strongest would still be fighting me?” Junpei swallowed back. “Even now.
Even here. You’re fighting someone you keep calling a fool.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you understood. It’s an insult to even stand beside something like you. The
pink brat beside you, earlier. Now, he looked like a vessel. But you…” A twinge of joyous mockery
set into Sukuna’s words, a glint flashing through a malicious grin. “...You look like a mistake.”

The flame that should have been in Junpei’s hand dulled. Sukuna’s sandals crunched as he stepped
across the dry patch where his water once had been. He loomed like a living shadow, encroaching
on Junpei.

“The best thing you could do for me, now,” Sukuna said, simply, “is die.”

Junpei’s heart skipped a pulse. A bead of sweat ran down his neck.

“Same to you,” Junpei whispered, his voice breaking as he said it. “I didn’t want you. That girl.
The other curse. She did this.”

Sukuna’s head bowed in, encroaching even further. The hints of malice broke from his smile as his
expression fell to a flat line.

“She made this,” Junpei repeated, his words shortening. His breath caught in his chest. “...because
the sorcerer told her to.”
Sukuna laughed in his face, so close to him that a fleck of spit hit Junpei’s eye.

“A curse, obeying a sorcerer?” Sukuna sneered. His mockery flashed cold. “I don’t believe you.”

Close as Sukuna stood, so near, Junpei could feel him speaking, Junpei didn’t blink.

“If you don’t believe the truth, that’s on you,” Junpei answered.

As human as the thing before Junpei appeared–a near replica of Yuji Itadori–the copy was anything
but. If the place where Junpei stood now was a nightmare, then, the nightmare was his domain.

Somehow, with how many nightmares Junpei had seen come to life, the one with the same face as
someone he trusted didn’t feel like the worst one. If the feeling was true, he couldn’t know. He just
had to trust Yuji, who’d tried to warn him before. So, he did.

“Are you that sure of your assumptions, you’ll ignore what’s real?” Junpei pleaded. “I didn’t ask
for this.”

“So, what are you trying to blather, hm? Why should it matter to me that a curse made you an
offering?” Sukuna asked in disdain. “It’s only reasonable that the brighter of them would find a
host for me. A show of reverence to the King.”

“Even the ones working with sorcerers?”

The pause at the end of the sentence, short as it was, wasn’t one Junpei left to breath. Instead, he
kept asking. His hand tightened at his side, the black mark on his wrist stinging, “What if that’s not
true?” Junpei asked back. “What if we're both in this, so you couldn’t go anywhere else?”

“I can always find someone else,” Sukuna answered. “It’s my choice, who acts as my vessel.”

“Except, you didn’t choose me!”

For the first time, Junpei thought he spotted Sukuna blink. He didn’t answer instantly. The silence,
quick as it was, made space for him to go on.

“You’re stuck, aren’t you? You said it before. You don’t want me as a vessel. I’m bad at it. So, why
are we here?”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Suddenly, the dark and damned surroundings started to make sense. The hair on the back of his
neck rose, not just with a shudder, but understanding.

Before Junpei could speak, Sukuna’s form turned back to a blur. His hand pressed over Junpei’s
mouth, the points of his black nails pinching over Junpei’s nose, his palm clasped over his lips.

“A frail thing like you can’t hold me for long. You won’t manage a fraction of my power. I’ll find a
better offering, through you. Something worthy.”

Sukuna’s hand raised, lifting Junpei off the ground. The tips of his sneakers brushed across the
scraps of bones, knocking through the dust. He puffed through his nose, anyway, forcing what
words he could past the muffle of Sukuna’s hand.
“That's the point, though? That I can’t contain you,” Junpei strained to speak. The words snuck
between Sukuna’s fingers, sharpening with panicked facts. “You ARE stuck, aren’t you? If you
can’t get all your power, then. maybe, he wants to use you, too! The sorc–”

Before Junpei could finish the word ‘sorcerer’, Sukuna flicked his wrist, dropping Junpei back
down. A fresh, sharpened breath rushed through Junpei’s throat. He gasped back, savoring the taste
of the air.

“Fine. That makes this simple, then,” Sukuna gripped Junpei by each shoulder, pulling him up into
a kneel. “I kill you.”

The reasonable thing to do, Junpei thought, was to be afraid. Some part of him was. He felt the fear
swell in his chest, freezing his form to sit still. He didn’t stop.

“And let that sorcerer stay free? Trap you again?” Junpei asked in turn. “As horrible as you are, I
almost think… maybe… we’re on the same side.”

“HAH–” What had, at first, started as a lone laugh built louder. The smirk spread in manic
judgment, so intense, it had clearly turned into a jeer. “Even a worm can form a thought, can’t it?
Hah–”

Junpei lowered his head. Through the cover of his hair, his eye, too, sharpened to a glare. He raised
his right hand, then pushed away, bringing himself to stand in a crouch, forcing Sukuna’s arm to
extend as Junpei blocked with his own. The darkened mark of the curse’s cuff emblazoned in his
skin, still stinging.

Sukuna was still laughing when his eyes spotted the mark. His expression turned. He wasn’t
laughing anymore.

Sukuna’s hand pushed Junpei’s head away. He stepped back, standing close to even ground, just a
few inches above Junpei.

“Fine. I can make you a deal,” Sukuna relented, his words heavy with disgust, “The next time we
meet the sorcerer, and I chant ‘enchain’, you give me control for one minute. Then, I’ll slaughter
him where he stands.”

For everything Sukuna had said to that point, it was too good of an offer to be true.

“No,” Junpei said, his tone far more certain than his posture.

“Then, I’ll slaughter you here, now, and wait. Perhaps the next vessel will be more reasonable.”

Junpei didn’t raise his head, still watching a glint from nowhere dance across the water.

“You know, I don’t think you can? Kill me?” Junpei’s voice shook as he forced the words to form.
“Not if I don’t let you.”

“Is that so?” Before Junpei could see him move, Sukuna’s hand struck at the center of Junpei’s
chest. His nails dug in points over Junpei’s skin, pressing down before Junpei could manage a
twitch. “Are you sure, brat? I don’t need a heart, like you.”

“You think…” Junpei swallowed back, shivering, trying to bluff. “...that I still have a heart?”
“Of course. The only people that don’t have them are dead already. You’re human. You’re weak.
So, yes, you do” Sukuna answered, “just like all the other maggots.”

The heartbeat Junpei wanted to deny spiked inside him. The rush of blood poured through his ears,
muffling everything but itself and an understanding of what this so easily could be. No matter what
should have been, here, they were trapped with each other until something changed, or died.

Junpei’s hand raised from his side. He pressed his palm across his chest, too, eclipsing Sukuna’s
grip with his own. The subtle nudge held against the curse with no force left behind it. Where his
instinct told him to fight physically in a brawl he couldn’t win, Junpei willed himself not to try.
There was no point in that kind of a battle, not even with the fire he couldn’t explain, not against
something like Sukuna.

But that didn’t mean Junpei had no means to fight back.

“My mother and I are off limits,” Junpei’s voice spiked, the sound just as strong as the nails
scraping his skin. “She can’t be hurt, or killed. If she dies from any cause, the pact’s void.”

“You think you can set conditions, vessel?”

Sukuna’s thumb turned. From the new sting, Junpei guessed he’d drawn blood. Junpei grit his teeth.
His head lowered with a nod. What at first looked submissive stayed still.

“You don’t get control of my body, unless I say so. If I ask, I get it back. You teach me what to do,”
Junpei told him. “Lend me power to kill the sorcerer. Then, I’ll try.”

The curse scoffed again. “You? That’s ridiculous. Like I said, you won’t handle a fraction of my
power.”

“Then, what? I’ll die, just like you were about to do, anyway?” Junpei countered. His voice rose,
gaining momentum as the questions formed in full. “Is a fraction of your power not good enough to
take him?”

Sukuna’s hand fell back. Junpei pressed his own over the scratches on his chest.

“However much you hate me, you’d hate a sorcerer like Satoru more, right?” Junpei asked, looking
back. “The worst I can be to you is pathetic. The worst of him could use you. Destroy–”

“I could do whatever I want with a sorcerer. ANY sorcerer. For something like you to do it for me,
you’d need more.”

There was a silence after Sukuna spoke. Brief as it was, Junpei could tell it shouldn’t have been.

“More what?” asked Junpei. “More power?”

“More of me.”

Sukuna raised his hand, stretching it in front of Junpei’s face. His fingers outstretched, the black
nails gleaming in the dark. “My fingers, like the ones you consumed to host me. Each one contains
a fragment of my power,” Sukuna explained. “You’d need most, if not all of them, before
something like you could stand a chance against a sorcerer like that one.”
From the tone of the explanation, Junpei felt there was a way he was being led–and a different way,
which was the only reasonable counter left.

Junpei raised his head, his eyes setting back into direct line of sight with the curse. “Then, we get
them.”

“We?”

“Yeah,” Junpei gulped back. “We. If it’s a truce, we’re working together. For now.”

Sukuna lowered himself, bending just enough to stare at Junpei straight on. He slicked back his
hair, spiking the pink strands to stand upright. If it weren’t for the markings on his face, and the
missing black strands at the back of his neck, the curse was almost identical to Yuji.

Maybe that, Junpei thought, was why he’d managed to stand his ground in front of him. The curse
wasn’t faceless in his domain. In some sick, twisted way, he’d almost looked like someone to trust.

Junpei’s pulse spiked again. He willed himself to fill the silence, pleading through reason.

“If you’re after what you say you’re after, there’s no downside to have me try, first. If you find
another vessel, and you leave, then, great. If you don’t, then, we both need the same thing, I think.
To get rid of Satoru.”

Sukuna didn’t answer in a sentence. His mouth started to curl, the spikes of his fangs shining into a
smile. The exuberance stole the rest of Junpei’s thoughts, pushing them back.

In the distance, between the arches of the ribcage to something that wasn’t there, Junpei heard
more. A voice he couldn’t place, yet knew, echoed over the bones.

“Junpei…”

The voice bounced across the arch, reaching towards him as if they were at once muffled, and yet
right by his ear. Junpei tried to turn towards the sound. He thought, then, that he’d known where it
had come from, yet it was all the more quiet when he moved.

“Junpei… Junpei, please…”

“So,” Sukuna called back, “You bring me my fingers, and I do nothing to impede you? Then, you
kill a sorcerer in my name? That’s your deal?”

Junpei turned back to the curse. Shallowly, stiffly, Junpei nodded along.

“For a spineless brat, you’re not unreasonable,” Sukuna mused, “Sure, then. You may try. I doubt
you’ll succeed, but your failure won’t hurt me.”

A part of Junpei wondered if that was true.

Junpei’s hand tightened at his side. The black mark of a cuff on his wrist flexed in the tension.

“My mother and I are under protection, then, until this is done,” Junpei said, forcing a calm he
knew he didn’t feel. His eyes set ahead, unblinking. “You, or anything under your influence, can’t
harm us or kill.”
“Like my vassal, then,” Sukuna agreed.

A shiver rippled down the damp points of Junpei’s neck. “...Huh? But, I thought I was a vessel
already.”

“A vessel, and a vassal. Like, a subject of my lands. You show your fealty by consuming my
fingers, and you keep your life, along with what you’ve borrowed from me. You, and that woman.
At every chance, you must also try to kill the sorcerer you say caused this. The conditions remain
for as long as he, and you, live.” For as vicious and maniacal as Sukuna had been before, somehow,
when he spoke this way, he’d almost seemed calm. “Consider yourself lucky, brat. It’s not often a
child gets to serve for a king.”

Junpei knew, from the hair on the back of his neck, to the tips of his toes, there was no room to trust
Sukuna’s civility, however harsh it was. If there was any way to twist this deal, he would. After all,
the man before Junpei wasn’t truly a man, but a monster with the face of a friend.

“...And you don’t control my body,” Junpei repeated, the words feeling rigid in his chest.

The edges of Sukuna’s eyes tilted down, pointed and severe. “...until you grant me control.”

“Then I get it back, when I want it…?”

“You speak, as if I’d want your weak flesh.” The so-called King of Curses extended his hand.
“Yes. When you ask, you regain control.”

A lone black mark held on his wrist beneath his sleeve, the missing piece of the brand now stuck to
Junpei’s skin. Their hands clasped together.

“Deal.”

The heat of a stolen fire ran through Junpei’s blood. He pushed the sense back down, his grip
loosening as he took the hand before him in a shake. The pointed fingernails pressed to the back of
Junpei’s hand, scraping across him with his grip.

Junpei wondered, deep down, which one of them had truly given up more.

“Now, wake up,” Sukuna told him, seemingly too confident to have questioned it at all. His teeth
shone white in a sneer. “You’re crowding my throne.”

“Junpei!”

The muffled words seemed so much louder, now, like they were straight into his ear. Junpei’s spine
rushed with a shudder. His head turned over his shoulder, right back towards the corridor.

Before he could form a thought, one more time, he heard his name. The sound twisted, desperate.

“Junpei!!” The echo fell out of the scream, as the words faded from screams at all. Where, before,
they’d seemed like frantic mush, now, they were a whisper. The ribs overhead started to crack, the
ceiling splitting into light.

“Junpei. Wake up. C’mon,” someone pleaded to him, the words still right by his ear, “you’ve gotta
wake up.”
Junpei opened his eyes.
 Junpei Yoshino and the Infinite Sadness

Junpei Yoshino

July 21, 2018

The lamp at Junpei’s bedside seemed so much brighter than before. He had barely any sense for the
shape of it, or the feel of his own body. All he felt was sound.

“Junpei!”

He had never heard his name sound so visceral, before.

“Junpei!” the name–his name–repeated like a scream.

The sliver of artificial light passed through the crack between Junpei’s eyelids. His surroundings
blurred as he snapped up. His hands slipped across the bed sheets, squeezing damp spots of his own
sweat. He had barely found his grip when the anguish turned to something else.

“Junpei!”
The blur of Yuji’s body eclipsed Junpei as he opened his arms. They stretched wide, as if Yuji was
ready to tear him straight off the bed. Then, he stopped. The drastic movement froze in place,
compressing in a shake.

“Junpei…” Yuji called back, one more time, the name falling with doubt. “...It’s you, now, right?
You’re okay?”

The back of Yuji’s calloused palm brushed the top of Junpei’s hand. Lowly, slowly, Junpei nodded.
His dampened hair fell over his eye, masking the scars it could reach.

“Junpei,” Yuji swallowed back. “You can talk to me…”

There was a hesitation in the sentence. Why it was there, Junpei wasn’t quite sure. The strain in
Yuji’s voice passed into his hand. “Whatever you’re going through, I won’t judge you, okay? I’m
just– I’m here.”

“You’re shaking…”

Junpei hadn’t known he would say it out loud until he already had. Yuji lowered his head, shaking
not in a tremble, but refusal.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” Yuji’s hand brushed across the back of Junpei’s, stroking the spot. “I’ll be
okay.”

Yuji spoke as if he meant it. Yet, the closer Junpei watched, the less certainty Junpei could see. The
image of the boy in front of him looked like a blur.

A steady hand cupped around Junpei’s at either side, holding him still. Only then did Junpei feel the
difference. Though he’d seen Yuji trembling, Yuji wasn’t the one shaking. He never had been. The
tremors Junpei saw were his own.

A new thought bit its way to the top of Junpei’s mind. A new shake pushed through him. “Where’s
my mom?”

“She’s alive,” Yuji told him, “Safe. She’s with my teacher. He’s super strong. He’ll protect her.”

From anyone else’s voice, Junpei wasn’t sure if he would’ve believed it. He started to turn his
hands, to try and return any hold Yuji had on him with his own. The sound of his own breath
spiked, his pulse pounding through his ear.

It took a moment in that strained failure to breathe for Junpei to realize why that silence felt so
strange. For all the turmoil in his mind, for some reason, the curse wasn’t mocking him. There
were no burns on his face where his skin was distorting, or third eyes sprouting on his hand.

“It’s quiet…” Junpei mumbled, thinking out loud. “In my head. It’s so… empty.”

His own voice echoed off the walls. Junpei took another breath. His thoughts formed ahead of his
words, if only slightly.

“What happened?” Junpei asked, quiet. “I don’t know.”

One more time, Yuji’s hands held his. Junpei was sure he’d imagined it, and yet, he clearly felt
Yuji’s pulse pass through his skin.
“Sukuna scared Gojo off. He ran away,” said Yuji, “It only lasted for a second. You passed out right
after.”

Junpei turned. He meant to look towards Yuji. Before he could, his eyes caught his own reflection
in the broken glass of a picture frame. The image of himself reflected over the photo of himself, his
mother and his grandmother inside.

Between the clumps of matted hair, still stuck to him in his cold sweat, Junpei saw the underlayer
of a deep, almost bloody pink poke through his natural black. Curved markings, the same shape as
how a child might draw a bird in the distance, slashed under each of his eyes. No matter what
Junpei stopped hearing, the evidence of his aberration still lingered in what he saw.

The black mark of a cuff embedded on his wrist.

“I…” Junpei stuttered, the thought barely forming as he stared at the mark. “I think I promised him
something? Maybe? I don’t know.”

“Him?”

“The curse? …Sukuna?” Junpei spoke the name like a guess. “That’s what he’s called, right?”

What Junpei said could easily have been heard as a question. If it was, then it shouldn’t have been
one Yuji hesitated to answer. He did.

Much more softly than before, so gentle, it had almost become a whisper, Yuji asked a new
question, instead. “What promise?”

Junpei didn’t know. The new silence in his mind–the one that, before yesterday, had felt so normal,
seemed to echo with a different kind of mockery.

“I…” Junpei swallowed. “I don’t know? It’s like, a feeling? Like something’s missing? But
whatever it is, it’s just… gone?”

The echo in Junpei’s own mind seemed to grow. His own admissions felt so pathetic, no one else
had to say it for him to understand that they were. Ever since he’d started to see things–no, ever
since he’d tried to protect the film club–his life had been a sequence of problems with no solution
that still included him.

Junpei tried to pull his hand back. If he was going to shake, or struggle to breathe, he could keep it
to himself. He tried to, and yet, Yuji’s hand still held tight.

“I’m sorry, Junpei,” Yuji told him, sincerely. “I didn’t know this could happen.”

It was an easy question to ask what ‘this’ was. Yuji had been worried about the curse with the
stitches. He’d said it, as almost one of the first things out of his mouth.

Again, Junpei tried to pull his hand back toward himself.

“You said, about the curse…” Junpei tried not to whimper, and failed. “I tried not to talk. She
followed me. I swear, I tried so hard. She…”

Whatever else Junpei would’ve said, whether he’d meant to confess it or not, all coherence fell
away. The images from the arcade pushed to the forefront of his mind. The aches of falling, of
running with nowhere to go, crashed inside him.

The wave inside him made Junpei stop in a tremble.

“This isn’t your fault, Junpei. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

There were ways to say otherwise. Arguments formed in Junpei’s head. If he’d followed the
instructions just a little better–if he’d been quick enough to go home, or smart enough not to make
eye contact through the window–then, maybe, it would’ve been different.

“Whatever happened, it’s not on you,” Yuji tried to tell him. The words formed, but the thought
didn’t work.

Junpei swallowed back. “No… No, I didn’t listen. I must’ve screwed up. Or…”

A silent, shocked stream of tears poured down Junpei’s cheeks. In the blur, Junpei could only guess
what else was happening. He sensed a judgment that, by all evidence he’d seen, may not have been
there at all.

Then, he felt Yuji’s hand hold tighter. “Shit…”

Before Junpei could look up, or consider what to add, Yuji’s hand brushed beneath his eye. At first,
it felt like Yuji was tracing the curse mark. Then, Yuji’s hand settled in place, wiping the tears
away, leaving nothing but the warmth of someone else’s touch.

The expression Junpei saw, he wondered if he shouldn’t have. Even with no one else in the room,
the anguish in Yuji’s eyes seemed so genuine, so tainted, it seemed private.

“Sorry,” Yuji told him, the word falling like a confession, “I never should’ve left you. I didn’t know
this could happen. That someone else could be a vessel, if I was dead. When it was me, they said
‘one in a million’. Guess there’s more millions than I thought.”

The part of Junpei’s bangs shifted. A clump of strands gathered in the center, allowing both of his
eyes to see. He blinked past the blur in his eyes, allowing himself to focus ahead.

Pained as they were, the brown of Yuji’s eyes looked so kind. On any other face, Junpei would’ve
assumed that compassion was some kind of trick. He wasn’t sure why, but, here, Junpei knew
better. It hurt more to know it was true.

Junpei closed his eyes completely, shutting the sight of it off.

“So, you’re dead?” Junpei mumbled, “Like, a ghost?

The question felt so silly, Junpei expected to hear a laugh. He didn’t.

“Nah, no ghost,” Yuji answered. “You feel me, right? Touching you? Ghosts don’t do touching.
So.”

“No,” Junpei swallowed back, forcing the words not to crack. “I’m pretty sure they do, sometimes?
Like, in Ghostbusters?”

“Uh…” Yuji’s voice trailed off. Even without looking, Junpei could sense Yuji’s face going blank.
“I don’t think we’d have Ghostbusters rules? There’s no special grade stay-puft marshmallow
guy.”

“Marshmallow man,” Junpei corrected automatically, “Not guy.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Mhm. One’s alliterative, and it’s also the name from the movie.” It wasn’t until Junpei had made
the correction that he realized he’d said it out loud. He took a low breath, then started to bow.

“Sorry,” Junpei breathed back, “...I guess that really shouldn’t matter.”

“No, no, you’re right. All good! Marshmallow man it is.”

Yuji’s hand stroked a little further down Junpei’s face. His fingers left the point under Junpei’s eye,
until his palm laid against his cheek. Against most sense and even more of his will, the gentle
stroke of the touch made Junpei look towards him.

Even in the darkness of his bedroom, the unfamiliar brown eyes still looked warm. A gloss set in
the whites of Yuji’s eyes, reflecting the tears that Junpei felt he’d been shedding.

Junpei raised a hand, too, covering Yuji’s with his own. The crevices in his palm pressed against
the back of Yuji’s, filling space. The skin below felt less soft than he’d expected, weathered and dry
from cuts that hadn’t mended.

“You don’t have to say it, if you don’t mean it. That it’s all good. It’s not,” Junpei told him. “It’s at
least eighty percent abysmal, right?”

“...Eighty? That seems high.”

“If anything, it’s low,” Junpei muttered. “The only things I don’t think suck are you, mom and
mom’s vacuum cleaner. And the last's because the vacuum was broken.”

“You’re sure? I might have sucked a lot, lately. With you.”

Junpei shifted back, squinting to Yuji. “You might want to put that differently…? That sounds
kinda wrong.”

Yuji didn't seem to notice that.

“Well, I have. A lot,” Yuji answered, unbothered. “When I found you, I thought I’d fix everything.
That I’d change what happened? And, it is changing, but somehow, it keeps changing to be
worse.”

With each twist of Yuji’s touch, Junpei knew he could’ve pulled away. Maybe he should have,
even. The hand that Junpei had started to hold pulled away from his cheek.

“I didn’t know it was possible,” Yuji whispered, “That things could’ve gotten worse than what they
were.”

“...Worse than what?” Junpei whispered, unsure of the answer, or if he’d even formed the question
at all.

“I came from somewhere else, Junpei,” Yuji told him.

“You mean, like, another planet?”

Yuji shook his head. “No. More like, time?”

“...huh?”

Junpei leaned in, expectant. Yuji's shoulders fell back.

“Time and place, maybe?” Yuji’s shoulders fell back. He looked up towards the ceiling. “This is
gonna sound crazy. I just need you to trust me, okay? Hear me out. I wouldn’t lie.”

“You know, that’s what all the liars say, too."

“Yeah, and so do the ones who mean it. I mean it.” Yuji nodded once, and only once. When he’d
finished, he looked straight ahead. “It might not make sense, though. What happened is pretty
wild.”

“I grew a mouth out of my hand and shot fire,” Junpei countered, sitting up, “Is making sense still a
concern?”

“When you put it that way, guess not.”

Junpei bowed in, still watching.

“Mhm. When the world’s made of deceptions, then, I think, sometimes the craziest thing you can
say is the truth.”

With the extra space between them, Junpei reached down. He picked his blanket up from the bed
and allowed himself to burrow inside it. The cover dripped over his face, forming new protection
where his hair had shifted away.

A person who just days ago was a stranger to him took a heavy breath. The sound of it struck
through him, setting the pace of Junpei’s own to follow along.

“In the world I’m from, Junpei, you’re not cursed with Sukuna. I am,” said Yuji. “Back there, it’s
already next year. A lot of things happened, then, that shouldn’t have. And a lot of that’s on me.
There’s things I should’ve done, people I couldn’t save…”

Yuji’s hands tensed on his lap. Although a crease ran between his eyebrows, and a strain pulsed
between them. The gap was short, yet, this time, Junpei understood. The way that Yuji had
approached him at the movie theater, and the strange things he’d said at the time–to him, there was
a reason for them.

“One of those people was my mom, wasn’t it?”

Yuji didn’t answer. His kind brown eyes fell into his lap, his hands clenching as his posture spoke,
instead.

Junpei nodded to himself, his questions turning to understanding.

“And another one was me," Junpei guessed. “Where you came from, I’m not alive.”
More than one heartbeat passed in silence. A thought echoed in Junpei’s mind long before he heard
Yuji say. "...Yeah. Why'd you think that?"

“ ‘I can’t believe it, you’re not dead’?” Junpei repeated, reciting the words from when they’d first
met. “ ‘Your mom’s okay, too?’ That’s what you said when we met."

Yuji’s head fell lower. Where, before, he’d had some composure to force, now, he looked so much
smaller.

“...When you met this me,” Junpei corrected. “Not whoever you lost, before.”

“Junpei.”

The pace of Yuji’s breathing shattered. When he’d stopped, or why it shifted, Junpei couldn’t quite
tell. All he knew was that it changed. The corner of the blanket fell away from Junpei’s face, the
hood shifting to his shoulders, as Yuji grabbed him at either side.

“However screwed up this gets, or what Sukuna says about it, or me, it doesn’t matter.” Yuji’s grip
tightened, guiding Junpei’s attention until there was nowhere Junpei could look but to him. “I’m
not leaving you alone with this. This time, I’m gonna help, for real.”

The stagger between Yuji’s breaths left a gap. Junpei could have spoken, then. He didn’t.

“You don’t get to die, again, before I do,” said Yuji. “You’re going to live, or I’m dying first.”

With the conviction he’d spoken with, Yuji hadn’t left much room to argue. It wasn’t much of a
whisper, yet, Junpei still found room to mumble. “Didn’t you already die? In this world? You
said–”

Yuji shook his head. “This me. Here, now.”

The time they’d spent in the same room, as far as Junpei knew it, barely amounted to hours. To
Junpei, the person in front of him was one name away from being a stranger.

“Why do you care?” Junpei asked, nearly wheezing the words out of him. “I… I don’t know you.”

“Yeah. Well, I knew you. Your mom, too. You’re good people."

Junpei lowered his head, his posture bowing to match Yuji’s. His arms wrapped around each other,
huddling into the shield of his blanket.

“You’ve got the wrong Junpei. I’m not–” The argument broke in Junpei’s throat. He swallowed.
“I’m sorry. It’s just… Maybe he had my face? Or he knew the same movies, but, it can’t.
Couldn’t.”

The hands that held so tightly to himself loosened a little. Junpei’s shoulders found further to fall.
His head drifted forward enough to pass for a bow. “Itadori. I’m not the kind of person who
someone will miss, like you're saying. I’m not him.”

“Nah. That’s what he would’ve said, too.”

The quick and thorough silence muffled all the more. The fog of Junpei’s mind rolled across him,
only briefly, silencing his arguments as Yuji went on.
“You’re a good person, Junpei," Yuji told him. "Even if you don’t see it, or you’re confused. You
and your mom, you’re good…”

A light brush, so soft it could have easily been imagined, passed across Junpei’s shoulder. The
cover of his blanket hung steady, concealing him from the world–or, more importantly, the world
from him.

“You deserved better than this, or me, but let’s fight together. For real, this time."

Junpei clutched the covers. The fabric of his blanket bent to his hands, limp and useless. Quietly, he
mumbled back, “You sound like you’re quoting something…”

“Myself, maybe? I dunno. Don’t think so.” Yuji paused, considering. “...Do you want me to quote
something?”

Junpei shook his head. Quieter, still, he whispered. “You’re talking like you loved me.”

The same silence that had rung through Junpei’s mind since opening his eyes fell farther than it
ever had. The heaviness swallowed even the sound of Yuji’s breath.

“I think…” Yuji trailed off.

“I’d hope you did?” Junpei cut in. “Seems like a problem, if you don’t think.”

An absolute stillness, thick and impenetrable, stretched the pace between them even as Yuji’s hand
brushed the blanket. Through the corner of Junpei’s eye, he saw Yuji’s head fall. Yuji’s posture
sank, drifting forward to rest flat on his knees.

“Itadori…”

Junpei started to bow forward. He peered up, lower, looking for some sign of life back from the
other side.

“Itadori, it’s…” Junpei almost started to lie, to say it was fine. He bowed his head down, too. “You
don’t have to talk,” he said, instead. “I won’t care if it’s quiet.”

Yuji’s hands clenched, his fingers twisting to a fist, still shaking. No matter how much he’d tensed,
or willed himself to look focused, Yuji was still shaking. He spoke up. “I could have?”

“Huh?” Junpei blinked. “Could’ve what?”

Yuji’s hands tightened in his lap. Where he could’ve reached out, instead, he clutched his knees in
shaking hands. “Could’ve loved you.” Yuji’s shaking turned to clenching, and the clenching turned
his knuckles white.

“If it was what you wanted, too? And we’d had time? Then, yeah. Maybe, I could…” Yuji
staggered. “...I wish we’d had time. That I could just… know, you know? That I could tell you I
did, for sure?”

Where Yuji’s hands twisted at his knees, Junpei felt the same in his chest. He let his hand loosen,
pulling the blanket back down.
“I don’t think you should. Wish that, I mean,” Junpei mumbled in turn. “Wouldn’t that be worse? If
it’s not a movie, then, isn’t loving asking for pain? No matter what you feel, or do, the only
outcome is getting hurt.”

It was what made sense. Until now, the times Junpei cared for anyone had all ended horribly. His
friends turned their backs on him. Teachers turned a blind eye. The things he’d put effort into all
ended in being mocked, or tormented, or just called wrong. The best thing to do, for his own sake,
was to have no passion at all.

Junpei knew the logic. He’d learned that lesson, time and time again, not to leave parts of himself
for other people. He knew it, and yet, he heard Yuji, too.

“It already hurts,” Yuji’s voice cracked. “At least then, it’s worth something, right?”

The silence fell, one more time, until Yuji could force his own breath.

“You’re alive,” Yuji repeated, less like a fact than a marvel–as if, if he’d been given one wish, it
was what he would’ve chosen. “Maybe you’re different, and some other guy. I’m not saying
anything to you, I swear. I just… I wish I’d had time to know what to tell you. We didn’t get that
before. Me and you. Or, the other you.”

The past three days had been almost nothing but nightmares. Junpei knew what to make of it.
Scrambled, and anguished, trapped in a horror movie. Junpei understood his place in a world like
that. He could strive to keep his distance, or learn to play the victim. But in this kind of a story,
where someone claimed to care about him? In this, all Junpei could do was keep still.

“You know,” said Yuji, starting a sentence that Junpei very much didn’t know, “In a way, I kinda
traveled the multiverse for you?”

There was a gap–a single second–where that sentence stood alone. Then, Yuji fell into a mumble.
“...Unless that sounds dumb.”

“Multiverse?”

“Uh…”

“Maybe it does sound dumb,” Junpei cut in, “Not you. The ‘multiverse’ part.”

“It does?”

“Just a little? Like, slightly?”

“Is there another way to put it, you think? I’d say universe, but, there’s gotta be at least two of
them, now. And Duo-verse doesn’t feel right.”

“I don’t think duo-verse is a word…?"

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuji nodded along. “Or it’s where the Duolingo bird lives.”

Junpei tried not to snicker. "Don't bring Duolingo into this."

For all the horrible things that had happened around them both, Junpei knew only one part was
certain. Mangled, and muddled, and almost incomprehensible as it was, Yuji was telling the truth.
At the end of the thought, before the silence could invade again, Junpei murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Yuji said, almost in unison. It took to the end of the sentence for his head to raise.
His eyes set wider, too, as he pointed right back. “Wait, why are you sorry?”

“That you had to live with it?” Junpei guessed, his own uncertainty raising the words. “With the
almost, I mean.”

“It’s okay,” Yuji said. For the first time all night, Junpei knew he was lying. Before he could raise
his voice or his head to point it out, though, Yuji added. “...I’d rather have our almost than to not
have met you at all.”

Again, and again, Junpei knew he kept breaking. However strong the person in front of him was,
Junpei hadn’t been built to match it.

“...Why?” Junpei asked, quietly. “Itadori…”

The quiet Junpei felt inside himself churned louder. Where, before, he’d known the silence, now, he
heard the echo of his pulse. Blood flowed through his ears, flooding his body with awareness of
each sound of his heart.

“...Why would I be worth this? It’s going to hurt you.” Junpei asked, in a whimper. “I don’t want to
hurt you.”

“It’s worth it because you don’t want to hurt me,” Yuji argued. He nudged closer, leaning in. His
hand raised, pulling up at the edge of Junpei’s blanket to join him under the veil of his hood. “And
because you like Earthworm Man 2, too. Because you’d watch a slasher most people think is dumb,
even when you’re squeamish, to find something good beneath the gore, anyway. That’s way more
than enough. So are you.”

This version of himself had done nothing to deserve kindness. Junpei knew that, too. He knew it
just as well as he could tell that, for some reason, Yuji Itadori was the kind of person that didn’t
think kindness was something to earn. It just was.

Junpei couldn’t remember the last time he’d met someone like this. He’d stopped believing, until
this second, that a person like this could still survive in the world. Maybe surviving was a stretch,
with the pain in his stare, but the Yuji in front of him was alive.

Junpei closed his eyes. He realized, quietly, that if he was in some kind of story right now, it most
likely was a slasher–and Junpei had, in fact, still found something good. Yuji.

The heaviness of the past three days pushed down Junpei’s back. He allowed himself to lean
forward, swaying slightly to rest on Yuji’s shoulder. At first, Junpei meant to simply let go–to
collapse into his own weakness, then say nothing at all. Then, he felt Yuji’s arm wrap around his
shoulder, guiding him closer.

“I’ve got you,” Yuji said, and nothing more. No mockery. No jokes. Not even a kind lie. All Yuji
did, for that second, was hold him. “I’m here, Junpei. As long as you want me. Or even if you don’t
want me. You won’t fight this alone.”

Junpei turned into Yuji’s touch, his inner walls crashing. He opened his arms, and the blanket,
wrapping both of them around Yuji as tightly as he could. Every bit of strength left in his body
centered in his arms as he started to hold him. Before long, Yuji’s arms wrapped back, cradling him
tight.

A sob wracked Junpei’s body. He cried, mourning for a death he’d never known, and for the person
who’d survived him. And as wave after wave crashed through him, at the peak of a wail, a distant
thought caught between the sobs. He wondered if, maybe, this other him might have loved Yuji.

He wondered if, despite all the bullshit that lead to this moment, maybe he already did, too.
The Last Ones Awake
 Nagi Yoshino

July 21, 2018

Water dripped from a broken pipe, tapping unsteady rhythms on the tile. The dining table slanted
under her, dripping to the side. Like so much of the apartment, that, too, was broken. It hadn’t been
this way before.

Nagi’s arms wrapped around her, forming the closest thing she would get to a pillow. After all, a
stranger was bleeding in her bedroom. If she was lucky, he hadn’t died yet. Her eyelids fluttered
shut, willing her consciousness away.

“If I’m lucky, huh,” Nagi yawned, the words slurring as if she were still asleep. “Never had to think
that, before. Luck’s in the name.”

Nagi supposed, distantly, that she’d never considered herself lucky in either direction. Good, or
bad, most of the things that happened in her life had felt closer to consequences than turns of
fortune. Just as in Go, a move that seemed right could change in a second if she lost sight of the
bigger pattern.

There was no pattern to what had happened, here, at least not as she could see it. The only
definition she had for where she was now was a disaster she’d survived.

A white haired stranger was sprawled across her tattered couch. His heavy breathing, just short of
snoring, mixed with the drip of the pipe. Puffs of cotton stuffing burst out as he flopped over,
making himself comfortable in the ruins of what had once been Nagi’s There was a mundane
calmness about how his limbs mangled around each other, like he was used to this kind of disaster.
Maybe he was.

Slowly, quietly, Nagi leaned across the crooked table. She stretched her arms over her head in a
yawn. A midnight sky shown behind the drapes, a murky, uniform black, without a cloud in sight.

“It looks so normal,” Nagi murmured, her voice barely rising above a whisper. “Guess they really
did evacuate. Thought the neighbors would hear.”

The questions in her statement fell out into the world. The world didn’t answer.

With a heavy breath of her own, Nagi craned her neck down the hall. She squinted through the
darkness for the light under Junpei’s bedroom door. A faded, bluish glow flickered from the other
side, a lopsided fan whirring.

There was no reason to think what was on the other side had changed from the last five times she’d
checked. As badly as things had gone, her son was still alive. She and he had come through the
worst day of their lives and found the other side of midnight, still breathing.

The glasses the black haired sorcerer had given her hung from the collar of her shirt. Nagi flicked
her wrist, opening the frame. She pushed the glasses up the bridge of her nose. A reflection of the
moon bounced off the lenses. Aside from the spots, nothing else changed. A shattered vase was still
sprawled across the floor. Picture frames knocked askew. Books she’d never bothered reading lay
face-down, pages soaked, pieces missing. People she had never met distorted the air. The pipe
under the sink kept on dripping.

If this was a normal disaster, then Nagi would have known what to do. She would call the insurance
company about the damage to her stuff, and then the landlord, to handle the repairs. She’d scramble
to call a friend from the Go parlor who had a spare room. If he didn’t, then, she’d go right back to
the landlord to find out what their insurance would cover for places to stay. Then, when she knew
where they’d spend the next night, Nagi would find breakfast. Considering she hadn’t found dinner,
or yesterday’s lunch, that was kind of important by now.

If things were normal, she understood what to do next. But, they weren’t.

As she stared across the room, Nagi caught her own reflection in the living room window. A crack
ran through the glass, splitting her face in two. A discolored, wine-colored bruise crawled up her
neck, streaking into the bottom of her cheek. She raised a hand to the mark, feeling the ripples that
tore through her skin. From the color to the crevices, she expected the spot to hurt. Instead, she
couldn’t feel her own touch.

“...Well, shit,” Nagi mumbled to her reflection. “Do I have breakfast for five? All I bought before I
left was booze.”

Her hand fell from her face, and her eyes from the image of herself. She stood up from the table,
her back cracking, as she walked back into a disaster she didn’t know. Her house slippers sank
against the ground as she rounded the corner into the kitchen.

A few of the cabinet doors fell from their hinges. One hung on by a single screw, squeaking in the
air. The pipes kept dripping.

Nagi marched over a fallen chunk of a cabinet on her way to the cutlery drawer. She pulled on the
handle repeatedly, jostling it however she could.

“Oh, come on,” she grunted, shaking it again. “Seriously? I just–”

On the third shake, the drawer popped open, revealing what was inside. A tray of forks, knives,
spoons and chopsticks all set to the left. To the right, a box of zipper lock sandwich bags nestled
away. Nagi reached under the sandwich bags, unearthing a carton of cigarettes. She plucked one
from the packet and clutched it between her teeth as she took a lighter from her pocket.

The familiar pressure of the lighter’s wheel scratched across her thumb. She raised the flame to the
tip of the cigarette, holding steady until she saw the dim orange start to glow. The sweet relief of
her vice set inside her, numbing one anxiety while the others burned away.

Nagi slipped her lighter into her pocket. Then, she put the rest of the cigarettes back into their
hiding spot. Her hand was still in the sandwich bag box when she heard someone else.

“You shouldn’t be smoking.”

Nagi pulled the cigarette back. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Seems like a day for things I shouldn’t do.”

Nagi tapped a finger against the cigarette, knocking a spare bit of soot from the tip. With how much
dust, dirt and debris was everywhere else, a little extra ash didn’t make a difference.
The familiar silhouette of the man with a topknot stood in the doorway. His shoulders held a
slouch, yet it was so slight, the way he held himself seemed rehearsed, anyway. He tapped at the
side of his face, just beneath his eyes.

“You don’t need to wear those, if my colleagues or I are nearby,” the man said, gesturing through
the moonlight towards the glasses.

Nagi took another puff.

“How’m I supposed to know who your colleagues are? I don’t even know your name,” she let out a
breath, exhaling smoke between them. “Heck, all I know right now is you’re breaking and entering
with extra breaking.”

“My colleagues are sorcerers,” he answered. “Most can be identified by wearing something black.
It’s a uniform, of sorts.”

Nagi raised an eyebrow. “Something black is a uniform?”

Even in the near darkness, Nagi saw him nod. “Yes.”

Nagi took a heavy breath. “Yeah, well, you might have to look up what uniform means, bud. Lots
of people wear black. Heck, most people do. I’ve got black on all the time.”

“I suppose our kind isn't much for uniformity,” the black haired man nodded along. The lone lock
of his bangs swayed into his eyes. “My apologies.”

“Eh. My acceptances.” Nagi shrugged. “Could go for a name, though. Calling ‘hey, you’ only
works when there’s just one of you.”

The black haired man lowered his head. Distant and dim as the gesture was, there was still some
respect to it.

“Suguru Geto. It’s nice to meet you,” he paused. “I imagine, on your end, it isn’t the same.”

“Good imagination, you got there, Geto. It’s not,” she answered, “Nagi Yoshino.”

Nagi looked away, back towards the slanted table. The pair of scythes Suguru had pulled out of
nothingness still lay on the slope. The outline of the metal curves shined clearly, the one clean thing
in the middle of a mess she couldn’t fix, or even explain.

Nagi took another drag from the cigarette. The smoke parted with a puff as she looked across the
way, to face someone she barely saw at all.

“You up for grub? Good with gluten?” she asked casually. “Not much in the cabinets, but, I think I
might have pancake mix left. Long as the stove’s not busted, too.”

For the first time, the black-haired near-stranger paused. “...You don’t have to. Not for my sake, at
least.”

“It’s for my sake,” Nagi answered back, “I’m hungry. If you wanna watch me eat, alone, that’s your
call.”
Nagi couldn’t see, exactly, what kind of look Suguru had given her back. She supposed, if there
was one, it was acceptance. “Sure, then. If it isn’t imposing. And if the stove is safe, of course.”

“Eh, it’d better be. If it’s not, it’s dry cereal,” Nagi pushed back her hair, holding back a sigh, too.
She inhaled, instead, allowing one last push of nicotine to soothe her nerves. “Milkless cereal kinda
sucks, though. Feels like eating pet food. All the crunching.”

There was a quick pause.

“You…” Suguru started to ask. He nearly corrected himself, only to stop right again. “Have you
tried pet food? Why?”

Nagi snickered. “You’re not the only one with an imagination, man-buns.”

With that, Nagi snuck past Suguru. She rose to the tips of her toes, then reached into a cabinet,
feeling around for the box. “Oh, come on. You’re in here…”

A few seconds of rummaging later, Nagi was able to grab the box. She swayed back, again, then
checked the burner to see if it would light. It did. She was just turning the burner off when Suguru
spoke up.

“The glasses suit you.”

Nagi twisted the burner off. She snapped her head over her shoulder. “If you’re trying to flirt, I’m
about five hours sleep and a functional apartment away from the mood, buddy.”

Suguru’s smile settled in place, his eyes closing into the expression. “It’s a compliment, not flirting.
I assure you, you’re not my type.”

“Good. Cause these are courtesy pancakes, not some effort to get in your giant pants.”

“My pants are perfectly normal.”

“Yeah,” Nagi shrugged, “For a hot air balloon. Looks like they’d puff up if you got gas.”

Suguru’s hands flattened at his side. His smile didn’t budge, his words snapping back so quickly
and uniformly, he hadn’t seemed to think about them. “I’d expect as much from a monkey.”

“A–” Nagi turned away from the stove. “...huh?”

When she’d gotten a clear look at Suguru, his hand was covering his mouth. His eyes set wide. The
already narrow dots seemed to bulge with shock. The color flushed from his face.

Nagi didn’t say anything. She held still, not reaching for what she’d meant to do. Her breath held
for a second, but just a second, before she spoke up through a new grin.

“What’d you mean, man? Like, that insult was bananas?”

Suguru didn’t answer. His hands tensed at his side, flattening his pants even more. Nagi leaned
back against the counter, settling in.

“I mean, you can like baggy clothing? It’s no big,” Nagi tried to tell him. As soon as she said it, she
snickered at herself. “No big except the sizing, anyway! As long as they don’t fall down, I don’t
really care.”

Suguru’s head fell. He closed his eyes. His hand stayed in place, still blocking his mouth from
view, almost as if he was going to be sick. Or, Nagi supposed, like he was forcing something
down.

“It was a gas leak,” he said, the words even quieter than before. “Insurance will cover the damage,
of course.”

Nagi turned back towards Suguru. Her hair parted across her shoulder. “What kind of gas leak lets
me still use the stove…?”

Suguru didn’t answer. His hand shifted down his chin, barely covering his mouth.

“What kind of gas leak,” Nagi pressed on, “Grows fangs, and eyes, and possesses your damn kid?”

“...The kind ordinary people can’t explain.”

There was a way Suguru spoke the word that Nagi couldn’t place. It was faint, so much so that if
she wasn’t listening for it, she might not have caught it at all. There was a twinge at the word
ordinary–like he hadn’t liked to say it.

“You’d be surprised,” Suguru continued, “The minds of non-sorcerers aren’t equipped to

comprehend curses. In most cases, even if a sorcerer takes no measures to maintain secrecy, those
without cursed energy will create new explanations–ones more suitable than the truth.”

“Why?” Nagi asked quickly, “..almost sounds like you’ve got a problem with it.”

Suguru didn’t answer that, either.

“It’s unusual,” he said, instead, “That you haven’t started making new explanations already.”

The end of her cigarette kept burning. Nagi flicked new ashes to the floor. She took a drag, then
leaned back against her side of the counter.

“What other explanation would there be?” she asked, “Unless someone drugged me from hell to
Alaska.”

“Exactly,” Suguru nodded. Another lock of his hair fell over his face, hiding his eyes with the first.
“Assuming you’d hallucinated would be a normal response.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t aiming for normal.”

Nagi opened the box of pancake mix. She poured it into the mixing bowl. Her eyes trailed past the
kitchen into the hallway. The same dull, blue light lingered under Junpei’s bedroom door.

Nagi’s voice fell to a murmur, words barely forming under her breath. “...Kinda hard to, with him.”

There was no doubt in Nagi’s mind, anymore. Yesterday, one hour ago, was the worst day of her
life to date. What kept it from being the worst day permanently was that Junpei was still breathing.

Nagi took the last puff of her cigarette. She put it out against the side of the mixing bowl. The nib
kept searing, new smoke rising. She brought the bowl to the sink, measuring some in.
“So, what’s the deal with Junpei?” Nagi spoke up. “Is he like you, or something?”

“It’s complicated. Closer to ‘or something’,” Suguru answered. “From what I can tell, he’s
something we call a vessel. A living being who shares their body with a curse. Satoru claims he’s
shown full control. If that stays true, then, the curse’s threat should be minimal. Our superiors
won’t like it, though.”

Nagi turned the water off with her elbow. “Superiors?” she squinted. “So, what, like there’s a
sorcerer king? Thought that was a manga.”

“More like a president,” Suguru answered, “But yes.”

Nagi picked up a whisk and started to mix the water in. The batter bubbled, frothing as the powder
thickened.

“And?” she asked between mixes.

The dots of Suguru’s stare came to meet her, barely. “...And?”

“And what’s the plan to get it out?”

Suguru’s eyes fell. He looked back at her with a fading stare, as if there was something she
should’ve known, and didn’t. “I’m sorry,” he said, quieter than before.

The true answer fell in what he wouldn’t say.

“Well, shit. Who’d we call, then?” Nagi asked between whisks. “This sorcerer president guy?”

“Woman. She isn’t called a president, either,” Suguru corrected. “And no. You won’t want that.”

Nagi scraped at the side of the bowl. “So, you’re an expert on my opinion?”

“If the powers that be are made aware of him, your son’s best outcome would be his execution,”
Suguru answered. “So, yes. In this case, I think I am.”

Nagi stopped mixing. “What the hell’s the worst outcome, then?”

Nagi hadn’t expected an answer. She got one.

“Human experimentation,” Suguru told her. “A live dissection, most likely.”

Nagi put the bowl down. The bowl of batter fell still. She leaned into Suguru’s face, bracing to yell.
He didn’t let her.

“Ma’am, the curse inside your son is the strongest–”

“Don’t you ma’am me, you–” Nagi reached for Suguru's collar, clenching to pull him close. Before
she could, Suguru caught her hand in his own. He tapped her fist back, nudging her away.

“Yoshino-san, then,” Suguru exhaled. “Once a curse bonds to a vessel, there’s no means to separate
them unless the curse leaves of its own free will.”

“Then, make it leave! Can’t you throw salt or prayer beads at it?”
The “no” Suguru gave her was so short and thoughtless, Nagi went right on.

“Play the Hokey Pokey until it turns itself around and dies of annoyance?”

“No–”

Suguru pushed Nagi’s hand back. A flash of his own irritation quickly dulled back into calm.

“If a curse bonds to a host, in any form, the only ways to break that bond are death, or for the curse
to be bonded to a new vessel. With lower grade curses, that death can be temporary to still break
the connection. For something as powerful as Ryomen Sukuna, even that won’t do. Barring the
curse voluntarily releasing him, the bond is permanent. I’m sorry.”

The way he spoke, that time, should have left no room to argue. Nagi knew that. She knew it so
well, she started to raise her hand to slap him. Then, she set the same hand down. She fell back
against the counter, nearly knocking her bowl off the side. The streaks of white tainting her hair
flopped into her eyes.

“Sukuna, huh?” Nagi deflated. “Like, from the Nihon Shoki? Now, there’s a throwback.”

Nagi felt the pause in the air, and the pressure of Suguru looking back at her with suspicion and
surprise. She snapped up to meet his stare.

“What? Like I wouldn’t know the Shoki? I took history.”

There was a pause, again, one which carried a sentence Suguru didn’t say.

“...Then you know what he can be,” Suguru said, instead. “What danger you and your son are in,
now.”

Nagi took a breath. She craned her neck, watching down the hall. The dim blue light flickered
under Junpei’s door.

It had been a long time, Nagi thought, since she’d bothered learning that kind of history. She had
only read the Nihon Shoki for some distant historical context on the Nara period, back when she’d
still been an Insei. Studying the culture that had surrounded Japan when Go first reached the
country gave context for the players and techniques she’d been studying at the time. The specifics
of what had been said about different dissidents, including two-faced Sukuna, were a distant blur.

“So, what, now?” Nagi kept her voice low, minding the people on the other side of the door. “We
go into hiding, and spend his whole life aiming not to die?”

Suguru lowered his head. The lock of his bangs swayed across the bridge of his nose.

“No,” Suguru whispered back, “Tell no one. If your son truly has control, now, then, that won’t
change–not unless he takes in more of Sukuna. As long as he stops here, he can still live as a
vessel. No one will sense his presence if he doesn’t use its power.”

“...And how’d I keep that from happening? The ‘keeping extra Sukuna out of him’ thing.”

Yet again, Suguru gave her a look. This time, Nagi shot it back.

“C’mon,” she nudged, “No answers, no pancakes.”

Suguru’s expression flattened. “I never asked for the pancakes,” he said. “You offered them.”

“Then, I’ll un-offer.”

“You–”

A thud shook a bedroom door. Broken hinges squealed with strain. A distorted, heavy breath sank
through. Nagi turned past the light, towards the next one. Her grip shook on the countertop. The
sound was behind a bedroom door, but it wasn’t Junpei’s. It was hers.

Suguru raised a hand, gesturing Nagi away. “Get back.”

Nagi didn’t mean to listen. For that second, she had.

The sorcerer left the kitchen, the steaming skillet, and her. He pushed at the door from the other
end, nudging his way inside.

“Nanami,” Suguru called, the tone so soft, Nagi could barely recognize the syllables he’d spoken.
She grabbed a lid from the kitchen cabinets, turned off the stove, and tread closer. She swayed
towards the sound, listening in.

“Nanami, lie down,” Suguru ordered sharply. “Get some rest for now.”

“Damn it,” Nanami huffed, his anger barely forming in the strain to breathe. “Don’t you remember
the last time you said that?”

Suguru’s head lowered, neering a bow. “I do. It’s the same now.”

Nagi rose to the balls of her feet. She peered into the narrow space, over Suguru’s shoulder, to take
in what she could of the aftermath. The glasses she’d never needed before slid down the bridge of
her nose.

Suguru whispered, his tone as soothing as his words weren’t. “We’re not losing you, too. Not
today.”
Suguru lowered himself to one knee, hovering over Nanami. A twisted purple spot tore into the
side of Nanami’s chest, bruised, brutal, and bloodless. A feverish sort of sweat dripped from
Nanami’s brow.

“I shouldn’t have agreed, this mission, to include students,” Nanami huffed in pain. “When the
location changed. Or even, before.”

Suguru’s hand paused. The rest of him followed, freezing with regret.

“We should have known, the likelihood of a special grade,” Nanami grunted. “Initial
reconnaissance, that’s not enough.”

“If you rejected the mission, who else would have gone?” Suguru asked back. Though the sentence
was supposed to have confidence, he sounded hollow.

“Just rest. Sleep. See tomorrow for me,” Suguru told him, the words still dripping at a hush. He
picked up a washcloth from a bowl at the end table, then ran it over Nanami’s forehead. “That’s all
you need to do.”
The stroke of the cloth didn’t quell the pain. Even under the cloth, Nanami’s brow creased, his
mouth falling to a frown with the strain of surviving.

“But,” Nanami grunted, the distorted flesh of his wound pulling taut as he breathed, “Miwa…”

Suguru said nothing.

“Shh–”

With only traces of starlight through the window, Nagi couldn’t see that much of either of them as
she walked inside. Still, she’d known where her bed was well enough to stop at the edge. She
bowed deep enough that her glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose, nearly falling, yet not
quite making it there. Her hand brushed a little higher than Suguru’s had just been, stroking the
washcloth across Nanami’s forehead.

“Cool down, hot stuff,” Nagi tried to joke back, a little more gently than before. “I don’t think
dying’s the right look for ya.”

The silence turned. Where, before, it was a quiet from sorrow, now, the quiet was confused. Nagi
took the reprieve as a sign to keep filling the air.

“You look better without the tie,” Nagi joked, leaning a little bit closer in. “Only tie a guy like
you’s gotta know how to tie is the knot, right?”

“What,” Nanami huffed, “are you talking about?”

“...Marriage?” Nagi joked. “That’s what tying the knot means. Unless you’re a sailor.”

Even in his strained state, Nanami managed to utter back. “This isn’t appropriate.”

Nagi smiled. “Thank God. I hate being appropriate.”

Everything about this situation, until this moment, had felt so dour. Even if it was just for a second,
watching someone’s sadness turn to baffled disapproval felt relaxing. Normal, even.

“I’ve gotta say, usually if I’m getting this kinda look from someone, it’s some old fart. You’re
young. What is it, are you an old soul, or have you got some kinda sorcery thing that makes you
look young and hot when you’re eighty?”

Nagi put so little thought into what was coming out or in her mouth, she didn’t expect an answer.
She just ended up laughing.

The pause she’d given Nanami gave Suguru time enough, too. He leaned forward, adjusting the
position of the cloth one more time. Suguru set the cloth to cover Nanami’s eyes. Then, Suguru
tapped his thumb at the pressure point in Nanami’s forehead. In an instant, all the consciousness
and judgment in Nanami’s narrowed stare flickered out, his body crashing asleep.

Suguru lifted from his bow, if only a little, just enough to look Nagi in the eyes. His hands folded
onto his lap.

“Thank you,” said Suguru. Before Nagi could finish opening her mouth to ask why, he added, “You
did well, distracting him.”
“Distraction?”

“Your flirting. It helped lower his guard. There was enough tension gone that I could put him to
sleep.”

“What distraction?” Nagi blinked. “He’s hot. Like a naughty accountant.”

Nagi pushed her glasses back into place, seeing nothing, now, except for the outline of a normal,
highly skeptical stare from Suguru.

“What’s that look for?” she asked back, her head tilting as she squinted at the dark and gloomy blur
of whatever Suguru was doing. “What, like you didn’t notice? Those khakis scream ‘take me off’,
and not off the rack from UNIQLO.”

Nagi could only imagine what kind of look Suguru was giving her in his silence, now. She laughed
into her hand–not mockingly, or from nervousness. A true, genuine laugh of relief. Junpei was safe
in the next room. Nothing was being attacked. In that one, dark moment, the world seemed
imperfect in the way she was used to.

Suguru leaned in.

“Don’t worry,” Suguru told her. “I’ll get Nanami out of here in the morning. Then, we’ll figure out
the rest. I can’t promise we can protect your son’s future, but I can promise we’ll try.”

“We? You’re making promises for me, now?”

“I meant Satoru,” Suguru corrected. “He’ll be strong enough to follow through.”

“And you’re not?” Nagi pressed back. “Since that’s not a we.”

A pause Suguru didn’t mean to give passed between him and Nagi. The look on his face, when she
said it, was one Nagi had seen before. It was the look someone gave her on the other side of a Go
board when she’d made a pattern they hadn’t seen. It was the look of someone who could recognize
defeat when it had started, but not enough to prevent it in the first place.

The sorcerer before her took a breath. He pulled his expression back into the mask of a smile,
aiming to give nothing away.

“You should get some sleep, as well,” said Suguru. “I’ll keep watch.”

The man who’d been defeated, and kept showing it, Nagi trusted to be sincere. Suguru wasn’t.

Nagi stood up from the bedside, and the unconscious sorcerer on her bedroom floor. The lenses of
her new glasses flared as her eyes turned towards the conscious one, instead. She raised her arms
over her head and cracked her neck.

“Nah, I’ll watch. You sleep.” She flashed him a grin, matching the glint in his own. “You gave me
the curvy swords for a reason, right? I can handle it.”

“They’re called scythes,” Suguru countered, “And you hardly have to counter anything. You should
rest.”
“Don’t need to know the name to stab something with ‘em.” Nagi rolled her shoulders. “Besides.
I’ve got pancakes to put on. Batter’s not getting any fluffier just sitting around.”

In what little view the dark could give her, Nagi saw the sway in Suguru’s bun. He nodded along.
She reached for the door, opening the way out in silence. A narrow sliver of light strayed through
the hall, the steady pulse beneath Junpei’s door gleaming with proof he was still there.

Nagi’s foot stepped out into the hall. Her head turned over her shoulders, looking back to Suguru
one more time. “And you don’t think I’ll forget this in the morning, right?”

Suguru’s eyes didn’t open. His head lowered, speaking through a reluctant smile. “You’re a very
strange woman,” he said, “so, no. I don’t.”

The narrow light from the hallway forged an outline of Suguru’s face. She didn’t trust it was true.

“If there’s something else I’ve got to do, then, tell me,” Nagi told him, still watching. “If it protects
Junpei, I’ll do it. Normal or not.”

“I see…”

“You see with your eyes closed?” she asked. “What’s that, another sorcerer technique?”

Suguru opened his eyes to meet hers. “...Not that kind of see.”

Nagi watched for the signs of what emotions would betray him. Most people had them. A twitch in
the eyebrow, or a curl of the lip. No matter how well someone believed they’d composed
themselves, something small would sneak through. The most Nagi could see when she watched
Suguru was his focus. Her attempts to read him were met with an echo of his tries to read her. Their
eyes crossed. Then, he looked away.

“What you said,” Suguru murmured, his words drifting like a wave. “It’s the same reason I had,
when I became a sorcerer.”

It didn’t sound like a lie.

“Huh,” Nagi mused. “You did this for your kid?”

“Not at the time. It was for my father, back then. He was cursed constantly,” Suguru told her. From
the gentleness in his voice, it seemed more like he was speaking to himself. “He worked in a
hospital. Curses flocked to him, there. No matter what I did, or how kind he was to others, they
swarmed him all the time. They’d look like illnesses to him. Viruses he couldn’t shake.”

Nagi pushed her hair behind her ear, adjusting the frames of her borrowed glasses on the way.
“That’s great, but I'm not a sorcerer.”

From everything Suguru had said, to that point, he had every reason to agree.

“Not now, no,” Suguru whispered, “Not yet. For that to change, for someone like you, you’d have
to go through hell.”

“...And what’s ‘like me’?”

The smile on Suguru’s face pulled up a little tighter. When his eyes opened, it didn’t reach the
whole way.

“I think you’ll walk hell for him a thousand times over. If it was my daughter, I would, too.”

“Oh, no,” Nagi snickered, “You’re relating to me.”

Nagi spared one more look down the hall, back to that fading, steady blue light. At some point,
soon, she’d go check again to make sure nothing had changed. For now, the silence from Junpei’s
bedroom was good enough.

“How old is she?” Nagi asked, her own voice quieting. “Your daughter.”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen??” Nagi snapped back to Suguru in shock. “When did you have her, at twelve ?”

The answer hadn’t mattered. All Suguru did was smile. A laugh he finally meant followed along.
He hid the sound behind his hand.

“I could ask the same of you,” Suguru countered, “She’s adopted, though. Nanako.”

“Okay, now you’re really trying to flatter me.”

Nagi took the next step towards the broken kitchen. It wasn’t long before Suguru’s steps set behind
her, following her down the hall. She turned on the burner, warming the skillet back up.

The night dragged on towards the morning, stuck in the wreckage of this life with a bunch of
weirdos Nagi didn’t know. All she’d known for certain, now, was that yesterday was the worst day
of her life. Today might not be.
 Call Out
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 Suguru Geto

July 21, 2018

At 10:00 pm the night before, Suguru and Gojo had promised to share duties by keeping watch at
the door. Even knowing that most sorcerers would have been called to the incidents at the
Kawasaki Warehouse or Satozakura High School, there was a chance one would be sent to the
Yoshinos apartment to follow up. Nanami was too dependable not to have logged when he left the
first scene. The higher-ups would know where to find them. It was just a matter of lacking a
sorcerer to come.

At 10:30 pm, Suguru agreed to take the first shift. It hadn’t been long after that until the strongest
had left.

An hour before midnight, Suguru watched Gojo fall asleep. He never planned to wake him. If there
was someone responsible for keeping watch over this mess, it felt right it was Suguru.

Two hours after midnight, the vessel’s mother woke up. Some time after that, Suguru watched her
fall asleep at the table. He didn’t move her, or himself. His eyes held steady, watching the still
frame of a door.

The presence of a curse shifted inside Suguru’s palm. Although there was no way to see her,
Suguru could feel Rika’s presence, stirring under his skin. The same questions with no answers
churned through her, screaming out a name Suguru only knew through this cry.

Suguru closed his hand, his fingers folding over his palm. The essence of the curses he held inside
himself pushed down with it, the emptiness that his absence left stifling in Suguru’s grip.

There was no purpose in feeling sympathy for a curse. For most of his life, Suguru understood that.
It was moments like this one, where Suguru could hear Rika in the quiet, that tricked him
otherwise. As far from human as his so-called Queen of Curses could be, the burden of loneliness
was an ache he knew, too. A few days ago, Suguru would have thought he would know it forever.

A light rose on the table. Gojo’s phone vibrated across the slope, the surface shaking with each
ring. The slight angle of the table made the phone bounce towards Suguru’s arm. He pressed his
hand over the phone, forcing it still. Traces of light poured from the screen, the incoming call
steady.

The contact on screen had no name, just numbers. Suguru knew the number. The foreign dialing
code, +1-313, was too unusual to be anyone else.

Slowly, Suguru slid his hand, and the phone, towards himself. He stood up, retracting himself from
the table and from the woman sleeping at the other side. Then, he picked up.

“Touta.”

The voice on the other side answered instantly.

“There was no residual on the scene when I got there,” said Touta. “Wherever he went off to, he’s
not leaving a trail. Either he wiped it, or he blew it up.”
“Most people would start with hello.”

“Most people have time for that crap. We don’t,” Touta argued. “Where’s Gojo?”

Suguru leaned against the counter. Faint lights passed through the broken window, casting shadows
over his face. “Predisposed,” answered Suguru. “Whatever you say, I’ll pass on. It’s best we don’t
leave messages.”

If the higher-ups did become aware of Gojo, even if they did somehow believe he was separate
from their world’s Satoru, there was no doubt in Suguru’s mind they would see him as a threat.

“What’s best is taking a nap, then going home,” Touta grumbled. “I don’t think best’s on the menu.
Not with two Satoru. Things were shit enough with one.”

For someone without time, Suguru couldn’t help but notice Touta spent a good deal of it
complaining. He didn’t mention that, either.

“I reported it to the manager on scene,” Touta added. “Should make it to your higher-ups that
Satoru’s involved.” he sighed. “Can’t believe I had to let on I’m in the country. Was trying to stay
out of this crap…”

“My apologies, then.”

“Don’t,” Touta argued. “We both know who owes me. Same brat who won’t pay.”

“The most reviled curse user, and you’re calling him ‘brat’...?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Touta huffed. “It’s true.”

Suguru couldn’t say he was wrong.

“A lack of respect wouldn’t be what most people consider his identifying feature, now,” Suguru
answered, instead.

There was a quick pause on the other side. The breath was so short, Suguru might not have heard
Touta’s skepticism if he wasn’t listening for it.

“If that’s all you had to say, then, I’ve gotta get back to the scene. Some bigwig’s about to chew my
ear off about active sorcery without a license.” Suguru could practically hear Touta roll his eyes.
“Like that’s our problem. No one needs licenses in America, you just exorcize this shit and go
home.”

Suguru stepped deeper into the kitchen. Important as this conversation could be, everyone else in
this apartment was still sleeping. It was best to keep it that way. He leaned over the sink, dropping
his voice as much as he could. “Are they not with you now, then?”

The line was quiet. Then, three words. “Yeah. I’m alone.”

The tension in Suguru’s stomach steadied to calm. His hand tensed on the phone. “Good.”

There was no guarantee that was true.

Theoretically, if Touta had made contact with other sorcerers, he could’ve relayed information that
would be safer kept confidential. For all Suguru knew, Touta had already informed the higher-ups
of their activities and was just playing calm. The mere act of picking up this phone, or texting
Gojo’s number, had all been risks he’d needed to take. The mess they were in, now, even Satoru
Gojo couldn’t escape on his own–not if he meant to protect someone else, too.

Touta’s voice sounded steady. Muffled, distorted by the phone and their mutual need to whisper, but
steady. Gojo had chosen to go to him. Suguru had to trust that was enough.

Suguru took a breath, lowered his voice, and asked the next question. “In the report you gave, did
you also mention the vessel?”

Again, Touta answered quickly. “What vessel?”

And that was all Suguru needed to know.

Suguru took a breath, a split second of relief forming. “Ignore me,” he told him. “That’s all you
need to know.”
At the same moment Suguru spoke, Touta raised his voice, too. “You’re messing with a cursed
vessel?”

His second of relief cut out. Suguru’s expression washed out. When he swallowed, he spoke softly
enough he’d barely said it at all. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Fancy way of saying ‘yeah’ you got there, huh?”

Suguru didn’t acknowledge the question. His face went stern, his eyes closing as he turned back to
watch the door.

“The situation is under control.” The door to the apartment stood, unshaken. For all the other
damage this place had taken, there wasn’t so much as a sliver in the wood. The lock held steady, a
chair planted under the doorknob. By every measure, from eyes to cursed energy, there was no one
on the other side.

Yet.

“If that control were to change, then I’ll be present to mitigate the fallout,” Suguru added. “It’s best
that’s all you know.”

Touta huffed again, the sound louder, this time. His breath alone distorted the speaker. “And I’m
supposed to trust someone I don’t know the name of?” he snapped.

It wasn’t until he’d said so that Suguru realized the introduction never went both ways. The points
of his eyes locked on the door, still sensing, striving to check that something he couldn’t see wasn’t
there. The door wasn’t moving.

“...You could ask for my name, you know,” Suguru whispered. “I’d have no reservations about
introducing myself.”

Suguru would, in fact, have hesitated if it felt like there was a reason to. There wasn’t. If Gojo was
found, and he went down, there was no avoiding the fact that Suguru was complicit in hiding him.

Touta didn’t ask.

“Sounds less to me like you’re being upfront, and more like what you’re willing to say.”

Suguru’s shoulders tensed. He set his focus down, took a breath, and centered on the words of a
near-stranger. “I can’t remember the last time someone called me ‘kid’.”

“If I was around when you had diapers, you’re a kid,” Touta snipped back. Whatever else Satoru is
to people, I wiped his ass when it was the size of my hand. He was a kid. He never stopped.”

“I’d always wondered where Satoru got his disrespect from,” Suguru whispered. “I suppose that’s
you.”

“You think you’re respectful? Sounds like another brat to me.”

“I’m exceptionally respectful, yes.” Suguru tried to push his bangs out of his face. “When it’s
earned. Often, it’s not.”

“Damn straight.”

“Oh, I’m very much not.”

Suguru adjusted the phone.

“You might be right. He didn’t get to grow up. Maybe none of us did, as sorcerers,” Suguru mused
as he spoke. “All the time we could have spent growing, we squandered in a marathon of war. If we
were anything but ‘special’, bound to tradition, they’d call us child soldiers, when we were
young.”

Suguru wasn’t sure what answer he’d expected, if any. A part of him had forgotten there was
someone on the other line at all.

Touta’s voice crackled back, distorted by the speaker. “You need anything else? Like, a therapist?”
he asked. “I’d know a guy.”

Suguru was fairly sure he’d need a lobotomy before that. He leaned against the wall, still watching
the door, as the still door watched him. “I’m fine,” he dismissed. “I’ll handle myself.”

“Well?” Touta countered.

“Yes, well,” Suguru exhaled. “I’ll be fine. I have to be.”

His own words repeated in Suguru’s head like a mantra, swallowing Rika’s loneliness along with
his own. The denial held him closer than an embrace ever could.

From the second that the first Satoru Gojo had become a curse user, there’d been no other choice. It
wasn’t as if Satoru had stopped to tell Suguru what was coming. He just vanished. After that, there
was no space in Suguru’s existence for him to be anything but fine, because he had to be. Because
there had never been another option for what the world would become if Suguru Geto left it, too.

The mantra snapped. Touta’s voice broke through it.

“If your brat needs me, apparently I’ll be in Africa hunting magic rune ropes,” Touta muttered.
“Tell him not to teleport into my fucking house again. Just call. Then, remind him I sleep naked.”
Suguru shook his head. “He may not see that as a deterrent.” If anything, Suguru was fairly sure
Gojo would find that fact hilarious.

“Tough shit. It will be.”

“You–”

Suguru hadn’t finished the sentence when the dial tone cut in. A single, digital note blared into his
ear.

Suguru winced. He pulled back the phone.

“That’s definitely where the rudeness came from.”

Suguru raised his hand, and the phone with it. The glow of Gojo’s lock screen lined up with the
door. The time of night blared back at him, an incorrect day laying over the image.

“That may be the first clan relative who resembled Satoru. By personality, at least…” Suguru
uttered to himself. “Unless it’s a sign of the limitless.”

The phone held heavy in Suguru’s hand. He couldn’t help but to look at the picture. When they’d
been younger, the screens had always shown models. Later on, the pictures had been of them,
together. Suguru had never thought to look at Gojo’s, to know what was there.

Gojo was wearing the same clothing. His hair was spiked up, held in place by the folds of a
blindfold. Surrounding him, at all three corners of the screen, were faces Suguru came to know.
One of them was Yuji, wearing a modified uniform for Jujutsu Tech. The other two were his
students, Nobara and Megumi.

“Huh,” Suguru uttered, taking it in. “He really did teach.”

The phone still felt heavy. All the same, Suguru raised his hand. The image drew closer to his face,
covering the door. Nobara was holding a bubble tea with an incessant amount of whipped cream
and sprinkles on top. The most ridiculous glasses Suguru had ever seen in his life, grinning away.
At the side, doing his best to look stern, Megumi faced away from the camera. His back turned to
Gojo, his bangs falling in his face.

“Strange,” Suguru uttered under his breath. “He almost looks happy. I’ve only seen that for his
sister. She’s not here.” He wondered why.

Suguru walked back to the kitchen. He set Gojo’s phone on the table, face down, where he’d left it.
Again, he looked at the front door. The same, steady nothing waited at the other side. The
apartment stood in ruins, asleep.

It was inevitable, Suguru thought again, that someone would come to that door soon. Satoru’s
residuals may have not been traceable by the time other authorities had gotten there, but something
would be. Whatever incentive either Satoru may have had not to leave their residuals wouldn’t be
shared by Sukuna. Any trail the King of Curses let behind would still be a mark, and those marks
would lead here.

In the dark space where the door stood still, Suguru saw someone else waiting. He saw the beach in
Okinawa, Riko and Satoru gathered together, making a scene and poking sea cucumbers in their
hands.

The choice, back then, had felt so simple. Suguru and Satoru both were ready to act against the
whole Jujutsu world to protect her. The smiles of each person in that photo, subtle as they might
have been, could be that simple, too. In fact, it should be.

If there was anything Suguru could have done to save Riko, back then, he would have done it. If
there was any way to stop Satoru from becoming what he did, Suguru would have traded that, too.
He knew it all just deeply enough to understand the next call. If protecting an innocent vessel
meant that they had to leave, then, he’d make it happen.

Suguru turned away from the table. He pulled his phone from his pocket, selected a number, and
dialed in. He waited with held breath until the ringing turned quiet. It did.

Before the other voice could answer, or ask who was there, Suguru spoke first. “Dad.”

There was a lag on the other end, tired and disoriented. A slight slur trickled into the question.
“Sugu? You okay, bud? Seems early. Or late?” He yawned. Larly?”

In the rush to act, Suguru hadn’t considered that.

Suguru shook his head, his bangs scattering. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I hadn’t thought–”

That was it. He hadn’t thought.

The ideas Suguru hadn’t bothered to let form in full left him quiet. He sat in place, listening to the
other side of the line. His doubt turned to questions, and the questions to quiet, as his dad spoke
first.

“Is something wrong?”

Simple as the question was, Suguru still went quiet. He didn’t reply.

“Whatever it is,” his father swallowed a yawn, “I’m here. Whatever I can do to help.”

“I know, dad. Thanks.”

A part of Suguru was so used to lying, he hadn’t thought through his own agreement. He’d simply
said it the same way he would’ve let out a long breath. His hand pressed against his forehead as he
leaned into the phone.

“Would you take Mochi and Nanako for a while? Stay with them?” he asked, a little more softly
than before. “I’ll need the place in Kamakura.”

Before he gave an answer, Suguru’s father asked “why?”

The same answer he’d given earlier left his lips. “It’s best you didn’t know.”

When Suguru said those words in Gojo’s phone, he’d been met with an argument. This time, he
heard a murmur.

“Ah. A mission, then,” his father told him.

Suguru bowed into the phone. “Sure,” he agreed, exhaling. “Something like that.”

There was only one sorcerer alive who knew where Suguru grew up. He had no double she
wouldn’t tell.

“It would be best to leave the country, if you can. I’ll pay for it,” Suguru added. “Consider it a
vacation.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Though it was gratitude that left Suguru’s mouth, his mind raced on. Maybe it would be worth the
time not to stop at asking his dad to take Nanako. He could send a message to the rest of the first
year class, suggesting they all take a summer vacation outside the country. Even Megumi, strong as
he was, likely wasn’t ready to face the fall out of what was to come.

A vessel of Sukuna had formed in the next room. There were two users of the Six Eyes. The
emergence of one Satoru Gojo had offset the balance of cursed energy and sorcery entirely. To have
a second Six Eyes user and a vessel of the greatest curse in recorded history appear within days of
each other? There was no known projection for what chaos that could cause.

Suguru’s best guess, and the best case scenario, would be a disaster at least twice the scale of the
Tohoku earthquake seven years ago. And the worst case?

“Suguru?” his dad called from the other side.

Suguru snapped upright. His bangs swayed dramatically, the longest lock tickling his nose.

“Sorry,“ Suguru answered, at first, at full volume. He caught himself at the end of the word, then
softened his voice. “I’m sorry,” he repeated in a whisper. “Can you repeat what you said? I couldn’t
hear.”

There were excuses Suguru could have made. With his father, he hadn’t needed to. The time
Suguru took to come up with one, his dad used to agree.

“Of course.” His dad yawned, again.. “No trouble.”

Suguru folded his hands under his chin, slouching over the broken table. The pale glow of the
borrowed phone set across him, the last whispers of its battery shining in the corner. The more that
the light reached, the more ruins he could see.

Pipes broke through the kitchen, the base of the sink running out onto the tile. Cracks refracted
through the kitchen window, distorting even the starlight around them. Bits of the ceiling crumbled
into the floor, the dust of ruptured drywall drifting like snow. From almost any measure, this
apartment wasn’t safe to stay in.

When Suguru looked into this rubble, he didn’t just see the aftermath of Ryomen Sukuna. He saw,
all over again, the remains of what he’d failed to do five years ago.

The Satoru Gojo that Suguru had grown up with was still out there. He had been in this house, at
this table, and Suguru hadn’t been there to stop him.
 Suguru leaned over his phone. The picture of himself and Nanako on his lock screen shone back.
He watched the screen as if it would change, knowing full well it hadn’t.

Nagi snored at the other side of the table. Gojo sprawled out across the couch, sound asleep.
Suguru’s eyes set back on the door.

“Nanako’s safe, with him, elsewhere. I won’t lose her, too,” Suguru whispered, thinking back. “We
won’t lose, again.”

Even speaking to himself, Suguru knew he couldn’t make that true. From the day he’d first called
himself a sorcerer, he’d been put into a war he couldn’t win. As long as chance and curses existed,
he couldn’t guarantee a life. The most he could do was try.

Chapter End Notes

It’s been over a year since I started working on this project!

Originally my hope was that it would be well underway by the time the next season of the
anime started, waiting for new fans to find.

If you’ve been here from the start, thanks for sticking with me, and if you’ve just found this,
thanks for joining us! I hope that the ride is at least half as wild as canon, with a little more
overt romance and different endings.

As always, comments or kudos are appreciated!

Home
 Suguru Geto

Kamakura, Kanagawa

July 21, 2018

A raised stone walkway wove through the hills. Waves of rolling green hiding the familiar path
from straying eyes. Each circular shrub, or finely trimmed fern, grew tall and pristine. Realistically,
the place they were wandering wasn’t that far from the rest of Kanagawa, or even the rest of town.
The sense of isolation in this patch of the city didn’t come from physical distance, but the sense of
walking into a painting, too well kept to be real.

Suguru rounded the corner. A cluster of people followed in tow, each footstep trailing deeper down
the path. One pair stopped.

Gojo’s head craned over Suguru’s shoulder. He reached up, his palm brushing the side of a shrub.
“Who grows trees this round? “What, do you have a bush barber or something?” Gojo’s hand
bounced off the top. “Looks like a video game.”

Suguru took a breath, his patience tightening. “I don’t have anything. It’s my father’s home. Be
polite, please.”

It felt a bit like asking a wasp not to sting someone. Still, Suguru had to at least try.

“This is polite,” Gojo raised his hand, absently stroking the leaves. “It’s a well-trimmed bush.”

From over his other shoulder, Nagi popped to attention, grinning. “That’s what she said!”

Suguru shook his head, the lock of his bangs swaying. “How are there two of you…”

“Two of me? I thought we went over this.” Gojo pointed at himself. “So, there was this prison
realm box, and–”

“Not that kind of two,” Suguru corrected. “Two overgrown children.”

“Hey!” Nagi huffed. “I’m less than 160 centimeters. That’s average.”

Suguru lengthened his stride, moving further ahead of both of them. “You could learn from the
students,” he chastised. “At least, they understand ‘quiet’.”

Behind the trio of adults, Yuji was carrying Junpei on his back. Aside from the occasional snore
from Junpei, neither one made a sound.

“Oh, I know how to be quiet,” Gojo chimed back. “I just don’t like it.”

With no chance to get in a last–or even decent–word, Suguru rounded the next shrub. The branches
of the overhang swayed, the rest of the scenery shifting to reveal what he’d always known would
be there.
At the end of the path, between the branches of the well trimmed trees, a gabled roof of green
kawara hid itself from the world. From the well-polished walls to the clouds of hydrangea poking
through the stone garden, Suguru’s childhood home was waiting.

A man in a yukata and a peacoat stood at the front door, a suitcase under his arm. His long black
hair, peppered with white, pulled into a low ponytail at the base of his neck. His eyes rose into his
smile, the creases in his eyes hiding under his glasses.

“Suguru!”

He had barely finished the first wave before Gojo bounced up to his feet. “Ay, daddy Geto! How’s
the caterpillar army?”

Suguru’s expression dropped. His focus turned to Gojo in a dull stare. “Please don’t call him that.”
He was sure he wouldn’t listen.

Unbothered, his father’s fingers spread into his wave. “Most of them are decomposing in their
morphing phases, so, gooey!”

Gojo sent back a thumbs up. “Go goo!”

Suguru’s father turned, his neck craning as he glimpsed back to Suguru. He spoke in a whisper.
“Why’s he here? I thought you weren’t together.”

Suguru’s stare flattened. “It’s complicated.”

Whatever his dad would assume from that, Suguru was sure it wouldn’t include the truth.

“I know, right?!” Gojo cheered, speaking over Suguru. His hand wrapped over Suguru’s shoulder,
pulling him in. “I’m a lucky guy!”

Suguru blinked. His head turned over his shoulder, still exasperated. “You do realize you just said
you’re lucky it’s complicated, right?”

Gojo pulled back. “...I did?” He pointed his finger to himself. Then, his smile grew a little wider.
“Well, bad luck’s still luck, I guess! That sucks!” He snickered. “Not that all sucking’s bad, either.”

“Satoru…”

“What?”

Before the obvious train wreck could get any worse, Suguru opted to let that one go. He reached
into his pocket, then tossed his keys to his dad. His father caught them from midair. “Those should
let you inside,” Suguru told him. “Mochi’s off campus, today. My friend Ieiri should bring her by,
later.”

“Understood,” Suguru’s father smiled, too, though not in the manic way Gojo did. It was more
polished, the curl matching with the cavern of wrinkles he’d grown through time. “Should be nice
to see my girls again.”

“Thanks, again. For doing this.” Suguru closed his eyes. He meant to finish the thought. Before he
could, Gojo bobbed right back over his shoulder.
“Ieiri? Since when do we call Shoko ‘Ieiri’? That’s so formal. Yuck.”

“We don’t. I do.”

Suguru shot Gojo a look. It was enough to make Gojo step further back. Suguru looked past him, to
the rest of the group.

The narrow walkway had created natural layers of people. Behind Gojo, Nagi stood on her own,
muttering something that may have been ‘swanky’. Behind her, Yuji held Junpei on his back with
one arm. His other hand adjusted the hood of Junpei’s sweatshirt, covering his face. Were it not for
the black and pale pink strands of Junpei’s long hair poking over his shoulder, Suguru might not
have known who was under there at all.

Suguru’s father lowered his hand from the wave. He leaned, again, to whisper to Suguru. “And they
are…?”

Suguru closed his eyes. “It’s best you don’t ask.”

“Ah,” His dad nodded. “Understood.”

Suguru’s father pulled his hands behind his back. He turned on his heel just enough to face the
group without looking at any one of them specifically. “Please, make yourself at home. Just be
mindful of the basement.”

Yuji raised his head, perking up to ask. “What’s in the basement?”

Behind his glasses, Suguru’s father’s eyes started to sheen. Though they held the same shape and
shade as Suguru’s, the anticipation in them was practically gleaming.

“Bugs,” Suguru answered before his father could.

“Bugs?” Yuji squinted, confused. “Can’t you get an exterminator?”

“He could,” Suguru added. “He has bugs on purpose.”

“On purpose?” Yuji asked. “Like when you put ladybugs in a garden, to help the plants?”

“No.”

Before Suguru could attempt any more detail than that, his father pulled up on the handle of his
suitcase. “You and your friends need to take care of my other children, too, alright, buckaroo? I left
instructions on the counter.”

Gojo’s smile found just a little more room to curl. The beam off his eyes could have seemed almost
blinding, were it not for the mischief left behind in them, too.

“Where’d you keep the other children?” Gojo asked. “They as good as the one out here? Cause this
one’s pretty hot.”

Through a perfectly straight face, Suguru spoke over him. “He means the insects, Satoru.”

Suguru’s dad answered just as quickly. “If he’s overheating, you can always use the spray bottle. I
have an emergency mister for the isopods.”
Suguru looked to his side. “Dad. That’s not what he means.”

“Bet.” Gojo clenched his fist in victory. He paused, freezing. “Wait, but couldn’t being wet just
make him hotter?”

Nagi tapped her foot. Despite the fact that Suguru’s dad had been standing right there, in full
hearing distance, she asked out loud. “What kinda guy keeps insects on purpose?”

“My father,” Suguru told her, before his dad could answer for himself. “And he’s more ordinary
than the rest of us. Now, come. Leave him be.” Suguru pushed on Gojo’s shoulder, nudging him
inside directly. Before Gojo could inevitably argue, Suguru cut in. “The longer we’re in the open,
the more likely we’ll get caught.”

“By what?” Nagi asked. Suguru didn't answer.

For as many other doubts as he could or did have, Suguru knew the most important thing to do was
to get in. His father opened the door, letting Suguru inside.

Shades of the sun trickled through the door frame. A cobblestone patterned pad was laid out across
the floor. Different colors of wind chimes hung from the ceiling, each one casting dots over the
parchment-colored walls. The smell of sand and citrus cleaner lingered, the familiar scratches and
scars running through the woodwork of where he’d grown.

“Come in,” Suguru’s dad waved, beckoning the others in, too. “It might be buggy, but at least it’s
not muggy.”

“Aye, aye, Ayumu!” Gojo beamed. “You got more dad jokes in there? Don’t make that one an only
joke child.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Suguru’s dad smiled back. “I have plenty of dad truths, though.”

“Oh, man.” He snickered at himself. “You could at least say your favorite band’s the Beatles!”

“I could.” The bridge of Ayumu Geto’s glasses slid down his nose, the sunlight glinting across
them. He smirked slyly back. “Except you beat me to the pun-ch line.”

Gojo clapped. “There we go! Dad of the year!”

Suguru tried not to shake in embarrassment. He settled for lowering his head. “You could leave him
alone, you know.”

“I could, yeah,” Gojo told him. “I don’t wanna.”

“You can do things you don’t want to do, to be polite.”

“Yep. I don’t want to do that, either.”

Suguru pinched his forehead. “Why am I even trying…”

“Don’t know! Beats me more.”

“More than what?”

“Than the punchline! Obviously.”

Suguru shook his head. He supposed he should’ve known better.

For all the frustration it could have caused Suguru, he couldn’t help but notice his dad smiling
back. The way that Ayumu and Gojo watched each other, it was like seeing old friends.

Suguru spent just long enough thinking about that for him not to notice Nagi until she pushed him
by the shoulder.

“Hey, Guru,” Nagi spoke up. Her right foot stepped on the back of her left, kicking her sneakers
off. “Where’d you stuff the house slippers?”

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “Guru…?”

“You.” Nagi pointed to his chest. “It’s ‘Suguru’, right? So, Guru. Makes sense to me.”

“Well, it doesn’t to me. Don’t call me that–” Suguru blinked away, shaking his head. “Keep the
shoes on. It’s fine. We live so close to the sand, it would track in, regardless.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Nagi rocked back onto her shoe, stuffing the heel back on.

Gojo’s head poked back over his shoulder. “Guru?” he asked “You’re a monk, again?”

His father’s stare followed suit, his ponytail swishing across his back as he looked with the others,
towards Suguru. “You were a monk?”

In that second, Suguru’s sense of faith that he would be able to hide this group anywhere but the
bottom of a ditch deteriorated to nothing. He let out a heavy breath, his hands steadying behind his
back as he set his attention to his dad, first.

“No, dad. I’m not and have never been a monk. You didn’t miss that,” Suguru told him. He turned
slightly on his heel, eyeing the others. “ If you didn’t mind, it may be easier if you go. We’ll catch
up another time. I’ll handle the house tour”

“If you’re sure, sure.” Ayumu looked to the side, eyeing the rest of the group. He pulled at the
collar of his yukata, adjusting where it lay. “I wouldn’t mind getting to know your friends, more.”

Suguru forced a gentle smile. “If you did, you’d regret that.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure,” his dad grinned, his wrinkles tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Most of
them look pretty lively! I like ‘lively’, sometimes. Orders and schedules work better at the hospital.
Homes are better, like this.”

The fact his father said so made Suguru all the more sure he didn’t understand the complete
catastrophe he’d let into his home.

Suguru watched as Gojo strode first, walking down the hall without waiting for instructions.
Despite the blindfold he was wearing, the sway of his posture made it look like he was snooping
through everything. Nagi stopped beside Yuji, and immediately started waving her hand in front of
Junpei’s face. What Nagi was saying to the kids, he couldn’t tell, but it seemed to make Yuji back
away and start to blush.
“...I doubt the bugs agree,” Suguru told him. “It never stops being loud.”

“Well,” Ayumu tapped his sandal on the floor. “That’s why my bug kids have the basement. When I
want quiet, I have them. For everything else, this is good, too. The place for proper has to end
somewhere, right?”

“It would be better if proper began somewhere, for them,” Suguru sighed. “I don’t think it does.”

“Better rude and kind, than polished and cruel,” his dad answered. “If the worst I have to say about
a friend’s that they’re improper, that’s a pretty good friend, I think.”

His dad nodded, again, seemingly to himself. He set his hand on Suguru’s shoulder, giving it a
quick pat. “After all, my beetles bite all the time! They still love me!”

Suguru wondered, quickly, if this man being his father was why all of his friends also made no
sense.

The squeeze on Suguru’s shoulder turned into a pat. His dad pulled up on his suitcase once more.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to take off! If I’m not quick, I won’t be there when Nanako stops by. She
said something about needing drapes?”

“Crepes, most likely,” Suguru guessed. “You don’t have to take her to that.”

“Oh, I want to. What good’s a grandpa if she’s not spoiled rotten by the time you’re back home!”

“...Please don’t.”

He would.

“Love you, Sugu,” his dad said, casual and thoughtless, on his way out the door.

For all the arguments Suguru knew he could have given, he just nodded. “Love you, too.”

Suguru stepped onto the porch, his back resting on the door. He waited longer than he should have,
watching as his dad tread the path back to civilization. His oversized suitcase bounced on each
stone of the walkway.

If anyone stopped by Suguru’s home, it wouldn’t be the kind of person looking for a fight, he
thought. And if they did, he’d still left a few curses behind for surveillance and security. As long as
Nanako, Mochi and his dad were together, Suguru had to trust they could handle themselves.

Because the people in his house, he didn’t trust to keep trouble away at all.

By the time Suguru stepped back inside, Gojo was pushing his hands against a sliding door. His
nose poked at the opening, seemingly unaware of how close he was as he asked “what’s this?” in
what was probably a Jack Skellington impression.

Suguru pushed his hand against the door. “It’s the basement.”

Gojo pulled back. His hands raised to either side of his head. “That’s the basement?” he asked.
“Like, where the bugs are?”

“The terrariums are, yes.”

Gojo pulled back. Both of his hands held flat at either side of his head. He gagged. “Yuck.” Suguru
shook his head. A strand of hair pulled loose from his bun. His hands tucked into his pockets as he
walked on, catching up with Nagi, Yuji, and the half-asleep Junpei on Yuji’s back. He gestured his
shoulder towards a sliding door.

“That way is the garden. Dad’s hives are out there.”

“...He has skin rashes?” Gojo asked, his grin knowing full well what the truth was.

Suguru shook his head. “His bee hives.”

Both Gojo and Nagi opened their mouths. Suguru spoke before either of them could.

“As in, for beekeeping. Not as in, he was stung by a bee. You will be, though, without protection.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nagi said. “Always use protection. Unless you’re on the pill.”

Gojo pointed to himself. “Which one, birth control or PrEP?”

Nagi looked to Gojo curiously. “...Do you need birth control?”

“He is birth control,” Suguru interrupted.

Before Suguru could hear the “hey!” when Gojo tried to argue back, Suguru opened the door. A
thin railing ran across most of the inner balcony, outlining the courtyard outside.

Bushes of white hydrangea sat in bunches between the rocks. An entire wall stood, coated in
sunflowers. Beneath the flowers was a wooden beehive. A thin, red cedar tree stood to block the
wind on either side. A lone bench sat against the opposite wall, concealed by the shade of a wooden
garden arch.

“I suggest you not open the drawer unless you’re in protective beekeeping gear,” Suguru told them,
emphasizing the last two words to avoid the next jokes. He watched as one of the honeybees
bumble its way inside its home. “They don’t take well to being disturbed.”

“Huh.” Nagi squinted over Suguru’s shoulder. “So… is there un -protective beekeeping gear?”
“Yes,” Suguru nodded. “Your skin.”

Gojo nodded, too. His hand cupped under his chin, sliding into the gap of the doorway. “I forget
you’re from the weird kind of rich people.”

Behind Gojo, at a point where Suguru couldn’t see at all, he thought he heard someone mutter ‘not
the bees, not the bees.’ Suguru paid that no mind, either. He just closed the door, then went on.

“This door is a bathroom.”

Gojo’s mouth curved, anticipating what he was about to say before he said, “So, we pee on the
door?”

“No–” Suguru huffed. He opened the door. “Fine, this door leads to a bathroom, you overly literal
prick.”
Suguru had barely finished opening the door when Gojo leaned straight against his back. He
peeked inside again, too, gasping in awe. “Wow! You could stick a head in that toilet.”

“I know,” Suguru drawled. “You’ve tried. As has Mochi.”

From how casually Gojo had acted around his father, Suguru assumed he’d been here before. It
wasn’t the white haired idiot that Suguru was concerned with showing around. He signaled for
Nagi and Yuji to follow him, instead.

“This way.”

To his relief, at least Nagi had the sense to stop talking. She fell into step with Yuji, and into sway
with the slight rocking in Junpei’s head as he followed, too.

The narrow hallway bent around a corner. They turned.

“This room is the guest room. The in-laws quarters, technically. It has its own bath,” Suguru told
them. He opened the door slowly, stepping aside as he did. “I imagined the Yoshinos can stay here.
It’s towards the center of the house, so, no intruder would reach this point without crossing the
other rooms. Unless they broke the ceiling.”

“Oh, really?” Nagi peeked in, first, rising to the tips of her toes to look in. “I figured we’d stay
cause there’s two beds.”

The room, at first glance, was fairly simple. Aside from the calligraphy desk in the corner, and the
few sayings hung on scrolls from the wall, the most striking objects were the futons already rolled
out on the floor. A single sunflower had been left on each of the pillows.

Blurry eyed and barely conscious, Junpei squinted into the room. “...I don’t see a tv.”

“We can move one in, if you’d like,” Suguru offered. Junpei’s head bobbed. Whether he was
nodding or nodding off, the blinking made it hard to tell.

Suguru meant to question it. He braced to do just that. Before he could, Yuji shifted his shoulder.
He raised a hand, like he was in class.

On reflex, Suguru started to call. “Yes, Itadori?”

“Yo, Itadori,” Gojo said, too.

Suguru and Gojo both turned away, looking towards each other. In the squinting match, Suguru had
barely spotted Yuji blinking back, confused.

“You can speak,” Suguru told him. “Unless, you hadn’t meant to?”

“Uh… Yeah.” Yuji adjusted his hand on his back. He leaned forward. “Can I stay there, too?”

“Sure can,” Gojo beamed back. “Why?”

“He can?” Suguru questioned. “Satoru. This isn’t your house.”

“Well, he could!” Gojo shrugged. “You could fit a third bed in there, right? Hell, you could fit a
hippo in there.”
Suguru decided to ignore that. He faced Yuji, specifically, and plastered on an understanding smile.
“I assure you, there’s more room than just this one. There should be plenty of space for you
somewhere else.”

“Oh. Yeah, I get that, for sure,” Yuji beamed. “This place is huge! I just…”

The smile Yuji had adopted started to soften, twitching, but not faltering, as he peeked over his
shoulder. Junpei’s visible eye started to crack open again. His hand raised over Yuji’s shoulder,
reaching for support. Yuji pressed his own hand over Junpei’s, holding him to his chest. The curse
mark on Junpei’s wrist sank so deep, the mark almost looked black.

“I don’t think my mom should stay here? With me.” Junpei’s head tilted forward. He mumbled into
Yuji’s shoulder, so soft, Suguru barely heard him mumble. “...Sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re going with that?” Nagi’s shoulders shifted in a huff. “If you’ve gotta apologize, you
can just not say something to start with.”

Junpei’s eyes snapped open, nearly sinking in his dark circles. “Yes, but–”

“You think I’m gonna leave you alone, now?”

“No! Just. I don’t–” Junpei’s voice fell. His head lowered, too, not drowsy, but in shame. He spoke
into Yuji’s shoulder, barely managing to admit it. “He says things about you? So. I don’t want you
near him.”

“Him? Which him? You mean man-buns?” Nagi started to point at Suguru. “He’s said it to my face.
I just say it back. It’s fine.”

“No!” Junpei started to look up. What little color there was to his skin drained out. He writhed, his
teeth gritting, barely hissing out “damn it–”

Beneath the cover of his bangs, an extra pair of lips started to shift, Sukuna’s mouth forming on his
cheek. “Who wouldn’t insult her?” the mouth sneered. “A mouthy harridan with no power.” Junpei
started to shift. “Stop!”

“Tch–” Sukuna started to huff. Junpei’s hand brushed over his cheek, trying to hold back. Before
he could press down, Sukuna’s mouth reformed at the back of Junpei’s hand. “You can’t stop the
truth.”

“Oh, shut up!“ Yuji grabbed Junpei’s hand, too. He squeezed down, covering Sukuna’s mouth with
his hand. “At least she’s got other parts than a mouth, you–”

The quick squeeze Yuji gave on Junpei’s hand made Junpei start to flinch. The following “oh,
sorry,” that Yuji gave him didn’t last long before Sukuna vanished from under Yuji’s grip. The
mouth reformed, again, this time on Junpei’s neck. Yuji slapped there, too, covering him up.

By the third correct guess, Yuji stopped watching Junpei. He nodded to Nagi, instead. “It’s ok.
Promise! As long as he doesn’t eat any more fingers, Sukuna’s not that dangerous like this. He’s
just annoying,” he tried to assure her. “Kind of like a built-in heckler!”

The fact that Junpei had to deal with it at all had Yuji clearly upset, but, it was restrained enough
anger that Yuji could still flash a smile he didn’t mean.
“It’ll be fine,” Yuji told her. “Promise.”

Junpei didn’t give an answer. He’d barely managed to breathe at all. Nagi, crossed her arms.

“Alrighty, then,” she noted, giving a single nod back. “No more chicken fingers. All dino nuggets
from here.”

Yuji’s hand loosened, sliding down to Junpei’s shoulder. Junpei forced a breath. “...not that kind of
finger.”

Something else seemed to shift on Junpei’s back. He angled his arm to press towards his side, only
for Yuji to press his hand over the new spot, instead, repressing Sukuna all over again.

Distressing as the host must have found this, Suguru knew this was far from their worst case
scenario. If a curse of Sukuna’s level had incarnated at more than the slimmest fraction of his
current vessel, repressing him would have been a problem for all but the most experienced
sorcerer. This, however, was manageable.

For now.

Junpei’s head bobbed back down, fighting his own eyelids to look as awake as possible. Nagi
tapped her foot, hiding the urge to yawn. When Gojo stretched his mouth in a yawn he clearly
didn’t mean, Nagi swallowed a genuine one.

“My father’s study is down the hall. There’s a futon in the closet to convert it to a bedroom, also.
You can stay there,” Suguru told Nagi. He bobbed his head in a signal for her to agree before
suggesting to them all, “why don’t you all take a nap? The security cameras should pick up if
there’s an issue.”

“Security cameras?” Gojo turned his head over his shoulder, peeking around. “Don’t you mean
scout curses?”

For all Gojo’s confusion, Suguru still answered. “No. I mean security cameras.”

“You don’t??” Gojo repeated, his confusion rising. “They’re curses. What good’s a camera gonna
do, then?”

“I outfitted the house right after graduation, along with my father’s office at the hospital.” Suguru
pointed towards a mirror in the hallway. His finger tapped at the frame, over a small, black bead
that looked like a pearl on the design.

Gojo squinted. “But… why? Cameras don’t see curses.”

“They would see a curse user. That’s the true concern. There was an… incident, a few years after
graduation, where one came in uninvited. We’ve been cautious since.”

Suguru deliberately chose not to mention that the incident had involved Satoru. Instead, he pointed
to a small, wooden box with slits for speakers pinned over the door.

“That’s the same alarm as on campus. If a curse comes by, or cursed energy fluctuates too quickly,
it would tell me.”

Gojo tucked his hand under his chin. “So, like, what? You’re like sorcerer Batman, now?”
Nagi squinted over, swallowing a yawn. “Isn’t that the detective one? I thought the tech guy was,
like, Iron Mech.”

“Oh! You mean Iron Man, right?” Gojo bounced back. For a second he seemed to beam with his
smile. “I don’t think Suguru’s enough of an alcoholic for that! Althoooogh… Batman doesn’t
invent his own stuff.” His head turned towards Suguru. “Did you invent it?”

Suguru sighed, relenting, “…no. Why are we talking about this?”

“Then, I’m right!” Gojo grinned. “Batman.”

Suguru brushed past Nagi, then gestured to the next room, ignoring them.

“This is the office I mentioned,” Suguru told them. “I imagine you’d prefer to be close, so, if you
would like to take a nap, feel free to stay here.”

Nagi’s hand stayed over her mouth. What at first looked like the start of a yawn began to curl with
a smirk.

“Ohhhh, I get it.” Nagi nudged at Suguru’s shoulder, bumping him teasingly, her eyes closing in a
grin. “You need a ‘nap’ too, huh? To go with your tall drink of… high fructose corn syrup?
Maybe?” Nagi’s eyes shifted to Gojo, taking him in. “I mean, he’s sure tall. But that ain’t water.”

A bead of sweat dripped down the side of Suguru’s cheek. “You were yawning. Whatever you’re
insinuating, I assure you, it’s not.”

Whatever assurance Suguru could try to give this woman, she wasn’t bothering to hear it.

“I gotchu,” Nagi agreed, her smile growing in such a way that Suguru was sure she very much did
not have him. “We’ll take our ‘naps’, then. Have fun, bun boy.”

Gojo perked up. “Bun boy?” He turned to Suguru. “Like, a honey bun?”

Suguru shook his head. “Don’t call me that.”

Nagi raised her hand in a wave. She poked around the doorframe, still waving. “Bye-bye, bunny
boy!” Then, with a swallowed yawn, she waved back to Yuji, beckoning him to leave, too.

With a quick bounce to Junpei on his back, Yuji turned around, following the hall back to the in-
laws’ quarters. Nagi shut the door to the study, hiding herself inside. When the trio finally left, a
temporary silence fell between Suguru and Gojo. It didn’t last.

Gojo looked back to Suguru, a smirk rising. “Oh, bunny boy…”

“Shut up.”

“Never.” Gojo leaned his head over Suguru’s shoulder. “So, what was that about?”

At least two minutes of Suguru’s life that he wasn’t getting back.

“…Unaddressed mental illness, I’d think,” Suguru answered, instead.

“Oh, bet.” Gojo leaned a little deeper, looking through the house. “Where’s the kitchen, again?
Could go for a honey bun.”

“It’s not ‘again’. I haven’t told you.”

Before Gojo could come up with his next smart remark, Suguru raised two fingers. He pointed
down the hall. “It’s that way. I doubt we have honey buns.” He paused for one beat, then added.
“Don’t say I have honey buns.”

“Then don’t steal my jokes!” Gojo pouted. “You’re doing grand theft humor, over here.”

Suguru’s eyes narrowed. “More like a mild misdemeanor. There’s not much to steal.”

“SUGuRU—!”

Before Gojo could argue further, Suguru picked up his pace. He turned a corner, wandering down a
doorway and through the living room.

“This is the living room,” Suguru gestured ahead, bracing to point at the next room.

Before he could finish, Gojo shouted behind him. “This room’s alive? How?!”

Suguru cleared his throat. He walked on.

“And that’s one of the bathrooms,” Suguru pointed to the door. “Where the toilet you found your
shitty humor in comes from.”

“Sheesh. Way to be harsh about it.”

Gojo lengthened his steps, too. The broad strides of his legs let him cross the room to reach Suguru
with no effort at all.

Suguru meant to keep walking. He tapped the bathroom door as he wandered on, trying to decide
where he should place Gojo. There was always his own room, but the idea of sleeping that close to
him felt risky. Before Suguru could choose, his eyes fell through an open door–one he hadn’t meant
to look in at all.

Two daybeds rest on either side of the room, covered with fluffy pillows. On one side, the sheets
and comforters were pink. At the other, they were black. Matching desks met in the middle, with
one chair in either color. Above the side with the pink chair, a collage of polaroids and photo booth
sheets had been pinned. Over the black side, overlapping rows of drawings had been pinned into
the wall. Crosshatched illustrations, from sunsets that looked like the sky was bleeding, to portraits
of Suguru, Nanako, and strangers from afar, lined the room with traces of who’d left it behind.

A doll in the shape of a shrunken person sat at the desk, the back of a crudely drawn head facing
the drawings, as if it were still there to see them. The thick rope of a noose draped over the back of
the chair.

“Your room should be that way,” Suguru pointed down the hall, away from this one. “Across the
room from mine. Unless, you’d prefer the living room. Or…”

The or would have ended in something Suguru hadn’t meant to offer. Before he could speak up, and
give something he would have regretted, a different regret drifted in view. In the time Suguru spent
thinking, Gojo walked through the door.

In the time it would have taken anyone else to form a single step, Gojo crossed the whole way. His
hand raised to the array of pictures, his head tilting back. With the blindfold tied tight, the way
Suguru understood it, Gojo wouldn’t have perceived the art the same way. Where most people saw
colors, Gojo saw cursed energy.

Gojo’s hand stretched through the array of pictures. He parted the pages, then pulled a pushpin
from the wall. The sun-tinted paper of an image, far in the back, seemed to wilt as Gojo pulled it
from the wall.

“That’s so weird,” Gojo uttered. For as loud as he’d been about everything else, his volume fell so
much, he’d almost seemed thoughtful. “I knew them, here.”

Suguru’s eyes fell over Gojo’s shoulder, onto a drawing he’d never seen. Crude stick figures with
blocky hair stood in the front, one blonde, the other black, stood side by side, holding hands that
looked like circles. Behind them, a circle with a single lock of black hair down his cheek, and a
white-haired puffball with black circles where his eyes would be smiled, too.

Gojo looked up, smiling and oblivious, back to Suguru. “Hey, you and your dad keep going on with
Nanako. So, where’s the other one?”

The question froze. Suguru’s mind didn’t. As much as he wished it had, he knew the answer too
well not to give it.

“She died,” Suguru told him simply. “Mimiko. At Kyoto.”

Most of the time, Gojo was in perpetual, performative motion. This made him stop.

“At Kyoto? You mean, in the thing the other me did?”

Suguru forced a breath. “...The ‘other you’ did a lot of things, Satoru.”

“So…” Gojo let his hand fall to his side. “Are you ready to talk about it? Or, do you just want to
make out and avoid it?”

Suguru wasn’t sure how those had become the options. The only thing he was less sure of, then,
was how to answer.

Even through his blindfold, Gojo still turned to face the wall. A rare, quiet breath flowed through as
they both watched what was there. Slowly, breaking the infinity to do so, Gojo raised his hand to
the sketches on the wall. At the far side, in places he could sense, but not see, the portraits of
people at a distance weren’t of strangers at all. The faces were familiar. Suguru, his father, Nanako,
and Satoru.

Gojo’s hand flattened across the page. He leaned in, his back turning to Suguru.

“Suguru…”

Suguru didn’t answer. He watched Gojo’s shoulders shift, and his hand stroke across the drawing of
a self he’d never been.
“I need to know what happened with us. For real, Like, in detail,” Gojo’s hand lowered, covering
his own face on the wall. “If I have to take this ‘other me’ down, I’ll need to know how he ticks,
right? So, tell me.”

Gojo lowered his head. The folds of his blindfold hadn’t budged as he said, in seriousness. “Tell me
what the hell could happen, that I’d be dumb enough to be the one who left you.”

Suguru wished the question didn’t sting. His posture stiffened, his breath turning stale in his chest.

“That means, you’d have to hear about Kyoto, too,” Suguru admitted. His hand twisted on his
sleeve, sweat crawling down his neck at the memories as they lurched towards him. “It wasn’t just
Yaga and Mimiko that ‘you’ hurt.”

The list of names in a crude memorial outside the Tokyo campus flashed through Suguru’s mind.

The wall for the dead had been covered in white lilies and framed portraits. Some were strangers.
Most, he’d known. Some, he didn’t. A dozen sorcerers too young for Suguru to know the name of,
and a few dozen he did, lined the memorial. Multiple frames laid on the ground, flat and shining.
There’d been no space left to fit them hanging up.

After laying the last flower, Yuki Tsukumo stepped back, lining up next to Suguru. When others
whispered at his back, calling him a traitor, she’d put her hand on his shoulder. Then, she’d
snapped her head over her own to glare at them.

“What kind of psycho would let his kid die? He’s not against us,” Tsukumo had told them. “And if
you’re that kind of psycho, then I’m against you, so don’t even try. There ain’t enough of us left for
that shit.”

Mimiko’s portrait laid on the ground at his feet. Suguru put his hands on each side of the frame. He
could still remember the ribbon. It was cold. He hadn’t been sure why silk was cold, like that.

Suguru looked at his own hands. His fingers flexed, sensing the presence of the frame he could no
longer touch.

“Would you really want to hear that?” Suguru asked, his voice distant from his own throat. “To live
through the crimes of someone whose choices you didn’t make?”

“I don’t care,” said Gojo. “It’s for you. Whatever you throw at me, I’ll take it.”

Suguru’s gaze started to fall. His head lowered, another lock of hair falling from his bun.

“I’m not asking you to do this.”

“Yeah, obviously. You never ask. Even more when you should. I want to know.” Gojo paused,
taking a breath Suguru hadn’t yet let go. “You act like, ‘cause he has my name and somehow made
my pretty face catch ugly, he’s me. He’s not. I can take it. What I can’t take is not knowing what
you keep not telling me.”

Suguru meant to argue. Some part of him was sure that he should. That part lost. He didn’t speak.

“Tell me what you went through. What went so different, between us?” Gojo asked.

Suguru spoke towards the floor. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“The beginning usually works for that.”

“Which beginning?” Suguru asked, unsure. “Like, when we met?”

“Eh. That might be too much of a beginning, there.”

“Then, where?”

Gojo’s head didn’t move. The hand that held so loosely to Gojo’s side started to raise. He brushed
Suguru’s cheek, his barrier breaking just to touch him.

“The first thing that sounds different to me. What I know nothing about. That’s where you start,”
Gojo answered. “What happened at Nagereido?”

Like so much of Gojo, on the surface, what he’d said sounded straightforward. It was so easy to
take him and his questions for their simplicity, that it was just as easy to miss what he was hiding
away. Suguru knew better than to trust what he saw in Gojo was exactly what was there. After all,
Suguru did the same.

“Technically, if you’re not him, I’m not supposed to say.” Suguru muttered into his hands. “It’s
classified.”

Gojo turned. “Does that matter to you?”

“No,” Suguru admitted, his voice falling lower. “No, it doesn’t. Let’s sit down.”

Gojo flopped down on the bed. His limbs sprawled out like a starfish, taking up as much space as
he could.

“Is that how you sit, now?”

Gojo wiggled across the covers. “It’s horizontal sitting.”

“Wasn’t that from a movie?”

“If you watch enough, everything’s from a movie,” Gojo sprawled his arms out even wider. He
wiggled his fingers, settling in. “Besides, in Pitch Perfect, it was running. Horizontal running. This
is sitting! They’re different.”

Suguru turned his head over his shoulder. His hand sank into the ledge of the bed, leaning across
Gojo to watch. “I’m not sure you’ll still be joking after I explain,” Suguru uttered.

“Try me.”

Gojo planted his elbows into the bed. He leaned up, staring straight on. Even with the blindfold in
the way, Suguru could feel him watching.

“Suguru,” Gojo called, expectant. Whatever it was he was thinking, Suguru was sure it wasn’t this.

“If I were you, I think I would have killed me,” Suguru told him in a whisper.

Gojo’s sprawled hand waved, stretching higher. He reached back, grabbing Suguru’s hand into his
own. “Then, it’s good I’m not you.”
Suguru forced a breath. “If you knew what happened, I’m not sure you’d feel that way.”

The warmth in Gojo’s palm felt soft. His skin, which so rarely touched anything, broke through to
hold Suguru. Strong as Gojo was, there was still a vulnerability to that.

“I care.” Gojo’s grip held tighter, wrapping over Suguru’s palm. “No slip up or self-loathing is
gonna that, okay?”

“It might, if you knew.”

“Then tell me.” Gojo shot back. “I’ll prove you wrong. Right here, right now. I’d even bet my big
toe.”

“...I don’t want your big toe, Satoru.”

“Good, cause you won’t get it. I’ll win.”

Pointless as the bet was, it didn’t feel worth the trouble to argue. “Fine,” Suguru conceded, his
words quieting in shame. “I’ll tell you about Nagereido.”

One more time, Suguru’s gaze fell, sinking to the drawing by the bedside. The picture creased at
the edges, crumpled from a child’s grip.

“I’m still sure I should regret it,” Suguru murmured.. The longer he watched the crayon drawing,
the more each line seemed to blur. The thick, rounded scribbles that formed the sketches practically
moved, swaying together. “If someone else had saved them, maybe things would be different.
Better.”

Suguru’s focus sank into the faces of each crudely drawn figure. The eyes of his own had been
drawn as just slits. Satoru’s were missing, covered by the circles of his sunglasses. The figures of
Mimiko and Nanako stood in the center, each one holding hands, happy. It was amazing, in its own
right, that something so rough still looked happy.

At the time, Suguru was so sure that he’d saved them. From the joy in a childhood drawing, they’d
thought so, then, too.

For all their efforts to help, Mimiko and Nanako hadn’t stayed this way. No matter what Suguru
meant to do, he hadn’t kept either of them safe from a world that would use them exactly the same
way it had to him, and to Satoru.

“I should regret it. What we did,” Suguru uttered, the words more definitive than before. “I don’t.”
And then, Suguru told the story.
 Redacted Village

Suguru Geto

September 10, 2007

Tokyo Jujutsu Technical School

An array of trees cast spotted shadows through the hills. Through each gap in the leaves, the
sunshine shone across them. A spot glowed at the tips of Satoru’s hair.

“So, why are we getting sent to Tottori ?” Satoru asked over Suguru’s shoulder. “Isn’t Kyoto, like,
an hour from there?”

Suguru’s eyes closed in a sigh. “ You didn’t get sent anywhere, Satoru. If you want to complain, go
back to the dorms.”

“And let you forget the desserts? No way. You think fruit counts as a souvenir.”

Suguru’s shoes tapped along the stone steps away from the school grounds. He adjusted to the
slope, ignoring Satoru as best he could.

“There’s been more cursed activity than Kansai than Kanto, lately,” Suguru added. “It makes sense
they’ll need to disperse us. We have greater resources here.”

“Yeah? There’s been more cursed activity up my butt, too. I don’t see you getting sent there,”
Satoru countered. He paused, his hand tucking under his chin, considering. “…I’d rather see you
sent there.”

“Satoru…” Suguru held back a sigh. “If they sent anything up your butt except your own head, you
wouldn’t see it.”

“Nah,” Satoru shrugged. “Of course I’d still see. What’re the other four eyes for?”

Suguru stopped mid-step. His hands shoved into his pockets, his posture sliding back, as he took in
the break in the trees. The archway of a red gate stood in the distance, a visible gap among the
many shades of green. Though it was supposed to be fall, not a spot had changed color. From the
morning dew still lingering in the grass, to the moss hugging each tree, the forest smelled like
summer.

Satoru’s head bobbed over Suguru’s shoulder once more, leaning as close as he possibly could
without actively touching him. “We should at least stop for pancakes on Oenosato. They’re
supposed to be fluffy, there.”

Suguru closed his eyes. The last sliver of sunlight crept through.

If only they could stay on the campus, he thought, on a day like this. If duty didn’t exist, this
unblemished green felt perfect. But the world kept turning, and with it, cursed energy poured out.
Beyond these gates, or murmurs of Oenosato, they were responsible to stop another calamity they’d
never seen.

“After,” Suguru murmured, still picturing the grass he wasn’t watching.

“After what?” Satoru asked back, swaying closer. “When you stop talking?”

Suguru lowered his head like a bow. The lock of his bangs swayed across his forehead. “After the
mission,” he said, the words more solemn than they should have been.

Satoru groaned. “After? Ugh,” He rolled his eyes. “But, after, they could close!”

“It’s best we work quickly, then,” Suguru dismissed. He opened his eyes. “This way.”

With a broad step, Suguru continued off into the clearing. He walked, undeterred, paying as little
attention as possible to the pace of Satoru’s steps. Soon enough, Satoru matched his pace and the
slouch.

Suguru knew Satoru hadn’t meant much when he spoke. He likely hadn’t thought about words
before he’d used them at all. Suguru’s thoughts strayed the same way, though not quickly enough.

“Weird,” Satoru murmured, watching the sky. “Why’s Kansai got the influx? There’s been so much
in Tohoku these days.”

Suguru couldn’t help but look to the side, not just towards Satoru’s face, but towards his power. A
sense of realization settled in.

“Satoru,” he called, understanding as he did. “Where do you think a curse is least likely to
survive?”

A flicker of mischief sparked in Satoru’s eye. He grinned. “Your digestive tract!”

Suguru’s expression turned blank. Satoru tilted his head, thinking.

“Or is that still ‘surviving’, when you’ve eaten them?” Satoru asked himself. “I mean, I guess
they’re still around. Just not like a threat.”

Suguru forced out a breath. “Officially speaking, they’re exorcized upon consumption.”

“And unofficially?”

“Unofficially, I don’t care,” said Suguru. “Let’s finish this quickly.”

Satoru looked up. His vivid blue eyes flashed behind the lenses of his glasses. “So we can get to the
cafe in Oenosato, right?”

“Wrong.”

“Fine. So I can get to the cafe.”

Satoru took a few more steps into the brush. An occasional fleck of sun snuck through the cover of
the trees just so, passing through his hair to cast even Satoru’s eyelashes aglow. It was amazing
how, even directly at Suguru’s side, Satoru still looked untouchable.
A small circle formed in the midst of the forest. Where, at all other angles, the trees had given
cover, a single trunk had been cut down. All other branches bent away from the spot, as if they’d
known from the day they’d been grown there was a reason not to stray there.

Satoru stepped onto the circle of the trunk. His shoe tapped over the center rings.

“So, what do you think?” Satoru asked. “You need a barf bag, again?”

Suguru didn’t spare him another look. “No. I’ll be fine.”

“What, no lunch?”

Suguru didn’t dignify the guess.

Satoru extended a hand to Suguru, offering him assistance to join him on the platform. Suguru’s
hands stayed in his pockets as he stepped up on his own, joining him. Only once he already had his
footing did Suguru offer out his hand.

“What’re the coordinates, again?” Satoru asked. “23,35,57 by 133,57,20?”

Before Suguru could answer, Satoru took his hand. In an instant, what should have been an endless
distance between them turned to nothing at all.

On one side, Satoru held tight to Suguru, their fingers interlaced. With his other hand, Satoru’s
fingers formed a sigil.

“Kablam,” Satoru chainted, as if it were an incantation.

Suguru started to turn his head, to question it. He made it as far as “Sato–” before the world fell
away. A pulse of something so rapid, it felt less like cursed energy than gravity itself, collapsed,
ripping the air from Suguru’s throat. A flash of blindness passed across his senses. Not just sight,
but smell, and even sensation tore away. A void of existence unfurled before him, leaving nothing
beyond Suguru’s own thoughts inside him. Then, he saw the rain.

It was still mid-day, yet the sky was so gray, the color drained from everything in sight. Suguru
cupped his hand over his forehead, squinting into the distance. Scattered lights seemed to shine
below, a lighter shade of gray between the branches of rattling, barren trees.

A veil of raindrops smashed against the barrier of the infinity, so close to his face, Suguru couldn’t
help but see the new droplets split apart. The sight of it was enough to make his head spin.

“Huh,” Satoru scratched at the back of his neck. “Guess the directions were off. Which way to the
village?”

The sound of Satoru’s voice spun Suguru’s brain the other way. Suguru willed himself to point at
the blips of houses he’d seen. He raised his hand from his forehead to do just that, only to be hit flat
with nausea. He clasped his hand to his mouth, swallowing back.

Satoru swayed unhelpfully over his shoulder. “Do you need a mint?”

“No,” Suguru staggered back. “I’m fine.” His face flushed green.

“A fine space alien, maybe,” Satoru teased.

Suguru forced his mouth to open, if only to argue more. “As opposed to what, exactly? A time
alien?”

“Or a country alien,” Satoru answered. “A land country, like, Ireland. Not yee-haw country.”

Suguru started to shake his head at Satoru. He paused as he realized that was a terrible idea.

Satoru’s hand tucked under his chin, watching the rain fall harder. The gears spun in his mind with
consideration. “…a space country alien could be cool, though. To infinity and yee-haw.”

Satoru’s hand pressed against Suguru’s shoulder. What could have been comforting contact made
Suguru shudder.

“Not sure this is what okay looks like, Suguru,” Satoru mumbled back. “Unless you’ve got a
hairball or something.”

Suguru forced himself to breathe. As he did, Satoru shot up. “Wait, you DO have a hairball! Up
there!”

Satoru raised a finger to poke at Suguru’s hair bun. Before he could reach, Suguru swatted back to
block him. “Stop—“

The thought Suguru meant to form snapped off. Between the blur of the storm, the parallel lines of
rain parted just enough for him to see something else in the distance. Beneath each gray cloud,
between the trees, Suguru saw a residual.

Suguru stepped back, slowly. He walked to the exact edge of the bubble Satoru’s infinity had
formed, then took a knee. His hand pressed into the dampened grass, rain hitting his fingertips. The
remnants of cursed energy slipped between his fingers, rising above the indents in the ground.

“Do you see that?” Suguru murmured, his brown eyes falling towards the path.

Satoru shrugged. “The rain? Sure do. Glad neither of us straightens our hair.”

“No. Not that. Footprints…” Suguru uttered, his brown eyes falling to the tracks. He stretched a
hand across the imprint, marking the length of the nearest step. He squinted, focusing, until the
immaculate grays started to break with an echo of a dim blue shine.

“Something’s here,” Suguru spoke to himself. “And it wants us to know.”

“Think we should follow it?” asked Satoru.

“Yeah,” Suguru murmured. “ I think so.”

Suguru raised his hand from the track. He straightened his back, rising enough to watch the path of
residual energy wind ahead, deep into the village. Raindrops tapped across the barrier of the
limitless, droplets streaking down the pane of something that both did and didn’t exist.

Satoru’s hand brushed Suguru’s as he strode by. The sense of soft skin of something so rarely
touched lingered long after the touch itself had left him. Before Suguru remembered to move,
Satoru had already moved ahead.
Suguru hastened his own steps, the bottom of his shoes starting to sink into the mud. The path of
residuals smeared under their own steps.

The dots of light stretched into shapes, the circles growing to boxes, then buildings. Even the lines
of falling rain couldn’t obscure the presence for longer. Rows of crops stretched in patches,
farmlands as the village drew in view.

“That’s funny,” Satoru snickered as he watched. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think we traveled
through time, too! Looks like InuYasha, down there.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“About what? InuYasha?” Satoru asked. “What, you’ve got a problem with Rumiko?”

“About time travel,” Suguru answered. “We have enough problems with you moving in time the
long way.”

“The long way?” Satoru turned his head over his shoulder, peeking back for Suguru. “What’s the
long way for time? Military?”

“Linear.”

“You mean, like, straight?” Satoru stuck out his tongue. “Blech. Imagine being straight!”

Satoru’s steps paused. It only lasted for a fraction of a moment, but that fraction was long enough
for Suguru to catch up. He paused just behind Satoru.

“Satoru,” Suguru called, the name far more natural than even the weather.

Behind the impenetrable lenses of his sunglasses, Suguru could still sense his partner’s stare.
“Suguru?”

Suguru started to raise his hand. He considered reaching out, to break through the distance one
more time and brush Satoru’s shoulder. He considered it, and then he pointed ahead.

“You should let your infinity down, before we go in,” he told him. “It’s too noticeable in the
storm.”

Just like that, the calm between them broke.

“Let it DOWN?!” Satoru gaped. He turned his back to the village completely to snap at Suguru
with disgust. “You want me to get soaked?”

Suguru’s eyes closed, his expression composing. “I want us not to cause a commotion.”

“Eh. You do that. I am a commotion.”

Suguru couldn’t argue against that and be right. He didn’t try.

“Sheesh!” Satoru threw a hand into the air, still complaining regardless. “If you want me that wet,
you’d better play with my hair and call me a good boy, first!”

Suguru didn’t try to argue that, either.

“We should assume everyone on sight is a non-sorcerer. That means overt acts of sorcery are off-
limits until we’re under a veil,” Suguru explained. “It’s not about me, Satoru. It’s about not
attracting attention.”

“Oh, no. But I love attention.” Satoru tilted his glasses back up with a grin. “I need it! Like
Tinkerbell.”

Suguru didn’t give him a chance to make another reference. His hand raised with a beckoning
wave. “Come on, Twinkerbell. We’ll get you an umbrella.”

Satoru’s hand fell before he’d reached his glasses. “TWINKERBELL??!”

Suguru had just registered the sound when a raindrop hit his cheek. His eye widened when he
sensed the moisture hit.

The faint “oh–” that followed when he felt it was all the warning Suguru had. One second, Suguru
stood there dry. The next, a full sheet of rain body slammed him.

Suguru’s toes squished inside his shoes, his socks and nose both dripping, as the torrent of rain
soaked him through in one blow. Half of his hair fell from his bun, the other half tangling into less
of a circle than a lopsided, drowning loop. He coughed out a mouthful of water.

Satoru shrugged from the side, still untouched. “Still think I should take it down?”

Suguru stared back through the rain, exasperated and drowning. “Yes.”

Satoru smiled back, still untouched. Suguru reached back for him. His wet hand passed straight
through the barrier to take Satoru by the wrist.

“Shame we don’t do summer uniforms,” Satoru joked. “You’d look better in white! Totally nail the
wet uniform contest.”

“...It’s not a contest if it’s just me, Satoru. Take down infinity.”

Satoru rolled his shoulder back. “You’re lucky it’s no contest. I’d win.”

“Sure. If it’s for ‘palest complexion.”

“Hey! What works for Snow White works for me! Except the cleaning. Or the seven roommates.”
Satoru tucked a hand in his pocket as he walked along, still untouched by the rain. Suguru raised a
hand towards his hair, pushing it back in vain. As soon as he’d made any sort of adjustment,
another wave of raindrops plastered his hair to his cheeks.

A wooden sign stood at the edge of the village. What it said, specifically, Suguru couldn’t see. The
planks shook out of place in the downpour, swinging wildly in the wind.

“You sure these people know what an umbrella is?” Satoru asked, his voice raising to speak over
the wind. “It’s like a theme park for Amish people.”

Suguru shouted back. “Yes!”

There wasn’t a part of Suguru’s body that wasn’t touched by the rain, anymore. His shoes stuck in
the mud, his soles sinking up to his ankles. He squinted through the rain, trying in vain to find some
sign of where to go. Where, before, there had been footprints, now, the weather washed them
away.

“We should go to the police station!” Suguru shouted at Satoru’s back.

Satoru turned his head over his shoulder. He screamed back. “What?!”

“The police station!” Suguru shouted louder. “They’re supposed to cooperate!”

“Huh?!” Satoru leaned back, oblivious. “Why’s the cop irate?”

“Not irate!” Suguru snapped. “Cooperate!”

It was standard practice, on missions like these, for the local police department to hand the
investigation over to the reporting sorcerer. Police information was very rarely accurate, if ever, but
it was still a place to start.

Satoru pressed a hand over his ear. He kept shouting back. “Cop ate what?”

Before Suguru could sigh, his mouth opened, and a blob of rainwater got stuck inside. Suguru
coughed the water out. As he wheezed for air, his narrowed eyes settled on the ground. Beneath the
surface of the puddle, constantly rippling with the newly falling rain, Suguru saw the aqua flicker
of the residuals. The weather threatened to snuff the afterimage out, drowning it inside the pool–but
he did see it. The path Suguru thought they’d lost wound on, the oval splotches of footprints
sprawling out into the distance, towards a well-lit building in the center of the village.

“Nevermind,” Suguru uttered, taking in that glow. He marched forward, following the tracks.

Satoru fell into step. His own shoes made no sound against the ground, never quite hitting there
thanks to the infinity he kept in the way. Even so, Suguru could feel him speak against his neck.
“Of course I mind. I have too much brain not to.”

“Not that kind of mind.”

“What kind, then?” Satori asked back. “Is there a dumb one?”

“Yes, there’s a dumb one. It’s attached to your head.”

“Hey!”

While Satoru huffed in fake offense, Suguru smeared his matted hair away from his line of sight.
His foot overlapped the footprint, eclipsing the outline of the residual with his own step.

From the outside, the building had looked almost the same as every other in the ancient rows of
minka down the block. The sole difference had been the sign posted above the door, a jagged
hiragana carving in a block of wood naming the place as Izakaya Kubo. Suguru opened the door.

Suguru dripped over the mat in the entryway, leaving an instant puddle in his wake. The glowing
trail of residuals vanished into the crowd. A cluster of five different people gathered by the bar,
swallowing the path.

“Small place,” Satoru noted, his eyes shifting through the scene.
“Small town,” Suguru echoed. He pulled at the knot of his bun, wringing the strands out before
slicking it back in place.

A stocky man in a police uniform raised a hand, signaling for the waitress. A pair of bathroom
slippers–which very much should have been left in the bathroom–were still stuck to his feet. His
cheeks tinged more red than his uniform was blue.

“Another round!” The officer told the waitress. He raised his cup into the air with a “cheers!”

“Thanks, boss!” A younger officer tipped her cup, too. “Cheers!”

Most of the others clustered around the pair followed suit, raising their cups in cheers. Most. Not
all.

Behind her back, a man with a bowl cut and a mole under one eye bobbed for attention, his neck
and his chin swallowed up by the cowl of his sweater. “You don’t understand!” he called,
somewhere between a scream and a plea. “No one’s at the house! They’re just gone! Please, you
just have to–”

The neck-less officer lowered his hand. “Have you spoken with your brother?”

“The one who’s missing?” the man asked back “I haven’t seen him in days! How would we talk?”

The officer sighed. “That wasn’t the question.”

“It should be! Just–!”

“Look at that,” Satoru pointed over Suguru’s shoulder, swaying over him. “Bad Rock Lee
cosplay.”

At first, Suguru meant to tell Satoru not to say that. The man’s eyebrows were still of a fairly
normal size, his hair wasn’t black, and his face didn’t look that strange, either.

“Is there good ‘Rock Lee’ cosplay?” Suguru asked, instead.

Satoru snickered behind his hand. It wasn’t until after the giggle passed, and Suguru heard the
officer again, that he realized that wasn’t the point. Suguru’s dark eyes set back into focus,
watching on.

“Wait for him to call back, then, yeah?” The officer’s cheeks tinged red, the glow spreading to the
tip of his nose. “You’ll get him on the phone eventually.”

“You don’t understand! That voicemail wasn’t my brother’s, not at all!” The pleading man insisted.
“Then, when I call back, no one’s there! There’s no sign of my nieces, either! Everyone’s just
gone!”

The elder officer raised his drink. His rectangular eyebrows curled up as he scowled. “Could be off
visiting her folks. Bad reception.”

“If it’s bad reception , I wouldn’t get a voicemail at all!” the other man leaned in. Beneath the
exceptionally dorky bowl-cut, his eyebrows stretched in accusation.
The female officer’s eye twitched. “Lay off, Hasaba. You ever think he just doesn’t wanna talk to
you?”

“Then what about Inoue, or the Tanakas? You think they just ran out, too?”

The woman scowled. “Get out of my face! I could have you arrested!”

“So you can do that, and not your job?”

The officer slammed her drink on the counter.. “You break the law, that is my job!”

Hasaba put his hand over the woman’s drink, pushing it away from either of them. “Doesn’t seem
like it to me.”

The glass under Hasaba’s palm shifted away. The bartender grabbed it back. She flared at both of
them. “Out!”

Hasaba leaned in, his face paling. “But, I just–”

“Are you kidding me?!” The female officer yelled over the counter.

“Well, I ain’t putting you in grade school,” the bartender snapped—first literally, then figuratively,
towards the door. “Now, get.”

The female officer started to huff. Hasaba bobbed back, bracing to snap, too. Suguru could
practically see the tension as all three stood at odds, locked in mutual furies.

Then, like a Jack-in-the-Box springing free for no reason, Satoru popped in. “Get what?”

Both the officer and the guy in the sweater gaped, bounding back. Before either of them could
process the stranger they were seeing, Satoru leaned in inches from Hasaba’s face.

“Hm. Who’d you think’s on the voice mail, then, bowl-head?”

“I. Uh,” Hasaba hiccupped. “Who do you…?”

Hasaba swayed back. The officers did, too. It left all the more space for Satoru to press in.

“I’d say bowl-brain, but your hair’s stuck on the outside.” Satoru grinned. “Anyway, the mystery
whatsit on the phone. Got any guesses?’

Hasaba’s eyes set on Satoru in a daze. “...I… uh…”

The bartender leaned across the counter. She swatted at Hasaba’s shoulder, pushing him towards
the door. Hasaba staggered backwards, his sneakers slipping through a puddle left on the floor.
Before he could fall, Suguru gently caught him by the shoulder.

“My apologies for him,” Suguru told him quickly, but politely. “My partner is over-enthusiastic. I
believe we’re here to help.”

The description Suguru had been given before he’d been dispatched for the mission was vague.
What he could gather from the conversation between the police and this man hadn’t been that much
better. However, the vague mission of ‘investigate the deaths and disappearances of villagers in this
remote village in Tottori’ and a man pleading for help that his family was missing were exactly the
kind of vague that matched up. The residuals may have vanished into the crowd, but the lead was
here.

“I told him to leave,” the bartender said, sneering at Hasaba, and breaking Suguru’s thoughts in the
process. “Do you want a fuss, too?”

“Not at all,” Suguru dismissed. He raised his hand from Hasaba’s shoulders, then looked to the
bartender, specifically. “Miss, would you happen to have noticed anything strange recently? Maybe
in the last few hours.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “You.”

The older policeman hunched in, nudging his way between Satoru, Suguru, and the others.
“Who’re you? Are you even old enough to be in a place like this?”

Satoru raised his chin. “So, what? Are you’re so old, you’ll complain that we’re not ancient, too?”

Before Satoru could keep talking, Suguru pressed his hand over his mouth.

“I assure you, we’re not drinking anything stronger than water,” Suguru told the officer, pressing
down as Satoru squirmed. “We’re from Jujutsu High. I believe someone would have sent for us to
assist regarding the rash of disappearances?”

Suguru’s hand steadied on Satoru’s mouth, muffling his words–until a little bit of space repelled
Suguru, the push of Satoru’s infinity dividing just enough to push Suguru away.

“Yeah,” Satoru chimed in, speaking unencumbered. “We’re the anti-spook ointment!” He paused.
“You know. For your rash.”

It wasn’t the time for a joke.

The air in the building turned still. Every eye in the place, including those nowhere close to the bar,
seemed to turn on them.

Suguru lowered his hand. He wiped his palm off on his pants. “Don’t mind him,” he dismissed.
“He thinks he’s funny.”

“Yeah, well, mind him even less,” Satoru pointed at Suguru. “He thinks he’d know humor.”

The older officer reached for the side of his belt. “I’m not sure who sent you, but if you come back
during working hours, you can knock yourself out in the records. We’ll take all the help we can get,
fixing this.”

“Not tonight?” Suguru asked. “There are children missing.”

“I don’t have keys to get in the station. The chief wouldn’t like it.” The officer picked up his glass,
nursing the drink once more. “They’ll still be missing tomorrow.”

Hasaba reached across the bar, his hand smashing down. “They’re missing because you won’t do
anything! You–”
“That’s it!” the bartender snapped. Her hand reached over the counter to grab Hasaba by the cowl
of his turtleneck. “Out!”

Satoru leaned back against the bar, watching Hasaba stumble. Hasaba’s shoe landed just wrong in a
puddle. He stumbled, skidding backwards, right into a table for two. A bowl of ramen toppled over,
the noodles pouring over his leg. Hasaba raised his hands flat, signaling some form of apology to
the other people there. He didn’t finish it before those people, too, shooed him out.

Satoru smirked. “Ain’t he mister popular.”

While everyone else was watching the scene, Suguru kept his eyes on the elder officer. The man
had kept a completely straight face, not acknowledging what was happening, even when has
watching straight on.

“Sir,” Suguru called, keeping his tone even and his head down–the sort of well-rehearsed politeness
he’d found to work well for authority. “Have these incidents happened in the same vicinity?
Perhaps in a hospital, or around a school?”

“We don’t have schools,” the officer answered flatly. “And not one’s made it to the hospital before
they’re dead.”

There was such bluntness in how he said it, Suguru had no room to argue. He considered, quickly,
what other common questions wouldn’t rouse suspicion to ask about a curse. If there were children
missing, even if the townsfolk had resigned themselves to an outcome, it made sense to move
quickly.

“What about a legend?” Satoru chimed in. “Some kind of local gods? Wacky cult fodder?”

The officer’s knuckles turned as white in tension.

Before Suguru could question why, or say anything else at all, the bartender reached for both of
their shoulders. Her hand stopped short of Satoru’s, but gave Suguru’s a firm squeeze.

“I think,” she glared at Suguru’s neck. “It’s time for y’all to get, too.”

The “get what?” from Satoru was so quick, he clearly hadn’t thought about it. Suguru just sighed.

“Okay,” Suguru agreed. “We’ll leave, too. Thanks for your help.”

That the polite tone was masking sarcasm, Suguru was fairly sure they’d both miss.

Suguru raised his hands, then rolled his shoulder until the bartender let go. A new raindrop fell
from the lock of his bangs, the strands tangling together by his face. Everywhere but through that
one lock, Suguru watched the room. Of the dozen or so strangers in this place, Suguru could still
see the fear. No one had wanted to talk about it, not even to solve the problem, because the
destruction around them felt too inevitable to deny.

Whether Satoru hadn’t read the room, or had simply decided not to care, he’d shrugged at them all
the same.

“Thanks for nothing, booze bozos,” Satoru waved, walking back. “Smells gross in here, anyway.”

Suguru turned to the side. “Satoru,” he uttered, chastising. “You’re being rude.”
“Good.”

Satoru reached for an umbrella by the door, stealing it from the pile.

“Satoru,” Suguru started to say. The name fell off his tongue urgently. It didn’t stop Satoru from
opening the door.

A new curtain of rain fell ahead of them, steady and crushing. Satoru opened the umbrella, casting
most of the droplets aside. He stepped outside, letting the cover conceal him.

“Suguru,” Satoru called back, beckoning him out with no judgment at all. If no one here would
help them, then, that call was all Suguru needed.

Suguru stepped under the umbrella, joining Satoru beneath the cover. Satoru’s grip steadied on the
handle, watching the new wave of the storm pass by. A bolt of lightning passed between two
clouds, flashing without ever striking the ground.

Satoru’s hand rose from the pole. The part of his shoulder that peeked out from the side of the
umbrella still lingered, untouched by the rain, the fractions of infinite space guarding him from the
rest of the world.

Behind the cover of Satoru’s glasses, Suguru could still see him look out across the street. Through
their squint, all signs of residual energy that had led them to the building were gone.

“We seriously gonna leave it like that all day?” Satoru asked, watching the clouds roll on. “The
cafe’s not even closed.”

“Of course not,” Suguru answered, his voice as quiet as those clouds. “The reports claimed three
dead, five missing. Eight missing, if the man at the bar is correct. It would be irresponsible to–”

“Stop!”

Before Suguru could think of another word, Hasaba staggered back through the storm. The line of
his bangs hid his eyes, all the way down to a mole under his eye.

“You’re here to help, right? Please, help! I have to find my brother! Him, and his kids!” Hasaba
screamed through the storm. It wasn’t the first time Suguru had seen desperation. It was the way
that most non-sorcerers looked, once it had hit the point where they were calling for help.

“Were you the one who called for us?” Suguru asked, willing his composure to try and reform.

Hasaba’s hand gripped Suguru's shoulder. He shook him so quickly, the umbrella tilted sideways in
Suguru’s grip. Another wash of a wave pushed over Suguru’s face. Naturally, Satoru stayed dry.

“No one’s listening,” Hasaba said, babbling so frantically, it was possible he hadn’t heard Suguru at
all. “Just– Please. No one’s been missing more than a day, and come back alive. If I can’t find
him-”

Before Suguru could decide what to say, Satoru cut in. “What, are we ‘no one’, then?” Satoru’s
back straightened up, his expression settling with a smile. “We’re listening, yeah? We’re as far
from ‘no one’ as you can get.”

Hasaba stuttered back, his hair dripping lower. “I didn’t–”

Satoru looked down. “Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t…”

The fur collar of Hasaba’s trench coat soaked through. The matted pieces stuck to his neck, his
bowl cut flattening out as he nearly drowned where he stood. He clutched at the collar of his
sweater, pulling it away.

“I didn’t call. But still! Please! Just, help!” Hasaba’s eyes shot up, his shoulders setting back so
quickly, it sent residual water splashing in Suguru’s face. “They’re just little kids. If you don’t, and
I can’t either, then, who…”

From the way Hasaba’s voice broke, Suguru couldn’t help but to finish for him.

“We shouldn’t think about that, yet,” Suguru told him. “We’re here.”

Most of the time, it was some form of ignorance that twisted into the need to survive, that drew a
non-sorcerer into begging for help–like the pathetic, brainless monkeys he couldn’t help but see.
Suguru didn’t see that, here. In the place of selfishness, he saw desperation to help. This, Suguru
thought, was the kind of non-sorcerer that sorcery had a duty to help. To save innocent children,
lost somewhere in the dark, and the families who missed them.

Horrible as Suguru knew it was that this was happening at all, it was a relief to see something more
than a monkey begging back. It had been too long since a face like this had looked at him, and
Suguru could tell they were both human. This man was human.

“Is there anywhere in the village where things have felt strange?” Suguru asked, keeping his
composure on the outside. “A sudden drop in temperature, or the feeling you’re being watched?”

Hasaba’s bowl cut flattened with the water. “Nope,” he answered. “What would that have to do
with this?”

“Local legends? Any places of theological significance?” Suguru asked, instead. “Like a shrine for
a local deity, for instance.”

Hasaba blinked. “Y’mean, like Mount Mitoku?”

Suguru stared back. From the outside, his expression hadn’t changed. Inside, he churned with
understanding. “Where Sanbutsu-ji temple is.”

“Mhm. Nageire-dō, where shugendo was founded.” Hasaba nodded. The force of it sent a few
raindrops from his hair. “It’s not far.”

Satoru craned away from Hasaba, over Suguru’s shoulder. The cover of his umbrella blocked the
rain from Suguru, if only for a minute, as he asked “Shoe Nintendo?”

“Aesthetic training. The way of trial and practice,” Suguru explained. “It’s a local religion, a
variation of Shinto and Buddhist practices. Practitioners worship the mountains as a deity.”

Hasaba stood still in the downpour, his coat soaking through. Suguru looked past him. Beneath the
sunglasses, both Suguru and Satoru locked eyes.

“A local deity, then?” asked Satoru.

Suguru nodded, the lock of his bangs falling over his eyes. “Exactly. A local deity.”

Neither of them had to say what they understood from experience. A localized religion with any
central figurehead was the recipe for an imaginary vengeful curse spirit, and a powerful one at that.

“What’re you thinking, then? Grade one? Semi-special?”

“Not semi-special,” Suguru corrected. “That’s called a special grade 1”

“What’s the difference?”

“That semi-special doesn’t exist.” Suguru exhaled. “Also, there’s a civilian here.”

Hasaba raised his hand, waving towards both of them. “What’cha talkin’ through? Can I help?”

Satoru and Suguru turned in unison.

“Not really,” said Satoru.

“Yes, thank you,” said Suguru.

Suguru and Satoru locked eyes again. Satoru swayed closer in. His nose poked right against
Suguru’s as his focus set in.

“What kind of help do you want from a guy like that?” Satoru asked. “Finding sweaters that don’t
match your giant pants?”

“To complete the mission, you brute,” Suguru answered. “Gathering intel is vital to completing the
mission without damage. A local knows more than we will.”

“So’s acting fast. How much is a guy like that gonna actually know? Not like he can see past his
hair...”

“Uh, guys?” Hasaba called back. He waved again, his jacket sloshing as he did. “What’s this gotta
do with shrines? No one just lives in those temples, these days. Not even the monks.”

The words fell out of Hasaba’s mouth. Then, his narrow eyes snapped open. The mole on his cheek
seemed to fall further down in realization. “No one just lives in the temples!” he gaped. “If
someone was hiding there, in the storm, no one would’ve found ‘em at all!”

Suguru’s shoulders set back. He turned away from Satoru, all of his focus settling on the non-
sorcerer. “Hasaba-san, was it?”

Hasaba nodded.

A mask of composure set a gentle, reassuring smile across Suguru’s face as he asked. “Would you
know how to get to Mount Mitoku, from here? I imagine it’s not far.”

Hasaba pointed with two fingers, gesturing down the muddy path, deep past the village. “There’s a
bus just that way. The public transportation would be down, though, with the rain.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“Oh. Good. Great,” Hasaba nodded. “You have a car?”

Satoru’s grin stretched a little wider. “Something like that!”

Even through his smile, Suguru saw Hasaba’s eyebrows narrow.

“Like that might not work,” Hasaba told them. The hand at his side clenched into a fist. He raised it
in front of himself in determination. “I’ll take you!”

Suguru raised his hand. His smile didn’t falter. He tipped Hasaba’s fingers down. “That won’t be
necessary.”

“You think they’re there, right? There’s a shot?” Hasaba asked, his voice growing louder. Neither
Suguru or Satoru argued fast enough to stop the guy from shouting back. “You can’t just hike the
mountain practices alone. It’s even more dangerous, now! So, I’ll guide you!”

Satoru turned his umbrella, his entire body still dry in the storm. He looked at Suguru, not with a
smile, but in seriousness. Then, he eyed Hasaba. A spark gleamed on the lens of his sunglasses as
he tipped them down.

“What kind of car?”

Redacted Village, Part 2
 Suguru Geto

September 2007

Mount Mitoku, Tottori

A sash of good fortune was tied over Suguru’s uniform. A spare ten yen coin had been placed in the
collection box as an offering. If Suguru had the time to study, he knew he would have found more
rituals to prepare for a march to Nageiredo.

The legend of Nageiredo, as Suguru knew it, was a simple one. The treasure of the temple had been
cast into the side of the mountain by the magic of a Buddhist monk, En no Gyoja during the Heian
period. It was said that following the path to reach Nageiredo was a means towards spiritual
enlightenment. Practitioners worshiped the mountain and nature, seeking oneness with their
surroundings. Most likely, what the words of non-sorcerers had deemed magic and mysticism was
an early branch of sorcery, dating to even before the time of Ryomen Sukuna.

Hasaba tugged the knot in his sash, adjusting himself. He cupped his hand over his eyes in a salute,
blocking the rain as he stared up the mountain. Satoru stood still, each raindrop conveniently
changing directions from his face. He didn’t bother with a sash.

“It should have been in the file,” Suguru murmured to himself, taking the mountain in. “That
Nageiredo was in the vicinity. Local deities are trouble.”

Satoru stretched his neck. His sunglasses tipped down the bridge of his nose, his gaze rising where
they fell. “That’s the one thing you can count on, yeah? That the higher-ups don’t share.”

Hasaba looked to Satoru. “Higher-ups?”

Satoru didn’t answer. Suguru turned to the side, an apologetic smile plastering on. “Our bosses, he
means,” Suguru tried to dismiss. “Don’t worry about it.”

The wooden post at the edge of the trail swayed, rattling through the weather. The weathered words
warned of other conditions for the climb. In the shadows, if Suguru squinted, he could still make
out the words. Sneakers weren’t recommended for the trail. Travelers were not permitted to hike
without an attendant. No one, regardless of skill level, was permitted to hike there during rain.

Wind whipped through the trees. New raindrops splattered on Suguru’s face, traces sneaking
through the cracks between each trunk. A flash of thunder arced across the sky, the bolt never
touching the ground as it danced between the clouds.

A worn red bridge, with railings so short they had hardly looked like railings at all, stood ahead of
them all. Suguru adjusted his sash. The squish of his fingers through the damp fabric didn’t feel
much like luck.

Hasaba held onto the back of his sash. He wrung the rainwater out in his grip.

“Kairi!” Hasaba’s neck stretched into a scream, shouting into the distance. “Mimiko! Nanako! Just,
over here!”

A howl rattled through the branches, as if the mountain itself was enraged they’d come.
Suguru’s shoes slipped. He raised his step with caution, climbing onto the surface of the
yadoiribashi bridge. His head turned over his shoulder, peeking back towards Hasaba. “You should
go back.”

His sentence hadn’t even finished when Hasaba cupped his hands to his mouth.

“Nanako!” Hasaba screamed, louder than before. “Mimiko! I’m here! It’s uncle Kokoro!”

Suguru realized, then, that speaking reasonably wasn’t worth the breath.

With a slide in his shoe, Suguru tread forward. He raised his foot over the pockets of mud, treading
across tree roots to a wooden red gate. Satoru leaned across the other side, already standing there,
untouched.

No matter how treacherous the path, or why they were there, somehow, Satoru was always far
ahead.

Satoru leaned across the gate, whispering to Suguru. “Think we should send him back?”

“If you went with him,” Suguru answered honestly. In the roar of the storm, speaking at a normal
volume muffled him enough. “It’s not safe to send him down alone.”

“What if I just popped to the top of this thing? No hiking?” Satoru asked. “If you gimme the
coordinates…”

“You’d screw it up.”

“Rude!” Satoru stuck out his tongue.

Tempting as it was to point out that what Satoru had just done was, in fact, rude—Suguru
swallowed the remark. He took a flashlight from his pocket, then turned on the beam. The steady
pulse of light allowed him to look ahead. The stream of light bounced across a thick, unfathomably
tall tree. The tree loomed before them, vines winding around the trunk from either side. Where the
path had been, before, now, all Suguru could see were the roots, winding away.

“You’ve only practiced leaving on a clear path, Satoru,” Suguru reasoned. “This isn’t clear. It’s
sacred.”

Satoru shrugged. “Cred.”

It took a second’s pause before Suguru realized what he’d said. He turned the flashlight towards
Satoru, ignoring Hasaba completely. He shook his head.

“Not ‘say cred’. Holy. Respected.”

Satoru blinked. He pointed towards himself. “You mean, me? You respect me, now?”

“Satoru, no.” Suguru sighed. “...I don’t have time to tell you how much is wrong with that.”

In the time Suguru spent growing exasperated, and Satoru spent ignoring that, Hasaba strolled
ahead of them both. He set his hand against the tree trunk, finding his balance. A thin layer of moss
parted around his fingers. He held tight, then hooked his feet into the roots to scale the path. He
raised his hand, waving through the rain from the top step.
“This way!” Hasaba shouted down, flagging for them both. “Just follow me! I’ve got this.”

“You’ve got this, huh?” Satoru looked back to Suguru. He tipped his glasses, peering at Suguru.
“What do you got, then? A headache?”

“You.” Suguru closed his eyes. “It’s basically the same thing.”

One look up proved Hasaba hadn’t waited for them. The tails of his trench coat stuck to his legs,
his fur collar matting down. Water streamed down his back. Even then, he hadn’t stopped
climbing.

Suguru hooked his flashlight to his sash. He tied the knot tight, adjusting the beam so it pointed as
steady as it could. The light dangled towards his feet, casting new shadows. Satoru crossed his
arms, watching him.

“How many yen an hour do we get for this, again?”

Suguru wrapped a hand around a vine. He tugged tight, checking the stability, then stepped
forward, too. “None,” Suguru answered, scaling a root. “It’s for experience.”

Satoru scoffed. “Experience? Blech. If it can’t level my Piplup, I don’t need XP.”

Suguru chose to ignore that, too. He hunched forward, bowing in, and clutched his hands around
the roots to climb. The second his hand pressed down, he saw the stream of flooding rain part
around him. The running water dripped down his arm, then further, gushing and pushing as if he
were climbing a waterfall.

Suguru raised his chin. He squinted into the wavering dark, peering back towards Hasaba. The
bowl of his hair shifted in the storm.

“You should turn back!” Suguru shouted at his back. “My friend will take you!”

The “friend?” from Satoru hadn’t mattered. Suguru willed himself not to hear it.

“Hasaba!” Suguru shouted, again. “Please–”

A blur rushed past Suguru’s ear. A crack formed through the air. He turned towards the rush,
spotting nothing, as Satoru vanished.

Suguru gaped back, barely processing what could have happened. Before he could reach a
conclusion, he heard Satoru curse ahead.

“Crap!”

Instinct crept down Suguru’s back, mixing with the rain. He leapt ahead as quick as he could,
bounding over each tree until he’d caught up to Hasaba. Suguru’s feet latched into the roots,
holding his spot. He wrapped one arm around the tree. With the other, he grabbed Hasaba.

The tree bent under Suguru’s hand, its trunk shaking, trembling as the stream of gushing water
rattled through their hold. A wave rushed down the mountain, thick with debris, thrashing towards
whatever it could touch.
Suguru didn’t give himself time to think. His free hand plunged through the current, his toes curling
in his shoes as he scaled the next step. His hand slipped from the tree, plunging into the current of
the stream. He bowed into the wave, his entire body tilting to fight against gravity.

The soil shifted at Suguru’s feet, his shoes sliding down the hill. He turned his shoulder, his hold
shifting. As he moved, faintly, Suguru heard Hasaba squeak out a “wow–” The sound was muffled
by a mouthful of water.

Hasaba turned his head, spitting the mouthful out. Suguru squeezed through Hasaba’s jacket,
wrestling him closer still. The non-sorcerer sputtered with a cough. Suguru didn’t ask.

Suguru climbed higher, scaling the mountainside. The tree’s roots grew thicker, solid vines and
branches weaving patterns by his feet. Pockets of fresh water pooled under his toes, splashing
upwards under the torrent of rain. Staggered streams poured from the leaves overhead, new waves
redirected in the trees.

It wasn’t until Suguru’s feet hit the grooves of a trunk, at the top peak of the Kazura slope, that
Suguru finally saw what made Hasaba gape.

The outline of Satoru’s body scorched straight through the trees. Indents of a path Satoru had failed
to pass through steamed where the wood burned with the friction, then extinguished with the
storm.

Suguru realized, without asking, what must have happened. Satoru must have tried to bend space
around himself, to use the limitless to help speed his way up the mountain–and the mountain had
pushed him back.

A burst of blue pushed through the corner of Suguru’s eyes. The browns and greens of the forest
flushed out in the light of Satoru’s technique.

Hasaba’s feet dragged on the ground, his body sinking back down to gravity in awe. “Whoa,” he
murmured, his eyes setting wide to the sight. “What kind of lightning–”

Satoru screamed back. “NOT LIGHTNING!”

The “huh–” from Hasaba had barely been background noise to Suguru. He took a step ahead, his
body blocking Hasaba’s path while bracing to hold them both in place.

“Suguru, back!” Satoru shouted, running towards them both. “They’re not trees!” his scream
twisted with what looked oddly like a smile. “It’s an Ent!”

Suguru paused to squint, the smile baffling him. “A what–” He didn’t finish the question.

Satoru charged in so quickly, Suguru had no chance to adjust. Satoru pushed him back, forcing him
to slide down the trees. Suguru’s foot plunged, his leg falling into the pocket between two roots.
The trap made him pivot, holding his position as he saw what rose ahead of them. Between the
pillars of the thousand year old trees, and the still singing gaps Satoru had left behind, one of the
trees was moving.

Hasaba turned his head. “An Ent?” he asked, concerned, not in panic, but for Satoru. “Like, from
Lord of the Rings?”
Whatever pretense Suguru had of not showing his own technique pushed straight from his mind.
His free hand folded into a sigil, his thumb and two fingers pointed up to a central point in the sky.
Deserted as the grounds may have been, they still needed the barrier.

"Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness,” Suguru recited, blocking the non-sorcerer with
his body as he did. “Purify that which is impure."

The “what’d you say?” that Hasaba asked drowned in the downpour. All of Suguru’s focus fell
between the clouds and the curse.

What little color had lingered in the storm began to drain from the sky. Above where Suguru
pointed, the deep violet swirl of the curtain started to spread. The perimeter dripped over the
heavens, cloaking the true night inside the cover of Suguru’s cursed energy. The already gray sky
faded deeper and darker. In the absence of light, the downpour, too, seemed to slow to a crawl.
Then, the storm broke.

The grounds beneath them still sloshed with puddles. The roar of the winds turned still. Even
without the rain, the mountain wasn’t quiet.

Hasaba stared ahead, squeaking out some comments Suguru didn’t bother to hear. Whatever the
non-sorcerer saw, it wouldn’t be what was. He wouldn’t understand this.

He was lucky not to understand.

The living tree’s branches outstretched, lumbering limbs slashing like claws towards Hasaba’s
head. Suguru opened his hand, pushing himself in front of Hasaba to block the way. His own cursed
energy flowed, burning through his throat, lurching to summon a cursed spirit just in case he
needed it.

A chunk of Hasaba’s bowl cut slashed straight off, the clump falling into a puddle in the ground. He
stood, dumbstruck and awestruck, gaping into a dark he couldn’t see. Suguru braced, standing
straight between them as he tried to assess the curse.

For Suguru, it was important to see an enemy before he struck. If he knew what he was up against,
he could choose the right curse to match them with. In the middle of nature, for something based
off of wood, his best bet would usually have been something using fire–but the area was too soaked
with rain to not create a weakness of its own.

As the possibilities ran through Suguru’s mind, a richer shade of blue rose through the darkness at
his back. The hue of something Suguru otherwise couldn’t see splashed across the curtain.

The leaves of the tree curse shook, the spirit lumbering near. Satoru’s arm stretched over Suguru’s
shoulder, rising straight towards the curse without actively touching it. His cursed energy pooled,
the limitless concentrating into the negative space across the entirety of Satoru’s hand like a glove.

The blast of Satoru’s blue pulled for the curse ahead of them. The curse’s body yanked forward,
uprooted into the central blast of blue. Satoru released the energy just short of himself, then backed
away. The other trees Satoru had run into, and the curse he’d come to find, plunged together in the
crash. An inarticulate scream formed from the gap in the living tree, stunned, but still alive. Not
only had Satoru landed a blow, but he’d made it small enough not to knock out the curse.

“Suguru!” Satoru called out, “You got a master ball, back there?”
Between the flash of the glow, Suguru saw the outline of Satoru’s grin. That was all Suguru needed
to know.

“You have got to stop playing Pokemon.”

“Then tell that to Digimon! They’re the ones not making new games.”

Hasaba braced back, uncomfortable. “Uh, guys–? What’s going on?”

Satoru scoffed. “Not Digimon games!”

Suguru raised his hand, his fingers curling out as he focused his cursed energy at the weakest point.
His entire body curled towards the curse, blocking the path to Hasaba while also letting go. His full
focus settled on the curse.

The tree curse’s body withered, bending down where the other trees’ roots had plunged through it.
The sacred energy of the grounds where they stood held tight, dealing damaged through its core.

Suguru pushed in, his technique pulling at the curse’s essence. The tree curse condensed, its body
shrinking down into pure energy. The spiral pulled together, Suguru’s technique compressing the
curse like a star succumbing to the gravity of its own existence. Soon enough, the curse was
nothing but a sphere in Suguru’s palm.

Suguru closed his eyes. He tossed his head backwards, willing himself not to think, swallowing
without letting the essence touch his tongue. Even so, he could taste the rotten bile creeping down
his throat. The taste of something no one else should know writhed into submission.

The next breath Suguru took was barely a huff. The overly sweet taste of the air writhed in him. His
eyes started to water, clouding like the rain.

“Disgusting,” Suguru mumbled under his breath.

Satoru clapped his hands together, his grin beaming. “Hey, Suguru! Still don’t want that mint?”

Suguru lifted his hand from his chest. Another sugary breath burned down his throat as he shot
back, “yes.”

“Oh, well. More for me, then.” Satoru hand shoved into his pocket, presumably reaching down for
the peppermint. His fist stopped inside as he paused to think. “...wait.”

“We can’t wait, Satoru,” Suguru spoke over him. “There’s no time. Hasaba–”

Suguru expected an answer. Even if he was startled, the non-sorcerer had been fairly talkative
before then. There wasn’t. Suguru turned, peeking over his shoulder for the other. “Hasaba?”

Any trace of Hasaba was gone.

The spot where he’d been just seconds ago stood empty. What would have been his footprints
washed away in the puddles below. If Suguru hadn’t known better, he could have thought Hasaba
had never been with them at all.

A pulse of tension crept down Suguru’s neck, slipping with the stray rain. “Satoru,” he called.
Did you get Hasaba?”
“No,” Satoru told him, looking at the same spot. “Did you?”

Suguru didn’t answer at all. He grabbed his flashlight from his sash, then pointed it towards the
ground. The artificial beam of light fought through the dark of the curtain, unsteady and flickering
in the fog. Indents of shadows wove through the brush, marking the spots where Satoru had
uprooted the trees into the debris.

Satoru ruffled the back of his hair. “Well, that’s weird. Not like Blue would do that, yeah? I wasn’t
aiming for him…”

Suguru lowered himself to one knee. He leaned in, his hand planting into the mud. Stray twigs and
crumpled leaves sank around his hands. If he’d looked close enough, he could spot his own
reflection in the water.

“Look closer,” Suguru ordered. The white glow of his flashlight pushed across the ground, forging
shadows for each missing root.

“He didn’t leave footprints,” Suguru realized, shifting the light. There wasn’t so much as a stray
fiber from his coat in the mess. “He didn’t leave anything. He just… left.”

Satoru lowered himself, too, crouching to his feet. “So what?” he asked over Suguru’s shoulder,
peering down. “He got sucked down? Up? Turned into a tree, too?”

“I don’t know,” Suguru admitted, turning back. “I didn’t sense anything.”

“Me, either.”

Suguru dropped the flashlight. The beam shook, rocking over the ground. “He was there before I
swallowed the curse. I’m sure of that. I heard him.”

Satoru squinted deeper down the shadowed path. “And we’re sure he didn’t turn back? I mean, we
did keep telling him to leave.”

“I’m sure,” Suguru lied, convincing himself it was true. “I didn’t hear him walk away.”

Suguru brushed his hands across his knees. The mud caked over him, wet and damp as the rest of
this place. “...I didn’t hear anything.”

The overwhelming, sickly sweetness that had crept down Suguru’s throat had faded in the tension.
The effects of what he’d consumed faded to the back of his brain. All that was left, then, was the
chill of what he’d missed. Again. How was it, he could be so sure of what he was doing, and keep
missing?

Suguru raised his eyes into the darkness. The path wound ahead. In the overstretched shadows, bent
by the flashlight at his side, he saw the echo of something that couldn’t have been there. The
outline of a girl in a sailor uniform lingered ahead. A headband tied back her braids, an innocent
smile overtaking her.

Riko .

Suguru grabbed his flashlight, ripping through his sash. He thrust the beam ahead, stabbing into the
darkness. The outline of the trees swayed, steady and untouched in the wilderness. Nothing else
was there.
Suguru swallowed back. His knuckles twisted, his fingers clenching the beam. His breath echoed in
his mind as he stared out, blank, watching for something he knew wasn’t there. Somehow, even
when the path was clear, he could have sworn he’d seen Haibara, too.

“Suguru,” Satoru called for him.

A light patter of rain brushed the borders of the curtain. Suguru could hear the sound, yet, the storm
was unable to break through. The weather was barely a murmur. A shiver ran down Suguru’s spine,
his body turning still.

“Suguru!”

Satoru’s voice cut in, snapping the feeling in two.

Suguru gaped through the dark, his flashlight grazing a pattern of a net across the roots. His breath
steadied, the cloak of the curtain hiding the pale from his face. He stepped back.

“I don’t see anything specific,” Suguru uttered, forcing a composure that wasn’t there. “The
grounds have cultural significance. Cursed energy is saturated here.There are traces.”

That must have been what it was, Suguru told himself. Sacred energy. The presence of something
that didn’t match what they’d trained against–that was what set him so off-kilter.

“So what?” Satoru asked behind his back. “Think that means the curse is here?”

Suguru shook his head. The locks of his hair fell from his bun, strands streaking his face in every
direction. He wiped his hand across his forehead, pushing them back.

“Satoru…”

Satoru nodded back. “Suguru.”

Suguru forced a breath. “If it’s here, then, it’s everywhere. All of it.”

Even as he said it, Suguru wondered if the thought was absurd.

“It’s a common enough fear, that a person would offend the Kami. At least, in places like this,”
Suguru considered out loud. “That a curse could be capable of kamikakushi, it might not
impossible…”

“Of course it’s not impossible!” Satoru snapped his fingers. “Curses come out like movies all the
time! Movies are the modern myth! It’s why I watch ‘em so much.”

Suguru deflated. “That’s not why you watch movies, Satoru,” Suguru dismissed. “That’s what you
told our new teacher so you can watch movies in class.”

“Hey! He bought it!” Satoru argued. “Besides, that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Suguru turned the base of his flashlight, switching the beam back off. The trail up Mount Mitoku
plunged back into the dark. If there were ancient spirits to offend, Suguru could only guess modern
technology would bother them, here.
With nothing to see but shadow, Suguru let himself still. Satoru rustled. He tucked his hands into
his pockets, his shoulders setting back. “Think we should go find Hasaba?” he asked, looking in as
if he could still see–because, unlike Suguru, he could. “Or keep on?’

Suguru wasn’t sure. There were codes for what to do when a mission went correctly. For failures,
the most they had was a guess.

He let out a breath.

“He would want us to go further. Hasaba,” Suguru bowed to himself. “Find the children, first. Then
him.”

“Cool. Gotcha.” Satoru rolled his shoulders back, bracing them both. “Then hold on and hold
steady! I’ll get us up in a sec–”

Suguru held out his hand, blocking him. “No.”

“No?!” Satoru’s shoulders stopped. He gaped back. “Why, no?”

“Because,” Suguru exhaled, “You’re rude, Satoru.”

“Rude?” he repeated, baffled. “What does that have to do with–”

“There’s a chance you’ll offend it.”

“Offend what? The curse?” Satoru gaped back. “It’s a curse ! Shouldn’t we want to offend it?”

Before Satoru could reason, Suguru cut back with a “no.” He exhaled. “Now, stop bickering.”

“Then stop being worth bickering with.”

Suguru shook his head. His hair scattered back in different places, obscuring his eyes. It hadn’t
mattered enough to fix, this time–not when he couldn’t see.

“Whatever or wherever this curse is, most of its victims have yet to be found,” Suguru reasoned.
“It’s best we don’t provoke it unnecessarily. It may have civilians in custody, including Hasaba.
Were we to upset it, there’s a chance they may use them against us.”

“Like, human meat shields or something?” Satoru asked. Suguru nodded. Even in the dark, Suguru
was sure he sensed Satoru roll his eyes. “Geez, that’s lame.”

“Lame and true.”

Reluctantly, Satoru’s foot stepped into the earth. Within a few steps, the pathway shifted to jagged,
sharp stone.

“Remind me not to go hiking again, okay?” Satoru asked between steps. “This sucks.”

“You never would have hiked in the first place.”

“Apparently, I would,” Satoru huffed. “I’m hiking now, because you told me to. You’ve gotta stop
liking lame things. It could rub off on me.”
Suguru set his hands into his pockets. He fell into stride, matching Satoru’s steps with his own.

“Imagine me with a pocket protector, or crocs. I can’t do it,” Satoru went on. “I’d be too powerful.”

“It’s said that shugendo is a path to enlightenment,” Suguru countered, following Satoru’s path.
“Perhaps, you’ll find discipline in this.”

“What, like the mountain’s gonna spank me?” Satoru asked. Even without sight, Suguru could tell
Satoru was rolling his eyes. “Not sure what enlightenment someone’s gonna find in this place. It’s
pretty dark, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

“Whatever. It’s still dark if you don’t ask, too.”

Suguru let him have the last word. For now, at least. He stepped forward in quiet, marching the trail
at his side.

The mountain trail twisted again, the tree roots and slope twisting even steeper into stone. The
remnants of the rainfall pooled at the bottom of the steps, streams of water trickling down the
rocks. A thick, rusted chain ran down the slope, the links rattling where the water pushed it. Even
without studying ahead, Suguru knew this place.

“The Kusari-zaka,” Suguru murmured, taken in. “No wonder civilians can’t pass in the rain. It’s a
waterfall, now.”

Under almost any other circumstance, they shouldn’t have been here in a storm, either. Were it not
for the curtain, blocking out the rest of the storm, the wall of stone before them would have been
practically impassable.

Satoru, who had no use for practicality, chuffed.

“All right. I think it’s time we ride a dragon,” Satoru looked toward Suguru. “You’ve got a dragon,
again, right?”

Suguru’s stare flattened.

“That isn’t relevant.”

“How are dragons irrelevant? They fly!” Satoru raised one hand in a flying gesture, flapping
through a squiggle. “It’s the eagles to Mordor problem, right? We skip all the climbing and zip-zap
the ring right up!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t? HOW?” Satoru gaped. “It’s Lord of the Rings!”

“I haven’t read that.”

“Read? Why would you read?” Satoru paused for a second. “Wait, you haven’t seen Lord of the
Rings? How?”

“By not watching it.”

“I know that,” Satoru snapped back. “How have you not watched Lord of the Rings?”

Knowing full well that the answer wouldn’t change, Suguru chose to ignore him. He wrapped his
hands around the chain, his fingers curling over the rust. Even without new rainfall, the chain was
still slick from the storm.

The pressure of centuries rattled inside the metal. For well over a thousand years, monks on
pilgrimage had walked this path. Suguru wanted to think that the weight he felt was one of
reverence. He wanted to, and yet, what he felt first was the wish he’d brought climbing gloves.

Suguru’s feet slanted against the rock. He pulled tightly on the chain, his fingers slipping through
different links, locking himself in as best he could. Gravity pulled at his back, the slide of his shoes
and the force of the planet itself trying to pull Suguru away.

Suguru could have moved his head, to try and peek at the ground. He didn’t let himself. His hands
wrapped steady as he forced a step towards the sky.

The slope of the mountain bent beneath him. His hands tensed on the chain. With each step, he
could see the top of his curtain bend, looming closer. His feet slipped and bent, his own body
threatening to break his concentration.

As he stared into the dark, in the void of the sky, Suguru could still see Riko waiting.

Suguru closed his eyes. The vision didn’t stop. If anything, he only saw Riko more clearly. He
forced a breath, his steps moving with his lungs as he clung to the chain. Again, he heard a call at
his back. “Suguru–”

This time, he didn’t look.

“Take the chain, Satoru,” Suguru called back, less a question than an order. His right hand pulled
on the links, his left crossing over it to pull himself higher. “We have to climb.”

“What, you want me watching your ass?” Satoru asked, his words mixing with the jingle of the
chains. “Your butt eclipse is all I can see, down here!”

The stupid joke bounced off him.

“You know what I mean, Satoru. Come.”

“This isn’t the context I want to hear you tell me to ‘come’!”

Suguru didn’t dignify that with an answer. He blinded his ears as much as his eyes, and kept going.

“Suguru,” Satoru called again. In that second, it hadn’t sounded like a name at all, just a sound
someone made to hear their own voice. “Suguru, come on.”

The sound turned to nothing in the echo of Suguru’s mind. The place it came from seemed to shift.
Where, at first, Suguru heard Satoru far below him, at the next step, he’d heard him everywhere.

Suguru opened his eyes.

The impenetrable swirls of the curtain loomed even closer–so close, he could see a touch of color
in the dark. Without trees, stones, or even a sense of distance in his line of sight, the world had no
detail. The simple voice of existence waited above him, unreachable, yet near.

Again, he heard a call he didn’t answer. “Suguru!” Satoru shouted.

Suguru looked down. His foot bent, his body twisting, as he reached the top of the peak. He
gripped the top link of the chain, then pulled himself up, crossing the wooden ledge to take the last
step towards Kusari-zaka.

It wasn’t until Suguru had climbed onto the platform that he saw who else was there. Satoru was
sitting on the ledge, his feet dangling towards the ground.

“...How did you get here, first?” Suguru asked distantly.

“I skipped the chain! Duh. I just climbed up on my own.”

It wasn’t until Satoru answered him that Suguru knew he’d asked the question out loud. He lowered
his head, shaking. “Satoru…” There had been no reason Satoru needed to answer. When there’d
been no other answer to give, all he said was “Suguru.” Somehow, that was the only thing Suguru
had ever needed him to say.

It wasn’t supposed to be possible to scale this part of the mountain without the chain. Of course,
what was supposed to be didn’t matter to Satoru. Satoru, who was full of things that weren’t
supposed to be.

The unpainted wood of the temple streaked from the rain. The structure rose, weathered and musty,
yet still standing tall, the same as it had been for hundreds of years. Satoru’s hands wrapped along
the ledge of the platform, holding loosely to steady himself. His left leg crossed over his right knee,
his right leg still swinging.

Suguru cleared his throat. “I told you not to be disrespectful,” he said, quietly. “It’s tradition to
scale this mountain with the chain.”

“Should tradition matter without reason?” Satoru asked the horizon, his sunglasses still in place.
“It’s not like I cut the chain. I just did it myself.”

“That’s not the way it’s done, Satoru. To change things, and not ask, some people take that as
disrespect.”

Suguru stepped up to the narrow platform, his feet steadying on the ledge. Without a railing or a
barrier, as soon as he turned the corner, there were only two things to see. The first was Satoru, the
white of his hair set to a deep and tarnished silver under the cover of his curtain. The second was
the endless stream of nature, rolling through the distance below.

It was beautiful.

“Then let them be disrespected,” Satoru dismissed, still watching. “I’m not hurting anything.
Unless you count egos. If there’s a better way, screw using the old one. That it can be done better is
reason enough.”

Satoru hadn’t said it as a question. Suguru still knew he could argue, if he’d wanted to. He kept
quiet.
“The reason for tradition can’t just be tradition,” Satoru went on. “If it is, then, what’s the point of?
To keep people comfortable? The kinds of people who think comfort’s more important than
improving shouldn’t be comfortable. It’s stupid, right? Like, the higher-ups.”

Suguru didn’t know how to argue that, either. He stared off across the mountain, watching ahead.

In most days, and most places, the purpose of a curtain was simple. The veil of darkness would
obscure anything beyond the pocket it formed. From this far above, beneath the curved roof of the
temple, even the curtain seemed to bend. Beyond that purple veil, waves of ancient trees stood tall,
branches rippling in the wake of wild wind.

With every second that passed, another person could be in danger. Someone else could be suffering.
Any second that Suguru spared to watch the world like this felt dire. It took a sight like this for
Suguru to truly see the scale of things. From up here, in a wilderness that had stood longer than
their lives ever would, even Satoru Gojo seemed small.

Suguru lowered himself to a kneel. His hands fell into proper posture, his pants streaking mud
across the temple. Despite the world laid before him, the only place Suguru could bring himself to
look, now, was Satoru.

“I mean, tradition would’ve said I can’t use the limitless permanently,” Satoru added. His right leg
swung one more time, setting like a metronome in the wind. “Tradition would say I inherit the
family and get hitched to a cousin, knock her up, and ‘keep the bloodline pure’. Like some bullshit
period drama. What kind of business is it of an uncle in an office who I’d want to spend my life
with, right?”

Suguru kept his hands in his lap. The curtain swayed behind Satoru, another cloak between them
and the rest of the world. Not even another sorcerer would have reached them from here.

They should have been moving. Suguru understood, completely, where they were and why. Other
people were in need. Other people were always in need. It was a risk, to someone else, that either of
them use time for themselves and sit still. The threat of responsibility loomed at Suguru’s back.
Somehow, even so, Suguru couldn’t bring himself to remind Satoru.

Maybe there was something holy about Shugendo.

“You can’t say someone’s not hurt by that tradition, right?” Satoru rambled towards the sky. “I
mean, look at the Zen’in, and the Kamo. It’s not even saving the curse techniques. No one’s
inheriting them, and the families just go mad. Hell, that tradition could hurt me, if I let it. It’d say I
couldn’t see you.”

Suguru knew better, he told himself, than to talk about this here. There was someone else waiting
for them–helpless people, strangers, a few of them even good, with no one to help them but Satoru.

But what good was that, if there was no one to help them?

“Satoru…” Suguru called, as if the person he loved were far away.

Satoru turned to meet him, right there. “Suguru.”

Suguru’s hand crept a little closer, sliding across the wood. A fingertip brushed the back of Satoru’s
hand.
“Your limitless isn’t up,” Suguru murmured.

Satoru snickered, his smile setting aglow. “Nah, it’s there! Just not for you.”

Behind Satoru’s back, in the distance, the ocean of trees wasn’t just waving. It was glowing, too.

“It’s never been there, for you,” Satoru told him. “Never needed it.”

An array of shining lights flickered through the trees, flashes reflecting off the dew and raindrops
still lingering. The twinkling settled like stars, dots somehow close enough to capture shining off
the surface of Satoru’s hair.

Suguru’s hand stilled. His palm flattened over Satoru’s own, holding him there. The pressure he
hadn’t meant to give settled in place as the swarm started to descend.

“Oh–” Satoru’s head tilted back. He lifted the hand Suguru wasn’t holding to tip his sunglasses
down.. The blue of his eyes seemed to gleam with the reflection of the lights.

“These are curses, yeah?” Satoru asked quietly. “They’ve gotta be. They’re here. Too big for
fireflies, too.”

Satoru’s hand raised higher, stretching up towards the artificial sky of the curtain. A few of the
lights descended, swirling harmlessly towards Satoru’s fingertips. “Hey, Suguru! You should eat
one! Built in nightlight, right?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t take orders.”

“Aww…” Satoru turned his fingers in, his hand contorting into the shape of a claw. Then, he
waved, dragging the dots along with him. “But these look so tasty! Like konpeito.”

“I assure you, they wouldn’t be,” Suguru sighed. “Unlike you, I don’t stick everything in my
mouth.”

“Oh, come on,” Suguru complained. “It’s shiny curse candy! Just shove it in.”

“No.”

“Just one little curse candy!”

Suguru shook his head. “We have a mission.”

“Open wide!” Satoru raised his hand. One of the dots that had been clinging to his fingers flung
straight towards Suguru. The dot bounced off Suguru’s cheek, falling into his lap. Then, the sphere
floated back up.

As the being of pure energy started to hover, Suguru reached back down towards the dot. He pulled
at the spirit gently, gesturing to condense it the way he would to form a curse sphere. The creature
continued to buzz in the same, dull aquamarine glow, its presence undisturbed.
Suguru pressed his hand back into his lap. Satoru’s expression fell into a new pout.

“Oh, come on!” Satoru complained. “You can’t not try it.”

“Satoru.”

Before Suguru could finish the sentence, Satoru cut in. “If you use my name that often, you’re
gonna wear me out.”

Suguru shook his head again. “Satoru, those aren’t curses,” he told him. “They’re cursed energy.”

Satoru leaned back. “Cursed energy? How? ” Satoru folded his glasses with a flick. He tucked them
in his pocket, staring closer. “Energy from what?”

“I’m not sure,” Suguru admitted, looking back into the sky. What had started as a dozen dots
seemed to swarm into a thousand, most of them far into the distance. “It could be the land, I
suppose. That a holy place gathered enough cursed energy to form a consciousness.”

“You mean, like the whole place is a curse?”

Suguru hesitated to say. His hand outstretched, his fingers spreading across the wood of the temple
walls. Even without opening the door, he could see something shift behind the wood. The same
dots of light that hovered so crisply in the distance drew through the crack, wrapping to the outline
of his hand.

“I wonder if Yaga knew a place like this existed,” Suguru murmured to himself. “If anyone does.”

“Except us, obviously,” Satoru added. “That’s all the ‘anyone’ we could need, though. Because…”

The way Satoru drew out the pause, Suguru knew what Satoru wanted him to say. He didn’t.

“Because, we’re the strongest,” Satoru finished, not missing a beat. His smile stayed bright, his
eyes still gazing close.

There was a time when Suguru believed the ‘we’ meant both sides. Suguru swallowed back,
correcting himself. “Because you’re ‘the strongest’, Satoru.”

Satoru’s hand clapped over Suguru’s shoulder, the limitless breaking all over again, for him.

“Should’ve stuck with the first one, Suguru.” Satoru let out a sigh. “What, you want your own title,
now? Could make you ‘the handsomest’.”

Suguru shook his head. “No.”

“...Eh, fair,” Satoru shrugged it off. “That’s me, too.”

Satoru’s eyes shifted behind his sunglasses. “Hey, what about being ‘the fairest’? Could have a
‘Snow White’ thing going on. Black hair, pale skin, good at housework.”

Suguru’s “no” couldn’t come fast enough.

“Well, excuse me, princess,” Satoru teased.

“Between us, I doubt I’m the princess,” Suguru knocked back.

Suguru hadn’t realized until he’d finished speaking just how easy it was to answer that. At a time
where Suguru had already failed, again, as long as Satoru was at his side, Suguru still felt sane.

Suguru took a breath, his eyes closing, as he drowned out the thoughts of where he’d gone wrong.
His hand slid across the temple wall, searching for an indent between the wooden planks. He found
one. Then, he opened the door.

The wood creaked as the door gave way, sliding into layers across the walls. Whatever glow
Suguru had seen outside, it was nothing compared to the array within. Where, outside, Suguru saw
wood, moss and the scars of the weather, inside, the room was made of light.

An array of thousands of dots littered the walls and the floor. A sea of tiny faces blinked back, a
brighter, yellowish light pouring from their eyes when they opened. A low whistle echoed through
the muffling walls, tones of songs so soft they sounded more like breathing calling back to them
both.

The lights of each dot pushed across Satoru’s sunglasses. Suguru nudged his back.

Slowly, Suguru lowered himself to one knee. The sprites scurried out of the way, forming just
enough of a gap for Suguru to step inside. He looked back at the creatures as their eyes rose to him.
Their mouths opened wider, their whistles rising in pitch until the tones were so high, Suguru
barely heard them at all.

“I’ve heard about these, I think,” Suguru whispered. His hand lowered towards the sprites,
telegraphing his movements as gently as possible. “I believe they’re Kodama,” he said. “Tree
spirits.”

“Oh!” Satoru popped up. “Like from Princess Mononoke?”

“Oh!”

The whistle from the spirits’ voices started to warp. An echo sounded, not from Satoru’s own voice,
but in the pitch of their speech. “Oh! Oh. Monokoke.”

Suguru lowered his hand, offering it towards the spirits. One of the sprites climbed into his palm.
Its blank face stared up at him. Its featureless mouth hung open, its eyes just as wide,
indistinguishable from its mouth were it not for the positions of each hole.

The miniature hands of the shrunken spirit pressed down into Suguru’s own, tapping him for
attention. Suguru met its eyes.

“You aren’t a curse,” Suguru uttered, still piecing this together. “...I’ve never seen a spirit who
wasn’t a curse.”

The sprite floated, rising from Suguru’s palm. It stretched its shrunken arms over its head, gesturing
towards something. What the gesture was for, Suguru wasn’t sure.

Satoru leaned over his shoulder. He waved. “Hey, lil dude. What’s cracking?”

The sprite hopped higher. Satoru lowered with a how.

“Nice to meetcha,” Satoru told him, offering one finger how he might normally offer a hand to
shake. “Always good to meet a fan.”

The sprite wrapped their arms around Satoru’s finger. Its mouth stretched as it whistled back. A few
of the other spirits around them caught the sound, repeating his words in a higher pitch. “Good to
meet a fan.” Satoru shook his finger. The sprite didn’t let go. Satoru raised his hand with a shake,
bouncing until the kodama’s arms lost their grip. His limitless kicked back in, pushing the kodama
away. The sprite’s body drifted back towards the cluster of its friends. The spirits hovered together,
floating in the air like glowing snow.

“You know,” Satoru murmured, veering towards Suguru.

The echo of “you know,” from the Kodama below spoke even louder than he had.

“If they’re like in Mononoke, Kodama mean the forest is healthy,” Satoru told him, his eyes
gleaming behind his sunglasses. “They’re like protector things, stuck in the trees. Which means, the
spots they left are where the forest isn’t healthy. You dig me?”

Suguru did not, in fact, dig this.

“I doubt reality follows the rules of a movie,” Suguru countered. “This isn’t a curse in an urban
area, where modern expectations would influence how it manifests. It’s ancient.”

“But the behavior in the movie would have the same influence as the myth,” Satoru countered. “So,
I’m not wrong.”

“Not wrong,” the kodama echoed Satoru, their words growing louder as they did. “Not wrong. Not
wrong.”

Suguru’s hands lowered, steadying himself on the temple floor. The kodama moved in a wave,
pushing each other aside so that Suguru had space. The ocean of scattered spirits rest on top of each
other, crowding the shrine with a quiver.

For all the movements the kodama were making. Suguru looked at Satoru in understanding. Satoru
hadn’t said it, directly, and yet, Suguru knew. The fact that this many tree spirits had been displaced
meant a large pocket of the forest was hosting something unhealthy, if not demolished completely.

“Okay,” Suguru relented. “Your plan, then. We’ll try.”

Satoru raised his hand into a fist. “Sweet!” The lights of the kodama bounced off his glasses,
setting his smile aglow. “Dragon time!”

Suguru fought not to sigh. “I don’t mean the plan with the dragon, Satoru,” he scolded. “I mean
your plan to find our anomaly.”

He’d scolded too late.

“Are those not the same?” Satoru asked, already convinced.

Suguru turned his head over his shoulder. The form of the curtain swirled across the open door,
steady and rippling, as if the artificial darkness were ready to crack.
“If people’re getting spirited away, pretty sure that’s gonna be a point of disturbance, yeah?” asked
Satoru. “Pretty sure a fast search calls for flight, yeah? That means dragon.”

Suguru exhaled, exasperated. “We don’t need a dragon.”

“Says you,” said Satoru. “You’re just dragon your feet.”

Were anyone else here, it would have felt disrespectful, somehow, to find any form of peace or
jokes when other people were suffering. With Satoru, all the bickering and quips felt like part of the
process–as if taking the time to cope wasn’t disrespect for others, but respect for himself.

Every other mission, for the year they’d been apart, had felt like a marathon with a void at the end.
Even if Suguru crossed the finish line, the only thing left was a tragedy.

In the glow of Satoru’s smile, and things Suguru could study, yet never fully understand, Suguru
recognized something he’d forced himself to forget. Whatever was waiting at the finish line, if
someone else was at his side, there could still be a reason to run the race.

Suguru stepped forward, reaching Satoru’s side. He gave a nod, his stray hair falling over his eyes.
It was all either of them needed to know.
 Redacted Village, Part 3

Suguru Geto

September 2007

Mount Mitoku, Tottori

Satoru and Suguru soared over the mountain, flowing through the gaps between stray raindrops. An
ocean’s worth of leaves waved beneath them, the greens, yellows and oranges drowned out into
near black by the reflection of the curtain. They were riding a dragon.

“Good dragon,” Satoru cooed, petting its back. “Shiny dragon.”

“I’m not doing this for you,” Suguru mumbled.

Even without turning his head, Suguru could feel Satoru smile at his back. “Of course not! I could
fly on my own,” Satoru countered. “It’s because dragons are cool.”

“I’m not risking our well-being for coolness, either.”

“Sure, sure. Tell yourself that.”

“I will.”

Satoru had, unfortunately, been correct to remember Suguru had a dragon. A previous mission in
Okayama had found a new incarnation of an imaginary vengeful cursed spirit, the Mizuchi,
terrorizing fishermen by the Takahashi river until they’d sealed it in Suguru’s guts.

The serpentine dragon had a long, faintly teal-tinted body with shimmering scales. In the light, the
Mizuchi’s form would have reflected shades of the sun, just like the water it thrived in. Ordinarily,
a curse such as this one wouldn’t have been able to move outside of the sea or a lake. The stray
raindrops that broke through the curtain gave just enough life that the Mizuchi could take form, and
with it, carry them through the air.

From the smile on his face, Satoru was having the time of his life. Suguru let out a breath,
exasperated.

“This could disrespect the mountain, to traverse shugendo like this,” Suguru muttered to himself.
“There’s a chance we may make the situation worse, this way.”

“Who cares?” Satoru shrugged.

Suguru sighed. “The offended mountain spirits, presumably.”

Satoru didn’t acknowledge that.

“Yeah, well, there’s a chance waiting makes things worse, too. So, why not do the version with the
dragon? Dragons are cool.”
“We can’t make every decision based on what’s cool, Satoru.”

“Why not?”

Suguru took a breath.

“You don’t make every decision based on what’s cool,” Suguru corrected. “If you did, you’d have
different sunglasses.”

Satoru swiped the thought away. “Psh! What do you know about cool, anyway?” he complained,
rolling his eyes. “I could pull you around by your bangs! It’s like a head handle.

Satoru’s hand started to stray, moving up towards Suguru’s waist. Before it could sink in, Suguru
swatted Satoru back. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” Satoru laughed. “You’ve got a waist under there. …Somewhere.”

The “no” that Suguru shot back was twice as stern as before.

Satoru folded his arms across his chest. He tilted his head, looking down. “You’re wasting your
waist, down there. Much pant, many cloth.”

A stray raindrop fell on Suguru’s cheek, falling down him like a tear. He turned his head, moving
away from the rain with a “what are you talking about,” that he hadn’t meant to hear answered.

“Your body!” Satoru answered, anyway. “Duh.”

Suguru fell back, his exasperation mounting even more.

“You shouldn’t have answered that,” Suguru said, flatly.

Satoru didn’t blink. “Then you shouldn’t have asked.”

Suguru knew better than to argue that.

Satoru nudged forward across the serpentine dragon’s back. His chin leaned over Suguru’s
shoulder, the rest of his body pressing down to nestle up on his back.“I knew you had a dragon.”

Knowing full well that answering would take up more time, Suguru ignored that, too. His hand
steadied on the white, whipping hair on his curse’s back as he bowed to watch the landscape.

Even under the curtain, the shades of the changing leaves still shone in slivers, marbled violets
taking the place of what should have been yellows and reds. The glowing spirits of the Kodama
peeked through the leaves in patches, dotting the horizon in light.

“It shouldn’t be much farther,” Suguru murmured, watching the horizon grow. The slant of the
mountain tilted up overhead, reaching not just towards the sky, but the roof of his curtain, too. “It
looks like–”

Satoru pointed over Suguru’s shoulder. “That way.”

“You sense something?”

Before Suguru could finish his question, the Mizuchi rose, too. Its head turned to the side, its neck
stretching into the sky as it arced through one wave of raindrops into the next. Satoru wrapped his
arms to Suguru’s back, his grip squeezing water from his shirt. The next wave of raindrops parted
at Satoru’s limitless, the water bouncing off of them both.

The Mizuchi’s mane whipped through the wind, traces of the storm swelling stronger as they
neared the top of the barrier. The ceiling of the curtain rippled, deep purples stretching to blacks.
The rest of the storm roaring outside it cast bursts through the sky, like watching a puddle in a
thunderstorm from below.

From the highest peak, with nowhere left to rise, Suguru did exactly what most people shouldn’t
have done when exposed in the sky. He looked down.

At the highest peak of the mountain, far above the ground, Suguru could see the gap in the
Kodama’s glow. At the face of the mountain, on the highest point of the cliff, the starlike dots were
gone. A dotting of lush vines streaked the indents of the rock, ancient trees still reaching towards
the temple, yet not one forest spirit strayed near. In the depths of the night, Suguru could barely
squint enough to see the outline of the temple–but he could see it.

A building propped up on the stilts of pillars was embedded in the rock. The sloped roof, which
held the same shape as the building they’d found before, looked almost crimson in the dimmed
light. A gap in the stone hung over the temple, a second roof to protect the small, raised platform in
the rock. How anyone could have built the structure on stilts in the time it came to be, no non-
sorcerer had ever known, and any sorcerer knew intrinsically.

“There,” Suguru whispered. He pulled lightly on the Mizuchi’s mane, directing it to descend where
he called. “That’s Sanbutsu-ji.”

Suguru had barely formed the words when the Mizuchi’s flow changed course. The dragon curse’s
head lowered into a bow, its body swaying into the rain. Suguru held tight to the mane, and Satoru
held even tighter to Suguru, as they descended through the sky into the dark patch below. It hadn’t
been much of a strain, a far cry from the path of shugendo.

Suguru could only hope that would do.

The Mizuchi lowered its head, its body bowing at a diagonal. The top of its snout leveled with the
edge of the balcony, carefully angled to avoid the cliff that could block the rain.

“Well!” Satoru stood up. “Laddies first!”

Suguru turned his head. “That’s not–”

Before Satoru could hear the complaint, he clapped both hands on Suguru’s shoulders. His arms
stretched towards the sky, rolling his shoulders as he strode down the Mizuchi’s back. He hopped
off the curse’s head, then landed cleanly on the temple railing. Suguru followed behind.

As Suguru finished his descent, sliding from the Mizuchi’s side onto the balcony, he saw Satoru
raise his hand. Satoru’s limitless gave way, parting just enough for him to pet the Mizuchi on the
nose. “Hey, bud,” he grinned. “Met any donkeys, lately?”

Suguru squinted back. “...What are you talking about.” He didn’t get an answer. Where he’d
expected a word, instead, Suguru heard something breathing.
It wasn’t Satoru.

Suguru ripped the flashlight from his sash. He flipped on the beam, his body and his curse bracing.
“Satoru–!”

Satoru dropped his hand. His cursed energy centralized, ready to attack. The temple doors seemed
to distort, the black hinges creaking, wooden planks swelling, as if the building itself was taking a
breath.

For all the clever things Satoru had said before that second, now, he said nothing. He reached for
the door with infinity coating his hand, blocking the threat that could form. The distance between
his finger and the wood pushed together, prodding it. Then, Satoru reached farther.

Satoru had barely tapped the wood when the temple doors crushed in. A swelling gust of wind
sucked from the inside, pushing the temple open. Satoru’s eyes snapped wide, and his smile
stretched wider. “Hey, there–”

The sentence hadn’t left his mouth when a shadow pushed nearby. Satoru’s infinity snapped back
on, the barrier and his attention both snapping into place. The form of a human fell through the
doorway, drowned in shadow.

“Hey!” Satoru snapped, taking another step back. “No touchy!”

Suguru held his flashlight steady. His feet stuck to the ground. The beam of light pushed forward,
stretching into the temple. Suguru braced himself for the other figure to move. It didn’t.

The unnatural, jagged features of an image set in stone laid still, standing lifeless before the both of
them. The statue had a human form. The hair on its head was cut like a circle.

Suguru felt his chest leap. His instincts pulled in, knowing the shape. “Hasaba–”

The doors slammed shut. The outside light swallowed up into the storm. Only the flashlight held
still, steady in Suguru’s grip. The shadows stretched along each weathered wall, the stone shapes
twisting until there was no choice but to see. Statues of a dozen people cluttered the room. The
forms of bodies, trapped in rock, filled the temple floor so completely, there was no room left for
them to move.

Suguru raised his flashlight into the depths. The beam skimmed through the figures, until falling on
the closest face he could find. The shape had no color, only the pores of a rock. The figure faced
back, almost human, yet missing something. At the spot where a person would have held their eyes,
each statue had only a gap. Dots of shadow burrowed into their skulls, empty.

“I’ve read about this effect. It was a Greek mythological tradition, though. Not a Japanese one,”
Suguru mused, thinking for Satoru just as much as for himself. “I suppose it’s possible to manifest
a curse from other cultures. Though it’s rare.”

Suguru leaned a little closer. He kept his flashlight still, the beam burrowing into the gap where the
statue’s eyes should have been. The blank spaces stared back, unmoving. The man’s clothing
looked outdated, with his t-shirt stuffed into high-waisted jeans, but aside from the fashion faux-
pas, it was modern enough–far more so than a sculpture made for an ancient temple would be.
“I wouldn’t have expected a curse from elsewhere to form somewhere like this, though,” Suguru
kept thinking. “In a place with legends of its own, a foreign curse is almost… sacrilegious, in a
way.”

“Shouldn’t every curse be sacrilegious?” Satoru asked back, still casual. “I mean, it’s not like
they’re really deities, either. They just think they are.”

Suguru didn’t give himself the luxury of looking at Satoru. Instead, he drew closer to the victim.
The beam of his flashlight closed in with him as he crouched down. He could even make out the
check mark branded on the victim’s sneakers, from here.

On the other side of the room, just past what Suguru was watching, Satoru knocked a sculpture on
the head.

The sudden sound made Suguru shift. His flashlight changed directions, beaming on Satoru’s back.
“Satoru–”

Satoru knocked again.

“Anyone home?” Satoru asked, his knuckles bouncing off the unnatural curls of an older woman’s
head. The stone figure rattled slightly, wavering in place. “Huh,” Satoru shrugged. “Guess not.”

Suguru turned away from the person he’d examined, to the one Satoru stood close to. His grip
didn’t change. Even so, the shadows shifted as he walked, the columns of black changing angles on
the wall. The sound of his own footsteps muffled inside the wood.

“It doesn’t feel cursed. Doesn’t smell that way, either.” Satoru nudged the statue by the shoulder.
He propped the old woman up on her heels, leaning it against the wall. “Like an art gallery.”

“It’s too much of a coincidence, for it to be that simple,” Suguru dismissed. “Besides. It’s a cultural
site. If these figures were visible outside of the curtain, someone would have noticed before.”

The hike up Mount Mitoku was a common pilgrimage, after all. Even if most of the practitioners
were tourists with no cursed energy awareness, non-sorcerers regularly visited this place. It stood to
reason, then, that either these were cursed objects–or that no one who’d made it up here recently
had managed to leave.

Suguru raised the light to the ankles of each statue. The shadows turned again under the beam.

“If it were a medusa, then, you turn to stone if you meet its eyes,” Suguru remembered. “Keep your
glasses on.”

“What? Like, basilisk rules from Harry Potter?”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“You don’t know Harry Potter, either? Sheesh. What are you even studying?” Satoru asked. He
tipped his glasses, staring closer when Suguru didn’t answer. “It’s a giant snake thing. See it
straight on, you’re toast, but through a mirror or glasses you just kinda zonk out til you get healed
up. Some potion or something.”

It was close enough to correct that Suguru didn’t try to correct the details.
Suguru lowered his head. He stared down at the floor, meeting Satoru’s feet instead of his face. It
seemed safest, for now, for him to look low. He didn’t have glasses to filter through, after all.

“You remember the children from Hasaba’s photos?” Suguru asked, instead. He assumed, though
he didn’t see, that Satoru had nodded along. “Search the room for the girls or Hasaba. I’ll examine
the subject, see if I can find the person inside. It’s not a corpse, so this may be reversible.”

Satoru’s shadow gave a salute. “Rodger, rodger.”

The more important task, as far as Suguru saw it, was to find the girls. It was also the one that took
more movement. Suguru listened for the shuffle of Satoru’s shoe hitting the floor. Then, Suguru
took a knee.

The beam of Suguru’s flashlight struck the surface of the statue. New folds in the pattern shown
under the light, narrow shadows casting in the creases of the stone.

“If this were natural, it would be a masterwork,” Suguru mused under his breath. His right hand
held steady, clutching the flashlight, while his left cupped the stone. “Most artisans wouldn’t
manage this.”

Suguru held the flashlight steady. He squinted low, and waited for a reflection of the light to show
something that wasn’t otherwise there. The seam of a residual, which Suguru expected to shine
through, didn’t. The form held still, dull, nothing more.

Satoru broke through the quiet.

“They’re not here” he said, certain. “But I found him. The other guy.”

Suguru raised the beam. He turned towards Satoru, his head low. “Which ‘him’?”

“Which ‘him’ do you think?”

Suguru didn’t answer that. He raised his flashlight first, the line of light setting before his sight
could. Even then, the flashlight could only show so much.

The highlights of the beam licked outlines in the faces of each statue, the colorless grays turning
white. Satoru stood between the statues, almost indistinguishable from the rest, were it not for the
rims of his sunglasses. He held one in his arms, leaning the form against himself. The frayed edges
of the trench coat, cast in stone, still looked damp, like he’d been frozen in the storm.

“There’s a form beneath the rock. The Six Eyes can see it. Bones and muscles,” Satoru told Suguru,
his tone empty. “No pulse, though.”

Suguru raised his flashlight towards their faces. Satoru’s sunglasses set aglow, the black lenses
flashing white. Under the light, Suguru could almost see his eyes. Almost. Then, he saw who he’d
already known it would be.

“...Shit. Hasaba.”

“You’re telling me.”

Satoru’s arms held the figure, steady and still. The wide brown eyes still stuck in Hasaba’s skull,
the one bit of his body not cast in stone, hadn’t dilated in the light. The gap of his mouth held open,
his teeth showing, ready to shout a syllable he hadn’t managed to form. From the circle of his lips,
it looked like an ‘o’.

Suguru squinted past the light, into the colorless husk of the non-sorcerer’s body. He willed his
mind not to churn on–to not guess what the sound might have been. Geto? Gojo?

Did it matter?

The faintest spot of a residual flowed under the stone, the mark of a cursed technique creeping into
the gap where Hasaba’s lifeless eyes bore into the ceiling. The acid of the technique seemed to
glow, a pale blue seeping through the eye socket, sucking the rest of it in. The eye shook.

The outside was solid stone. If anything was left of Hasaba inside this husk, he couldn’t be
breathing. There was no pulse, either. If cursed energy wasn’t welling inside these shells, then, it
didn’t matter Suguru couldn’t see the corpse. Anyone they didn’t recognize was long gone.

“How long has it been?” Suguru asked, meaning the words for himself. “Fifteen minutes?”

Satoru held still. “More like ten. Why?”

There was a limit to how long a body could be resuscitated after losing a pulse. Ten minutes. After
that, the brain damage was too severe to be worth it to try.

“Perfect,” Suguru said, still calm. “We can try.”

Satoru turned. His smile tilted, spreading a little too wide and twice as crooked as it should have
been. “Think fast?”

“Move faster.”

There was some skepticism in Satoru’s pause. He pushed his glasses up into his hair, the blue of his
Six Eyes piercing through the room.

“What kind of deity could stop us, right?” Satoru asked, staring into the temple door. “We’re the
strongest.”

Even in a building, under a curtain, with nothing but a dollar store flashlight in his hand, Suguru
could still see the blue of Satoru’s eyes.

“We,” said Satoru, the word binding like a vow they’d never meant to make. “Together.”

There was no time for a plan. Suguru didn’t try to speak one. He nodded his head, the lock of his
bangs swaying across his forehead. His flashlight lowered, the beam pointing straight to Satoru’s
feet. The flood of the beam set his impression on the wall, like the star of a play, waiting in the
spotlight.

Suguru dropped the flashlight. He turned to the back door. His arm outstretched, his body moving
as he screamed at the wall.

“Mizuchi!”

Suguru ducked into his run. His hand brushed the ground, giving him a springboard as he sprinted
through the wall. In unison, Satoru raised his hand straight into the gap over Suguru’s head. He
pointed two fingers towards the crease in the temple doors.

A narrow beam of red energy cracked straight through the gap. The doors collapsed out, smashing
off their hinges before disintegrating. The sacred and ancient temple’s front gate splintered into
scraps, soggy wood falling through a drizzle.

The explosion passed as quickly as it formed, the field giving way. Suguru kept running. He broke
through the hole of the open gate, then caught himself on the railing at the other side. The Mizuchi
rose to his voice, the white of its main tinting pink in the residual light.

Satoru lowered his hand. His other held tight to Hasaba’s statue, gripping it by the head. His cursed
energy cycled, replenishing. Without the technique dancing on his fingers, the pose looked less like
an attack than a beckoning, calling Suguru to join him.

There had been no time to plan this. Suguru’s thoughts were a guess. He had no time to question if
Satoru’s instincts matched his own, or to question if this was possible. All Suguru could do, now,
was try.

Suguru folded his hands, his fingers intertwining with a posture that could have passed for a prayer.
An invisible current passed through the gusts, the traces of raindrops and moisture in the air
gathering. The Mizuchi’s nostrils flared, the tufts beneath its chin flaring as the fur of its goatee
seemed to mesh with the swell. Before long, the ripples turned across its face, the water absorbing
into the curse’s body until the forms became one.

The Mizuchi, on its own, had no physical form as a curse. The element it gathered, however, did.
By the laws of nature, earth was weak to water, with one exception. With enough force, only water
could erode a stone.

The hand Satoru had kept free held Hasaba still, a plain and waiting target. He held him out by the
head, as far away from Satoru as his arm could let him be. The target stood still, so close, Suguru
could still see the whites of his eyes.

There had been no need for Suguru to speak the word. Even so, he gave the order.

“Charge.” The Mizuchi smashed through the doorway, the sheer circumference of its body barely
sneaking through the gap. Its body waved through the dampened air, shedding droplets as it
slithered through its own moisture, then smashed into the statue.

A burst of water cast through the room, exploding into everything except, of course, Satoru. The
wave of the Mizuchi’s thrashing soaked into the wall. Suguru’s flashlight rolled across the floor.
The light snapped, the handle smashing in two. The batteries rolled straight between Suguru’s feet.
Suguru, too, pushed back, the new-formed blast of rain knocking him against the balcony’s rail.

Satoru held in place, dry and steady. The stone case outside Hasaba’s shape soaked to the outside,
without a crack to the surface.

Satoru’s fingers tensed on the stone casing’s shoulder. Without the light, Suguru could almost
imagine the statue blinking. Satoru called out. “Again!”

Suguru steadied himself, his ankle wrapping around the pillar in the railing. The wood at his feet
seemed to sink with his weight. He twisted his wrist, raising both hands to channel the Mizuchi.
The water swelled forth, new droplets regathering. The Mizuchi swelled, circling the perimeter of
the temple, gathering momentum where it spiraled the space, a sentient cyclone in their midst and
mist. Its body ravaged the temple, gaining speed and force to rage through.

Winds burst through the gap of the doorway. Nails ripped from the walls, then impaled in new
directions, stabbing through points of the wood. A narrow plank ripped off the side wall, flinging
out into the distance. The railing Suguru clung to buckled under its weight, the entire structure
shaking.

Suguru’s shoe slid across the balcony. His other leg fell, dropping him to his knee. He bowed into
the force of his own attack. Through the howl of his winds, he heard Satoru shouting. “That all you
got?”

The water whipped in Suguru’s face. Even the gauges in his ears seemed to rattle with the cursed
storm. Suguru held his spot. He arched his neck, bracing himself anew. A mouthful of water
smacked into him when he readied himself to call out. He spit it out, then screamed anyway.
“Charge!”

The Mizuchi circled again, smacking straight into the stone. Through the smears of the water and
the night sky, Suguru had no way to tell what, exactly, he’d done.

A few of the statues pushed against the wall. Others sucked inside. The silhouettes of things which
had once been people blurred inside the violent mass of serpent and storm. Suguru’s eardrums
stung with shifting pressures. Between them all, Suguru could barely hear a crack.

The platform snapped, the floorboards rattling. Beneath Suguru’s feet, the level floor turned into a
slope. The balcony sank, the temple sinking lower.

Suguru lowered his hand. His foot slid beneath him, gravity pulling him down the slope. A steady
stream of rain trickled down the edge, falling into the stone.

“Satoru!” A new mouthful of water gathered as Suguru screamed. He coughed back. “The temple
can’t take it! If I strike again, it could–”

“One more!” Satoru shouted back. “We’re fine!”

“Weird ‘fine’!”

If anything, Suguru thought, they were going to get fined for this.

By any definition of it, Mount Mitoku was considered a sacred place. The whole of Nageiredo, and
especially Sanbutsu-ji, were ancient treasures as revered as the legends of Ryomen Sukuna were
reviled. One more blast, and the two of them would easily tear this place apart.

“I see Hasaba!” Satoru shouted. “It’s working! Do it again!”

For something that should have given them hesitation, it didn’t. There was no reason in Suguru’s
world to put faith in ancient treasures, not when a new one was standing right there.

One more time, Suguru raised his hand. The flailing current of his conjured cyclone raged anew.
With the railing slipping beneath Suguru’s fingers, the Mizuchi rose and stretched, bracing. Even
with the storm, Suguru could feel the center, where Satoru stood inside. Satoru’s hand stayed
outstretched, holding the non-sorcerer steady.

Suguru flicked his wrist, releasing the seal.

“Charge!”

The Mizuchi’s body waved, flailing into the strike. Its head smashed first, dead center, into the
cracks in the stone shell. The rock face of the statue broke through.

“Stop!” Satoru shouted, his voice blurring into the cyclone. “We’ve got him!”

The command reached the Mizuchi as if the will had been Suguru’s own. In an instant, the storm
died. The water dragon’s body coiled along the edges of the wall, falling into its own water in
exhaustion.

The winds died at Suguru’s back. The lock of his bangs plastered to his face, his wet clothes
clinging to spots he hadn’t meant for them to find. He took a breath without fighting it, his lungs
filling in full.

Scraps of stone fell across the room, shards of wood and broken gravel littering the lower side of
the floor. Hasaba’s body slumped against Satoru’s shoulder. The light fur of Hasaba’s collar wilted
from the rain, the circle of his hair covering his eyes. Beneath the mole by his eye, pebbles stuck
like freckles to his skin. He still wasn’t moving.

“Lay him on his side!” Suguru pressed his hand to the ground. “Start compressions!”

It was possible, by now, that it was too late. It might have taken more than ten minutes from when
they’d last seen him to now. Even so, Suguru knew he had to try.

That was a good person. A good non-sorcerer. It had been so long since Suguru had seen someone
who’d believed in them who wasn’t one of them. Someone who had been willing to help, and to
fight. The last time he’d met someone like that–a non-sorcerer who hadn’t flinched at sorcery–
Suguru had watched her die. He couldn’t do it again.

A shard of wood scraped at Suguru’s palm. He ignored it. He shoved his foot down as he ran back
to the temple.

Suguru had barely taken a step when he felt a drop. The wooden balcony cracked under his heel.

Satoru’s eyes rose. The blue still shone, a beacon in the covered room. If there’d been any time,
they both could have drowned in that.

They didn’t have time.

Suguru stopped, catching himself. “The dragon!” Suguru corrected himself, the curse words in his
mind turning towards a real curse when they left his mouth. “Lay Hasaba on the dragon! Do
compressions, there–”

“Compress what?”

“First aid, Satoru! CPR!”

If there was a stupid question Satoru meant to ask, he didn’t get to.

A second floorboard broke through by the balcony. The entire floor buckled. Through the gap,
Suguru could see another stilt beneath the balcony snap in two. The connecting planks swayed, the
lower structure of the temple crumbling.

Satoru’s arm hooked beneath the limp body at his side, holding Hasaba’s body to his own. He
rushed ahead, running towards the Mizuchi.

“Hey, air and water bud! We gotta jet!”

The waves of the Mizuchi’s body flattened, the sheen leaving its scales as lay level with Satoru,
waiting for him. Suguru, too, rushed towards his curse.

The puddle beneath the Mizuchi’s stomach started to gather. A wave stretched from its mane, the
water reaching towards Suguru as if to pull him in. The cushion encased his fingers like a glove,
wrapping to his hand.

A lick of the water stroked between Suguru’s fingers, holding him close. The planks beneath his
feet gave way. The slope of the balcony tilted, the pillars breaking, until the platform he had stood
from fell straight out from below.

The ancient, sculptured roof of Sanbutsu-ji fell level with Suguru’s eyes. The mouth of the cliff
covered Suguru in shadow, glistening leaves and dripping moss still holding to a ledge where they
shielded nothing at all. The mouth of the mountain seemed to gape before him, grand and
untouched, as the rest of the building fell more.

Then, Suguru fell, too.

With the instinct of his will, Mizuchi's head lowered. The curse’s body coiled, all the water it had
gathered outstretched from its mane like a rope, tethering Suguru in place, and more. The wave
scooped beneath Suguru, encasing him inside the wave.

Suguru’s breath locked inside his lungs. His body sank to the bottom of the water. His lungs
tightened, the will to breathe rising as the bubbles of an exhale churned out of his nose. Against his
own instincts, he held his chest still. Then, he opened his eyes.

Between the abyss of the curtain-covered sky, and the distortions of the water, Suguru could barely
catch the outline of a person on the other side. As the Mizuchi drifted down, and the temple fell
faster, just beyond the wave, he could see Satoru’s hand.

The torrent of the wave pushed Suguru’s hand down. He knocked back against the resistance,
moving through the current. Between the churn of the water, and the echoes of the cyclone still
drumming in his ear, Suguru could still hear.

“Suguru!”

Suguru’s hand stretched back, his fingers parting. He reached with whatever strength he could,
clawing through the cushion of the wave to grab Satoru. He opened his mouth, meaning to scream.
The sound he would have made twisted into bubbles, the noise fading back into nothing at all.
Satoru’s pale hand pushed against him, close enough to see, yet still out of reach. For once, it
wasn’t Satoru’s technique keeping them apart. It was his own.
The thought repeated in Suguru’s mind, the urgency overtaking the rest of what was near.

“Break the wave,” he pleaded with himself, and the curse. “ Let Satoru in, too.”

The pale, soft hand that didn’t have to know struggle, unless it chose to know Suguru, held steady
in front of him.

“Let Satoru inside,” Suguru told himself. “Open the wave. We need to protect Satoru.”

Suguru thought it so strongly, so coherently, he couldn’t help but to hear a different voice in his
mind reply.

“Why would Satoru Gojo ever need you? If you weren’t here, he’d just float away.”

Suguru’s mouth opened wider. The will to say no started to form. Where he should have argued
back, all he could do was breathe in something he shouldn’t. He stopped himself from swallowing,
the water lingering in his mouth.

A pale hand that had no place reaching for him broke through the wave. Untouched fingers slipped
between Suguru’s own, holding him tight. The wave and the dragon wrapped across them both as
the mountain distorted in the dark.

In the blur of the waves, and a reality he couldn’t breathe in, the form of the cliff itself seemed to
change. The gap where Sanbutsu-ji had once stood seemed to widen, the face shifting until
stalactites dripped like rows of fangs in the gap. The mouth of the mountain wrapped around the
Mizuchi, pulling the curse inside itself.

A face glared within the mountain, cursed energy flashing behind its eyes. The glower through each
slit and splinter in the face looked ready to turn them to stone. Its jaws opened wider. The trees at
the base shook, roots tumbling from its chin. Then, the curse sucked in.

The water broke from the Mizuchi’s back, the arc of its form condensing to a shapeless, splattering
sphere as the mouth above sucked it in.

The earth pulled at Suguru’s back, gravity gripping him where nothing else could. Nothing, that
was, except Satoru.

But Satoru pushed back

The soft hand that had just been holding him shoved Suguru away from the rest, knocking him
closer to the pit. Suguru flailed up, his arm stretching back as he fought to reach.

“Satoru!”

The jaws in the mountain’s face stretched wide, the glow of the cavern spreading into a smile.
Stalactites and stalagmites mashed together, the points clenching as the curse in the mountain
engulfed everything it could reach in its bow–the Mizuchi, and Hasaba, and Satoru.

Suguru’s hand froze.

He needed to form a curse, something that could reach inside that face in the mountain. He had to
protect himself, and the others.
“The others,” Suguru thought, “Except Satoru. He’ll be fine.”

Within the curse’s jaw, Suguru could still see Satoru’s hand. The pale blip faded into the blue
energy within the mountain.

“He’ll be better without me, even.” Suguru heard himself think, his terror breaking into
understanding. “Because he’s the strongest. Because he’s Satoru Gojo.

“And all I am is here.”

The thoughts Suguru should have had faded from his brain. He snapped his mouth open, straining
for air. A trace of the water still filled his lungs. He coughed out, the cliffside falling, sliding from
his view. Then, the world turned black.
 Redacted Village, Part 4

Suguru Geto

September 2007

Mount Mitoku, Tottori

He woke up.

The crest of a wave smashed against the arc of a cliff. A mass of moss and vines bled green inside
the water that surrounded him, dirt and debris scattering where the water hit stone. Suguru tumbled
inside the water, his body turning with gravity as he fell towards the forest floor.

A flash of understanding passed through in the descent. Suguru’s head snapped up. He squinted
through the muck, the muddied water stinging through his eyes. A solid mass cracked against his
back, something he couldn’t see smacking his spine.

A final splash formed, the last of the water breaking. The ceremonial sash snagged on a branch,
catching Suguru from his fall. The protective wave collapsed to a puddle at his feet. He wheezed,
new air fighting to find space in his lungs as his chest spasmed, coughing up water. His feet slid
through the mud, the strain of the collision shaking him.

Suguru raised his head to the gaps in the brush. He forced just enough breath to shout out.
“Satoru!”

The stone wall ahead of Suguru returned the scream, a muffled echo of himself. “Satoru–”

Nothing else answered.

Suguru swiped his hand across his forehead. The lock of his bangs bent aside. From how soaked he
was, he couldn’t push any of the water away. He squinted through it, regardless, watching. Even in
Satoru’s worst condition, he should have left a residual. He should have, yet, Suguru couldn’t see.

The last residual of what had been the Mizuchi faded out in the puddle at Suguru’s feet. There was
no sign of Satoru. Even the Kodama, which had let them find a trail, had vanished in the fight. In
every way Suguru could sense in this mountain, he was here alone. He wondered, for a moment,
why that was.

In the next, Suguru realized he’d had no time for wonder.

The face of the cliff reformed, the jagged nose twitching, its eyes blinking open. The flushed
golden glow of cursed energy flooded the forest, washing every once of green or brown away in its
wake. Like a flash of lightning cracked across the sky endlessly, the curse’s presence flooded
everything it could touch.

A new cough rattled through Suguru. He slouched into it, his body bracing as his mind turned with
understanding.

“I see,” Suguru wheezed, “That’s why we didn’t sense it.”

In the same way that a person on the earth couldn’t tell it was a planet, so, too, had the curse’s
presence been eclipsed. There had been no curse to sense wandering the halls of Nageiredo, hiding
on Mount Mitoku. The curse had become Mount Mitoku.

Wayward trees shook from the cliff’s face. The remaining cedars twisted together, the branches
reforming into a topknot. Needles of narrow twigs twitched like hair, pulling away from the jagged
points of its ears. roots and stones twisted into legs, reforming and enforcing itself with cursed
energy as the mountain deity rose. The fur pelt of a cat twisted across its waist, cloaking the trunks
of its thighs.

Suguru had seen a sculpture like it once before, deep in a textbook on the mythology of the Nara
Prefecture. It was rough, and chiseled, something far less refined than the man-made sculptures in
his name. Still, Suguru knew what this was–a guardian of the mountains, Zao Gongen.

The rocks shifted, the curse’s brow tilting, as the imaginary vengeful cursed spirit met Suguru’s
stare. The face on his pelt swayed as he loomed, his foot planting into the ground. What was left of
the soil shook. The quake sent Suguru sinking, the mud rising to his ankles. He braced to step. He
didn’t.

“Leave this place,” the curse rumbled, the pitch lower than thunder and twice as easy to hear. “Do
not interfere with me, mortal.”

Coherent speech. That automatically classified this curse as a special grade. Even if this wasn’t the
first manifestation of Zao Gongen–which it likely wasn’t, given that the curse was on the wrong
mountain–it didn’t change what mattered most. For all the things Suguru understood, or facts he
could have gathered, he still couldn’t sense the Mizuchi, or Satoru.

This curse must have hidden Satoru. Maybe even killed him. But it was Satoru. That shouldn’t have
been possible.

Suguru couldn’t let that be possible.

Suguru pushed his hand into the mud. He stepped up, pushing his leg free. He squinted through the
golden light, meeting a supposed god’s eyes with the dark amber of his own.

“You’re a curse,” Suguru told it, “You’re mortal, too.”

The same mouth that had swallowed Satoru and the Mizuchi opened wide. Lips of stone and soil,
that should never have made noise, answered clearly.

“Those who call me ‘curse’ are those who try to smite me,” the mountain warned. “You do not
need to be so.”

The mountain’s head lowered, not with a bow, but with warning. The burning yellow eyes of Zao
Gongen pierced down, the light of his energy pushing all other colors from the brush.

“All life has its place, mortal,” the curse’s voice rumbled. “Yours is not here.”

The curse in the mountain opened its mouth. When its lips parted, and the cavern of its throat
opened, Suguru could feel the Mizuchi writhe in its throat. He couldn’t feel Satoru.
Suguru’s foot sank deeper into the water, the mud pushing against his heel. The residue of the
storm, and the curse that had forged it, lingered below.

The curse before him was made of stone. Just like the cases it had formed around its victims, the
essence of what it had trapped was still inside the curse. If Suguru’s dragon was still conscious, and
Suguru could draw close enough to impose his will, the mountain curse would still be vulnerable to
water. He could attack it, with the Mizuchi, from inside, if only he could force an opening.

He didn’t need brute force, not yet. What Suguru needed was a distraction. The curse was capable
of speech. It tried to reason with him, even. So, he indulged it.

“Then, what was that man’s place?” Suguru spoke up, baiting the curse’s focus to his words, and
words alone. “What did those mortals do, that you trapped them here?”

When they were capable of speech, most imaginary curse spirits based on deities believed
themselves gods. The holier-than-thou attitudes were exploitable. If Suguru could make the curse
start rambling, and defend itself philosophically, then its physical guard might lapse.

The curse of Zao Gongen stood just as tall as the mountain, the features of its face enormous as
they were indistinguishable, except for the glow of its eyes. The curse outstretched a lumbering
hand, swiping towards Suguru.

Suguru leapt down. He flopped to his stomach, crawling into the mud puddle. His neck stretched,
his back arching, just enough to keep eye contact as he snapped from below.

“And the girls. Those girls,” Suguru strained to yell. “What did children do? You took children.
Innocent child–”
The word stopped short.

“Do you think innocence comes to those too ignorant to understand?” Zao stomped into the
puddle.

Ripples pushed through the water, the earth quaking. “Do you think that a bystander has no place in
what happened where they stood, choosing not to change?”

The way the mountain spoke, literally above him, made Suguru’s gut writhe.

“Shut up!” Suguru snapped, without thought, or even the air to support it. “Don’t lecture me!” For a
second, he’d forgotten that was exactly what he’d been trying to cause.

If Satoru was here, he wouldn’t have cared what someone else said, least of all a curse with a god
complex. It wouldn’t have mattered to him at all.

But Suguru wasn’t Satoru, and he couldn’t feel him.

Satoru was safe, probably. Even inside the mountain, he couldn’t actually be touched without
consent, not unless his limitless had already been down. Suguru should have had faith that the
strongest would be fine.

Suguru should have had a lot of things he’d lost. Self-respect. Kindness. Riko Amanai.

Suguru knew this rage.

“The ignorant still create the same cries in their malice. Their blades tear the same wounds,” Zao
thundered on, his lecture booming. “To cut a tree at the trunk while naive enough to expect it could
regrow, cannot force a stump to bloom. So, too, will the fool still destroy.”

The familiar taste of bile crept up Suguru’s throat. “Like what you say matters? You have no
philosophy!” he snapped back. “You’re a curse!”

The yellow eyes of the mountain flashed near white. With the stars and the moon obscured by
Suguru’s curtain, Zao’s stare shone all the brighter.

“That one cannot comprehend the existence of another does not mean that their reality will cease to
be,” the curse leered. “If that were so, what would be of you, sorcerer?”

Zao’s mouth opened as he spoke. The path down his throat was clear, open. Suguru could feel the
Mizuchi clearly, its energy pulling towards Suguru’s own. There wasn’t enough damage on the
curse ahead of him for Suguru to even attempt to consume him. Not yet.

Suguru needed to answer. To argue. He didn’t even have to be coherent, as long as he could stay
close, and this curse’s mouth stayed open. Suguru knew that, and yet, he paused.

Why?

Zao Gongen’s hand smashed into the ground. His sheer size alone sent Suguru’s puddle splashing,
the rest of his body popping into the air. The curse’s voice alone rattled his bones, the accusations
burning. Suguru landed on his knees, slipping through the muck for a grip that wasn’t there.

“Your silence speaks of reason, even if your tongue will not,” the curse continued. “The people of
your world dismiss a thousand realities you’ve seen to be true, that ‘curses’ come to be. You know,
then, how reasonable it would be for you to miss another, mortal. I am no category. I am what I
choose to be.”

Zao’s energy crackled in the air.. The tone of the curse’s voice alone set a new quake across the
soil. Suguru pushed through the puddle to stand. His hand clenched at his side, his hand twitching
with rage of his own.

This curse wasn’t trying to fight him. It had no intention of fighting him. It was leveling with him.
Teaching him. What kind of curse thought of themselves a teacher?

Suguru realized, without saying, what the answer to that was.

The kind that doesn’t see itself as a curse at all.

A bitter sharpness stretched on Suguru’s tongue. He bowed his head, lowering himself, until the
whites of his eyes turned gray in the shadow of his glare.

“Then tell me, curse,” Suguru uttered, baiting, still. “...Why you choose to be a murderer.” He
didn’t say it as a question.

Zao’s mouth opened. His chin raised, his eyes falling, mighty and ready to argue. The cursed
yellow glow fell over him, a threat from above.

He didn’t make it through a word. Before he could, Suguru cut through.

“Die.”

The argument Zao would have formed froze. Suguru’s arm outstretched, palm flat, fingers clawing,
as he willed the Mizuchi through Zao’s stomach to his side.

The puddle beneath Suguru rose, the dirt splitting from the droplets, until a wave of water hovered
towards Suguru’s will. The hovering mass jet straight from the air to Zao’s throat.

The curse closed its mouth, and its eyes. The flinch eclipsed the mountainside, plunging it back into
the depths of the curtain. Suguru’s feet slipped on unsteady ground, the dry spots still forcing him
to sink. He caught himself with one hand in the soil. The other stayed outstretched. He couldn’t see
where he was, but he could still feel. The forest still smelled of leaves and rain. His cursed energy
still flowed. His curse did, too.

The outline of the Mizuchi thrashed inside Zao Gongen, still conscious, still formed. The frenzy of
its storm crashed through the mountain’s guts, its cursed energy flowing through the water. The
same spiral of a storm that had formed inside the temple pushed through the cracks of Zao’s
stomach, eroding him inside.

Zao opened his mouth wider, the roar of thunder pulsing in pain. The mountain of the curse shook,
debris crashing down itself. Stray stones dislodged, pieces of the cliffside crashing towards
Suguru.

The ground sank. The rocks rolled in at either side. Suguru steadied his hand. He leapt up, then
landed on the falling stones.

The instant Suguru found his footing, another rock shifted. Suguru didn’t flinch. He skipped
himself across the stones, jumping from one to the next, bounding closer. One hand kept his
balance, sliding on the rock. The other stayed outstretched, calling towards the Mizuchi.

For all the things he could feel inside the curse, Satoru still wasn’t there.

The mantra formed in Suguru’s head, his rage rooting deeper. His will poured into his palm,
wracking the moisture in the air in the chant.

“Die!”

Like a distant flash of lightning, Zao’s eyes flickered back. The sudden burst of light was so
intense, Suguru had no way to see. He squinted, adjusting, just in time for the next burst to fade.

Falling stones knocked Suguru’s heel. Zao’s face drew closer. The cavern of the mountain’s mouth
pointed, each stalactite and stalagmite gnawing at the entrance, layers of teeth looming where he
barely sensed them at all.

The mountain bowed, the floodlights of Zao’s eyes encroaching on Suguru, and Suguru alone.
Suguru’s uniform matted to his body, the onslaught of wind and water sticking him through. He
didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. All he did was hold out his hand, his distress warping him into fury.

“YOU ARE NO GOD!” Suguru shouted. “DIE, ALREADY!”

The emotions that made curses turned inside Suguru, doubling in upon himself. His cursed energy
cycled, spiking with the desperate focus for something that wasn’t there.
The brow of the mountain creased, the next flash of light pulsing into its eyes. Its jaws lingered,
gnawing out. A crack ran through the stone of Zao Gongen’s face, the same crack of cursed energy
pushing through. Then, it popped.

A stream of water burst through the seams of the curse’s face. Rubble shot out from the water. A
scrap of stone scratched Suguru’s cheek, drawing blood. The drops rose from his cheek before it
could clot, gathering with the rain towards the Mizuchi.

Suguru didn’t let himself feel it. He didn’t raise his hand, or stop. He couldn’t stop. He still couldn’t
sense Satoru.

Where was Satoru?

As the curse’s face split through, Zao Gongen raised a lumbering hand. Intertwining roots of
ancient cedars stretched into claws, then clutched across the scar. Another stone broke free from the
curse’s eye, the jet of water still pouring through. The split through its face spread, still eroding.
Zao’s jaw stretched in a screech.

The ground shook. A new earthquake formed. Fragments of roots and water rattled on the surface
of Zao’s forged body, his essence starting to collapse under the pressure. This curse may have been
a special grade, but it was damaged now. Weakened.

Suguru ducked in. He stomped closer, scaling the rubble, leaping straight towards the same throat
Zao threatened to take him into. His other hand outstretched, dirtied, pulsing, but clear.

‘I can do it ’, Suguru realized, watching in awe, ‘In this state, I can absorb the curse. I just have to
empty its stomach. Make sure nothing else is inside.

Suguru had barely finished the thought. Water gathered by his palm, the Mizuchi bracing to blast. It
didn't get to.

A flash of purple erupted through the mountain, the essence beneath the surface crumbling. The
yellow lights receded, too, eclipsed within the blast of something Suguru had never seen before.

Suguru’s feet left the ground–not from intention, but because the ground itself had pulled away.
Gravity collapsed, pulling him into a violet dark. His knees hit the ground.

His pulse stopped, the mantra freezing, as he stared into nothing. He had just gained a sense of
himself when a new, familiar scent crept through. A cursed technique like pure, warm sugar, so
intense he could taste it, drifted back into the air. The rage fell to relief.

“Satoru–”

A shower of stone rained down, scorched scraps of debris extinguishing inside the rain. The
entirety of Mount Mitoku broke in two. The chasm formed a gap between Suguru’s feet, spreading
his legs apart. Suguru jumped to the right, barely avoiding the gorge. He heard a rock start to fall,
and never heard it land.

Suguru didn’t think about it. He turned into the dark, towards the smell, and shouted back again.
“Satoru!”

“I’m fine!”
Between the smash of rocks and rushing water, Suguru couldn’t hear where he was speaking from.
All he could tell was that Satoru was speaking.

“Eat up, buttercup! Smells like dinner, to me!” Satoru shouted back. “Just call me a snack and save
me for later!”

It was more likely Suguru would have a smack for him later.

Before Suguru could choose an insult, the yellow light pulsed from below. The crack in the gorge
illuminated. Through the gap, the eyes of the mountain curse blinked through. The shapes
contorted, twisting and flickering, until the gorge itself seemed to rise, too. Trees fell from the mud,
sliding out like broken teeth, as the curse’s body reformed into the chasm Satoru had formed. The
chasm sucked in, the ground rattling.

“Whoa!” Satoru looked down. “What the heck is that?”

“Long story!”

“You call this long?” Satoru shouted. “Looks more tall, to me!”

A single inhale churned the wind, forcing it to change directions. A new gust pushed at Suguru
from the front, his feet skidding. He reached past the water, latching onto the first tree he could
grasp. Its roots shifted, too, leaves and twigs yanking off the trunk from the force of one breath
alone.

Satoru looked down, blinking. “You got cliff notes?”

Suguru meant to argue. He meant to explain. All he managed was to breathe. “Shut up.”

Satoru, per usual, had something stupid to say. His rude words of choice (“You want my mouth
shut? You fill it”) fell quiet in the wake of something else, still speaking.

The curse’s mouth shifted. It hadn’t made a sound. Even so, Suguru heard it.

“ All life has its place,” the memory warned, “ Yours is not here.”

It shouldn’t have mattered. Any sorcerer would have said it didn’t. Those words, and the warning,
had come from a curse. It had no weight or meaning unless Suguru let the thought through.

It was a gift, from his birth, that Suguru could protect people. If he had that power, then, he had a
duty to use it. To consume curses, again and again, with no means of escape–that was supposed to
be the curse upon himself.

Yet, this curse hadn’t attacked him, until Suguru had been the agitator. The curse had told him to
leave, as if it knew what mercy was. As if it had a soul.

It must have been a trick, Suguru told himself. Another lie, meant to benefit the tongue that told it.

But if that was a lie, then, how was it any different from the higher-ups that sent Suguru here? How
was that different from any person at all? The horrible instincts that allowed creatures like this to
flourish, and be, didn’t come from curses. Even curses didn’t come from curses. They came from
people.
“ The ignorant still create the same cries in their malice”, Zao’s voice echoed from before. “ Their
blades tear the same wounds… So, too, will the fool still destroy.”

The things Suguru had been told he should do fell back. A burst of red light–the reverse of the
limitless–shot forth from where Satoru stood. The sharp and glowing crater that had been Zao’s eye
flashed out, the faint yellow twisting orange with impact.

An inhuman shriek filled the air. The rumbling at their feet intensified, the stone disintegrating,
crumbling to something closer to sand. Suguru sank to his ankles as the mountain collapsed.
Thousands of Kodama scrambled, a flood of their lights cascading through as the last of them fled
from the hill.

Suguru opened his hand. His fingers pressed together, curling into a cup as he reached to gather
what was left of the curse. The essence of the mountain and the deity inside it collapsed, swirling
into a spiral, every color of its nature erasing into black. In an instant, a being that some would
have called a god was nothing better than a rag.

Before the curse had time to revert, Suguru brought his hand to his mouth. He swallowed.

It didn’t matter what the curse had been, before. Even with Satoru at his side, every curse tasted the
same.

The sphere of what had once been Zao Gongen stung inside Suguru’s gut. His eyes snapped shut,
the acid in his stomach rising to his throat in protest of what he’d been told to do as he felt his
stomach drop.

The flavor lurched, rotten and vile. He didn’t stop falling. Then, the ground fell, too.

By the time Suguru had ingested the curse, almost the entirety of Mount Mitoku had formed Zao
Gongen. To attack the curse had been to destroy the land itself. When the land condensed, and the
last of the curse sank inside him, only then did Suguru understand the drop in his stomach as more
than the curse. It was gravity. The land and stone they’d been standing on was gone.

Suguru’s eyes snapped open. His hands outstretched anew. His mind screamed, first, for the
Mizuchi to catch him

In the dark distance, across the roof of the curtain, Suguru saw the Mizuchi start to rise. A seafoam
glint shimmered on the scales of its back, reflecting the last traces of Satoru’s hollow purple. The
Mizuchi’s form waved weakly, collapsing into the ground, leaving nothing but water behind. The
rest of its essence evaporated into Suguru’s hand, retreating into his body.

The falling air pushed around him, gravity sneaking to the cracks of Suguru’s fingers. His stomach
lurched, not just with acid, but dread of what could come. He was exhausted. He could barely keep
what he’d ingested down. Summoning something else seemed out of the question, yet, if he
couldn’t, he could crash.

An image of something he’d barely been conscious enough to know passed across his eyes. As he’d
bled out, seconds from death in the tombs of the Star Corridor, a new threat trickled through.

“I would’ve killed ya if you were a shikigami user. But since you’re a curse manipulator, I dunno
what’ll happen with the curses you’ve taken in if you die.”
Suguru’s last bit of consciousness flashed with pain, something pushing at his skull. “Be sure to–”

“Suguru!”

The air between his fingers pushed back. In its place, Satoru pulled in.

“Suguru!”

Satoru’s words, and his grip, yanked Suguru back from the memory. He watched through open eyes
as the air around him seemed to slow. Where the rest of the rubble was falling, his own body, and
the hand he was holding, drifted untouched.

There shouldn’t have been time to watch Satoru, his glasses missing, hair whipping over his eyes. It
was the worst moment that Suguru could have spared to admire him, if not for the fact that it was
him. Even the worst moments, somehow, were worth this. Because as long as Satoru held him,
Suguru couldn’t fall.

A breath of relief fell from Suguru. He closed his eyes, letting the rest of the world collapse. He
held on.

“Together,” Suguru said, again, remembering what Satoru said, just a few weeks ago. “...You don’t
get to miss me today.”

Even if he hadn’t been watching, Suguru knew he would have heard the grin in Satoru’s voice as he
spoke back.

“You owe me so many fluffy pancakes,” Satoru told him. “They’d better be stacked. More than
Dolly Parton, even.”

“Satoru,” Suguru breathed out. His eyes closed not with exhaustion, but exasperation. “I don’t
know who that is.”

“You DON’T?!”

Suguru sighed, deflating. “...From your sense of humor, I assume she’s well-endowed.”

“Damn straight,” Satoru nodded. He paused, thinking. “Unlike me.”

Suguru didn’t bother to answer that.

The flash of seafoam green shimmered off the Mizuchi’s tail as the weak and weary curse collapsed
into a crater on the ground. From the outline, the spot looked like Zao’s footprint. A puddle formed
where it once laid, shedding some of the water it had taken in with a shake.

"You really don't know Dolly Parton?" Satoru asked. Suguru didn't reply. The limitless stretched
between them, bound by the weave of their fingers. Satoru shook at Suguru, holding tight.

“9 to 5?" Satoru gaped, his head tilting as he leaned in more. "Best Little Whorehouse in Texas? Or
that one where she sings with Rocky Balboa for some reason?”

Before Suguru could ask who Rocky was, Satoru’s shock broke the last bit of the limitless down.
They fell down, at first gently, then sharply, into the puddle left by the Mizuchi. Snapping back on
reflex, Suguru slid to find his footing, barely. Satoru flopped straight, and hard, onto his barely-
cushioned butt.

“Shit!” Satoru coughed. He spat a mouthful of water back into the puddle. “I didn’t want to get
wet!”

Suguru’s hand steadied. He pulled up on Satoru’s, the lead trying to guide him back to his feet.

Satoru coughed a little more water out, wheezing. “...That’s what she said.”

The last thing either of them should have done, as far as Suguru knew it, was laugh. His expression
laid as flat as his hair.

“Satoru,” Suguru said, forcing his stare flat. “That’s awful.”

“Awfully funny, sure.”

“No,” Suguru insisted. “No, that’s genuinely terrible.”

“Nuh-uh. It’s perfect. You just don’t know what she said, cause you’re gay for me.”

“My terrible taste in boyfriends has nothing to do with your sense of humor.”

In a blink, Satoru looked up.

“Boyfriends?” Satoru tilted his sunglasses. “Wait, like, multiple? Like you have more than one?”

Suguru shook his head. Satoru kept staring.

“Am I one of these boyfriends?” Satoru asked, his words picking up speed. “How many you got? Is
it, like, ‘two’ plural, or could we fill the whole dorm?”

Suguru tried not to sigh. He failed. “Satoru.”

Suguru gave a firmer tug, his fingers still catching in Satoru’s. When he tried to pull up, he felt
Satoru’s hand tug down.

Against logic, and the things he should have done, Suguru followed the pull. He sank into the mud
of the flattened landscape, crawling on both knees, leaning over a face too perfect to exist.

Satoru leaned back up. His muddy hands stroked along Suguru’s jacket, leaving a handprint behind.
Suguru turned his head.

“How did you–?” Suguru asked, watching the smudge. “Why are you dirty? That shouldn’t touch
you.”

Satoru’s hand steadied, stroking the blood from beneath Suguru’s eye. “Well, now you’re just
setting me up for it,” Satoru murmured. “The ‘that’s what she said’, too.”

Suguru considered, as his knees sank deeper, and his stomach kept turning with protest, that he
should have pulled away. He didn’t. Instead, he just kept sinking past the mud, into the infinite eyes
below.
“She said a lot of things, apparently,” Suguru whispered.

“Yeah, she did!” Satoru grinned wide. “She’s a chatterbox!”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

“Must be a pretty cool guy, then! This not-her person.”

“Not really.”

“Nah, he’s gotta be. Like you said, you’ve just got bad taste,” Satoru teased. “Like your favorite
movie’s White Chicks bad.”

“Satoru. My taste is fine, except for you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” Suguru sighed. “Really.”

Despite the dark of the curtain, a fraction of light seemed to shine blue in Satoru’s eye. “Wanna
prove it?”

Satoru’s hand, that could have been so distant, chose to steady on Suguru’s cheek. Satoru’s fingers
shifted, his thumb stroking under Suguru’s jaw.

The feeling still burning in Suguru’s gut churned for new reasons. His own hands steadied on
Satoru, holding back to something that had to let him in for him to stay. His own muddy hands
stroked across Satoru’s clothes, too, making new wet spots where the storm hadn’t touched him
before.

“For one,” Suguru uttered, “my favorite movie is A Nightmare on Elm Street . That’s respectable.”

They should have been doing other things. The curse was sealed, but that didn’t mean the mission
was over. When Suguru was on missions alone, or when he was with Shoko, protocol felt natural.
Normal.
But there was nothing ‘normal’ with Satoru Gojo around. All Satoru ever knew was special,
exceptional, and, in this case, ‘wrong’.

Suguru had barely finished speaking when his open lips were filled. The taste of a curse that had
stuck inside him pushed back with the sweetness of a dessert he wouldn’t have liked, if it were
anywhere but this. His eyes closed, his grip tightening, as he fell deeper to an out of place kiss.

The little air Suguru had managed to take pushed out of his lungs, replaced with the lightness of
Satoru’s own.

Satoru pulled away, inhaling quickly. His other hand rose, too, taking Suguru’s face into his palms
on either side. His knee hovered just over the mud, keeping the rest of the moisture away as his lips
stayed so close, Suguru could still feel him even when Satoru wasn’t touching him there.

“Fine,” Satoru told him. “You might taste okay, on your own. I’m pretty sure I taste you better,
though.”
The “no–” Suguru started to argue stopped as soon as he processed what Satoru had told him.
“What are you talking about?”

“That I taste you better than you taste you,” Satoru snickered. “What, you wanna stop me?”

They should, in fact, have stopped.

If Suguru remembered responsibility, there were still tragedies to tend to. People were missing.
Children they hadn’t met, and people they did. Suguru knew what the world told him to do. Then,
he felt Satoru.

Suguru could think all he wanted about where they were, and how this shouldn’t have been the
moment for it. The more Suguru thought so, the more he felt himself plummet. Even on solid
ground, Satoru was a reason to fall.

Suguru steadied his hands. He crossed the distance Satoru left for him, joining their lips in another
kiss. The curtain held steady, hiding them from the rest of the world in a battle only they would
know. A report wouldn’t show that they’d taken a little longer, that he’d found time to be selfish,
and stop for rest in a race he’d never asked to run.

Between each kiss, in the gaps Suguru needed to breathe, he heard Satoru call his name. In the
sound, he could imagine they meant something else.

“Satoru,” Suguru breathed, exhaling him the same way.

It didn’t have to matter what someone else would have thought of this second, wasted or not. At
this point, the curse on the village was gone, vanquished safely under Suguru’s control. There was
no reason, then, that a part of Satoru couldn’t be inside of him. If there was anything to be gained
from saving people, then, there was meaning in this, too.

In fact, thought Suguru, maybe he’s the only moment that means anything at all.
 Redacted Village, Part 5

Suguru Geto

September 2007

(What Had Once Been) Mount Mitoku, Tottori

When they finally stopped for breath, the air felt heavier to Suguru. The weight of humidity mixed
with the rubble, filling him with fog. The taste of Satoru’s lips, and the bitterness of the curse he’d
taken in, both passed, washed off with the remains of the storm.

A rare and leaden quiet rang through Suguru’s ears. He lowered himself into the ruins and began to
search, looking for whatever, or whoever, was still there. The victims of the curse were too
shattered. Scraps of ash that looked like sand, so fine it could fit in Suguru’s palm, scattered
through the soil–bits of salt, phosphate and bone, too fine to identify.

Suguru searched, and kept searching. Satoru did, too. All that was left of Hasaba was a coat.

Suguru draped Hasaba’s trench coat over his arm. The fur collar matted with water, the off-white
tufts turning a sickly, brownish purple under the curtain. He stared into the fabric, sensing
something he couldn’t see. There were no traces of cursed energy to mark this as significant, yet, he
wasn’t ready to let go.

He should have known better than to allow a civilian that far into a mission site. He should have
known better than to leave Misato Kuroi unattended, allowing her to be abducted, and forcing their
hand.

How often, Suguru wondered, would he keep making the same mistakes?

“You’re sure he wasn’t inside?” Suguru asked, still watching the coat, the weight bending in his
grip.

“I didn’t feel him,” Satoru told him. “Wherever bowl cut got off to, it wasn’t with me.”

The gap in the mountainside loomed ahead. The peak of what should have been Mount Mitoku
clouded with smoke, ashes lingering. A fire that had long stopped burning still hung in the air.

“...Think Yaga will scold us?” Suguru wondered. “Nageiredo was a heritage site.”

Satoru shrugged. “Think I’d care if he did?”

Suguru lowered his head. The matted lock of his bangs drifted over one eye, still dripping.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”

Suguru’s grip tightened, his fingers clenching on the coat. His knuckles turned white, wringing out
the water until it dripped down one arm. The sound of Satoru’s breath crept behind him, still heavy
in the dampened air.
“What’s the point of keeping something around just ‘cause it’s been there before?”

“Because it’s tradition,” Suguru answered, remembering the lessons. “It’s a part of our culture, and
history. Thousands used this site for spiritual enrichment.”

“What good’s that doing? Like two dozen more died.” Satoru turned from the smoke, to Suguru.
“Tradition’s an excuse not to change, right? Something weak people think when they’re scared. Or
lazy. We don’t need it.”

“Satoru…”

“What? We don’t,” Satoru insisted, just as casual as before. “Stuff people accept sucks all the time.
Like, how banana flavoring doesn’t taste like bananas.”

Suguru didn’t bother to argue that. He just stood in place, watching the curtain waver.

Three people had come here. Two left. Everything Suguru and Satoru had come here to rescue was
already gone. The loss lingered with the smoke.

“..The village is safe, at least,” Suguru decided, holding the trench coat tighter. “We did what we
were sent to.”

“Yeah. And the news will just call it an earthquake or something, if you care,” Satoru added, casual
as ever. “The weak always find an excuse.”

Suguru pulled back. He turned from the site, to Satoru. “And the strong don’t have excuses?”

Suguru watched closely. He looked at Satoru for some twitch, or a sign. Of what, he wasn’t sure.

Satoru didn’t turn to face him. His eyes rose above his sunglasses into the open sky, unflinching.
“The strong shouldn’t have to.”

“Satoru–”

Suguru’s pulse skipped. His mind turned back, picturing what could have happened, and didn’t.
What would he have done, if Satoru hadn’t come back?

Suguru closed his eyes, willing the thought away. A reluctant smile crept where the rest of him had
churned, assuring himself it wasn’t possible. Of course Satoru was able to come back. He was
Satoru.

“Satoru. You make excuses all the time,” Suguru reasoned. “I don’t know if that’s a sign of
weakness, then, to justify ourselves, and lie. Those might be signs we’re still human.”

“You think we have time to lie to ourselves?” Satoru’s voice spiked, perking up. “I’m too busy
trying to make you put on some weight!”

Suguru opened his eyes. He squinted back. “With what? The pancakes, or the curse?”

“Pancakes. And you’d better appreciate it, too. I don’t give breakfast up for just anyone, you
know.”
Satoru flicked the lock of Suguru’s bangs from his eyes. The hair tickled Suguru’s nose. He opened
his eyes, squinting suspiciously.

“Satoru. It’s not giving something up if you order two of the same thing,” Suguru exhaled with
exasperation. “Besides. What meal is there to eat? It’s four in the morning.”

“It’s morning,” Satoru insisted. “Morning’s breakfast.”

“No, it’s pre-dawn. It’s a witching hour. If someone is still awake, and not a sorcerer, they’re
drunk.”

“Or a taxi driver,” Satoru chimed in. He glimpsed back towards the dirt path, then brought his hand
to the back of his neck. “I could go for a taxi.”

Suguru fixed his hair into place. “You won’t find a taxi.”

“I said I could go!” Satoru snipped back. “Didn’t say they’d come to me .”

Suguru didn’t bother to answer. His eyes rose to the horizon. The taste in his throat that he’d
thought had left crept back up, bile searing. He willed himself not to notice.

Satoru walked ahead. His feet sank into the mud, muttering a “yuck”, as he squished down the path.
The remaining rocks and vines still slid with the aftermath of the storm.

Suguru pulled Hasaba’s jacket over his shoulder. He let the water drip down his shoulder, too
soaked to care. The scratches of the battle still stung on his cheek. The sense of loss followed with
it. He felt it build, sinking and empty. And then, he went on.

It was a long walk back to the village. It hadn’t needed to be. Satoru’s limitless would have been
more than capable of speeding up their steps to get there. If Suguru asked, Satoru would have taken
him back. If Satoru had been alone, Suguru had no doubt he would have bent space for himself to
go back already. The long path kept winding, and they went on. They walked down the mountain,
past the barrier of the curtain. Then, they went on.

The light pattern of scattered rain still settled in each puddle, rippling through the water until it was
no longer still. Stone pathways stretched out, coiling until the cobbled patches twisted into a street.
A trail of lines and intermittent pavement guided them back from where they’d come.

Hasaba’s car was left parked outside. Neither of them had a license. Satoru had eyed it in
consideration. A stern “no” from Suguru was enough. They went on.

Even on foot, they were back too soon.

The embers of the sunrise hung clearly overhead. The dots of the houses and common places took
shape, forming into buildings and farms. Suguru adjusted the coat on his shoulder. The damp collar
left spots on his sleeve, almost as heavy as the bags under his eyes.

“...We never found the girls,” Suguru spoke beneath his breath. “The other Hasabas. I didn’t see
them in the statues, before.” There had been no chance after the battle to check who had or hadn’t
been petrified, given the state of the victims. It stood to reason, Suguru supposed, that they too
were already far gone.
Satoru raised his hands over his head. He folded his fingers together, stretching them to crack his
back. “Maybe they really were with the brother, then,” he yawned.

Suguru held tighter to the coat. “I hope so.”

Satoru offered his hand. Suguru took it. The limitless parted, letting him in. Then, finally, Satoru
bent the space he could have all along.

Solid ground brushed their feet, leaving them in the center of the village. The entire town held still.
The boxes of strangers' houses lined their way. A place so quaint, it had never even paved their
roads, stood innocuously ahead. Sun shone across the treetops, the bloody orange sunrise soaking
each roof and tree in its glow.

Mud sank beneath Suguru’s feet, pulling him into the ground. He looked at Satoru, expecting some
kind of joke. The limitless, which could deflect anything, should have kept them clean with barely
any effort from Satoru at all.

Satoru’s feet sank, too. The dirty water of a puddle rose to his ankles, pulling his shoes inside.

“Ew,” Satoru mumbled, pulling his foot up. “Gonna need a bath, later.”

A few jokes rose to mind, questions about if Satoru remembered how to take them, anymore.
Before Suguru could choose, Satoru walked ahead. His shoes sank into the mud, leaving new tracks
behind him. His hand slipped from Suguru’s grip.

Where Suguru could have walked, he didn’t.

“Satoru,” Suguru called, his voice reaching, first. “Is something wrong?”

Satoru didn’t stop. His hands set into his pocket. “With you?” he asked, not looking. “I dunno. You
tell me.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Suguru took a step forward. He leaned ahead, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

“Satoru. Talk to me.”

“About what? The new Spider-Man movie?”

“About what you’re thinking.”

“I’m hungry,” said Satoru, still not stopping. “And will they ever bring back Sonic the Hedgehog
curry? That’s what I’m thinking. What’re you thinking?”

“That that’s not what you’re thinking.”

Satoru’s steps stopped.

The shine of the dawn caught through the back of Satoru’s hair, the red sunrise tinting the silver
strands scarlet in the light.
“...It’s morning,” Satoru whispered, his voice drifting into the realization. “With the curtain, I
couldn’t tell.”

Suguru lengthened his stride. Two steps was enough for him to catch up to Satoru. He stared out
across the town, an understanding of his own settling in. From the treetops to the sleepy houses, to
a single squirrel sitting attentively on a mailbox, there were no signs left that something was amiss
in this village. The sole indication left that something had been wrong, here, was that the two of
them were still there.

“Did you take it down?” Satoru asked. “The curtain.”

“It should disperse on its own,” Suguru dismissed. “I’m not sustaining it from here.”

“Good. That’s fine,” Satoru exhaled, too. “You shouldn’t have to bother.”

Suguru leaned over Satoru’s shoulder, looking for some sign of life. In the distance, a few villagers
started to rise from their homes. Front doors opened, people wandering about.

Satoru’s eyes stayed obscured, his sunglasses set back in place. Even without them, Suguru could
tell Satoru wasn’t watching the village. He was looking at Hasaba’s jacket.

“I messed up again,” Satoru asked, his voice trailing to the same point. “This isn’t on you. Don’t
worry about it.”

Suguru looked down, too, to meet Satoru’s eyes in the lean.

“It’s not on you, either. It’s our mission, together.”

“It’s your mission. I butted in,” Satoru told him, his enthusiasm drained. “We still need pancakes,
though.”

Suguru recognized the look on Satoru’s face. He wished that he hadn’t. He’d seen it only once
before. The resemblance drew a shiver down his neck. The last time Satoru had that expression,
he’d been holding Riko’s body in his arms.

That sense of loss and failure, where he’d barely known what to do next, looked all the stranger
when there was nothing to hold. What was gone was gone, nothing more than thoughts.

“Yeah,” Suguru agreed, unable to think of what else he could say. “The cafes should be open by
now.”

Satoru hunched over. His arms and his eyes both felt empty. Suguru reached for his shoulder. He
knew long before the shield touched him that his hand wouldn’t reach through. His palm stretched
over the surface of Satoru’s limitless, close enough to feel like he could touch him, yet unable to
graze him.

“We should get directions to the police station,” Suguru suggested. His hand fell to his side, his
posture straightening. “We’ll update the locals. Then, we can go.”

Satoru stopped outside a building. The dead look behind his glasses stopped in a “...Huh.”

The sign for the Izakaya Kubo looked different in the daylight. The engravings of the kanji held
deeper in the wood, marking the spot.
Suguru looked at the front door. “Are they even open?” His hand raised, ready to tap on the wood.

Satoru opened the door.

Suguru’s posture slipped back to a hunch. One hand sliding into his pocket. The other adjusted the
trenchcoat on his shoulder, the wet collar brushing his neck.

“Wipe your feet if there’s a mat,” Suguru reminded him in reflex. “You’ll track mud inside.”

The restaurant was empty.

The door was unlocked. The light in the entryway was on. Still, not even a hostess was waiting by
the door. The bottles behind the bar glistened from the stray sunlight. Unmarked tables sat in wait,
the building still.

“Satoru,” Suguru called, again, about to correct himself. “We should go. No one’s here.”

Satoru didn’t stop. His footsteps didn’t leave tracks, his limitless cushioning him from the floor.

“Satoru,” Suguru said louder. “Are you listening? They’re not open, clearly–”

“Good.”

“Good? If they’re not open, we shouldn’t be here.”

Satoru didn’t stop. He kept walking in. He strode past an empty table towards the bar. Reluctantly,
Suguru kicked off his shoes. His wet socks squished against the ground, leaving raindrops, but not
mud, where he stepped.

At the ledge, beside the counter, in the same spots as the night before, the dots of a strange residual
set aglow. Yesterday, when the building was full, the tracks had stretched on to nowhere. Without
people in the way, or other energies to cloud the path, a narrow trail wove onwards, stretching
behind the bar.

Satoru didn’t speak. He ducked down, bending behind the bar, and walked on.

At the other end of the bar, a faded, painted tapestry with koi fish print hung in the way. The door
frame was topped with a tacked on paper sign, “Employees Only” scrawled neatly across the page.

Suguru followed the trail. He, too, ducked under the bar. Satoru pulled towards his side, too far to
reach, but plenty to hear.

“Someone’s back there,” Satoru said, his voice lowering in a mutter. “It’s cursed energy.”

“Think the higher-ups sent more than one team?” Suguru asked, meeting Satoru’s gaze and his
hush. “We didn’t contact them all night.”

A glint passed over the lenses of Satoru’s glasses, the gleam flashing as if it had been in his eyes.
“Who would they send after the strongest? They’d just die.”

The soft “um,” Suguru didn’t want to voice in the first place broke into one guess. “Tsukumo,
maybe?”
The “who?” from Satoru was expected enough.

“The other special grade. The one who never takes missions.”

Satoru set his shoulders back. “If she doesn’t take missions, why would she be here?”

Suguru sighed.

“I suppose we could be the reinforcements. If so, the higher-ups never disclosed another sorcerer in
the vicinity…”

Even as Suguru was speaking to himself, he didn’t believe it was true.

Whatever time Suguru would have needed to choose an answer, he didn’t get it. Before he could,
Satoru walked through the door. The koi printed tapestry parted before Satoru even touched it.
Suguru fell into step, trailing behind.

Filtered beams of sunlight passed through the Shoji screens of the walls. The weave in the
woodwork stretched from the upper edges of the faded panels into the ceiling. Ancient as the
hallways looked, the woodwork was pristine. The only specks of unwanted debris Suguru could
spot were the tracks of the residual, still stretching down the hall. The trail narrowed as it wound
ahead, the pattern less like tracks than a blood splatter.

The hallway bent, turning a corner. Shadows stretched around the bend. A pair of voices spoke with
it, their tones hushed with urgency. Suguru held his breath to hear.

“That has to be it, right?” a woman spoke, first.

“No one’s been reported missing from last night,” a man answered. “It’s good news.”

“It needs to be! My grandkids could have been killed.”

“There’s no reason to think it isn’t,” the man said.

Suguru realized, distantly, he knew the voice. He couldn’t place the face, yet, he had heard it
before.

He picked up the pace of his steps, no longer bothering with quiet. He rounded the corner to see.

The male police officer from the night before was speaking to someone else. He was out of
uniform, now, which added no definition to his non-existent neck. At his side was an elderly
woman, no doubt a resident here.

The rectangles of the officer’s eyebrows pulled down in doubt as his eyes met Suguru’s.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Suguru told him. “This works well. Now we won’t have to go to the station
to tell you.”

The officer’s eyes bulged as they met Suguru’s own. “Who are you…?”

Suguru lowered his head with the traditional respect, in the way he knew Satoru wouldn’t show.
“The students from Tokyo Jujutsu High,” Suguru told the officer. “We met here, before, by the bar.
I believe it was yesterday.”

Curses could, in some instances, change the flow of time in their vicinity. From the dumbfounded
look on the man’s face, Suguru couldn’t tell if that was true. What he could hear, instead, was
Satoru popping his phone open to look at the screen.

“Says it’s yesterday,” Satoru added, looking at his screen. “Clock’s saying Friday.”

“Yesterday, then,” Suguru repeated, more certain than before.

The officer and woman looked between one another, confused.

Suguru raised a hand at either side, signaling peace. From his still-soaked shirt to the mud caking
his arms, he knew he looked just as much of the disaster as he’d been though. Still, he stood tall.

“We have an update on your missing people,” Suguru turned to face the officer. “Their remains
should be on Mount Mitoku, close to any collapse in the cliffside, where the main temple had been.
There isn’t much to find, but you may wish to send a recovery crew for the families’ peace of
mind.”

The elderly woman eyed Suguru suspiciously. “Who are you?”

The suspicion was familiar enough. Whatever this woman was thinking, Suguru had no doubt that
he’d seen it before.

“Some students from the city,” the officer answered before Suguru could. “They said they would’ve
helped today, if we needed them to.”

“We would have worked in cooperation sooner. Unfortunately, the station was closed for the night,”
Suguru interjected. “I assure you we did what we could, and the cause has been resolved. You
should no longer experience disappearances, anymore.”

Even under circumstances where people were suspicious, hearing that their event was over usually
came with some relief–a breath out, or a smile. The elderly woman and the police officer both
stood, unchanging. All they had to offer was a stare.

“We know that,” the elderly woman said, finally. “We took care of it.”

The sentence made Suguru stop. He squinted, too baffled to even ask.

Satoru pointed over Suguru’s shoulder. His finger directed at the woman.

“Hey, did some chick come through here?” Satoru asked casually. “Blonde, long hair, looks like
she’d lay around doing no work?”

The officer and the woman stared at Satoru as if he literally had six eyes on his face. Satoru didn’t
blink.

“Guess not, then. Huh.” Satoru shrugged. He raised his hand, pulling back with a wave. “See ya.”

Suguru barely processed that Satoru had even spoken when he felt him brush by. He turned,
meaning to look at him.
“What are you talking–”

The ‘about’ that would have finished Suguru’s question turned quiet. He hadn’t even formed the
question when he sat Satoru halfway down the hall. Satoru’s hand raised in a wave, gesturing down
a new direction.

“Over here!” Satoru beckoned. Then, he kept going.

A string of panic washed through the villagers’ faces. The old woman practically jumped from her
heels. “Wait!” she screamed. “Don’t go back there!”

With a huff, the officer picked up his feet, lumbering down the hallway. The ancient floorboards
bent under his sprint. Suguru followed the trail, too. His own feet landed lighter, chasing the only
direction Satoru could have gone. His socks slid across the paneling, the wet spots aligning with the
strange residuals left behind. Hasaba’s jacket weighed down on his shoulder, still dripping, as a
new idea passed in.

The curse on Mount Mitoku had been enormous, at least a first grade. Satoru and he had eliminated
that curse well. That hadn’t meant there was only one curse in the village. If there was no other
sorcerer here to create those residuals, then it was possible there was more than one curse from the
start.

Suguru charged ahead of the officer and the woman. He outstretched an arm, blocking their path.
“Stay back–”

Suguru rounded a corner, following the only direction Satoru could have gone. He stopped.

The Shoji screens kept stretching, light passing through the paper windows on either side. The
parallel beams set across Satoru’s back, the highlights bounding off his shoulders. An array of
wooden bars stretched across a cell. A padlock hung from the base of a door, the lock swinging
with each step.

“Get back!” The officer yelled from a distance, still out of breath. “It’s dangerous!”

The sound of his voice fell distant, muffled by what Suguru failed to understand. He could see
plenty well, yet, he couldn’t quite process what was there.

Satoru lowered himself in front of the cell. His legs sprawled as he crouched down, his hands
hovering by the bars. Though his body covered most of the movement, Suguru could spot a hint of
color between the shadows of the beams. A tuft of blonde hair shook on one side, and black on the
other.

A pair of little girls huddled inside the cell, bruised and shaking.

Satoru’s hand lowered, drifting closer still. He grabbed the bar, leaning towards them. “Mimiko…
and Nanako, right?”

Suguru froze in place. A new horror crawled into his brain, stealing his air away.

“What is this?”
 Turning Point, Part 2

Suguru Geto

September 2007

Village X, Tottori

Dawn light passed through the paper walls. Shadows cast through the screens. In the middle of it all
was a locked, wooden cage. Two voices wheezed, gasps barely forming, as if struggling past a
bruise in their throats. Even with an echo, the sounds were so small.

“...What is this?” Suguru asked, knowing full well what was there. He hadn’t wanted to be right.

Satoru’s shoulder shifted, blocking Suguru’s view. The trail of residuals vanished under his feet, the
last drops landing just behind the bars. The wood trembled, carrying the shake of whatever else was
inside. Whoever was there, they were small enough that Satoru’s back covered them both.

Satoru raised his hand. He strummed along the wooden bars. Suguru heard him smile. “Not the
talkative type, then? That’s fine. I’ll talk enough for all of us.”

Satoru pulled closer to the bars, a hand reaching through the gap. As he shifted, Suguru saw what
was inside. Twin girls–one blonde, one brunette–huddled together, shivering. From their feet to
their faces, every part of them was spotted. Smudges of brown mud mixed with the purple of
bruises, covering them in someone else’s brutality.

A hand shoved at Suguru’s shoulder. They pushed over him, bobbing towards Satoru.

“Get back!” A villager shouted, “Those two are dangerous!”

“To what, a box of crayons?” Satoru asked back. “They’re kids.”

The other villager veered forward, her voice raising. “They’re cursed!”

Satoru’s shoulders shook. He didn’t turn away. “Lady, I don’t think you’d know a curse if it bit
your butt fat.”

Most of the time, Suguru would have scolded Satoru for being rude. He didn’t.

Satoru leaned closer to the kids. His smile stayed steady, false and rehearsed. “Hey, hey. Don’t
freak out. I’m cool! I’m like a superhero. No cape, though.”

The male villager behind Suguru put a hand on his shoulder, nudging him away. Suguru stepped
back.

“Why,” Suguru asked, his own breath straining. He forced himself to look up. To look at the people
who he’d worked so hard to save, who put children in a cage, and ask them, “Why would you do
this?”
Suguru hadn’t known what answer he expected. He didn’t know what answer there could be. All
the villagers did was stare.

“What do you mean?” the man asked, not angry, but baffled. “These two are responsible for the
incident, right?”

Suguru’s blood turned cold. His hand tensed at his side, the dampness in the air running through the
rest of him. “No,” he answered. “They are not.”

Satoru murmured something through the bars. What he said, exactly, Suguru couldn’t hear.

“Those two possess strange powers and often attack the villagers,” the man said, leaving no room
to consider that his assumptions weren’t true.

Suguru’s mouth moved before his brain.

“We’ve already dealt with the cause of the incident,” he said, the thought almost robotic.

The other villager–the older woman–cut in. “My grandchildren nearly died because of these two!”

From behind Satoru’s shoulder, the blonde girl shouted back, “That was because they–”

The old woman shrieked over her. “Shut up, you monsters!”

Suguru’s pulse staggered. His throat twisted, his thoughts freezing, as the damp air turned with a
chill.

Satoru made a sound, something soft and distant, so much so Suguru couldn’t place it. He leaned
closer, shielding both girls from the reality on the other side of their cage. Even with his body in the
way, Suguru had still seen the blonde girl’s eye twitch. The bruise on her eyelid swelled, forcing
one eye shut.
The villagers kept talking.

“Their parents were the same,” the man babbled on. “When we found what they were, we should
have killed you, too. If only your uncle–”

The jacket Suguru had been holding slipped from his grip. Hasaba’s trench coat fell to the floor. His
hand twitched, his fingers tensing as the last connections snapped in place.

The two, beaten girls, shivering in a cage, were sorcerers. That was why they’d left a residual.
These girls hadn’t been given a chance to use their gifts, or to even understand what they were.
Instead, they’d been beaten for them, and told to die.

A wave of nausea pushed through Suguru’s gut, the bitter bile from the curse he’d consumed rising
through him. As faint as he felt, it was all the worse for what he knew. The other Hasaba had died a
pointless death, trying to save these girls from a curse, when the real threat to their lives was other
people.

His eyes widened on the floor, dilating to a pinprick.

Was that not how it always had been? The curses of the world were a secret evil, but the most
hideous evils weren’t curses, but the source of them. The non-sorcerers who created curses, reveled
in their ignorance, and thanked the sorcerers who saved them by sending more of them to die.
Every sorcerer Suguru had ever known had resigned themselves to a fate like this. Even Satoru,
still smiling, wasn’t immune from that. The non-sorcerers wouldn’t stop–the ignorance wouldn’t
stop–until every last sorcerer had died for a world that gave nothing to them.

‘ The path of a sorcerer is a marathon, and this is the finish line. Not death,’ Suguru realized,
watching his own fingers shake. ‘Condemnation.’

Suguru’s thoughts churned so loud, he could almost hear it in the air.

‘Monkeys… All of them…’

Suguru’s eyes widened on the floor, watching the mud soak deeper into Hasaba’s coat. The flow of
his own cursed energy churned, the natural flow rising, like a flood with nowhere to go.

‘ Most of them.’

His empty hand cupped in front of his chest, the sounds of his surroundings fading into a blur. His
cursed energy turned, the spirits in his body lashing out against his skin. The will of more than one
rose to his palm, the violet black smoke of a curse forming across his finger.

Then, he heard Satoru.

“Well! How’d you two feel about pancakes?”

The female villager turned. Her snapping, and her glare, veered towards Satoru. “What are you
doing?” she shouted. “They’ll kill us!”

The male villager, too, started to scream. “Freeze! Right there!”

The sound turned, their demands twisting into a cacophony. Neither voice mattered. Maybe they
never had.

The wooden cage swung open. The lock hung broken from the corner, cracked straight down the
center. He must have used his curse technique.

With a swipe of his hand, Satoru picked Hasaba’s jacket off the floor. He wrapped the girls inside
it, holding them tight.

“I’ve got you,” Satoru told them both. “Don’t worry, kiddos. You’re safe! Snug as a bug in a
burrito.”

The villagers screaming started to turn. The older woman’s face flushed, her skin turning red as she
screamed “witch!”

It was a basic rule, for this reason. Non-sorcerers weren’t supposed to witness sorcery. When they
did, they’d grow more paranoid, even fearful.

Satoru raised both his hands from the girls. He flashed his open palms and a toothy grin at the
woman. “Nope! Sorcerer.”

Suguru blinked back to reality. His cursed energy rescinded back into his hand, his attention falling
back to “Satoru–”
The reflex to scold Satoru, and remind him of the rules, picked up. Suguru remembered what he
should have told him. He remembered, and then, he stopped.

Satoru’s smile stayed steady, false and performative, until it stretched far enough to close his eyes.
“Hey, girls! Want to see a magic trick?” He bowed over the girls, turning their shoulders away from
the villagers. Before they could answer, he went on. “We’ll make you disappear! Somewhere far,
far away, like Shrek 2. They’ve even got a talking bear! Well… panda. And he doesn’t know a lot
of words, but it counts!”

The girls’ shoulders shook under the coat. The brunette tugged on the fur collar, hiding them both
deeper inside.

Satoru lowered his head. He patted over the fur collar, ruffling the twins’ hair through the coat.
“Don’t worry,” he told them, his voice lowering, almost soft. “We’re friends of your uncle. The one
with the dumb hair.”

Suguru knew he should have moved. He knew he should have done something. The trouble was, he
couldn’t figure out what. So, he stood still.

The older woman kept gaping. Her eyes widened, backing away as she kept yelling, “freak!”.
Behind her, the man reached through his pocket, scrambling for a weapon he didn’t have.

Satoru lifted his hand from the coat. He crouched down, then ran one finger through the dirt on the
floor. Within seconds, he’d formed a circle around the pair. Then, he looked back.

“Suguru.”

For the first time, Suguru knew what to do. He looked up. The dots of his eyes crossed Satoru’s,
expecting to see the same, false smile. He didn’t. When Satoru looked at him, now, his blue eyes
were nearly blank. It was a look Suguru had seen on him just once. A look Suguru had never
thought he would see on Satoru again. He was calm, then, in a way he shouldn’t have been.

“Suguru, do you want to do what we almost did last year? At the Star group?” Satoru asked. His
question sounded so casual, Suguru hadn’t known what he meant until he’d added. “...I’m not sure
it would be pointless, anymore.”

They might as well have been standing there. The crowd of mindless drones, brainwashed in the
worship of something that would destroy them, celebrated the murder of an innocent as Satoru held
Riko’s corpse to his chest. Suguru could see their faces just as clearly as the children under
Hasaba’s coat. The members of the Star Religious Group were here, in the dumb panic of the
monkeys who’d locked these girls away.

Suguru knew, still, what he’d been taught to say. These people didn’t know better. The weak and
ignorant, even if they hadn’t earned protection, still weren’t worth the bother to destroy. Every time
their petty hatred formed a curse, they didn’t understand what they’d done. Suguru had heard each
lecture. He’d read the textbooks. In this moment–in reality–every lesson fell flat.

Beneath the covers of Hasaba’s coat, inside the circle, Suguru could still see the Hasaba twins
shivering. Bruised as they were, there was still an innocence to them.

The stray locks of his hair fell into Suguru’s face. He lowered his head with a bow.
“You’re right,” he said, quietly. “It’s not pointless.”

In the time it would have taken to blink, Satoru’s fingers connected. He folded his hands as he
crouched before the circle, and the girls inside it. Suguru, too, lowered himself to his knees. The
villagers said something behind their backs. Suguru didn’t listen. He set his hands inside the circle,
and his eyes on the girls.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” Suguru whispered. “We’re with you.”

A small, dirty hand reached back from under the coat. The blonde girl grabbed Suguru’s collar. The
top button on his shirt tensed, the thread fraying where she pulled.

Suguru started to turn his head. The name formed before anything else. “Satoru—“

“I’ve got this! No sweat,” Satoru smiled. “You go.”

“I– what?”

Suguru looked up. Nanako’s hand tightened, her small fingers digging into the seam of his shirt.
She pulled him towards the circle, under the covers of the jacket around them both.

Satoru nodded. His silver hair fell into his eyes, covering the hollow look.

“Go,” Satoru told him. “Take them to Yaga. I’ve got the rest.”

The look on Satoru’s face hadn’t changed. The brilliant blue of his eyes, too bright for it to even
exist, looked lifeless in his stare.

“Satoru…”

“I’ve got it,” Satoru told him. “You get them.”

A part of Suguru knew to tell Satoru to stop. The curse was already gone. If they took the girls out
of here, then, the mission was over. There was no need to stay behind.

Suguru knew it. He knew what he should say.

He didn’t say it.

Suguru stepped inside the circle. His arms wrapped around the jacket, clutching the children
against him. The brunette shivered, her breath still unsteady. The blonde held tight, her tiny fists
wringing the rainwater from his shirt.

“He’s right. Just this once, though,” Satoru whispered to the girls, forcing a smile, one more time.
“You’ll be fine.”

The smile didn’t make it to Satoru’s eyes. The girls didn’t see it. Suguru did.

Satoru lowered his head, miming a nod. Despite every understanding that he shouldn’t, Suguru did
the same. He watched the emptiness and longing fill Satoru’s eyes, and let it match with his own.

“Satoru…”
There was no smile on Satoru’s lips, not even a knowing glimpse, when his stare caught Suguru’s
in that last, fleeting flash.

“We didn’t stop the curse in time,” Satoru said calmly. “You made it out with them. Two survivors.
Then, I handled the rest.”

Suguru nodded.

“Right.”

It should have been easy to tell Satoru not to do this. All Suguru had to say was the same thing he
always had. It should have been easy, and yet, all Suguru could remember was a question from a
no-good special grade, just a few weeks ago.

“Do you hate non-Jujutsu sorcerers, Geto?” Yuki Tsukumo had asked.

At the time, all Suguru could say was he didn’t know. Now, he understood. It was never so simple
as a category making someone detestable or pure. There were decent non-sorcerers, like the older
Hasaba, who still tried to help in the face of something they didn’t understand. Those rare, kind
people, Suguru had sympathy for.

The rest of the village wasn’t made of rare people. The old, bitter grandmother, the corrupted cop,
and everyone else they had acted in the name of to destroy mere children out of fear–those non-
sorcerers, he hated to his core.

“Most ,” Suguru realized. He hugged the children to his chest, uttering a soft shush into the fur that
covered their heads. “That’s the answer. I hate most non-sorcerers. With exceptions.’

Satoru folded his hands, his knuckles cracking. His fingers twisted into the sigil.

“Don’t leave a residual,” Suguru told him quickly.

A false smile curved over Satoru’s lips. “Why would that matter?” he asked innocuously. “I’m
fighting a curse.”

Satoru’s hands folded, shifting to the next sigil. The edges of the circle began to blur, searing with
cursed energy. Suguru knew what was coming. Then, he felt the ground pull away.

“Alakabluey!”

The distance between Suguru and the rest of the world snapped. His arms wrapped around the girls,
and the coat, clinging to the remains of what was left to protect. The image of Satoru’s face froze in
that stare, locked in like a memory still waiting to happen.

Suguru wrapped his arms around the young Hasabas, comforting them, pretending he didn’t know
exactly what would come to what they’d left behind. The world stayed in a blur, the limitless
pulling them through space, until dry, solid ground bent under their feet. The familiar grass of the
school track brushed his ankles. Even then, Suguru didn’t open his eyes. The imprint of Satoru’s
stare lingered on his eyelids, still cold. Still knowing.

Even eleven years later, Suguru could see that stare.

Suguru’s hands tensed on the ledge of his childhood bed. He let out a breath, his tension still
lingering.

“…And that was the last thing I saw.”

Over ten years later, Suguru sat on the bed. His honey brown eyes honed on the pinpoint of
someone he couldn’t see at all.

“That’s it?” Gojo asked, “That’s the big, dark secret?”

Suguru nodded like a bow.

It hadn’t felt right, once Suguru decided to confess, for him to stay in his daughter’s room. He’d
guided Gojo down the hall, to settle in Suguru’s bedroom, instead.

The room hadn’t changed much since Suguru was a teenager. The bed and the bookshelves were
familiar relics of someone he’d once been, but hadn’t for some time. The family portraits showed
him, his mother, his father, and the girls, framed on the bedside table. None of them had been
updated in years. Even the calendar still left on the wall was from 2011. Suguru knew he could, or
even should, replace them, but he’d never felt the need. At times, it felt better to leave the spots like
this as shrines to someone he could have been, and not who he’d become.

As he looked on, Suguru supposed those versions of himself didn’t matter. They weren’t real. If
they were, he wouldn’t know them.

The Satoru Gojo of a world where that mistake had never happened sat still, listening. The smile
Gojo normally forced fell flat, his lips straightening to a line.

“So, that’s it,” Gojo said, not as a question, but a realization. “That’s what happened to you.”

From the way he said it, the epiphany didn’t seem to stop here. What he meant for someone else, if
anything at all, Suguru didn’t know.

Suguru let out a breath.

“When we completed the report, we marked the girls as the lone survivors of the curse incident. We
speculated that their cursed energy protected them, though we had no proof. The aftermath was too
drastic to determine the cause for the damage,” Suguru admitted, the admission scratching through
his throat.

“My parents took them in, until we finished school. Then, I took custody. They never told anyone
what happened…” Suguru clutched the comforter. “...And neither did you.”

A photograph of their last family outing loomed on the dresser, tucked halfway behind a mirror. All
six of them stood in front of Cinderella Castle, holding popcorn buckets, wearing mouse ears of
different shades of ridiculousness. The picture had been folded, creased unnaturally at the right side
to hide one person from the picture. Even then, Suguru could still see his arm. Satoru’s elbow
hooked around Suguru’s shoulder, his hand flashing a peace sign.

Suguru willed himself to look away. He turned from the bed, and the photo, to face Gojo.

When Suguru looked ahead, he expected Gojo to have questions. He expected raised eyebrows, or
disgust–something overly dramatic and even more emphasized. In its place, Gojo tipped his
sunglasses, and watched Suguru.

The knowing depths of Gojo’s eyes seemed to drown Suguru even more. Suguru’s knuckles turned
white while his existence writhed with the possibility of something he could barely bring himself to
say.

”…Did the same thing happen where you come from?” Suguru asked, tense, “In that village? You
don’t seem surprised, somehow.”

The angle of Gojo’s head tilted, shifting to reach him. Even so, he hadn’t quite met Suguru’s eyes.
The same tilt of resignation as Satoru held at the village moved Gojo’s head down, too. Even then,
when every other part of his posture screamed regret, Gojo still forced a smile.

“You went alone,” Gojo admitted. “Investigation found your cursed technique at the scene five
days later. They assumed it was the curse. Then, someone found your residuals, and…”

Gojo’s voice went out.

“And?” Suguru repeated. “What else?”

There was a gap–just a second–before Gojo forced himself to finish. “...And then, you got marked a
curse user,” he said. “Special grade, automatic execution target.”

From the tension in how Gojo said it, there was a natural question that could have followed. Was
that why the Suguru Geto that this Gojo knew had died? Suguru thought it, yet, he couldn’t bring
himself to ask.

It made sense, in a way, to think that what happened at Nageiredo was always going to happen. The
difference, as far as Suguru could hear it, wasn’t the tipping point. It was who had fallen over the
edge. In the reality Gojo came from, Suguru had fallen off, alone. In Suguru’s, he’d stayed on solid
ground, and nudged Satoru over the ledge in his place.

Gojo leaned in. He pointed towards himself. The look on his face was so familiar, he almost
seemed like that Satoru.

“Is that how ‘evil me’ turned into a curse user?” Gojo asked, curious. “The investigators found his
residuals?”

Suguru lowered his head further. A stray strand of hair fell over his face.

“There were no investigators. We corroborated for one another,” he admitted. “There was no reason
to spend more resources there to verify that.”

The space on a bed too small for either of them seemed to stretch, expanding enough that it was
still too distant. In the silence of his breath, Suguru pulled away. He pressed his back against the
wall.

“We swore not to tell,” Suguru admitted, the weight of the words still sinking in his lungs. “Even
after Kyoto, I didn’t.”

Suguru had considered, more than once, confessing the truth. The what-ifs and could-have-beens
ran heavy. The only thing that stopped the spiral of his thoughts was the what-if sitting an arm’s
length away.
Gojo raised his head.

“You never told me that. The other you,” Gojo told him. His hands touched the edge of the
mattress, his fingers tensing around the comforter. “You wouldn’t explain yourself. Even when I
asked, you wouldn’t talk. You just… broke on me. Spouting psycho manifestos about killing all the
non-sorcerers and crap.”

Suguru turned away, facing the wall.

“Sounds about right,” Suguru admitted, the words turning hollow in his chest.

Gojo’s head turned, snapping back. “In what way’s that right?!”

Suguru lowered his head. “Not ‘correct’ right,” he uttered. “It sounds like me.”

“What?”

“It does,” Suguru admitted, falling in on himself. “It’s what I should’ve done.”

“No way!” Gojo snapped back. “The only way that sounds like you, still, is that it’s full of shit!
Stop pushing me away! I want to know you, Suguru! You can tell me. You should tell me!”

Suguru lowered his head further. His hair covered his eyes.

“Why?” Suguru asked, not wanting an answer. “It sounds to me, like telling you, drove you mad.”

“And not telling me’s just pissing me off!” Gojo gaped back. “What good is it, facing this on your
own?”

The answer was so clear, Suguru didn’t feel like he had to say it. Still, he did.

“Because, it saves you,” Suguru whispered, understanding. “It doesn’t matter who I am. The world
doesn’t need me for balance, or power. What it needs is the strongest. It needs Satoru Gojo. Not
me.”

The argument felt steady, enough so that Suguru steeled his ears. All the same, he heard Gojo shout
back.

“Well, I need you, dumbass!”

Gojo reached across the bed, towards Suguru. The limitless lapsed, the barrier between them
fading. Gojo’s palm brushed the top of Suguru’s hand. The flash of contact made Suguru freeze.

“I’m the strongest, because you were there!” Gojo shouted at him. “Because you’re here! If that
meant I’d be the psycho, whatever, I’d take it! The higher-ups are full of crap, too! Even more than
you are! If your bullshit needs laxatives, they’d need a goddamn enema!”

The insult was strange enough that Suguru pulled still. The feeling of his own pulse forced his hand
down. Gojo’s fingers twisted, winding between the crevices of Suguru’s own, holding tight.

“Satoru–”
Gojo’s infinite blue eyes burrowed in, staring where Suguru didn’t want him to see. “Suguru. You
know…”

Suguru forced out a breath. “If I know, you don’t have to say it.”

“You don’t literally know!” Gojo tightened his grip. “Shut up! Stop trying to sound smart, and start
being that way!”

Gojo gripped his hand tighter, holding Suguru to him. The anger in his words twisted to urgency,
his voice raising.

“I’d take this, every time!” Gojo snapped at him, “If I had to break, and be hunted by old sorcerers,
and you weren’t? I’d do it in a second, if that meant you were okay.”

“You think this is ok ?”

Suguru straightened his back, his posture correcting like a snap. He returned the glare, his own
stubbornness leaking through.

“You’re the strongest, Satoru. The world needs that. It needs you.”

“And I need you! What I did, because you talked to me, isn’t your call! That’s not your fault,
Suguru!”

However loud Gojo could shout it, that didn’t shake the truth. Suguru let his hand fall limp. His
stare followed.

“I think it was. It–”

“That’s your problem!” Gojo snapped, cutting in. “You’re still thinking!”

Gojo leaned in. He veered into Suguru’s bow, nudging closer, until the tip of his nose pressed
against Suguru’s own.

“Don’t you get what I would give up to know you’re not alone?” Gojo asked, his voice still rising.
“Everything I do, it’s to be sure no one else ends up like you did! Where no sorcerer feels alone! If
all I had to do was take your place, and that saves you, who cares?”

“Me.”

“Well, I don’t, and I’m me. So, I win.”

Suguru closed his eyes. He pulled his hand back. Gojo’s hand gripped tighter, following with it.

Suguru huffed in frustration. “What part of this seems saved, to you?”

Gojo didn’t stop.

“The part where you’re alive!”

The more Suguru felt from Gojo’s words, the more he started to see the meaning of this.
Somewhere in the universe, balance seemed to pull a special grade sorcerer into the dark. The
version of existence where Suguru took the burden for himself, and didn’t taint Satoru Gojo with it,
then Gojo could turn out like this. Brash, blunt, and arrogant–and beneath all of that, kind,
screaming about a goal for the better.

Suguru let his hand fall limp.

“You know,” Suguru uttered, matching Gojo’s earlier tone on purpose. “If what it took to make you
try for a better world was me, leaving, then there’s meaning in that. I’d take that world.”

There were questions Gojo could have countered back with. Most of them were designed to be
petty. Suguru imagined plenty of them. Then, he heard something else.

“What’s better is having you,” Gojo uttered. “That’s the world I want. You’re the world I want.”

Of all the things Gojo could have said, it was the one Suguru couldn’t argue with. All he could do
was ask “why?”, and know there wouldn’t be an answer either of them would say.

Gojo’s hand strayed across Suguru’s arm, pushing his sleeve away. His skin was soft, the kind of
smooth that could only happen when the world couldn’t touch him. If Suguru’s head wasn’t down
enough to see Gojo’s hand, lingering, he would’ve thought he imagined him there.

Gojo nudged closer. His head turned, pulling back, so he could speak against Suguru’s cheek.

“We could kiss. Shut you up, that way,” Gojo offered. “Then, I bet you’d stop thinking.”

Suguru turned towards the touch. “I don’t gamble.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’d win.”

Suguru exhaled, deflating. “And leave you the one thinking for us? That’s …unwise.”

He could feel Gojo shrug dismissively. “Fine by me. I’m too young for wisdom.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“Satoru…”

Of all the things they should’ve been arguing about, this didn’t feel like one. Suguru forced another
breath.

“You’re plenty old enough for wisdom,” Suguru told him. “You’re almost thirty.”

“Ew.”

Suguru glimpsed down. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying ‘ew’ to the truth?”

Gojo didn’t look back. “Unless I’m thirty and flirty and thriving, sure am. No wisdom ‘til I’m sixty
nine.”

Suguru huffed.

“Fine. Be unwise.”
“I am fine. What are you?”

Gojo shifted, again, adjusting on the bed. Somehow, he found the room to scoot closer, filling the
gap between them with a grin.

“I don’t mean fine like attractive,” Suguru corrected, trying to rein him in. “I mean fine like a
parking ticket.”

“Wow. You love parking tickets? How embarrassing!” Gojo laughed. “Who loves parking tickets?
Except Judy Hopps, maybe.”

Suguru’s stare fell flat. “I don’t know who that is.”

Gojo tilted his head. “You don’t know Zootopia? Wow. Your life is depressing.”

There was a tone in Gojo’s voice that so easily drifted. For all of the tension that there should have
been between them, and the horrible paths their other selves may have taken, even timelines
couldn’t take away how it felt to be beside him. How it felt to remember that, at one point, long
lost, there had been someone Suguru cared this much for.

Except, that feeling wasn’t lost, here. The face he’d lost inside a memory was still here, inches
from his own. From the white of his eyelashes, to the soft, uncalloused tips of his fingers, Satoru
Gojo looked as untouchable as he truly could be.

The same, soft fingers stroked across Suguru’s forehead, brushing the chunk of his bangs away.

“Can I kiss you, now? Like, for real?” Gojo asked. “Seems better than talking, by now.”

There were things they could, and should, have talked about. Suguru knew that. Just as much, he
knew not to say.

“Can you?” Suguru asked, instead. “You’re the one with infinity. Pretty sure that’s your call.”

“Sweet,” Gojo whispered. “That’s easy.”

“I’m not easy, Satoru.”

Gojo held tighter. “Not you! I meant me,” he joked, the laugh still tracing his tongue. “I’m easy!
Total kiss slut, right here.”

Suguru’s shoulders rose with a huff. “That’s not as attractive as you think it is.”

“Wow. So, it’s more attractive than that, huh?”

The “no,” Suguru uttered wasn’t enough to stop Gojo.

“I can’t believe I’m even more attractive! If it’s not the attractiveness I thought, it’s gotta be more.”

Suguru’s lips parted without thinking, falling into the argument. “That wasn’t what I said.”

Suguru’s lips were still parted when Gojo drew in. His top lip wrapped to Suguru’s lower, tracing
an outline of his mouth. Suguru could taste the candy in Gojo’s breath, the sugar and blue raspberry
sneaking inside him.
Gojo twisted his finger, turning the lock of Suguru’s bangs like a coil. Suguru’s neck arched,
moving in towards the draw. He closed his eyes, falling against something, and someone, he
shouldn’t have.

Any common sense said this contact should have parted, if it needed to happen at all. In most
versions of the universe, they’d driven each other insane. This version, where they crossed again,
shouldn’t have even been possible.

But it was possible. It happened right here, and Gojo tasted like raspberry jello, sweet and artificial,
like a childhood Suguru had forgotten he could have.

Suguru turned his head, forcing a breath through his nose. His hands pushed past the limitless that
wasn’t there, and took Gojo’s lips between his own, sucking the sugar stains away.

In the seconds where they pulled together, Suguru felt the world’s shape shift back to how it used to
be. His back pressed against a classroom wall, his body perched narrowly on a creaking desk,
where all they’d broken were school rules and a promise they didn’t know they couldn’t keep. The
simplicity washed over him, and with it, Gojo’s body did, too.

For all the thoughts that should have crowded Suguru’s mind, he let the rest fade away. In their
place, he took Gojo in. Their lips meshed, as if this Satoru Gojo had been the one Suguru always
loved, until he pulled back for breath. They met, and they kept meeting, until Suguru knew that,
somewhere, somehow, that was still true.
 Lunch on the Floor

Yuji Itadori

Kamakura, Kanagawa

July 21, 2018

It had taken hours, but, a movie later, Junpei had fallen asleep. The morning turned to afternoon.
Shadows shifted. Through it all, Yuji didn’t move. It was the one thing left he could do.

A grid of shoji screens stood between Yuji, Junpei and the rest of the world. The faintest traces of
color shone through paper panels, barely glowing with the outline of the sun. Afternoon shadows
drifted across the tatami of the guestroom, the sliding doors rattling in the wind.

Yuji leaned back, resting sideways on the bed. His phone cord stretched between him and the wall,
plugged in to keep power. He held his phone in one hand, propping the screen against his knee. His
other hand pressed on Junpei’s back, stroking circles into his t-shirt. To anyone else, the gesture
should have seemed mindless. To Yuji, it was anything but. Every second that Yuji felt Junpei
beside him–that there was a version of Junpei left to touch at all–demanded every thought Yuji
could spare.

Yuji straightened his back, holding stiffly in place. He didn’t dare to move, yet, just in case that
shift might make Junpei open his eyes.

The speakers of Yuji’s phone buzzed softly, the dialogue half a second out of sync with the anime
scene on screen. An illustration of a little girl with four green pigtails stared up at a large man with
glasses and a goatee.

“You’ve gotten bigger than the last time I saw you, Jumbo!” the girl beamed, speaking how a
distant relative might greet a child.

“Hah!” the tall man grinned. “Where did you remember that phrase from?”

Before she could answer, another, much shorter, adult passed by. “Ah, well,” the man–her father–
shrugged her off. “I guess Jumbo will have to act as two people.”

“No way!” Jumbo countered, swiveling towards him. “I won’t work like that.”

The little, pigtailed girl hopped up, bouncing in and out from the lowest section of the screen. Her
arms waved eagerly, flagging for attention as she insisted. “I’ll help! I’ll help!”

Her dad looked down to her, exasperated. “Come on…”

The girl pouted. “I’ll help!”

Yuji pressed the volume at the top of his phone, turning the audio down more. He changed the
settings on the app, toggling the subtitles on. In the place of the actors, Yuji heard Junpei
breathing.

It was a breath Junpei could take, because for all the things that had gotten messed up, this Junpei
was still alive. Even if Yuji had screwed up, again, for now, there was still breath for him to hear.

Yuji smiled at his screen. The reflection of his friend’s face gleamed off the phone’s display, the
video of the anime and the reality beside him both showing at once.

“Man…” Yuji uttered under his breath. “I totally forgot about Yotsubato. Weird, it’s an anime,
here.”

The little girl moved across the screen, her oddly shaped pigtails reacting to the wind in a way that
the manga panels never had. Yuji steadied his hold on the phone, adjusting the angle. Junpei’s
reflection vanished, washed out in the artificial colors of the show.

“Wonder if Gojo knows, yet… that some movies are different, too.”

The thought, and the animation, both made Yuji’s smile soften a little bit more.

“Bet he’s got Geto watching something, if he’s figured it out. New special training,” Yuji thought
out loud. “Like if that Men in Black, Jump Street crossover happened, here.”

Yuji turned his head, angling back towards Junpei. What could have been a question turned quiet at
the sight. Even with the markings under Junpei’s eye, for that second, he looked at peace.

The light of Yuji’s phone set new shadows across them both. A black mark gleamed on Junpei’s
wrist, cuffing him to something else Yuji was powerless to stop. It was crazy, Yuji thought in the
quiet, how even with two tries to save Junpei, he still failed him.

Yuji wouldn’t have wished Sukuna on his worst enemy. It was selfish to think that an improper
death was a better fate than becoming a vessel. At least the kind of death Junpei faced before was
quick.

It was selfish, Yuji told himself, to think that getting to lay here like this was an improvement over
what had come before. He knew that, and yet, he knew just as well how much he would have
traded to have a moment like this. In another world, where things were simpler, he would have
given up anything, just to know Junpei was alive. That he was here. He’d always assumed that, if
there was something to sacrifice to get that, then the sacrifice would have been his.

Everything was fucked up, but, if this was like the one fingered Sukuna, Junpei was still in control.
He was still here, too. If he could keep this a secret, and hide every other finger, but never let
Junpei consume them, then, maybe, something bad didn’t have to get worse. Maybe, this time,
there was still a Junpei here to save.

Yuji’s hand strayed up, sliding from Junpei’s back to his shoulder. He parted the hair at Junpei’s
neck, brushing the strands to the back of his shoulder as he held him close. The more he held on,
the more Yuji leaned in to see.

He’s so elegant, like this, Yuji realized. If I didn’t know, I don’t think I’d guess if he was a girl or a
guy. Like, he’s more than that.
Yuji’s sense of his own breath started to stray. He hunched deeper, covering Junpei with his
shadow.

Sheesh, it’s totally like a movie, Yuji thought to himself. Like, Snow White, or Sleeping Beauty, and
this is where we’d ki –

Yuji couldn’t finish the thought. His face turned more pink than his hair. The sense of his own
breath fell out of him, his eyes snapping wide as he understood what he wanted to do.

Then, he felt Junpei’s breath shift, too. The sound turned louder, sharper, like he was having a
problem.

Yuji’s grip tightened on Junpei’s arm, pulling Junpei up–and himself back into the headboard, away
from Junpei.

“Hey–” Yuji stuttered, his voice still at a hush, just in case. “Are you awake? Junpei–?”

Junpei’s shoulders shifted, his lips parting with a groan. “I am, now…”

Yuji clutched his cell phone, his fingers covering the screen. “Oh. Sorry, man. I thought you were
already up–”

Junpei bobbed forward. His hair stuck to his face, hiding him. “It’s fine.”

“Still! Sorry.”

Junpei’s hands clutched at the covers. His mouth stretched with a yawn as he found his grip. The
black mark moved with him, the tattoo of a handcuff flexing in his skin.

“Itadori,” Junpei called, speaking the name gently.

Yuji jolted upright, his own doubt drawing him into a panic. His stare caught Junpei’s, as the one
blurry eye of his friend barely echoed Yuji at all.

“...I mean it,” Junpei whispered. “Fine is fine? I’m not mad, or something.”

The thought crossed Yuji’s mind, if only for a second, that Junpei should be mad at him. At least,
on some level, this was his fault.

“You need sleep,” Yuji told him, instead. “You can go back to it, if you want? I’ll stop.”

“...How long was I out?”

“Couple hours. Six, I think?” Yuji guessed, his palm smothering his phone even tighter. “Don’t
remember when you finally went down, again.”

Junpei blinked, some of the blur fading from his eyes. He swallowed a yawn.

It had taken a while, once they’d settled, for Junpei to relax. Yuji wasn’t sure he could blame him.
Yuji remembered what it was like, before, when he’d first been possessed by Sukuna. The curse’s
voice in his head only died down when he was bored–and that boredom had taken a while for
Sukuna to fall into. When the environment was new, and Sukuna was still testing his boundaries,
even the quietest rooms had no silence at all.
“He didn’t do anything,” Yuji added, realizing that might be a concern. “You’d have to switch with
him on purpose for him to have real control of you. If you don’t give him permission, he can’t do
anything. Not even when you’re asleep.”

For some reason, Yuji couldn’t get himself to say who ‘he’ was. Junpei met the implication with a
nod of his own.

“Thanks,” Junpei told him. The sincerity in the tone just stung, so much so Yuji didn’t answer.
“Thank you,” he said, again. “For staying.”

That time, all Yuji could get himself to do was smile.

“Of course. Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” Yuji laughed away his nerves. “Ride or die, right?”

It wasn’t until he’d already said it that Yuji felt pale. He cleared his throat.

Junpei blinked back, his last bit of drowsiness pushed away into confusion.

“...Didn’t you already die?” Junpei asked. “Maybe we shouldn’t say that?”

Yuji winced. He tucked his hand under his chin, thinking. “We could make it ride and die?” He’d
barely blurted it out before he shook his head. “No, that’s worse.”

Junpei stared back, blank. “Yeah,” he uttered. “Yeah, that’s definitely worse.”

Yuji raised both hands, then pointed them towards Junpei with finger guns.

“No die, all rides, then?” he guessed. “Like we’re a rollercoaster?”

“Itadori. I’m pretty sure people can still die on a rollercoaster. Like, on accidents. Or if they don’t
fit the seats.”

“Yeah, yeah. But, that’s not what they’re for? They’re for fun.”

Junpei stared back, just as blank as before. Yuji dropped his hands completely.

“Huh. Okay… What would you want to ride, then? A carousel? Ferris wheel?”

Junpei’s eyes shifted to the side, falling into the sheets. “...I don’t think I should answer that?”

“Why not? You got motion sickness?”

Yuji’s shoulders scrunched. He inched closer, his smile spreading at the possibility. “You can still
ride roller coasters. You’d just have to take some medication, first. I promise, they’re fun! That or
the drop towers, like Tower of Terror . We’ve gotta do an amusement park sometime, I haven’t
gone in ages, we could totally–”

Yuji’s mouth had gotten so far ahead of his brain, he hadn’t even noticed what he was saying until
he heard his own voice. He shut himself up, his expression palling as he scrambled more than an
egg to cover his mistake.

“I mean, you totally aren’t missing much! Amusement parks don’t matter,” Yuji corrected, “Movie
marathons are good, too. You know, with breakfast in bed. Lunch on floor.”
“Lunch on the floor?” Junpei squinted back. “Itadori. I–” he stuttered. “I don’t think that’s a
thing.”

Somehow, the denial made Yuji shoot right back up.

“Oh, it’s totally a thing!” Yuji smiled. “It’s like, an indoor picnic. Have you not done indoor picnics
before?”

Junpei squinted “Is that not just called ‘lunch’?”

“Nope! ‘Cause we’d pull out a blanket!”

Yuji raised his hand, leaving his phone face-down on the bed. He pointed towards the sliding doors,
into the hallway.

“Or, we could head outside. Use the courtyard, put a blanket there, if you’d rather. Your call.”

“I think, my call is, that’s called a picnic.”

Junpei turned his head, looking in the same direction Yuji had pointed to. His voice fell to the
mumble. “I thought the courtyard was full of bees.”

“That’s fine,” Yuji grinned. “We can take a curse, we can take a bee! Unless you’re allergic.”

“To curses?”

“No?” Yuji paused. “To bees? I think most people are allergic to curses? They cause rashes, and
stuff.” At least, that was what Nanami and Fushiguro had said.

Yuji’s hand tucked back under his chin, his eyes closing in concentration. Now that he tried to
remember if it was true, he realized Gojo had never taught him that directly. He’d been more
invested in their movie training.

“Huh…” Yuji murmured to himself. “Weird.”

“Huh, what?”

“Hm–?”

Before Yuji could think of what to say, or even come up with a question to ask, Junpei leaned back
beside him. Junpei tucked his knees into his chest.

“Why are you saying that like ‘you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball’? Is it that obvious?”

Whether it was the way Junpei sounded so flat, or the need to force the mood, either one made Yuji
try to smile.

“I bet I could win dodge-bee,” he laughed, forcing it. “That sounds fun.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Not if you win. ”

Junpei looked at Yuji like he’d grown a second head. The expression just made Yuji laugh more,
determined to fake confidence until it felt true. He owed it to Junpei to help him stay calm, and
adapt, until Yuji could come up with a solution. Because, as shitty as this situation was, as long as
Junpei stayed alive, there was still hope of a solution.

Even if that hope was a delusion, and the fairy tale wasn’t waiting for them, it would be a happier
life to think it was possible. If Yuji gave up, then there’d be no doubt left that their story would
always be a tragedy. The more Yuji saw Junpei squint at him, still innocent–still there–the more
Yuji knew he couldn’t live through that loss, twice. A part of him had already died the first time
through. If he had to know Junpei wasn’t going to make it, then, the rest of his soul wouldn’t
survive that.

Even if the fairy tale was impossible, that was the only way Yuji could move forward. Now that
Junpei was here, Junpei had to live.

Somehow, in the quiet, Yuji remembered what his grandfather had said to him in the hospital, about
a year ago. In this timeline, back in 2018, it would have only been a few weeks since this universe’s
version of himself had made that promise.

You’re a strong kid, so, help people .

Yuji didn’t feel that strong, anymore. The longer he tried, the more sure he was of that. Still, he
listened to what wasn’t there.

It doesn’t have to be all the time. Just, whenever you can. You may feel lost. Don’t expect gratitude.
Just help them.

Despite the dark, and everything around them, the start of a smile blossomed on Junpei’s lips, too.
Yuji couldn’t help but watch it, mesmerized by a look Junpei wouldn’t see or remember. Only Yuji
got to see that smile, and capture it in his memory.

When it’s your time to go, make sure you’re surrounded by others. Don’t end up like me.

The smallest smile pulled Junpei’s eyes shut, relaxing in Yuji’s presence. Somehow, then, Yuji
could see something else. In that second, with that smile, Yuji felt surrounded by one person,
alone.

Was it okay, he wondered, if there was one person he wanted to help more than everyone else? As
much as it mattered to save Nanami, and Kugisaki, and Junpei’s mom, and everyone else that could
so easily be lost, those people, he would save because they were people. Yuji needed to save them,
because that was the right thing to do. Because they were his friends, or his mentors, or, they could
be. But this smile, here, was the one who’s loss Yuji couldn’t survive. Was that being selfish, again,
or was it just true?

Another voice called through the walls, her voice passing through the parchment. “Hey!”

The door slid open. Junpei buried his head in the pillow, flopping into the mattress. He turned over,
hiding away. Though Yuji wasn’t watching, he felt the blankets pull.

Yuji knew, before looking, what he was going to see.

Nagi leaned against the doorframe, the lamps of the hallway backlighting her silhouette in view.
She tucked her hand into her pocket as she leaned back, facing him.

“Hey, Pinky. How’s–?”

Yuji pointed down, gesturing to Junpei, and raised the finger up to his lips in a shush. For whatever
reason, Junpei had clearly wanted to play ‘asleep’.

At the end of his flailing, Nagi repeated the gesture. She bent forward in the doorway, peeking in.

“How’s he holding up?” she whispered to Yuji.

Yuji’s smile stiffened, even more fake than before. “Oh, great. He’s great,” he hushed back, his
words a little louder than they would have been if Junpei was really asleep.

Under the covers, Yuji felt Junpei shake. Yuji pressed his hand over the covers, holding Junpei’s
shoulder through the blanket. The tremors passed through there, too.

“You need food, there?” Nagi asked, oblivious. “You’ve been there a while.”

Though Yuji hadn’t thought about it, the word ‘food’ made his stomach gurgle.

“Me? Always.”

“Anything you can’t eat?”

“Nope. I’ll eat anything.”

Yuji’s smile stayed steady, stiffening where he willed it to stick. His hand rose again, brushing
down where he felt Junpei wriggle. Yuji pressed down, his fingers barely fluctuating in force,
trying to tell him something without speaking that he was still there.

“Maybe bring two anythings?” Yuji told Nagi, just a little bit louder. “Y’know, in case Junpei gets
up later?”

“You got it! Two somethings it is.”

Nagi stepped back. Her hands settled into her pockets, her posture echoing the same smile Yuji
gave her. Whether she’d meant it or not, Yuji wasn’t sure.

“Take care of him ‘til I’m back, okay?” Nagi asked through that grin. “Precious cargo you got
under there.” Then, she shut the door.

The paper squares in the sliding door stayed aglow. The echo of the sun filtered at their backs. A
new breath rose under Yuji’s hand, Junpei’s shoulders still rising. Slowly, cautiously, Yuji leaned
over, too. He hovered over the lump in the blanket.

“What’re you doing, down there?” Yuji asked gently. “Your mom’s cool.”

“No,” Junpei mumbled through the covers. “No, she’s not.”

“She’s not cool? She seems pretty chill to me.”

Junpei didn’t move.

Yuji shrugged to himself. He bent a little further over, bowing over Junpei’s spot to assure him.
“Even if Sukuna’s Sukuna, if you don’t let him out, he can’t hurt her. He’s all talk.”Crude, cruel
talking, admittedly, but Yuji chose not to say that. After all, Junpei already knew that.

The blanket moved, squiggling by Yuji’s knee. The covers didn’t fall. Yuji let his hand fall flat,
holding in place instead of pulling them away.

“Junpei…”

“I do. I care. I think,” Junpei whimpered, the words barely audible under the comforter. “I don’t
want to. To care…”

Yuji felt himself turn quiet. His hand stroked down, reaching under the blanket to hold him.

“I know,” Yuji whispered. “It’s part of what’s great about you. You care. Even when you shouldn’t,
or you don’t want to, you care.”

It was what got him killed, last time; at least, Yuji suspected so. Junpei had seen a curse–something
that human instincts were supposed to tell you to run from–and called them by name, as if he’d
tried to understand them, too. Where even common sense should have told him to be cruel, Junpei
had tried to care.

“It’s great, when it doesn’t hurt you,” Yuji added. “It’s some of what makes you beautiful, you
know?”

The last statement seemed so much like the others, Yuji hadn’t thought much about it until Junpei
fell still. The warmth rose off his skin, the rest of him laying on Yuji’s hand.

Slowly, quietly, time stretched between them, and Yuji’s breath turned still. Junpei’s head fell,
drifting into a lean, until the top of his head emerged from the covers once more. He leaned against
Yuji’s side, his cheek squished halfway between a pillow and Yuji’s lap.

Despite himself, and the shadows, when he saw Junpei again, Yuji felt his stomach leap in
awareness. Not only was Junpei beautiful, but he was there, close enough to touch. Without
Sukuna, Yuji’s own mind felt quiet. He could hear his pulse echo, rising, spiking, like he was under
attack with no effort at all.

He wanted to touch Junpei, even more than this. He wanted to pick him up, in a hug, and steal the
curse out from inside him.

The same, new quiet was filled up with a murmur. The video on Yuji’s phone set aglow under his
palm. When Junpei didn’t speak, Yuji adjusted himself, too, beneath the sheets, and angled the
screen to start the episode again. The footage blurred in front of him, images he’d otherwise never
manage to see flickering on the display.

Yuji adjusted his phone one more time, propping it against his knees. Junpei nudged closer, still,
tilting until his head could rest on Yuji’s chest. The covers drifted down, draping to Junpei’s
shoulders, as he settled. Yuji’s hand raised, his fingers straying through Junpei’s hair.
The sound of Yuji’s own heart seemed to rise to his head. He looked back to his phone, willing
himself not to notice the gentle warmth of Junpei’s breath on his neck. He couldn’t move. The
buffering cleared, the episode continuing on.

A young girl with straight black hair walked down the sidewalk, humming to herself. “Tomorrow~
is~ summer vacation~”

Something rustled in the bushes. The girl’s hands tightened on the straps of her backpack. She
looked around the corner, her hum breaking to a “hm?”

Yotsuba, the green-haired girl knelt in front of a swingset. Her hands leveled on the seat. The
chains rattled in a muffle as she pushed her hands around, turning and twisting the side. Her head
started to tilt, her body shifting with it, until the swing was fully tangled in her grip.

‘Who’s that? I haven’t seen her before?’ The black haired girl stopped, her inner monologue
forming out loud for the audience. ‘She looks different. A foreigner, maybe…?’

Yotsuba’s smile grew as she shoved the swing. Her face lit up in excitement, her pigtails bouncing
each way as she watched in expectation.

Then, the swing swung right back in her face. The platform smacked her, straight in the nose. Her
hands froze at either side of her head, blocking nothing.

The black haired girl stopped, her eyes turning into dots as she wondered, shocked, ‘...what is she
doing…?’

A soft shake pulsed at Yuji’s shoulder as Junpei shifted up.

“Why are you watching Yotsubato?” Junpei asked gently. “That’s so old?”

Yuji’s head snapped back, in shock. “It’s old ?!”

“Uh…” Junpei blinked, leaning back by the headboard. “I was in elementary school, I think– so,
yeah? Like from 2011.”

“It’s been around that long? Whoa.”

Yuji looked away from the screen. He pressed down on the player, pausing the stream.

“You’ve got different stuff, here,” Yuji told him. “Where I’m from, they never made Yotsubato an
anime! Which was weird, cause the author even said he was fine with an anime! They just never
made it, for some reason.”

Junpei looked back, meeting Yuji’s stare in new confusion. “You… don’t have Yotsubato?” He
squinted. “That matters that much?”

Yuji turned his phone over. He scooted upright, too, pulling away enough that they could face each
other clearly.

“I used to love Yotsubato,” Yuji told him, relaxing. “My grandpa read it with me all the time. He
helped with the longer kanji and stuff. I even did my hair like hers, once. Did you watch it when it
was on?”
“...No,” Junpei admitted. “No, I didn’t.”

Yuji steadied the phone in one hand. With the other, he reached out his arm, holding a new
embrace. “Well, come here! Then, it’s new to you, too.”

“I–”

Junpei stared back, again, still processing. Yuji made a point of relaxing his expression. He didn’t
move. Didn’t twitch. He just held still, like waiting for a stray cat to sniff his hand.

With the same hesitant skittishness, Junpei scrunched his shoulders together. His head bowed with
a murmur. “I’ll move, if Sukuna comes out. Okay?”

Yuji nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Yuji waited until Junpei had started to inch towards him before adding, even more casually. “Or I’ll
squeeze him ‘til he stops.”

“Itadori…”

Yuji’s head popped back. “Yeah?”

“I’m, uh–” Junpei stuttered. “I’m not sure that would work? He just pops up in other spots.”

“That’s fine. Then I’ll hold other spots, too.”

Yuji offered his arm, again, gesturing Junpei over. The two shifted, shoulder to shoulder, with one
pillow squished against both backs.

“Well, that’s Yotsuba. Right there,” Yuji pointed to the green-haired girl. “Though, I don’t think she
thinks that’s her neighbor? It’s episode one, so, they’re just meeting now.”

Then, Yuji pressed play.

The black haired girl kicked back on the swingset. Yotsuba gaped at her in shock, arms
outstretched. Within seconds, the same arms raised, her eyes glistening as she grabbed for the
swing. “Me! Me! Let me do it!”

Junpei nudged a little bit closer, his hair tickling Yuji’s neck.

Yuji, who had meant to be watching the screen, only looked at it halfway. The rest, he watched
Junpei.

“Why didn’t you watch it before?”

Yuji felt him inhale by his neck. The words brushed him just as much.

“I don’t know,” Junpei told him. “I never did a lot of TV, I guess? I mostly watched movies. It’s
less of a commitment. Plus, the production quality is higher. Usually, at least.”

Yotsuba sat down on the swings. Her hands gripped both sides in anticipation, her feet dangling on
the ground. Her eyes stayed wide, expectant, grinning ear to ear, as her neighbor watched on.
Yotsuba’s feet stayed on the ground. She stared at her feet, not moving. Then, she bounced up.
“Push me! Push me!”

Her neighbor laughed nervously, bending forward to a bow. “Ok…”

“I dunno,” Yuji squinted back at the screen. “I mean, the production looks pretty good to me?”

“Of course it looks good. It’s on a phone,” Junpei added “The resolution’s reduced, there.”

T he neighbor began to push Yotsuba on the swing. The swing creaked, the summer air rustling
through the trees. Each comfortable sound distorted in the cell phone speakers, the background
music crackling away.

Junpei inched closer to the phone, and to Yuji. His cheek brushed Yuji’s shoulder.

“They can’t all be different, though. The movies and TV, where you came from,” Junpei uttered
back. “You knew the Earthworm Man movies. Those pretty much sound the same.”

“Mhm.” Yuji agreed without thinking. “It’s gotta be a mix, then. Some different stuff, some same.
Like, maybe, you never got ‘I Want to Eat Your Pancreas’, here?”

“Huh–?” Junpei’s back went stiff. “You want to what?”

Yuji paused, too. Then, he laughed. Apparently, he’d guessed right.

“No, no, not I like me ! No way!” Yuji snickered. “It’s a movie!”

“I would hope so,” Junpei mumbled, his disgust dripping to a mumble. “I think I need a pancreas.”

“Maybe? I dunno what a pancreas does, exactly. It could be like, the kidneys? Like how you don’t
need them both?” Yuji thought out loud. “...I don’t think you need all the liver, either.”

“...But pancreas isn’t plural? Kidneys are plural. So. People have two.”

“Maybe we just shouldn’t eat body parts?” Yuji chuckled. “Pretty sure we’ve had enough fingers,
by now, yeah?”

Junpei’s arms wrapped around his legs, scrunching his knees back up to his chest as he settled back
down. Only his head turned, his gaze and cheek drifting back in place.

“So, what’s it about?” Junpei asked softly. “The cannibal movie.”

“Cannibalism?”

It took a second before Yuji’s brain caught up with the rest of him.

“Oh! No, no it’s not that at all! It’s about this girl, who’s dying, and her classmate. And then–” The
memory of what Yuji had been about to say hit him more than the cursed doll during his special
training ever had. His hand strayed on Junpei’s shoulder, holding him close.

“It wasn’t my favorite. The dying teenager movies,” Yuji murmured, his thoughts drifting again.

Yuji could feel Junpei’s breath through his back. He was warm.
Were people always this warm?

“I guess there’re a lot of those, aren’t there?” Junpei asked. “Dying teenager movies.”

Yuji nodded along.

Junpei shifted, leaning back. His stare drifted towards the ceiling.

“Like, Me, Earl and the Dying Girl. The Fault in Our Stars. Five Feet Apart. Socrates in Love. For
some reason, they’re always love stories, that kind of thing. It’s kind of messed up, if you think
about it,” Junpei went on. “That they’re all like that. Like, life being over doesn’t matter unless you
were worth desiring.”

Yuji breathed closer, taking in what he could. Somehow, the trace of the beach still crept inside the
room, scents of sand and sunlight drifting. He couldn’t think of an answer.

“It’s like, they’re all saying everything only matters from the eyes of someone else, after you’re
gone? And even that only matters if someone wanted to have sex with you? It shouldn’t be right.
Maybe it is, to some people? But if it is, it shouldn’t be.”

Junpei’s arms wrapped a little tighter, his body condensing all the more in on himself. The black
mark on his wrist held steady, still reminding Yuji.

He wished he was looking anywhere else.

“If we all only mattered how we’re seen to one person, because we’re beautiful, then, it’s almost
the same as thinking you’re worthless until you get permission not to be,” said Junpei. “Until you
earn it, from someone else. That’s not fair.”

The way that Junpei’s words broke into silence, Yuji couldn’t help trying to whisper back. “There’s
nothing to earn, though?”

Junpei’s visible eye strayed, the dark green spot meeting Yuji’s own. Before Junpei’s lips could
part, Yuji spoke first.

“You’re not worthless,” Yuji forced himself to smile, the expression faltering a little bit more than
before. “You never were.”

“I…” Junpei swayed away from his shoulder, his head tilting. His hands fell to the sheets, tangling
in the blankets. “I was never great?”

“Wait, what?” Yuji’s expression went blank. A new flash of panic wiped his smile off in shock.
“No! No! I mean, you were never worthless ! And great! You were always great! If no one else sees
that, then, wow! That’s more of your great, for me!”

Junpei stared back, his eyes widening, the doubt finding its way right back in. From the way he was
watching Yuji, it seemed less like Yuji was speaking normally, and more like he was growing a
second head.

Yuji shook the one head he had.

“No, really! You’re as great as…” Yuji paused, his brain stalling again. “...great as… uh… what’s
your favorite?”
“My favorite… dying teenager movie?”

“Favorite movie,” Yuji corrected. “Just, in general? No dying needed. Unless people do die. That’s
fine, too.”

Yuji reached down to pick up his phone. He paused the anime, the screen setting still, the other
blurs of sound washing out. He watched Junpei, as if there was nothing else to see in the world at
all.

“Like, if I get down time, what do I watch?” Yuji asked, trying to sound calm. “I saw almost
everything, where I was, but your favorite thing might not exist back home! Or it could have
different scenes.”

Junpei’s attention moved back. His expression softened, the start of a smile coming back to his face
as he asked “recent, or classic?”

“Recent!”

Yuji didn’t really think there’d be much time for movies. What he did think, when he watched, was
that the deep green of Junpei’s eyes started to show a little life again. That there was a glisten in the
corner, an echo of how Yuji had first met him, in the sunset, a universe away.

“My favorite from last year was Happy Death Day ,” said Junpei. “I also really liked Get Out and
Mr. Irrelevant , though.”

The last one made Yuji raise his head a little more. “Mr. Irrelevant? What’s that?”

Junpei turned, facing him more directly. “Do you not have that one?”

Yuji shook his head. “Nope. What’s it about.”

The hint of Junpei’s smile seemed to bloom.

“I don’t normally do sports movies, but this one was pretty interesting,” he said. “It was about this
club of players, who were all the last person drafted in the American football league. I guess they
give them an award?”

“...For playing sports?”

“For getting picked last, I think? It’s a thing. For some reason.” Junpei’s voice trailed away. He
blinked back to attention “Anyway, the guy goes through training as a backup. Then, there’s a big
accident, and the player he’s backing up can’t play, so he has to go in. Then, he almost has an
accident, too. So he has to deal with the media, and figure out if what happened to the other guy
was an accident at all, or if someone’s trying to sabotage the team on purpose.”

“Huh. That sounds complicated.”

“That’s what makes it fun.” Junpei shifted, again, nestling closer, like he wasn’t even thinking
about what it meant to be this close to Yuji–as if this was the most natural place for them to be.

“I won’t say too much, in case you watch it, sometime,” Junpei told him. “A lot of what makes it
work are the characters. You could imagine almost anyone on that team would’ve tried to kill the
first QB. He talks like he’s a Tarantino villain. Or, worse, like he’s Tarantino…”
“Tarantino?”

“Quentin Tarantino? The director?” Junpei looked back. “Does he not use racial slurs where you’re
from?”

“Oh,” Yuji realized. “That’s the Pulp Fiction guy?”

“And Kill Bill, yeah.”

Junpei’s hand stretched between them. His index finger stroked across Yuji’s screen, backing out of
the video player to the search screen. “I can pull up the trailer, if you want to see. The actors tell the
jokes better than I would.”

The sentence hadn’t meant to end. It trailed off, anyway. Junpei’s hand fell from his knee, reaching
to steady himself. His palm brushed the top of Yuji’s on accident. At least, Yuji thought it must
have been.

The sudden shock made Junpei move back. His shoulder shifted, his hand falling off the phone.
Yuji froze, too, pausing in a second that shouldn’t have been.

On instinct, Yuji tried to force a new smile.

“It’s okay! I can find it, too, if you want,” Yuji said. “Might be easier, for me. Since I’m holding the
phone.”

The last word drifted, his gaze falling with it, as Yuji looked down. Junpei’s hand stayed still over
the comforter. A quiet tremor shook his fingers, the black cuff still stuck, alone.

The next second of silence forced Yuji to hear his own breath. He didn’t want to.

Yuji’s hand reached over the blanket, their arms intertwining, until Yuji’s hand covered the back of
Junpei’s own. The soft skin tingled his palm, smooth, nearly untouched, against the calluses of his
own.

“Sorry,” Junpei uttered, the words falling all the more. “Was something happening with Sukuna? I
didn’t feel him.”

“Nope,” Yuji shook his head, his hand steadying. “No Sukuna.”

“Then–”

“Because I want to,” Yuji told him, and meant it. “If you’re okay that? And me.”

The ‘why’ Junpei could have asked of Yuji turned quiet. Yuji steadied his hand, wrapping his
fingers in place, to hold Junpei’s hand for no other sake but to feel him. The trembles turned softer
in his hand, stifling under his grip.

Yuji shifted his shoulder. The phone fell from his hand, the screen turning over, as he let himself
keep going in a truth he hadn’t known was there before.

“I want to know your favorite food,” Yuji told him. “Your favorite color. What way you’d hang a
toilet paper roll. If you think a hot dog’s a sandwich, or if cereal’s a soup. Which movies you watch
over and over. Anything I don’t know yet, I want that, too.”
Junpei felt so still.

Yuji closed his eyes. His hand squeezed tighter, firmer, to prove to himself that no matter what else
was happening, Junpei was, in fact, still there. And he was.

Yuji’s heartbeat spiked again.

“We don’t get a lot of moments, like this? Or, we didn’t last time. So, when we have them, they
should matter. Because…”

Junpei didn’t move towards him. A tremor still passed through his fingers.

Yuji opened his eyes.

“Because, you’re here,” Yuji finished, unable to think of anything else. “Even if it’s like this, and
every other part of this sucks, you’re still here. And that matters. …Hell, even when you weren’t
here. That mattered, too.”

Yuji’s fingers wrapped around, until he couldn’t feel Junpei shake at all. Instead, he felt Junpei’s
breath brush his cheek. Junpei leaned against him, a heavy head drifting down as he slid to lay on
his chest.

“You were always gonna matter, Junpei,” Yuji whispered to them both. His hold softened, stroking
Junpei’s hand gently, as if it were the most precious thing he would ever hold.

Maybe it was.
 Okay

Yuji Itadori

Kamakura, Kanagawa

July 21, 2018

A little bit of blood rushed to Junpei’s cheeks, the tone tipping closer to his hair. With his head
down, Yuji hadn’t meant to look at him, like this. Once he had, he couldn’t stop.

“Itadori…” Junpei murmured, his words falling with his gaze.

Yuji felt his pulse through his hand. Somehow, it made his own heart beat, too. He watched longer
than he should have before he looked back. “Yeah?”

Junpei lowered his head even further, condensing. “Do you think this is… that it’s okay?”

“Is what?”

“Us? Sitting, like this.”

Yuji knew what he wanted to say. He didn’t say it.

Junpei turned, facing him.

“Is it bothering your back? Sitting, like this,” Junpei asked, again. “That doesn’t look
comfortable.”

The suggestion made Yuji tense.

“Nah. No bother, here!” Yuji forced a laugh, hiding himself in it. “I’m un-bother-able!”

Yuji shifted slightly. Contorted as the angle was to watch Junpei so closely, Yuji couldn’t stop
himself from looking down. At first, Yuji thought he was watching the marks under Junpei’s eyes.
The slits beneath his eyelids were the same ones Yuji himself had, just one week and a universe
ago. He was so sure that was what he was watching, Yuji didn’t realize he’d looked a little further
up. Junpei’s eyelashes fluttered, his body relaxing in Yuji’s arms.

In all the movies that he’d seen, Yuji couldn’t think of any guy who’d looked quite this beautiful.
“...Itadori?” Junpei called back, even softer than before.

Just like that, the illusion of comfort snapped right out of Yuji. The rest of his posture did the same.

“I’m great!” Yuji smiled, jolting back.

Junpei’s eyelashes tilted. They raised into a blink. “I. Uh–” he stuttered. “…I didn’t ask a
question?”
Junpei shifted under the crook of Yuji’s arm. The twist was reason enough for Yuji to budge, too.
He leaned against the headboard. The pillows shifted, squishing against their backs. Even so, Yuji’s
arm held on tight.

Yuji felt, without looking, doubt in Junpei’s breath. He closed his eyes.

“Can’t I just be great? No questions?” Yuji asked, hugging on. “I mean, it is great. You’re here.
And. And Yotsubato. And movies I don’t know. I mean, a lot of stuff is rough, but I never thought
this would happen, y’know?”

“I don’t.”

Yuji felt his pulse rise, again, when he heard Junpei answer something he hadn’t meant to ask.

No matter how steady Yuji meant to hold him, he hadn’t stopped Junpei from turning towards him.

“What are you talking about?” Junpei asked more directly. Yuji ducked his head to the side, hiding
himself.

“I mean the anime, duh! Hah,” Yuji breathed, babbling faster than he could form the thought. “I
really liked it, growing up! That manga!”

“Yeah. I know,” Junpei interrupted, cutting in. “...you said that, before.”

“I did?”

“Yeah. Yeah, like, five minutes ago.”

“Oh!” Yuji laughed, again, forcing himself.

The sound fell as quickly as it started. Junpei turned quiet, pausing. The quiet brought Yuji’s pulse
into his ears. His hand sank on Junpei’s shoulder, cradling the skin until he could sense the bone.

He heard his own pulse so clearly, it almost drowned Junpei’s words away when he whispered,
“Itadori, is something wrong…?”

Yuji turned towards the sound, and by extension, to Junpei.

The worst of good timing left Junpei to stare straight in Yuji’s face, so close, Yuji saw Junpei’s
features blur. Yuji pulled back so fast, he smashed his head on the headboard.

“Ow–”

“Itadori!” Junpei pushed away, shoving away from the bed. Yuji had barely started to lean forward
when Junpei’s touch guided him, instead. A hand settled on either side of Yuji’s face, propping him
up.

“Itadori, are you alright? Or bleeding? That’s–” Junpei turned over his shoulder, presumably
looking at the rest of the bed. The headboard split straight through.

Junpei’s expression turned blank. “...huh. How hard is your head?”

Yuji retracted himself.

“It’s fine!” he laughed, more convincing, this time. “All good! I’m hard everywhere!”

It wasn’t until Yuji had started to say it that he realized what he had just said. The pink on his
cheeks turned darker on his hair, his entire face turning red.

“Not like that!” Yuji shouted, his voice breaking with embarrassment. “Not that it couldn’ t be like
that! But, it’s not! I’m the right. In the.”

“It’s okay.” Junpei tried not to snicker. The start of his laugh made Yuji blush all the more.

Yuji pointed down, gesturing towards himself. “I didn’t mean hard like, hard-hard! Like–” he
scrambled to explain. “Like how I punched through a door, once, when the handle got stuck! That
kind of hard.”

“Itadori.”

Junpei’s hand turned against Yuji’s cheek. The soft touch of someone who, in another world never
should have been there, made Yuji go still.

“You can stop talking,” Junpei told him. “I know what you meant. It’s fine.”

Yuji was sure it wasn’t fine. The moments here, whatever they were, had never been fine. They
were too bad, or too unbelievable.

“Itadori,” Junpei repeated, one more time, still lingering. The call made Yuji raise his hand. His
fingers raised, stroking the skin on the back of Junpei’s hand with caution. It was soft, warm.
Gentle, and unweathered in ways Yuji’s hadn’t been since he could remember.

“Wow,” Yuji murmured, his voice falling with his pulse, too. “Great hand, you’ve got here. Got all
the fingers on it.”

The “Uh–” Junpei stuttered couldn’t stop Yuji from babbling.

“Five of them,” Yuji added. “Four, and the thumb. Some people don’t count the thumb, right?”

Yuji wondered, fleetingly, if maybe hitting his head had somehow made his stupidity even worse.

To hide the urge to wince, Yuji flashed a grin, instead.

“Sorry,” Yuji told him, his eyes closing into his expression. “Guess smacking my head’s not so
great. I mean, I’m pretty dumb to start with! That didn’t help. With the headboard. And–”

“Who said you were dumb?”

Yuji paused. He started to sway back, his eyes drifting towards the ceiling as he thought.

“Oh, lots of people! Most of my teachers. Kugisaki. Fushiguro,” he remembered. “Kugisaki said it
a lot.”

It wasn’t until Yuji had finished saying that part that he remembered, “you don’t know who they
are, do you?”

Junpei shook his head. “Should I care?”

Yuji nudged closer. He found a spot by half of the headboard and leaned into that side.

“You could. They’re pretty great! At least, where I’m from. Can’t imagine they’re that different,
here,” Yuji told him, not thinking before he’d spoken. “I mean, everyone seems close to the same?
Except Gojo, obviously. And Geto. …and maybe Nanamin? Though Nanamin’s change pretty
much seemed like his hair.”

The more Yuji spoke, the more he felt Junpei steady under his arm. The other boy couldn’t have
known what he was talking about, yet, the act of talking at all made this feel normal.

“Itadori,” Junpei called, drawing Yuji’s attention right back in.

Yuji raised his hand. Again, he stroked his own over Junpei’s, holding him against him, just in case.
What the case was, Yuji didn’t know.

“Can I touch you?” Yuji asked, softly.

“I think…” Junpei’s fingers pressed down. His thumb pressed to Yuji’s jaw, his print tipping his
head. “...we’re already touching.”

“Oh. Awesome.”

The position they’d been in, where Junpei was snuggled against him, had broken. In its place, a
deep, moss green stare sank inside Yuji’s own.

“Itadori.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think…?”

Junpei’s question hung for so long, Yuji answered it early.

“Nope,” Yuji joked. “Not really.”

One more second of silence crossed the space between them. Then, Junpei leaned in. The taste of
his breath crept through Yuji’s lips, like black tea and fruit he couldn’t name. Junpei’s lips brushed
the space where Yuji’s own lips parted, resting at the angle in open air. A rush he couldn’t
recognize fluttered through him. For all the things he’d gone through, Yuji never felt that, before.

For a second so fleeting Yuji could have never known it happened, a spark grazed Yuji’s lower lip.
The hot brush of Junpei’s lips grazed against his own, nipping down without teeth, taking a part of
him into his own. Then, Junpei moved away.

Junpei’s hands turned still. His grip loosened. If it weren’t for Yuji’s hands, still cupping his, he
would have pulled away completely.

“I’m sorry,” Junpei whispered, hesitating again. “Was that ok, for me to–”

“Yes.”

Yuji’s hands gripped tighter, the rest of him moving in. Yuji leaned back, chasing his lips with a
peck of his own. He felt Junpei’s lashes flutter on his cheek, eclipsing the curse marks Yuji was too
close to see.

Even from this distance, if Yuji opened his eyes, he could see the start of a smile. No matter what
else around them was wrong, this wasn’t. Not at all.

The familiar curl moved through Junpei’s eyes, a little flash of a laugh of his own. “Is that what you
do when you hit your head?” he asked. “I could hit it again. If it helps.”

“Nah.”

Yuji let his hands fall to Junpei’s shoulders, steadying him and the angle, as he leaned in enough
not to see him anymore. The hesitation fell back, his lips parting and nose shifting, bringing himself
to sink. Before long, Junpei’s arms moved, too, draping over Yuji’s neck. What at first felt like a
rush soon turned over, his stomach flipping in an anxious kind of peace. They hadn’t asked what
this would mean, yet, he didn’t feel a reason to.

Yuji’s breath tightened in his chest. Yuji puffed through his nose, forcing air in anywhere but his
mouth, if only so he could keep kissing him forever. It lasted just as long as Junpei could hold his
own.

He didn’t hear Nagi open the door.

“Junpei!” Nagi called through. “I brought snacks! You–”

Junpei pulled away.

As soon as Yuji felt the snap, he pushed back, too. In the mutual scramble, Junpei’s arm flung
outwards, knocking Yuji’s phone from his lap to the floor. Yuji’s expression turned blank, his lips
still hanging open until he saw what, and who, was there.

Despite the color in his face, Yuji brought himself to try and smile. “Oh. Hey, Ms. Yoshino–”
Junpei’s neck burned red, too. His shoulders scrunched, the rest of him leaning forward.

“Mom!” Junpei gaped down. “You need to knock! What if Sukuna–”

Nagi snorted.

“So this is about old Looney Kuney, huh?” Nagi said, setting the snack tray down on the table “It’s
got nothing to do with you two making out?”

The “MOM!” that followed was somehow more panicked than before.

Nagi laughed it off. She turned to Yuji, casual as ever. “You know what happens if you hurt him,
right?”

Yuji stared back, blankly, smiling anyway. “You’ll kick my butt?”

“Sure bet! You’ll go flying so far it’ll need a passport! An ass-port, if you will–”

From the smile on her face to the literally everything else at all about her answer, Junpei answered
flatly.”I won’t.”

Yuji smiled back. “I would!”

It took a second before he realized, again, what had come out of him. That second was the one
where Junpei gaped back at him, burning a shade of red Yuji hadn’t thought possible. “Itadori—!”

Nagi just laughed. She looked down to Junpei, and gave him a firm pat on the cheek.

“It’s fine,” she told him through a smile. Her head turned back to Yuji, checking him out. Yuji
returned the expression as blankly as possible. It wasn’t until Nagi had held that stare that she
noticed what was right behind him.

“...You broke the bed? How’d that happen?”

Yuji met her eyes, unflinching. “I hit my head on it.”

Nagi started to raise an eyebrow. “Hit your head, making out, or–?”

“MOM–!” Junpei started to complain.

Before he could say anything more, Nagi gave him a firm pat on the cheek. “Junpei and Kirby,
sitting in a tree.”

Junpei bobbed back, appalled, and still red. “What are you talking about? He’s not Kirby.”

“He looks like a Kirby.”

“And what am I doing in a tree?”

Nagi’s hand raised slightly, ruffling Junpei’s hair. “Apparently, ruining my joke.”

Before Junpei could get in another comment, Nagi turned around. Her smile grew wide enough to
close her eyes into it. “Hey, Yuji! Tell me a joke! My spawn just ruined mine.”

Junpei stared back, blank. “...How are we related?”

“You mean, aside from me having a c-section and you being pulled out of me?”

Sudden as Nagi’s request was, Yuji could’t see a reason not to interrupt. His thumb pressed to his
cheek, his index finger tipping under his chin, deeply and seriously debating what joke could fix
this situation. Then, he snapped up in realization.

“I got it!” Yuji’s finger pointed into the air, pointing to the ceiling in epiphany “Knock–”

He didn’t finish the second word. Down the hallway, through the walls, someone pounded at the
door.

In near unison, Yuji and Junpei turned to look in the distance. Nagi followed a second after. She
squinted at the door.

“Wow. You got some app for that?” Nagi asked. “Didn’t know jokes had special effects.”

Yuji raised both his hands, flashing his open palms. “Nope. Not me.”

“Of course it’s not you,” Junpei mumbled, looking past Yuji, towards the hall.
The knock pounded again, steady, even louder for the words they hadn’t said. A silent stare passed
between Yuji and Junpei, questioning something neither had the time to put in words.

Before either of them had reached a conclusion, Nagi stepped into the way.

“I can check. You two can stay and make out,” Nagi teased. “I’m the least suspicious, anyway.”

The embarrassed “wha–” that stuttered out of Junpei didn’t last long. As much as Yuji heard him,
more than that, he felt an instinct for something else.

Yuji let go of Junpei’s hand. He rolled off the ledge of the bed quickly. By the time Nagi had any
sense to look, Yuji was already well ahead of her, in the doorway. His arms stretched to either side,
blocking the path out the door, and gesturing both Nagi and Junpei inside.

“Nah, you stay,” Yuji told her, first, through a grin. Another knock sounded, even more frantic than
before. He looked to Junpei, next. “He’s being quiet now, right? You know who?”

“...Voldemort?” Junpei guessed, baffled.

“Nah. Not him,” Yuji fought not to snicker. “The other guy.”

When Yuji looked back between them, he could tell Junpei was silently pleading for him not to go.
If he’d dared to say it out loud, then, Yuji might have had a hard time not listening. That Junpei
didn’t raise his voice to call out would have to be permission enough.

“Stay safe,” Yuji told them both. “I’ve got this, okay?”

Before he could see anything else, Yuji closed the door.

The knocking hadn’t slowed down. If anything, it was louder. Whoever was out there wasn’t going
away. While there was always the chance it was a postal worker, or a neighbor, the secluded path to
get here didn’t make either that likely.

Someone had found them, here.

Yuji took off running. He sprinted towards the door, not at top speed, keeping his steps quieter than
they were quick. With each corner he turned, he checked for “Suguru–”

Yuji checked, first, into the kitchen. Every open door showed nothing. No matter which door Yuji
glimpsed around, or what corner he turned, “Suguru!” wasn’t there to reply.

The name sounded louder in Yuji’s head. He forced the echo down, and his concentration to settle.

Messed up as it was, and no matter what it had taken to get here, Yuji still had a chance to make
things better. Even if Sukuna was inside Junpei, Sukuna was weak in this state, and Junpei was
alive.

Nothing on the other side of that door could change what mattered. Whoever was there, be it a
neighbor or a curse, or even the version of Satoru Gojo who had caused this–not one of them would
get to take that truth away from Yuji. He wouldn’t let the same mistakes happen again. Nobara, and
Nanami, and even Junpei’s mom, just down the hall–each one of those losses was a wound in Yuji’s
soul that he finally had a chance to fix.
The knock carried through the door. The sunlight streaked in, stretching shadows through the
entranceway.

“Geto!” a woman’s voice called through the door. It sounded familiar. Yuji couldn’t remember
why.

“Urgh. Geto! Get your thin lips out here and start flapping them! I’ve gotta talk to you!” the woman
shouted again.

One more time, Yuji looked down the hall. A spike of concern started to flash. He raised a hand
towards the side of his face, bracing himself to call the same name, in a different tone. Yuji hadn’t
formed the “G–” before a shadow shifted at his back.

The wavering sliver of Yuji’s shadow grew, stretching and swelling at each side. Spikes of black
hair, so rich they were almost blue, emerged from the dark.

Yuji froze. The dread turned to relief within seconds, his expression turning to relief as he realized
who was there.

“Fushiguro!” Yuji stepped back, making room not to crowd him as Megumi crawled through Yuji’s
shadow into the entranceway, too. “You’re looking good!”

When the shadow parted, Megumi almost looked like himself. A white sling had been flung over
his injured arm. His sleeve flopped at the end, a tell of the hand he was missing.

The “oh–” Yuji stuttered after that barely felt like a breath.

The hand Megumi still had reached past Yuji, saying nothing to him at all. Instead, Megumi spoke
towards the entranceway, right over Yuji’s shoulder.

“He’s not here,” Megumi told the door. “The meddler is, though.”

“I–” Yuji turned his head, following Megumi’s line of sight as he pointed to himself. “Meddler?
Who’re you talking about? Fushiguro–?

Megumi shot him the dullest, most unenthusiastically disgusted look possible. “Don’t shout at
her.”

“Her?”

It wasn’t until Yuji repeated himself that he remembered. His eyes snapped open. “Oh! Right!” He
remembered, “ You’re not Fushiguro! That’s–!”

Megumi opened the door. The sliding door parted with a smack, the old wood rattling in the frame.
As the panel moved aside, Yuji saw the other Fushiguro.

Tsumiki stood in the doorway. Her arms pulled behind her back. The black cardigan of her uniform
was splotched with paint, the gold spiral buttons gleaming under the sunlight. Despite the softness
in her posture, her expression was as dour as Megumi’s.

Before Yuji could say Tsumiki’s name, he saw the woman next to her.
“The principal?” Yuji said the title, questioning himself at the sight. He had only seen her once,
back at the school, but he was pretty sure it was her.

Tsukumo adjusted her leather jacket. Her red eyes looked down, taking Yuji in. New understanding
seemed to shine in her grin.

“Oh, hey. It’s the drop-out” said Tsukumo, more to herself than to anyone around her. “Been a
while since someone flaked in the entrance exam. Way to strike an impression.”

Tsumiki turned to Yuji with tense concern. “Are you alright, Yujita?”

“Who–”

Tsukumo’s red eyes narrowed, sparking where Megumi’s judgment seemed dull. It took the clash
between both of them for Yuji to snap to attention. He pointed back at himself.

“Itadori. Itadori Yuji. Not–”

“We’re a little more interested in eat-a-finger,” Tsukumo grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling his
attention. “Don’t play dumb on me, kid.”

“I’m not playing,” Yuji answered. “I am dumb.”

The assessment, accurate or otherwise, didn’t seem to stop Tsukumo.

Megumi and Tsumiki fell back, standing across from each other at opposite sides of the door.
Megumi’s remaining arm and leg stepped in front of Tsumiki, partly shielding her from everyone
else.

Tsukumo bent her knees together. She swayed in, her head tilting, closing in on Yuji with curiosity.

“I know you’ve got a Sukuna vessel in there. You know that too, right?” Tsukumo asked, casual as
she could be. The long, bending shikigami at her back buzzed behind her, its body rattling the
walls. Even Yuji’s shadow shook, its presence swelling under the influence of Megumi’s presence,
here.

Shit.

“It’d make things easy, if you told me where Geto stashed the vessel,” Tsukumo told Yuji. “If
they’re not dead, we’re gonna need them for execution.”

Yuji heard Tsukumo’s words leave her mouth. His entire existence froze.

“You…” he squinted back, confused. “You want to execute Geto ? But–”

Tsukumo cut in. “Not them, both of them! Them, like the vessel!” She smirked. “Don’t worry,
kiddo. Being dark and gloomy ain’t a crime, here. If it were, we’d have to take out Zen'in, too.”

The shadow flared. Tsumiki started to step forward. Megumi nudged her before she could move.

Tsukumo flicked her wrist, as if shooing the thought back. “Execute Geto? No way. That’s just
dumb, taking out the other special grade. I’m just trying to find where he got off to, in case he
needs help.”
Tsukumo’s hand tucked into her pocket, her posture still swaying.

It had felt, when Yuji first ran for the door, like his problems in this timeline were close to being
under control. Like the people he’d wanted to be saved could still be saved. Those feelings were
wrong.

Yuji couldn’t think what to do. All he knew, as he stared, was that he’d die before he told her the
truth.

“No way,” Yuji said outright. “You’d kill him.”

Like blood hitting the open air, the red in Yuki’s eyes seemed to flash all the brighter.

“So, it’s a man,” Tsukumo said. “You know who it is.”

She didn’t say it as a question.

Tsukumo raised her hand from Yuji’s shoulder.

“Sukuna would kill him, as soon as he has what he wants. That is, if the person hasn’t had their
personality overridden to start with. A vessel of a special grade curse, they’re probably too late to
save,” she started to say. “I’d talk with them if I could, but, frankly, if there’s anything left of the
host, it’s more merciful to kill the vessel than make them endure the curse.”

Tsukumo started to step forward, to walk past Yuji and enter the room. Before she could, Yuji
stepped back, too. He planted a heel, straight in her path, and let the red in her eyes reflect in his
own.

“No!”

Yuji hadn’t planned to move, or argue. He hadn’t, yet, he remembered too well to stop.

Sukuna had been awful. So awful, Yuji could almost see the point. It might have been ‘mercy’, to
some, to kill him before he’d seen his life cause so many others to die. Maybe Tsukumo was
speaking her truth. She might even have been right.

But Yuji still tasted what it felt like to kiss Junpei.

“No, he’s fine!” Yuji snapped, stepping closer. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! He
controls it! He’s only had one finger! That’s nothing! Sukuna’s not even–”

The argument meant nothing to Tsukumo. Of course it meant nothing to Tsukumo. In her eyes, this
hadn’t happened before–or if it had, then, it hadn’t been for a very long time. She couldn’t
understand what it meant if they cut a vessel off at one finger, or what Sukuna could become if they
insisted on feeding him more. No one in this world knew what Yuji did, except Gojo, and himself.

“Don’t do this!” Yuji shouted, leaning into Tsukumo’s space. “You can’t!”

“I have to find the vessel. There’re no other choices here, kid,” Tsukumo dismissed. “...Not good
ones, anyway.”

Yuji’s hands curled to fists at each side. “Then, you don’t get to choose,” Yuji shot back. “I do!”
Tsukumo shrugged him off.

“Tough talk for an entrance day drop out. Shame you didn’t stick around, before. The attitude’s
fun,” Tsukumo dismissed, as if she didn’t consider his presence a threat at all. “With your no cursed
energy thing? Could’ve learned a lot from that, too.”

All Yuji could do, in the face of it, was hold his ground and make a scene.

“You’re not taking him!” he shouted, loud enough that the whole house could have heard.

Yuji had barely pushed through losing Junpei the first time. He wouldn’t do it again. He couldn’t do
it again. If he made enough noise, then, someone else might hear it. The others could have a chance
to get away, before Tsukumo tried to charge in.

And if Yuji couldn’t stop Tsukumo from finding Junpei, then, at least Yuji could be the first to die.
 Honest
Chapter Notes

Thank you to @ultfreakme on tumblr for the fan art used in this chapter!

Suguru Geto

Kamakura, Kanagawa

July 21, 2018

They had no time for perfect moments.

It would have been a stretch to call this perfect, Suguru supposed. The bed Suguru sat on wasn’t big
enough for two. This room–hell, this universe–wasn’t meant for them. They’d made themselves fit,
anyway.
Suguru leaned across the ledge of the bed, both hands steadying on something that should have
been untouchable. The words he should have spoken washed out in Gojo’s kisses. Each brush that
they’d missed, they chased to make up for.

A part of Suguru told himself to stop this. To cut himself off, and deny Gojo again. After what
Suguru had done, and didn’t do, to save the Satoru he’d known before, Suguru didn’t deserve this
kind of affection. The life that he’d chosen hadn’t left room to need someone else.

But this wasn’t someone else, the rest of him cried back. In every way that mattered, Satoru Gojo
was the someone it always should have been. So, he didn’t stop.

Gojo’s lips brushed Suguru’s, stealing another peck, then fluttering deeper. Suguru’s arms wrapped
tighter. His arms draped to Gojo’s neck, collapsing into the space he could touch, falling to a spot
where only he could be. Just as Suguru found a spot to draw back to breathe, Gojo drew all the
closer and stole space right back.

Gojo’s hands started straying. One fell to Suguru’s thigh. The other wrapped around his waist,
latching on all the closer. Each kiss staggered, some short, others drawn, each one of them robbed
like they were making up for a lifetime.

This world had no place for perfection–but if it had, Suguru supposed it would have been Satoru
Gojo. It was right, then, that the closest he would ever come to it would be here. His eyelids started
to flutter, fighting for consciousness, only for Gojo to quell him right back again.

Gojo’s fingers traced a new pattern along Suguru’s spine. He pulled back just enough to speak.

“This is great,” Gojo told him. “We should do this more. Making out.”

“We are doing it more,” Suguru hushed back. “You’ve already kissed me twenty times.”

“Twenty? Psh. You’re keeping count?”

“I’m estimating.”

Suguru shifted his arms, adjusting himself against Gojo. His hands intertwined at Gojo’s back,
leaning in, until their foreheads came to brush.

A grin pulled across Gojo’s lips as he lingered. “...Then you’d better be underestimating, ‘cause
I’m not keeping count.”

Suguru willed himself not to sigh. “If you’re not counting, then how would you know?”

Suguru didn’t get an answer. Instead, Gojo drew close to his lips, the new brush of warm breath and
softer skin crossing the space. Without leaving the bed, Suguru allowed himself to sink. His mouth
opened, his hands steadying, as he returned the embrace of Gojo’s lips with his own.

There was a knock at the door.

Gojo didn’t pull back. Suguru did. The press made both of them lean to the wall, Gojo nearly
falling on top of Suguru in the process.

“Damn–” Gojo sputtered. “Did I miss you?”

“No–”

“Then you missed?”

Gojo’s hand pressed against the mattress, holding himself upright. Suguru didn’t answer.

Instead, he looked towards the door. The locked path to his bedroom was still, unshaken. He
couldn’t sense anything there. He could, however, hear someone shuffling outside.

“No,” Suguru told Gojo, his words turning sharp. He pulled out his phone, checking the screen.

Gojo rolled his eyes. “What, you’re gonna play Angry Birds now? My kissing has to be better than
that!”

The huff of “Satoru,” Suguru gave him didn’t stop Gojo from flopping dramatically across the bed.
A few pillows popped up where he rolled around.

Suguru ignored it. He draped forward, his focus setting on the screen as he pulled up the security
camera outside. A video of the front door, a few seconds behind, streamed through in grayscale.
The camera’s angle was off, the faces slightly obscured, yet, right away, Suguru knew who was
there.

Gojo swayed over Suguru’s shoulder. His hand pressed to Suguru’s back, clinging close enough to
watch the screen, too.

“I thought you said no one would find us? That’s Tsukumo. And Megumi, and… Tsumiki?” Gojo
raised an eyebrow. He pointed down towards the screen. “Wait, what’s she doing here?”

Which ‘she’ Gojo meant to point towards, Suguru didn’t ask. Instead, he stared down at the feed,
his nerves building.

“That’s why the alarms haven’t gone off,” Suguru murmured, still thinking. “They’re for curses.
Not sorcerers.”

It wasn’t entirely unexpected for Yuki Tsukumo to come here looking for Suguru. This house
wasn’t his property, but it did belong to his father. It shouldn’t have been the first place she’d
searched, but, for all Suguru knew, it wasn’t.

The better questions were harder to answer. Why had Yuki brought students with her? And was she
looking for Suguru, or someone else?

Without an answer, Gojo nudged at his back. “Suguru–”

“Stay put.”

“No way!”

Suguru put the phone into his pocket. He stood up. “Stay.”

“What, like I’m your dog? No!”

“Of course you’re not.” Suguru didn’t look back. He closed his eyes, the rest of his expression
unmoving. “...If you were Mochi, you would listen.”
Suguru had known what would happen before it started. There’d been no reason to look back,
because there’d been no reason to think Gojo wouldn’t get in the way. Before Suguru could finish
the next step, Gojo crossed the room in a blink. His arms outstretched at either side, like an
overstretched scarecrow, blocking the door. He hunched over just to fit in the frame.

Suguru knew just as well that, if Gojo set his infinity in place, he was impassable. If Suguru tried to
touch Gojo, he’d be deflected. The most he could do was try to reason with the most unreasonable
person he knew.

Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose. “Satoru…”

“Suguru!”

Suguru sighed.

“I’ll try to get her to leave,” Suguru tried to tell Gojo. “She’ll refuse, so you have to hide. If she
finds you, she’ll try to fight you.”

“And?” Gojo asked, shrugging. “I’d win.”

“And take out half a city block, if not more.”

“Tsukumo won’t back down, even from you. One sided as that fight would be, the collateral
damage would be catastrophic. Not to mention the damage to Jujutsu society if their leader were to
die.”

Suguru set his stare straight ahead. From the way Gojo bent inside the doorframe, forcing himself
to fit, the effervescent blue of his eyes turned level with Suguru’s own. He let the blue dim inside
the points of his own.

Gojo closed his eyes. He bent a little further forward, and stepped out of the way.

“Come back fast, Suguru.” There was a gap, almost like a hiccup before he added. “Only time I’ll
tell you to come quickly.”

“Satoru–”

To scold him, there, felt natural–as if being angry over entendres was the only thing they should
have been.

There was a time that his Satoru would have told Suguru just as dumb a joke as Gojo just had, and
then said Suguru was the sun. That, if their stars were ever crossed, at least Suguru had the decency
to be the biggest and easiest to find.

Back then, Suguru had answers, and jokes, and smiles for nothing. It had been so long ago, Suguru
forgot most of what he’d used to say. Whatever jokes he’d told Satoru, it hadn’t stopped their
ending. Clever words didn’t fix stars, and a joke didn’t pull someone away from a cliff when they’d
already been pushed off the side.

The universe had changed. The stars never had. Their stars were full of shit, and Suguru knew he
was a fool to ever let himself think he and Satoru Gojo were more than a copy of a catastrophe.
And yet, a fool could know he was a fool, and have no way to fix it.
With the echo of Satoru Gojo’s kiss still warm on his lips, the stars kept on moving despite them.
No matter what they wanted, or what universes fell in their wake, those stars kept crossing, because
they knew no other way to be. Because no matter how grand it was, the sun was still a star, burning
and revolving just like anything else. There had never been a choice for Suguru but to burn.

If Suguru tried to answer, Gojo would have spoken, too. Suguru didn’t give Gojo the time. Instead,
he ducked into the hallway, and opened the door.

“Thank you. Hide the others, too,” was all Suguru let himself say. Then, he left.

Another universe turned. Another set of stars crossed, their paths weaving away. Suguru kept
moving past it as he ran down the hallway, sprinting towards the front door to make himself the
diversion. His socks slid across the wooden floor, his shoes still left behind at the bed. He wasn’t
dressed for a fight, but–

“ If there’s a fight, it won’t be a physical one,” Suguru thought to himself. “ Her reinforcements are
first years. That’s not for combat, it’s leverage. A contingency, in case something were to go
wrong.”

He hadn’t made it before something went wrong.

Suguru’s socks slipped around the corner. He caught himself, and his breath, by the wall. His chest
tightened as he saw a blur rush past him. The lock of his bangs flew across his face, the hair
tickling the bridge of his nose. The rush moved so quickly, Suguru couldn’t make out their face.

It didn’t take seeing them to know who was there.

“Don’t do this!” Yuji shouted, taking up half the front doorway. “You can’t!”

Suguru had missed something. He knew he’d missed something, and yet, he couldn’t fill in the
thought. Whatever Yuki had said, or what had happened when she first opened the door, Suguru
didn’t know.

A fool never could.

Yuji’s back blocked most of what was there. Even so, Suguru could still make out Yuki’s blonde
hair, looming at the entrance to his father’s home.

“I have to, kid. No other choice,” Yuki said bluntly. “Not good ones, anyway.”

“Then, you don’t get to choose!” Yuji shouted. “I do!”

Yuki let out a breath. “That’s pretty tough talk for an entrance day drop-out, yeah?”

Yuji’s fists tensed. His knees bent, his posture lowering as he braced for a fight. He glared back in
focus, screaming, “You’re not taking him!”

Unfortunately, ‘him’ didn’t give Suguru much more context for what the hell was happening here.
Of all the people in the house, only the non-sorcerer woman wouldn’t have counted as a ‘him’.

Is Tsukumo here for Gojo, or is she here for the vessel? Suguru wasn’t sure.
Yuki’s hand settled at her hip, her posture swaying casually, without a care or a threat in the world.
Yuji, meanwhile, swayed into his attack stance. If the boy had any cursed energy, it would have
been thrashing. Without it, all Suguru could see, then, was rage.

Suguru stepped around the corner. He raised a hand.

“Tsukumo,” Suguru called. A false, disarming smile plastered over his face. “What brings you to
Kamakura?”

At least, Suguru tried for it to be disarming. Neither person looked towards him.

Yuki’s foot slipped forward, blocking the frame before he could. She swayed in with a bow, and a
knowing smile of her own. “We know about the vessel, Geto,” she told him. “Stand down.”

The accusation in the bloody red of her eyes didn’t hurt Suguru, If anything, Suguru felt a stab of
relief. If this was about the Sukuna vessel, then, it didn’t involve Gojo.

Yet.

Suguru let his smile fall, feigning confusion. “What are you talking about, a vessel?” Suguru asked.
“My curses are well under control, even dear Rika…”

Suguru set a hand on Yuji’s shoulder, to nudge him away from the door. The shake of Yuji’s anger
pushed into his hand. He had just found his grip when Yuki reached past Suguru, too.

The hold Suguru thought he had broke as Yuji took off in a blur. Suguru’s hand stayed outstretched,
his mind catching up with his sight a second too late.

“Itadori!”

Suguru hadn’t finished the name before Yuki vanished, too, her shoulder checking past his as she
ran off into the house. The blonde blur vanished in the hall, leaving neither of them in sight. Suguru
braced, one hand rising, readying himself to chase her, too. Before he could, someone else stepped
in his way.

“Geto-sensei.” Tsumiki stood up straight, directly in Suguru’s path, watching him in seriousness.
For once, her expression nearly matched with her brother’s. “Is something wrong, sensei?”

Of course it was wrong. Multiple people were breaking into his house.

Suguru’s hand started to fall. He looked down, marking the students. Megumi leaned behind
Tsumiki like a shadow, dispassionate and cold. His wrist was still wrapped, his sleeve hanging over
the point where a second hand should have gone. Apparently, Shoko’s reversed curse technique
must not have been enough to help it heal.

“You never showed up for class. Neither did Miwa,” Tsumiki told him, any judgment in her words
tinted over with concern. “If something happened, you should tell us.”

Suguru knew he shouldn’t have stopped. Whatever Yuki and Yuji were doing, it had to involve
Suguru. He was responsible for Yuji. Suguru knew it, yet, when his students stood before him like
this, he knew he was responsible for this, and them, too.
For one, imperfect moment that Suguru knew he shouldn’t have spared, he put his hand on
Tsumiki’s shoulder.

“You should leave,” Suguru told her calmly. “I’ll tell you both when I can. That isn’t now,” “Geto-
sensei–”

Before Tsumiki could argue further, Suguru turned away. He kept his hand on her shoulder, but his
attention fell behind her, towards Megumi. “Take your sister, and go back to the school,” he
ordered. “You want no part of this for her.”

Had Suguru been speaking to Megumi, for Megumi’s sake, there wouldn’t have been a point. It was
just as pointless to say anything to Tsumiki. Neither of them had any regard for their own safety,
but Megumi might care for this.

Tsumiki raised her head. Her ponytail swung frantically at her back, swinging with her question.
“Are you in trouble?” she asked. “Is Yujita?”

In the distance between Tsumiki’s words, Suguru could hear Nagi shouting. The muffled words
filled in the gaps, useless and pointless. “I’ll call the cops, you–”

He didn’t have time.

“Leave,” Suguru said, his eyes falling to Megumi, and Megumi alone. Then, he locked the front
door.

The lock had barely set when Suguru heard someone start knocking. Megumi yelled at her, “get
back!”

What else Tsumiki did, if anything, Suguru didn’t give himself time to hear. He ran down the hall,
following the shout into the guest room.

Apparently, neither Yuji or Nagi had thought to lead Yuki to the wrong place.

Nagi stood to the side, the glasses that Suguru had forged for her slipping down the bridge of her
nose. Yuji stood directly in front of the door, blocking it with both arms, with no weapon at all.

The door shook. Junpei’s voice called through the other side. “Don’t touch him!”

Yuki stared back, the shade of her eyes almost congealing in focus. “Who said I wanted to?”

Yuki took a single step forward. Nagi stepped to the side, joining Yuji. The two stood, together, at a
spot neither of them could hope to defend in a fight. The only reason this hadn’t exploded yet was
because Yuki wasn’t fighting. She was observing.

Suguru felt the burn in his throat. He started to summon a sphere, bracing himself, too, for what
could be to come. If this did turn into a fight, then, he was the only one with a combat ability, or
any defense at all.

Through Suguru’s focus, he heard Junpei shout through the door. “Itadori!”

Yuji threw out his arms and sprinted ahead, sprawling in front of Nagi to block Yuki’s path on his
own. He stood, unarmed and alert, still glowering.
“You want the vessel, right? That’s all?” Yuji shouted, his posture tensing. “Fine! You found me!
Now, leave them alone!”

What would have been a curse paused in Suguru’s palm. Where he would have acted, instead, he
watched the gears turn behind Yuki’s eyes.

“You’re not Sukuna. I don’t sense curse on you” Yuki said, still watching close. She pressed a hand
on her hips as she loomed down, still whispering. “Hell, I don’t sense anything on you, at all.”

“That’s right!” Yuji yelled back, as if the volume of his voice would make the lies he spoke feel
true. “I don’t sense like anything! That’s why you can’t tell I’m the vessel!”

The lie felt transparent. Temporary–but once Yuji had started to speak it, there was nothing Suguru
could do to save him from it except choose not to blow him in.

Yuki’s hand tucked beneath her chin, thinking. “Is that why you wanted into the school, then, hm?”
she asked, her composure falling towards a calm. “Because you wanted protection? Or was it
information, then?”

The timeline wouldn’t match completely. However, Suguru knew one thing that would add up.
From what he was told, Yuji had, in fact, consumed a piece of Sukuna. By all logic of what they’d
been told before, the consumption of a special grade cursed object would lead to only two options–
to become a vessel of the curse, or to die–and Tsumiki had been there to witness him eat the finger.
He had a corroborating witness who barely knew him enough to conspire with him at all.

Suguru had a feeling Yuji hadn’t thought things through that far. All Yuji was doing, then, was
standing in front of that door.

Suguru turned his head from Yuji, and Nagi, back towards the person he knew best still in this
room. “Tsukumo–”

“Geto,” Yuki answered, less like a name than a warning. “We’ll talk about this later. Stand back.”

Suguru didn’t start to move. In his stillness, her words filled in the gap.

“It won’t end well for anyone, if we fight,” Tsukumo cautioned. “Whatever you haven’t told me, go
for it. I’ll listen. No judgments. But if you want that, you do have to say.”

From a pure power perspective, Suguru couldn’t help but think he didn’t have to do anything. Still,
he meant to give an explanation, if not for his own sake, but for Yuji’s.

Before Suguru could choose, Yuji shouted with no thought at all. “Don’t kill me until I’ve had all of
Sukuna!”

The entire room stopped. Suguru’s hand twitched at his side, his palm bare. His panic turned to
disbelief.

The door shook from the other side, Junpei screaming back. “Itadori!”

It hadn’t mattered that the real vessel of Sukuna was the one shouting through a wall. It hadn’t
mattered that this lie was so transparent to someone who knew it was fake, it felt like it shouldn’t
have passed for a second. None of that stopped Yuji from speaking.
“It’s pointless to execute me until, then, yeah? If there are more fingers, he’ll just come back! So,
have me eat all of him, and then kill me!” Yuji shouted. “Tell that to your higher-ups!”

Yuki leaned into her hip, her hair swinging. “Kid, I am the higher-ups.”

The way she’d spoken, casual and superior, felt oddly like a customer service employee telling a
client they were the manager. Still, Yuji didn’t stop.

“I can control him! They’ve never even seen me transform!” Yuji gestured across the hall, towards
Suguru.

This was going to backfire. Suguru could see it coming. If Yuki opened that door, or ever saw the
person behind that door, the spontaneous manifestations of Sukuna’s mouth would give Junpei
away.

The door shook. Junpei’s voice trailed through the cracks. “Itadori! Please–”

Yuji pressed his back to the door, not just to hold his ground, but to hold the door from opening.

“No one knew! Just me!” Yuji yelled. “They’re just sorcerers! That’s all!”

Nagi held her ground. Her head tilted, one eyebrow raising.

The door fought back as Junpei shoved from the other side. “Itadori!”

Suguru opened his hand. He pushed it on top of Yuji’s head, nudging him away.

“Stop.”

“But–”

“Stop.”

Suguru steadied his grip. Yuji raised his hands, bracing to move. His eyes turned up to Suguru, a
flash of anger settling in. Yuki nearly did the same, except the emotion shifted. Where Yuji’s look
had been mad, Yuki’s set with curiosity.

“Ah,” she said, looking down. “Were you aware of this, Geto?”

Before Suguru could answer, Yuji shouted back. “No!”

Suguru didn’t meet Yuji’s eyes. Instead, he kept to Yuki’s.

“I’d be aware if it were true,” Suguru told her. “It’s not.”

There was no point in giving Yuki a lie she wouldn’t believe. If they were going to get out of this
without a physical altercation, he had to give her more respect than that.

Yuji, however, disagreed.

“Stop!”

Yuji stomped down, aiming for Suguru’s foot. It didn’t hit before Suguru slid out of the way. His
hand held steady, still hooked into Yuji’s hair to hold him in place. He held steady, holding Yuji
away from the door.

The door stopped rattling. The room turned still. Without a breath to spare, Yuki looked back to
Suguru, and only to Suguru.

“Eh. It’s not like there’s a reason to lie about that, right, Geto? Who would want to be a vessel?”
Yuki shrugged it off. She gestured back towards Yuji, waving a finger as if she were wagging it at
him “...You got a good point, though. If you’re not lying, there’s no point offing you yet. Hell, if
you never let your curse out, there’s no point hurting you until you’re already crashing deaths’
door.”

Yuki's eyes slanted, the bloody brown almost flashing red as she turned back to Itadori. “You’re not
lying, then, right? All the residuals matching those fingers at the Kawasaki Warehouse were just a
coincidence?”

Yuji met her eyes. His, too, sank down.

“I borrow his power,” Yuji lied. “It’s not his.”

“Then why were there victims?” Yuki asked. “That you? ‘Cause that’s not reading like control to
me.”

The slant in Yuki’s stare echoed back through someone else’s. From the sideline, Nagi’s set into a
glare, too. Yuki didn’t notice. She leaned over Yuji, with no fear, her height drawing close enough
to sway into Suguru’s personal space, too.

Yuji raised his hands flat, his arms stretching up in surrender. His head turned over his shoulder,
looking not to Suguru, but to Nagi.

“You’ll be fine,” Yuji told her, first. His head turned again, peering back towards the closed door.
“Just tell my friend I went, okay? And you guys stick together!”

The shout spoke something else that Yuji hadn’t said. Suguru couldn’t help but hear it. Before he
could reply, Yuki did, first.

“You’ve been keeping secrets, haven’t you, Geto?” she asked, leaning close. “Why bring a ‘vessel’
to the school, and not tell me?”

Yuji tensed. “I told you, he didn’t know!”

That lie hadn’t mattered.

Suguru knew, just from Yuki’s stare, that she didn’t believe Yuji was a vessel. She wasn’t bringing
it up, because if she played it this way, she’d have an easier time getting Yuji to cooperate, too.

There was a time when it didn't matter if Suguru told Yuki the truth. It was a gift–a freedom–that
there had been no consequence to what he did or didn’t say. Now, Suguru could see the significance
in that choice. If he didn’t tell the truth, and he let that door close, he was choosing to make her the
enemy.

Suguru lowered his head.

“Itadori wasn’t a vessel, then,” Suguru told her, an implication hiding in the phrase. She caught it.
“Is that so?”

Yuji didn’t move. Nagi stayed still. The decision, and his thoughts, fell quiet.

“He’s cooperating,” Suguru said simply. “You should take him before that changes.”

“I’m not so sure he’s the one who’s changing, Geto.”

The deep, bloodied brown of Yuki’s eyes burrowed in with casual knowing, as if she’d seen
through all of this long before. She tossed her hair over her shoulder.

“Whatever, let’s get going,” Yuki dismissed. Her hand flicked in a point. “You, too, Pinky.” Itadori
raised his hands, ready to step forward, not questioning the situation. Suguru stopped without a
step.

“And if I won’t?”

One more time, Yuki looked away from the rest. She watched Suguru as if he were the only person
in this room that mattered. Right now, he was.

“You know Satoru’s still out there, Geto,” Yuki told him, the words dragging on as if he didn’t. “We
can’t be fighting each other, too.”

Suguru’s stare burrowed right back into hers, looking for a crack in her composure that wasn’t
there.

“If I say no, you’ll try to fight me,” Suguru told her, guessing as if it were the truth.

“You wouldn’t say no unless you had something to hide.”

“I could value my privacy.”

“And I could like having a pulse.”

Yuki cocked her head to the side, her hair swaying. Despite her concentration, there was still a
spark of knowing in her stare.

The hands that Yuji had been holding flat started to turn. He pointed one of them towards himself,
asking stiffly. “Uh… is this still about me? Cause I’m kinda, like, here? Not doing anything.”

Suguru didn’t answer that. Yuki didn’t turn. The two of them faced each other, and only each other.

Somewhere in this house, Gojo was hiding. If he’d heard what was happening, there was a good
chance he’d show himself.

Megumi and Tsumiki weren’t far away. Yuji was still standing around, looking so dumbfounded
that his eyes were practically dots. A boy who only showed one eye locked behind a door, and his
mother stayed ahead of it. Every one of those people, and millions more, far away from this place,
could all have their lives twisted by what he did now.

Sometimes, all it took was one thing. A single choice could change the world, and usually, Suguru
couldn’t see it coming. He saw it, here.
In one world, Suguru could choose to attack, and get away. He could risk splintering what was left
of the Jujutsu Society, cast aside the higher-ups for good, and have this group of people take on
Satoru alone. An untrained vessel, a non-sorcerer, a boy with no cursed energy, and another world’s
version of Satoru Gojo would have to face the rest of their universe, and win.

Or, in a different world, Suguru could do what he’d done the first time he’d met Yuki Tsukumo.
Against every instinct and doubt in his mind, he could fight past himself, and he could try to be
honest.

He knew what to choose.

“Tsukumo.”

Her red eyes rose to meet his. “What?”

“Do you remember Schoedinger’s Cat?”

Yuji looked around. Somehow, from the quick swivel, Suguru was sure he was looking for a literal
cat. Suguru chose not to mention that.

“...Do I remember basic quantum superposition theory?” Yuki asked, stepping forward. Her hand
set on Yuji’s head, ruffling his hair as she swayed closer to Suguru. “Of course I do. Why?”

Suguru swallowed the churn of doubt. He looked at her, straight on.

“A long time ago, back when I was a student, you asked me a question.”

“You mean, what’s your type?”

Suguru shook his head. “A different one. Something more complicated, with a yes or a no reply.”
Somehow, even putting a voice to what she’d said made Suguru feel the curses inside his stomach
turn. He forced the burn to quell, his composure still sticking.

“You asked if I hated non-sorcerers,” Suguru said, in seriousness. “I think the answer made two
worlds. A branch timeline.”

“Oh, that question?” Yuki leaned back against the wall. “Didn’t you just avoid it? Didn’t seem like
much of an answer, to me.”

“I think I answered it to myself.”

Through the corner of Suguru’s eye, he watched Nagi stand to block the door to her son, holding a
weapon, despite having no true power at all. It was a small gesture, barely significant to anyone
else. To Suguru, it was a sign they were the same.

He looked back to Yuki.

Yuki’s arm stayed around Yuji, holding him with her as she swayed away. The faint “uh, I’m still
here?” Yuji said didn’t draw Yuki to look.

“Now, why would you think that thinking makes a timeline?” Yuki asked, her curiosity rising with
her eyebrow. “What difference would that make, hating people?”
The answer fell long before Suguru knew he would say it.

“Yuki,” Suguru called her, with no formality at all. “That boy isn’t Sukuna’s vessel.”

“Well, duh. I know that, too.” Yuki cut in. “He’s got as much cursed energy as expired ketchup.”

When she spoke, Yuji shoved back. His voice raised, again, back to frantic desperation. “I am ! You
have to believe me! I–”

“He isn’t Sukuna’s vessel in this world ,” Suguru finished. “In another, he is.”

In that second, Yuji forgot how to argue. Yuki had no reason to. Her back straightened up, her
curiosity brightening. “And what makes you so sure?”

“Because, in his version of events, Satoru Gojo doesn’t become a curse user,” Suguru told her. “I
do.”

If he’d been speaking to anyone else, Suguru knew this was the moment he’d have been laughed
out of the room. That, or decommissioned as having gone insane. Where most people would have
laughed, or judged him, Yuki Tsukumo stayed curious. Her chin tipped back, watching closely.

Suguru tucked back his hair.

“In the world where I’m a curse user, that boy becomes Sukuna’s vessel. He remembers it
completely, along with records of unregistered special grades we had no evidence of before.”

As far as concrete proof went, it wasn’t. Suguru knew when he spoke that there were holes to poke
in the theory. What believing Yuji and Gojo had come down to, for Suguru, was knowing Gojo
enough to trust him.

Yuki bobbed her head.

“So, you’re saying his cursed energy being gone isn’t a heavenly restriction? It’s like a distortion?”

“I don’t know.”

Yuki tapped Yuji on the head, batting through the spikes of his hair.

Yuji tried to say something. The most he’d managed was a “hey–” that only made Yuki smile.

Whatever else Yuji was thinking, the idea didn’t turn into words. All he managed was to look
confused.

If Suguru chose not to speak, he would have survived. The Satoru Gojo hiding somewhere in this
house–the Satoru Gojo that he loved–would have made sure of that. If Yuki Tsukumo was a threat
to Suguru, that only applied when he stood alone. He wasn’t. No matter what else happened, the
strongest person he’d ever met was just one sound away.

Suguru didn’t need the strongest person by his side to try. Yuki was a little crazy. Maybe just crazy
enough to hear the truth and accept it. And if she wasn’t?

If she wasn’t, then Suguru wouldn’t have lost anything that fighting her wouldn’t force him to leave
behind.
As he looked across the room, Suguru saw the other people there, and the ones who weren’t, and he
knew. The choice he’d made at this moment should never have been a choice at all. If he absolutely
had to fight this world’s Satoru alone, then, he could, but he didn’t have to.

“There’s someone else I should introduce you to, Tsukumo,” Suguru called, one last time. When he
was sure her eyes were on him, he did exactly what he’d done the first time they met. Against his
instincts, and so-called better judgment, Suguru told her the truth.

“He’s my type.”
 Salem

Mahito Sugawara

July 22, 2018

Salem, Massachusetts, United States

Wendy’s

Uniform plastic tables and plexiglass dividers washed out beneath fluorescent lights. The only
splashes of color were the puke brown carpets, and the posters of vegetables advertising the
restaurant they were already in. Beneath the airbrushed lettuce, tomatoes, a cartoon logo stared
back through black eyes.

If a real Wendy had ever existed, she was far from the freckled, pigtailed thing in the corner.

“How cruel,” Mahito murmured to herself, “making a ginger have no soul. That’s just rude.”

Back in Japan, there was more color in spaces like this. Even if the branding was identical, and the
people inside had been reduced to pointless rules and roles, Mahito could still see the residue of
existence. Where identical mundanities made the world look lifeless, cursed energy could still
overflow. Back home, even in places like this, resentments and fears that gave way to hatred would
spill out, leaving glimmers across the floor. Here, that life was missing.

The crowd of human souls cloaked in jeans and baseball caps. Inside their lumpy bodies, they still
held resentments, yet what little cursed energy existed inside them was more like smoke after a
wildfire. Even if it was present, now, what had caused it was long gone.

Mahito tapped her boot on the floor. The green-brown carpet parted under her sole. The line of
people moved ahead, inching forward through the box of a restaurant. Their faces blended together,
voices merging in demands, huffs, and children’s screams.

Mahito raked a braid over her shoulder, petting it.

“Imagine having to eat for survival. Yuck,” she murmured, taking the misery in. “A slave to the
will of the body? This must be so annoying.”

The line shifted once more, the customers around her looming in different tones of impatience. Her
own foot stopped shaking, her mismatched eyes setting forth decisively.

“...This is annoying.”

At the front of the line, a woman started screaming. Her partner held their spawn, while she yelled
in an employee’s acne-covered face.

“Ma’am,” the cashier squeaked, his voice cracking. “If you could please move towards the back.
There are other customers–”
The woman opened her greasy paper bag and waved a wrapped wad of tinfoil in his face. She
moved so quickly, the baseball cap on her head nearly fell off. “I ordered a big bacon cheddar
chicken! Does this look like chicken, to you?”

From the way she was waving her sandwich, it must have looked like a blur.

There was so much hatred in the way she spoke, and for no reason at all. Between each inhale, and
the shifts in her soul, her emotions leaked through. The rage she felt had nothing to do with the
mistake itself–it was a tantrum, seething at what she couldn’t control, until the soul lashed out at
someone it could.

A steady stench of frying oil and desperation lingered through the restaurant. The employee tried to
speak. “Ma’am, there are other customers. Can you please–”

“My husband ordered a bacon chicken. I paid for a bacon chicken, I’m getting a crispy bacon
chicken!” the woman shouted over them.

“Ma’am–”

“Get my goddamn bacon chicken, or get your manager! Maybe he can tell what chicken looks
like!”

The cashier raised their hand. Before they could speak, the woman slapped her burger down on the
counter. The bun squished under her hand.

The employee reached for their headset, to try and speak something into the other end. They didn’t.
Their mouth fell open, too shocked to manage more than an “I–”

The woman pushed the burger mush across the counter, straight into the employee’s shirt.

“Right now, I ain’t seeing a chicken,” the woman spat. “I’m seeing chicken shit! What kind of–”

As the woman rambled on, and her husband grabbed the smaller humans’ heads, the rest of the line
backed away. A teenage girl took out her phone to record.

“Oh my God, can you believe this? Real life Karen spotting.”

Mahito tapped her boot. With a heavy breath, she stepped forward, and grabbed the phone straight
from the girls’ hand.

The teenager looked up, her head tipped away from the screen. The “what the–” she started to say
only told Mahito she couldn’t see her.

Mahito grabbed the phone. She tossed it into the air, caught it smoothly, and smiled to herself.
Then, she threw it straight across the room.

“Fetch!”

The teenage girl, like most people, hadn’t seen Mahito. What she had seen, instead, was her phone
go flying straight into a poster for fresh, never frozen beef.

Before Mahito could hear a response, she bobbed forward past the rest of the line. She scooted past
the man and the mini-humans with an “excuse me”, straight behind the woman’s back. Mahito’s
braids draped across the woman’s shoulder as she leaned.

“Hi, there,” Mahito spoke into her ear, “I found your manners. I think you dropped them with your
dignity.”

The woman’s shoulders tensed, her knuckles shaking. The burger wrapper squished under her palm.
Where, before she’d been enraged, now a new instinct poured in.

“Ah!” Mahito leaned back, a deliberate smile curling over her lips. “If I have your attention, did
you see an order for Sugawara? Or were you too busy screaming for pig belly chicken?”

The woman shuddered. She hunched across the counter, her glare setting back into the employee.
“What’s your name tag? I’ll call your corporate–”

Mahito huffed. She turned towards the woman, her expression falling with exhaustion.

“My mistake. You never had dignity.”

Mindless threats kept pouring from the woman’s mouth. The employee started to gesture back,
trying to call their manager. Reluctantly, an older man started to toddle over.

The woman’s shoulders raised, huffing indignantly. “It’s about time! You won’t believe–”

Mahito tapped her hand along the woman’s cheek, her finger sinking under her skin.

“Oh, I will.”

To anyone else in this line, all that happened was the woman’s anger turning quiet. Only Mahito
could see her hand press across the woman’s mouth. Mahito’s hand vanished inside the woman’s
soul, parting her body until it could do nothing else but squirm. She squeezed the woman by the
tongue, strangling it.

The woman had no sense of where to look, or what to feel. She choked on herself, her hands
clawing without direction. More than once, her flailing had let her swipe towards Mahito. It
tickled.

“You don’t even see me,” Mahito mused, watching the customer wriggle away. “Not one person,
here, has potential. How sad. You’d think there’d be more energy, when your bodies are bigger, but
it’s not working that way.”

The woman kicked out her feet. She gestured up towards her throat, no longer reaching for Mahito.
The man she’d been with started to move forward, squeaking back “honey?”, like the pet name was
a question to him.

“Ah-ah. It’s rude to interrupt!”

Mahito pulled the woman from the inside, forcing her body away. She turned her wrist, twisting the
woman by the tongue. She reached deeper into the soul, searching for something that wasn’t there.

With a huff of disappointment, Mahito’s eyes slanted back. The sky blue of her left eye set aglow
beneath the surface, rippling like sunlight sneaking through a cloud.
The essence of the woman stilled, her rage and her existence reducing her flesh to a standing
bubble. The form of the woman’s body bent, the shade of her skin flushing green, then more, every
color twisting her like a boiling rainbow until the colors turned pure white.

The woman’s essence splattered on the floor, her body bursting like a bubble. A mess no one else
would see fell to Mahito’s feet.

Mahito shook both her hands, shaking the residue off like a dog. She laughed to herself, her eyes
closing into the giggle. “Gross! For being so big, you’d think you’d be more flexible–”

Her husband started to scream.

There was no mess left behind. Nothing that any of them should have been able to see. Just in case,
Mahito raised a hand in a wave in front of the man’s face, first. When he didn’t react, she ducked
down to her knees, grabbed one of his children by the head, and poked at them, instead.

“Hey, there.” She pointed back at herself. “What about you? Can you see me, now?”

The child’s head tipped, staring straight onward. Their eyes set past Mahito, towards the counter,
into nothing interesting at all.

The cashier and the manager both ducked behind the counter. A third soul tried to climb straight
out the window. They may have succeeded, given the screech of a car just outside.

The child’s soul started shaking. Even here, what cursed energy they should have had muted.

Mahito pushed their head away. She raked her hand through her braid, picking a clump of white
soul goo from her hair with a “gross”.

The second she let go, the man hugged onto his children. They stood there, the smallest of the
bunch whining for “mommy?” over, and over, like it was going to make a difference.

The teenage girl stood at the back of the room. Her cell phone pointed ahead, her hands shaking.

Mahito pressed a hand over her mouth. She lurched forward, condensing and expanding her
stomach, until she could expel a single, shrunken soul from her gut. She flexed the raisin of a being
in her hand, warming their existence. Then, she chucked them across the room. The soul expanded
as she threw them, hardening like a pike. The chiseled horn struck straight through the phone,
impaling it in the other girl’s hand.

A new scream hit the air.

“Ah. Much better,” Mahito nodded to herself. “Can’t leave evidence! Toru could get mad.”

With a quick hop, Mahito stepped on top of the counter. She knelt over the top, bowing over, to
peek into the space where she knew the employees had been hiding.

Mahito pointed down, looking straight at the employee. The man’s eyes seemed to gloss over,
locked in a terror that he couldn’t place. He, too, didn’t see her.

Spotting the look, Mahito rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Do I have to do everything myself, around here?”
Mahito jumped off of the counter, landing in the back. She stepped past the employees to the rack
of finished orders.

“Let’s see. Let’s see. It should be here, right?” Mahito spoke to herself. She flicked through the
bags, skimming the receipts. Mahito stared at them for a minute before she realized. “...It’s in
ENGLISH?! Who reads English?! Geez.”

With a huff of frustration, Mahito threw her hands up to herself. “Fine!”

Her left hand expanded, growing enough that she could widen her grip. Then, when she could hold
it all, she picked up every online order at once. Her hand shrunk again as she wrapped her arms
around the cluster, holding all of the bags. The smell of bacon, fries and burgers replaced the
desperation, as well as one chicken.

“Hm,” Mahito murmured. She opened that bag, removing one sandwich. The foil wrapper puckered
out, as if something larger than a burger were wrapped beneath the bread. “...think I found the
bacon chicken.”

In the midst of the mush of the woman’s soul, where her family was staring, her clothes splayed
across the floor.

Mahito looked to herself, her dirty school uniform, and the sandwich. A navy and gray jersey lay
on the ground, somehow untouched by the mess of her soul.

Mahito leaned over the mess. She lowered the bacon chicken sandwich into the man’s hand with a
smile. “Trade you.”

The man’s hand went still. The smaller people started crying. While the group shuddered with sobs,
Mahito stepped between them. She stomped her boot into the gap of the jersey, then adjusted the
form of her soul, stretching and condensing herself in a wave that pulled her old clothes off and the
new one on. She shimmied her shoulders, adjusting the jersey to herself.

“Much better,” Mahito mused to herself. “I should be using an American uniform, anyway.”

The rest of the restaurant quivered, watching something they couldn't understand, or even see.
Whatever it was they picked up on, it didn’t matter enough to stop them.

With her arms full of food, and her soul full of satisfaction, Mahito stepped out into the daylight.
The comforting sound of a coming siren called down the streets, the police blaring warnings of a
presence that didn’t matter to her at all. Even if they had come this way, whatever they were
looking for wasn’t her.

The jersey settled on her like a dress, the lower edges resting by her knees. She shifted her body as
she walked along the street, lengthening her legs and her stride to better fit her new clothes.

The common eyes of ignorant souls passed on their way, tourists buzzing, searching for a sight they
would never know even if it was there. Wooden signs waved along the cobblestone path, businesses
beckoning people in with witchcraft and ghost tours of Salem, Massachusetts.

Mahito’s steps hastened further, her boots tapping on a sidewalk that no one else would hear. The
smell of the food drifted closer. Her own stomach rumbled at the smell, her smile growing with
contentment.
She stole a fry from the bag on her way.

A parking lot stretched ahead, cluttered and plain. Mahito strode past those lines, straight into the
back. A square maroon sign, engraved with golden painted letters, pointed around the corner. What
it read, she didn’t know.

Rows of wooden flower boxes stretched into a maze. Lines of gray and tawny stones laid walkways
through the gardens. The staggered rows of greens stood awash with color, rows of tulips and
blossoms flourishing in places nature wouldn’t have set them to be. Amidst the misplaced stems,
three houses stood.

A cluster of tourists, most holding brochures, stood in the hallway to the largest home. A shorter
woman, who seemed far better dressed than the rest, faced the rest. The woman held her hands
behind her back as she spoke.

“The story of this home began in 1668, about 40 years after settlers first arrived. A merchant and
seafarer, John Turner, built this home for himself and his family. Three generations later, the home
was sold to another seafarer, Samuel Ingersoll, in 1782…”

As the tour guide pointed to the lines on the wall, and the crowd followed her gestures to face them,
Mahito brushed past. She held the food close as she slipped by the humans, through the open door,
and in. At her back, she could still hear the woman speaking.

“It was through Ingersoll’s daughter that Nathaniel Hawthorne came to visit this home. Through his
novel, this place became known as ‘the House of the Seven Gables’. Here, you can see–”

An open hearth and darkened walls stood in the first room, a replica of an old kitchen. Mahito
turned around a corner, ignoring the storage and the relics of time long past. She turned a new
corner, until she’d faced a hidden door. A piece of paper, rendered in text she again couldn’t read,
posted a warning on the spot. Two strips of bright yellow tape ran an X across the doorway,
blocking the path.

Mahito lowered herself to her knees. She held the food tight, then adjusted her soul to just the right
height that she could pass under the tape. Her soul shifted back to normal at the other side.

A cavern of steep and winding steps stretched through the brick. Walls that should have looked flat
curved at odd angles, crammed and jarring. Mahito marched through the dark. The paper bags
shifted in her arms, the bottoms turning soggy with grease.

“Hey,” Mahito called back, her voice bouncing off the brick. Her neck stretched up as she tried to
speak clearer. “Hey, can someone open the door? I’m back!”

Mahito’s foot landed at the top step. The door stayed shut. She let out a breath, huffing.

“Hey, guys!” Mahito called louder. She raised her shoulders, the food shifting with it. “Your
dinners are here! …Maybe.” When she paused to realize it, whatever bags she’d grabbed, she
hadn’t actually checked it was their order, specifically.

“Well, you’ll eat it,” Mahito said, deciding for them. “It’s food. It didn’t kill me.”

“Would you be capable of dying in such a way?” someone else answered.

Mahito tilted her head, shifting the food in the process. “No. Would you?”

“Your survival is hardly an assurance, curse, female.”

“Female?” Mahito called back. “I have a name, you know.”

“I am aware.”

“Then use it! Sheesh! Like that’s all that matters about me is ‘curse’ and ‘female’? It’s not my fault
we’re one link short of a sausage festival!”

“We did not order sausage.”

“Not that kind of sausage!”

“Are there other forms of sausage?”

Mahito’s anger started to fade. Her eye twitched as she came to understand what, exactly, she was
yelling at–and more specifically, why it was destined to fail.

“Fine,” she sighed. “...I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“We are over a hundred years old.”

Mahito rolled back her eyes. “When you’re a hundred and fifty three, then.”

“Is there significance to this sausage, that it requires age that we understand?”

Mahito chose not to answer that. Instead, she kicked the bottom of the door. The door popped open,
letting her inside.

A fire crackled, the fireplace alight. Weathered wooden beams lined the ceiling, one poor rainstorm
away from crumbling. Faded wallpaper clashed with the painted walls, the bright seafoam green of
the fireplace making the rest of the room look that much more decayed. The floor had been covered
in painting strips and tarp, a bucket left by the larger, normal door.

Mahito shook off her boot as she stepped onto the tarp. The floor covering crinkled. The panel of
the hidden walkway shook back into place, the outline of the door disappearing in the woodwork.

“Whatever. I’m not gonna kill you with food. Food poisoning is so mundane for death,” Mahito
complained. “It’s not even as exciting as regular poisoning. If I wanted you to die, I’d try regular
poisons, first! Less mess.”

The food lingered in each bag, warm by her chest. Mahito looked across the space, meeting the
eyes of the other curses in the room–although, for most of them, to call them ‘curses’ felt more like
a technicality.

A plastic kiddie pool had been set up in the corner. Dagon sat in the water, his tentacles swishing
lightly around as he closed his eyes in contentment. At the other side of the room, huddled to share
a single blanket across their laps, were fully grown and completely ignoring her

The youngest man, Kechizu, was short and deformed, with teal skin and bloody sockets where his
eyes should have been. The second man, Eso, was too tall, with tan skin, black sclera and bright
pink eyes. The eldest, Choso, had spiked pigtails, pure white skin, and a scar over the bridge of his
nose. The three men were huddled together, sharing a single book as Choso read on.

“Was there no help, in their extremity?” Choso recited from the page, speaking without a trace of
emotion or change in volume at all. “It seemed strange that there should be none, with a city round
about her. It would be so easy to throw up the window, and send forth a shriek, at the strange agony
of which everybody would come hastening to the rescue.”

The biggest agony, Mahito thought, was his monotone. She jiggled her foot.

“Well understanding it to be the pain of a human soul, yes,” Mahito finished quickly. She marched
over, already offended. “Choso! You’re reading it wrong!”

Choso raised his eyes to meet Mahito’s. Though his head angled away from the book, his eyes had
sunk almost as dull as his tone. “Those are the words.”

“Not the words!” Mahito raised her hands, gesturing as she spoke. “The feelings! You’re not
reading the feelings!”

Eso sat up, his black eyes narrowing with a flash of anger. “My precious brother is doing a fine job,
curse female.”

Choso turned from the book, back to his brother. Though he said nothing, he nodded in gratitude.

Mahito rolled her head back. “Of course you’d think that! You’re biased!”

“I would think the truth, yes,” the brother with black eyes retorted, as if that were fact. “I am not bi-
assed. I have only one ass.”

“That’s not what biassed means! Idiot!” Mahito hugged the food to her chest. “That’s not the truth,
either! The truth is, you’d think he’s great because you’d lick each other’s butts and say your shit’s
chocolate! If you were any closer, you’d be Targaryens!”

Choso stared blankly. “What is a Targare yen?”

Mahito smacked her palm into her forehead.

Kechizu snarled over. “Yo! Don’t insult big bro! He’s awesome!”

Eso nodded. “Thank you, brother.”

Choso nodded, too, his posture falling like a bow. He said nothing.

“If you asked anyone else, it’s boring!” Mahito shouted. “Ask Dagon! You’re boring him!”

Dagon lowered his head. He shyly blew bubbles into the water, mumbling “bloo bloo…”

Eso looked to Dagon. “My apologies, crustacean. I am not aware of what you speak. However, you
should not criticize my brother.”

“Yeah, totally,” Kechizu echoed “Don’t be rude!”

Mahito dropped the food to the floor. She stood by, gaping at all of them in frustration. “He’s not a
crustacean! He’s an octopus… thing!”

Dagon ducked deeper into the kiddie pool. His head lowered under the surface, hiding himself from
the mess that was everything else here.

Mahito put the food down and backed away. “Whatever! Just eat already! I’m not the errand girl!”

Eso stared back. “None of us may perform such a role. We are not female.”

Kechizu poked towards the paper bag. His hands wrapped around the edges of either side, holding
the bag to his face. Then, his mouth stretched open. He dropped the entire bag into his mouth,
sucking it in.

Mahito raised her hand off Dagon’s head. She waved back at Kechizu. “Don’t eat the bag! Bags
aren’t food!”

Kechizu kept chewing on the paper. A soggy scrap fell out of his mouth.

Eso opened one of the other bags. He held one of the wrapped burgers up towards Choso, showing
him the aluminum wrapper. “Brother, are you familiar with this foodstuff?”

“No. It’s very bright,” Choso said. He raised a finger towards the paper, stroking down the wrapper.
“I will try it first, to make sure it’s safe for us.”

“Thank you, brother.”

“You’re welcome, brother.”

Choso raised the burger towards his mouth, still set in the paper foil.

Mahito chucked her hands into the air so quickly, her hands swelled to twice their size as she
signaled to stop. “At least take off the wrapper!”

Choso stopped, his mouth wide open. Without a word, he pulled the burger away.

Before Mahito could clarify, another voice cut through the air. “Mahito!”

The sharp sound stabbed straight through Mahito’s soul. Her hand shrunk, clutching the numbers of
her jersey. All of the bickering and tension in the room froze, leaving nothing but a skipped
heartbeat.

Kechizu stopped chewing on his bag. He spit the wad of paper back out onto the floor. Every eye,
from Eso’s inverted stare, to the neon blue of Mahito’s left side, fell to the soul that brought them
here.

Satoru stood in the doorway, smiling as always. The expression on his face was as firm as it was
false. As much as he wanted to convince himself he was happy, the feeling rarely flowed through
him completely.

Mahito was fairly sure Satoru didn’t know she could see when he lied to himself. The last thing
Satoru wanted to do was think about the impression he was leaving. Most of the time, Satoru
couldn’t bear to think at all. It was a way no one else would know him that Mahito kept to herself.
If Satoru understood it was there, then, he might have found ways not to show her.

It had never been Satoru’s intention to let anyone see he could feel pain. At times like this, when
Satoru’s guard was down, Mahito got to know better.

Satoru bent over at the waist. With a snicker, he picked up the slobbery wad of paper and half-
chewed food that Kechizu had formed into a ball, then threw it to the other side of the room with a
“fetch!” of his own.

“My food!”

In a snap, Kechizu ran off, sprinting to retrieve the paper ball. Eso followed suit, running to keep an
eye on him. Only Choso stood in place. He picked up one of the bags of food, then held it towards
Satoru.

“I believe this is yours,” Choso said simply, extending the bag. “The parchment has your name.”

Satoru blinked. “Parchment?”

“Here,” Choso pointed, gesturing to the receipt. “The calligraphy is very small.”

“Oh, that’s not calligraphy,” Satoru said, still smiling. “It’s called a receipt.”

“You have received it, yes.”

Satoru’s attention shifted, his eyes turning away. Though his smile was meant for Choso, his eyes
turned to Mahito, catching her stare.

Mahito shoved her soul back into place, pushing the urge to blush away from her cheeks. She
snapped her head over her shoulders, towards Choso.

“Choso! Where did you learn how to read?!”

Mahito was still gaping at Choso when a hand brushed past her braid.

“Mahito,” Satoru called, more gently this time. “Come on. We should talk.”

“This is talking,” Mahito snapped back, not allowing herself to think it.

“Then you won’t mind doing it more.”

Mahito looked up to Satoru, to match the blue of his six eyes with the same shade in her own.

“I need to talk to you, Mahito.” Satoru tipped his goggles, the lenses reflecting Mahito’s stare. “Just
you.”

Satoru’s body locked in a smile, just the same as before. And just the same, he hadn’t meant it. His
soul misaligned, a dot of pain forming a gap in the center, where no one else could see. As long as
Mahito knew he existed, she’d seen the same flaw. The same wound.

“Again? How do you still find things to say?”

“They find me, first.”

Mahito reached for Satoru, through a distance she shouldn’t have been able to cross. Her hands
pressed against his shoulders as she pretended to pout. “Do you really have to be so findable, then?
You’re so chatty.”

Again, Satoru held a smile he didn’t mean. He reached for his goggles, sliding them off. The strap
rose across his forehead as the depth of his six eyes met the two of her own.

A ripple of his senses cast through Satoru’s body, his awareness overwhelming him. Through the
noise of a world only he could see so completely, Satoru looked at her. The sight of him, absorbing
everything, drew Mahito just as still, in awe of it. For as many souls as there were in the world,
only he could see her so completely.

Satoru raised his hand between them. He picked at the collar of her shirt, pinching it out.

“Hm. New jersey?”

Mahito tilted her head. “The state, or the clothing?”

One more time, Satoru’s lips found room to curl. “You tell me.”

Then, he opened the door.

 Turning Point, Part 3
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Mahito Sugawara
 July 22, 2018

Salem, Massachusetts, United States

If she’d wanted to, Mahito could have walked away.

The door that Satoru held open, leading sideways and upwards, was a temporary one. The hidden
stairwell in the opposite direction had plenty of spots to hide. Dozens of tourists flocked
downstairs, a waiting cluster of tools and human shields waiting to be molded. Even if Satoru was
powerful, that power wasn’t authority over her. Every moment she stayed here, and answered the
name he gave her, was a choice.

The hallway stretched behind her in either direction. She felt the souls two floors below, bumbling
and useless. Then, she picked a burger out of the bag and tossed it at Satoru.

Satoru’s hand snapped up. His goggles glinted, black lenses reflecting nothing but her.

“Think fast.”

“Me? Think? Never.” Satoru laughed at himself. He took a step up the stairs, juggling the burger as
he walked. His head turned over his shoulder mid-step, peeking back. “Aren’t you supposed to say
that before you start throwing dead cows?”

“Dead cow ?” Mahito leaned forward into her step, an eyebrow raising. “When did I throw a
cow?”

“Just now! At my head!”

“That’s not a cow! That’s a burger. Hamburger.”

“Yeah, sure is! That’s what burgers are! Cows.”

Satoru kept walking, just as confident as ever. Mahito watched on, waiting for some ripple of
deception on Satoru’s soul–a tell that he was lying just to entertain himself. She didn’t see one.

“Wait, seriously?!” Mahito gaped back. “Then what’re you calling them ‘ham’ for! Ham was pig!
They should be pig!”

“Well, they’re not.”

“But, why !?!”

All Satoru did, then, was laugh. He unwrapped the foil from his warm wad of bread and,
apparently, cooked cow, and ate through his snicker. Then, he turned away.

It was still an option, the same as it always had been, for Mahito to leave. Strong as Satoru’s soul
was, it was that same strength that meant he had no reason to catch her if she chose to go.

It wasn’t the strength that kept her following. What it was, she couldn’t place. All she had was a
feeling, and that was enough.
She walked through the narrow stairwell, following the residue of Satoru’s soul. The smells of
grease and salt trailed from the fast food wrapper as they marched up the steps.

“I still don’t get why you’re keeping them,” Mahito murmured, her mind straying. “Except Dagon.
I get Dagon. He’s cute.”

As Satoru polished off the last bite of his burger, Mahito reached into the Wendy’s bag. She picked
the corner of foil under the last sandwich left, then raised it towards her mouth. A drift of the scent
so close to her lips, she could practically taste the steam. Then, the limitless kicked in.

The “huh–” Mahito managed to get out wasn’t fast enough. No matter how close she tried to pull
the food, she couldn’t get the bun to her lips. As soon as she could register it, Satoru grabbed the
sandwich for himself.

The “hey!” Mahito snapped back didn’t stop him from biting down.

“People first,” Satoru dismissed. He swallowed a bite. “Mmm, bacon!” His smile widened, turning
blank. “…did I order bacon?”

“If you cared what you ordered, you should’ve picked it up yourself.”

The complaint hadn’t fallen on deaf ears, but they may as well have been. Satoru raised a hand,
shrugging her away.

“You know I can’t show myself in public, Mahi-Mahi, and our halfsie-friends all draw attention.
You’re the only one people don’t see.”

Mahito pouted, unimpressed. For all the things his six-eyes could pick up on, Satoru deliberately
ignored that.

“You know you could go outside, if you wanted. Any of them could. All you’d have to let me do is
let me fix your face.”

“Fix it? How? My face is perfect.”

Mahito lowered her head. Her gaze sank up with it. “I could change it back, once you’re inside.
The soul’s flexible that way.”

“What’s there to adjust? My soul’s perfect. Obnoxious and annoying! Exactly like I should be,
yeah?”

“No.”

It wasn’t.

Every time Satoru spoke, a new swell of turmoil churned inside him. The form of his body clashed
against the existence of his soul. Where most people at least roughly kept the same shape, parts of
Satoru’s mind were in constant regeneration. His cursed energy cycled through him in such a flood,
his other essences, and even his emotions, could be hard to track.

Through the silver eye of her technique, Mahito knew she should be terrified of someone like him.
She knew, objectively, each time that she could leave, she should go. The human once called Satoru
Gojo had a soul that looked less like a sorcerer’s than a monstrosity.
And she knew just as well, if there were a hundred reasons to run, she only needed one to stay.

“You’re a terrible liar, Toru,” Mahito muttered. Her stare stayed low, his cursed energy reflecting
across her. “You should stop trying. It doesn’t suit your soul.”

“I’m not trying,” Satoru grinned. “I’m terrible all on my own!”

The only part of that Mahito could tell was true was the last part. Of all the things Satoru was, even
in a crowd, he was on his own.

Satoru took another bite. “ …You get fries with this?”

“If I did, they’re back there with tweedledee, dumb, and dumber.”

“Hah! Alice in Wonderland. Knew you’d like that one.”

A splatter of ketchup dripped off the edge of the burger as Satoru finished it off. The red splotch
hovered over his hand, then slid onto the tarp, leaving Satoru untouched. It was the way his soul
had always been.

Every human was a liar. If Satoru’s dishonesty was more annoying than most, it was only because
his lies were told so poorly. What really made him insufferable was that he held his suffering, and
pretended it wasn’t there–as if, somewhere in his own existence, Satoru had decided he no longer
deserved to feel.

Mahito kept watch, plagued with the understanding that she shouldn’t have, yet too consumed to
behold anything else. No matter how clearly she could see Satoru’s soul, the strongest curse user
stood alone.

She could never be with him, but being next to him was still fun. For now, that was enough.

“Hurry up, buttercup,” Satoru pointed down the hall, brandishing a smile he didn’t feel as he
beamed down the way. “We’re adapting.”

A self-respecting curse probably shouldn’t have listened. If they did, then, it should have been out
of fear. Even a newborn spirit would have understood to fear the Six Eyes.

Mahito fell into step, the soles of her boots crinkling the tarp as they scaled the last dark steps. Her
two eyes closed into the movement, feeling he was there even when she couldn’t see it.

“What’s next, then?” she asked, watching his soul for a tell. “Are we retrieving Sukuna’s vessel?
He seemed uncooperative.”

“Nope! You got Sukuna pretty well stuck in there, right?” He asked. She didn’t answer. He
stretched his arms over his head, his back cracking. “Then, no need! He’ll be bait all on his own.”

“Bait? For what?” Mahito asked. She didn’t get an answer. Instead, Satoru opened the attic door.

Trickles of sunlight cast across the attic. A cot with a faded blanket sat in one corner. In the other,
the decaying walls had been turned into a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream.

Two rows of photographs and portraits were pinned across the angled ceiling. The top row was
made of six pictures–three illustrations, and three photographs. On all five faces, the person bore
the same scar. A black line with multiple diamonds streaked across their forehead. The last three
had names and years written on their pictures.

“Noritoshi Kamo”, 1868 - ?, with a lower caption: Created the death paintings, Blood manipulation

“Kaori Itadori”, 2003 - ?, Gave birth to a death painting, Cursed technique unknown

“Masamichi Yaga”, 2013, Actions unknown, Cursed corpse creation

Other messages were scrawled across the bottom in chalk, glyphs and symbols in shorthand only
they could read were etched across the lower row. A list of smaller pictures, with any sorcerer
imaginable, was posted there. Some had Xs drawn across the whole picture. For those remaining,
the scar had been drawn across their foreheads, too–an approximation of where it would be, if they
too bore the mark of stitches there.

Mahito crossed the room. She flopped back onto his cot, and kicked her legs along the side. “Did
you plan on saying thanks? I did get your food.”

The “no,” Satoru answered with was the first honest thing he’d had to say.

“The longer that vessel’s alive, the more time we have where the other fingers are useless,” Satoru
reasoned, thinking out loud. “That buys us time. Itadori can’t find a new host to control unless she
goes after that one. ...not that her name’s Itadori, now.”

Satoru turned to face the board, his attention falling away from Mahito to gaze at the puzzle he’d
made. The six distinct faces they’d found with the same stitches over time, and the ten more they’d
guessed, all stared back.

“...If you wanted to look crazy, you sure got it down.” Mahito pointed at the lower half of the
board. “What’s with the Frankenstein’s Monster tattoos? Suggesting lobotomies?”

Mahito hadn’t truly meant the suggestion. What she’d been looking for was how Satoru would
respond. Every time he lied, or had something to cover up, there was always a small bump in the
soul–a fluctuation between the self and belief, when the mind had to create a story instead of what
was true.

When Satoru answered, his soul stayed steady.

“I don’t know what the other tells are. Just the scar,” Satoru answered, still speaking to the wall.
“No one with the mark showed their face at Sugisawa Municipal. But if anyone hiding their
forehead makes a move to eliminate Yoshino, they’ll give themselves away. And she will. She’s
made too much effort to give Sukuna a vessel to let some other one roam free.”

The more Satoru watched ahead, the more the emotions he tried so deeply to hold back rebelled
against his soul. Though his goggles blocked Mahito’s view of his eyes, she could still watch the
rest of him churn.

“Creating a half-curse kid. Bearing it herself. They’re all too extreme for her to be outplayed. She
will try to take out Yoshino, or get him under her control,” Satoru determined. “When she does,
we’ll get her.”
Even without a face to face, the hatred inside Satoru swelled, pure and twisted. The infinite pool of
his cursed energy filled all the more for it. If only Satoru hadn’t been born a sorcerer, the essence
he held could have forged a curse unlike any Mahito could even imagine. Instead, with nowhere for
that hatred to go, the curse fell onto him.

Mahito craned her neck, swaying to meet the eyes he wasn’t offering. “You really hate her, don’t
you?”

Satoru didn’t flinch.

“I need to destroy her,” said Satoru, the rage inside him absent. Where he could have held fury, he
spoke as if all he had was his truth. “More than Tengen. More than curses. Whatever she is.
Whoever she’s hiding in, ‘Kaori Itadori’ has to die.”

The conviction in the statement was so pure, Mahito licked her lips to hear it. A new light snuck
into her eyes.

“You’re allowed to hate her,” Mahito said. “You don’t need a reason.”

“I have a reason. She would have killed Suguru.”

“I just said, you don’t need a reason,” Mahito tried to dismiss. Satoru didn’t answer. The current of
his soul braced to boil, churning with a memory he wouldn’t share. It didn’t matter, in the end, that
he didn’t tell her. Mahito still saw. The hatred that one threat had planted in him destroyed every
moral he would have held to.

There was a time when Satoru aimed to be the hero. He’d given it up, without being asked, for a
person he hadn’t spoken to since before Mahito had met him. To save Suguru Geto from a threat
he’d never known, Satoru stripped his own soul.

“I would hope ‘more than curses’,” Mahito echoed back. “I am one.”

The “you are?” Satoru answered with was a lie. He smiled. “What kind of curse has a last name?”

“The one you gave one to, dumbass.”

“Then, why’d you keep it? Letting a sorcerer name you’d pretty messed up, right? If you’re such a
curse.”

Mahito rolled her eyes. “Like you’re still a sorcerer.”

Mahito bent forward, leaning to the edge of the bed. Satoru’s smile stayed in place, ever false, ever
knowing. For all the things Mahito could see in a soul, even she couldn’t understand what went
through Satoru’s mind. He stared towards her, into a distance she couldn’t cross.

“If you’re such a curse, shouldn’t you want to be feared?” Satoru spoke, his eyes too shielded by
his goggles to see. “To yearn to be hated? By people, at least.”

“By people, yup,” Mahito nodded. “Not you.”

Even with the lenses in the way, Mahito could sense Satoru’s eyebrow raising. “Like, I’m not a
person?”
“No,” Mahito answered. “You’re not people. Plural. You only have one soul, Toru. Just like anyone
else.”

“Except, I’m not anyone,” Satoru answered, his words shielding himself. “I’m the strongest.”

Somehow, it was even more annoying when Satoru told the truth. For all the obvious weaknesses
and the stupid things he did, his existence was the strongest she’d ever known.

Mahito stood up. Her hand outstretched, her wrist flexing, moving to brush his shoulder. As she
approached, Satoru held still.

She should have known, even when her hand drew near, she wouldn’t actively reach him. Her hand
knocked against the barrier of his infinity, pushed back by the air.

“Hey!” Mahito snapped. She pulled her wrist back towards herself, clutching one hand with the
other. “Watch who you’re blocking, here!”

Satoru didn’t look towards her. His mouth curled into a snicker. Satoru's hands set into his pockets,
pretending to be unbothered when he was anything but.

“I’ve always believed that the worst curse of all was love,” Satoru spoke towards the board. “I’m
right. You’re terrible.”

Satoru pressed his hand over the top of Mahito’s head, ruffling the part from her hair. She raised her
arms, flailing him off with a “hey! Stop it!” that only made him laugh and pat harder. For all the
lies he’d spoken, he meant that, too.

“You should keep sucking at that. Being a curse is for losers,” Satoru told her, ignoring the rest. “I
like you better, this way.”

“Like sorcerers are any better! Asshole!”

“Then, good thing I’m not a sorcerer, anymore. She took that, too.”

Mahito tried to push back. Yet again, her hands bounced straight off him. One more time, Satoru
grinned. The intention started to obscure, masking his feelings inside the gesture.

Mahito pulled her hands behind her back. She bowed forward, leaning closer to the same limitless
that would push her away. She huffed one more time, blowing her bangs out of her face.

“What did you need me for, anyway? Making fun of me?”

“Nah. Fun’s just for fun.”

“Fun for you, ” Mahito pouted back. Satoru gave her the last word.

For all the things Mahito could have done, what she did was far more simple. She drew her hands
behind her back, flipped her braid in place, and joined Satoru at his side. The rows of strangers'
faces stared back along the attic wall, trapped in time.

“I can’t see souls through pictures, you know. Not if they’re not on film,” she said. “This stuff, it’s
just paper to me, too.”
“That’s fine. I don’t expect you to find her. When we do, she’s mine to destroy.”

Satoru stepped closer, too. His chin rose, his eyes lifting towards the pictures he couldn’t
completely see. His hand brushed across Mahito’s shoulder, flipping her braid across her back.

“I don’t need that from you, Mahi. Your role’s simpler than that.”

Satoru’s hand strayed down, the limitless pushing back into place. The fleeting sense of his soul left
with his touch as he reached into his jeans.

“I need you to stay safe. Keep the curse wombs hidden,” Satoru told her. He pulled a picture from
his pocket, then held it towards her. “And I need you to watch him.”

The picture Satoru held was blurry. A trio of teenagers were walking quickly by the town hall. A
mammoth of a boy with a sloppy bun and no shirt, and a girl covered in bandages with bushy
brown pigtails, sandwiched a pale boy with sunken eyes. Satoru pointed at the boy in the center,
drawing Mahito’s focus there.

“A mopey one, again?” Mahito asked, clearly disappointed. “What, do you think vessels have a
type or something?”

“He’s not a vessel,” Satoru told her. “He’s a target.”

Satoru held the picture closer. Mahito inched in. Before Satoru’s limitless could block her, Satoru
pushed back. He shoved the picture into her chest.

“Yuta Okkotsu,” he said. “A distant descendant of the Sugawara No Michizane. No scar, so we

know he’s not our body snatcher right now.”

Satoru pointed at the sliver of Yuta’s forehead visible through his bangs. A knowing smile settled
through his words.

“If I catch Itadori Kaori, and she has to change bodies, Okkotsu’s her most likely target,” Satoru
said. “We’ll need our eyes on him, too.”

“The mop?” Mahito asked. “Why him? I thought your old flame was special, too.”

Even the allusion to Suguru’s existence made Satoru tense. His smile fixed the wrong way, false
and forced.

“Suguru and Tsukumo stay too close to each other. Itadori can’t catch them apart. If she does try for
Suguru, it’ll fail. If she was trying for him, she’d need a power house to invade, first. Someone
accessible. For special grades in this century, if she’s shoved out of hiding, all that leaves is
Okkotsu.”

For as much as he was covering up, Mahito could sense that was true.

“The other kids with him would be guards from Jujutsu High,” he added. “I don’t think they’re old
enough to have graduated, yet.”

“You call that one a kid?” Mahito pointed toward the bulky one. “He’s built like an action figure.”
“Well, he’s gotta be. I’ve never seen him before! I know the other one, though. Poodle-hair’s
named Riku.”

Mahito squinted. “How have you not seen him? You’ve been holding the picture before.”

“Wait for their guard to lower,” Satoru went on, ignoring her. “Then, take Okkotsu. Bring him here
to guard him.”

“Here, to the building?” Mahito asked, looking up. “Or here, to you?”

In the place of an answer, Satoru gave a nod. He tucked the picture into her pocket.

“Don’t change his soul, okay? We need Okkotsu as he is.”

“Not even to bring him here? Humans aren’t portable, you know! Even small ones like him get all
squiggly–”

“If you can’t handle him alone, you can bring bloo bloo to help.”

“You mean Dagon?”

Satoru didn’t answer her right away. The pause was enough for Mahito to draw closer in.

“You think Dagon’s name is ‘bloo bloo’?” Mahito asked, her voice growing louder as she did.
“What is he to you, a Pokemon?”

The corner of Satoru’s mouth turned with a smile. “Since when do you know Pokemon?”

“When YOU made me watch it!” Mahito raised her hand to push at Satoru’s shoulder. Yet again,
her grip fell short. Mahito’s palm pressed over the empty space of his infinity.

“What help is Dagon gonna be? He’s a baby! I’d have to bring a kiddie pool or he’ll get sad.”

“Then, go alone. That’s fine, too. Whatever works.”

“It’d work better, to take out some special grade, if I could actually attack him –”

The complaints Mahito meant to make turned quiet. Satoru lowered himself, and his voice, to sink
until he’d met Mahito’s own.

“We can’t do this halfway. That body snatcher is a cockroach. We can’t just find her. We have to
know where she’ll hide, where she thinks she’s outsmarted us. To out-think the over-thinker, and
turn her mind against her through her own game. That’s how we get revenge. Do you feel me?”

“No. I don’t.”

Satoru pulled back, baffled. “No?! You’re all about vengeance, right?! This is totally your thing,
Mahi!”

“Not the vengeance,” she smiled, a crooked curve masking the emotions from her face. “I don’t
feel you. Your infinity’s in the way.”
The reflection of Mahito’s eyes shone in the lenses of his goggles, the silver and blue flashing
across the black where Satoru’s eyes should have been, if only he showed them to her. To anyone.

“I can’t feel you,” Mahito corrected, her words lowering, too. “Not if you don’t touch me.”

Slowly, Satoru raised a hand, too. His palms raised, both of them resting just short of Mahito’s
neck. His fingers slid across the lines of her sutures, the heat carrying across his body, just short of
touching her.

“You really do suck as a curse,” Satoru murmured. “But you are what you choose to be. So,
choose.”

“I am a curse. That doesn’t mean I can’t choose your vengeance, too.”

Satoru’s hands strayed, his fingers pushing closer. Mahito could feel the air tickle her where the
distance expanded. His hands never touched her, yet, they may as well have been.

There was still an instinct crawling through the hair at the back of Mahito’s neck. When Satoru
drew close like this, everything Mahito knew told her to run. If she couldn’t hide, the force of
Satoru’s presence alone should have been enough to exorcize her. But he wouldn’t.

“And what do you think I should choose, hm? A cat?” Mahito hummed, the rest of her holding her
ground. The knowing in her eyes met her in Satoru’s goggles, all too clear. Even if he wasn’t
speaking to her–even if he wouldn’t meet her stare–she could still spot his soul.

“Humans,” Mahito murmured, “You all think you’re so much better.”

Where most people should have heard the condescension, Satoru answered without judgment at
all.

“Sure do,” Satoru agreed through the same, false smile. “But just me. I’m the best one.”

It shouldn’t have stung to know he was right.

“I’m not choosing to be human, Toru,” Mahito told him outright. “You didn’t choose it, either.
Souls are what they are. If I change myself, then, that’s not me. It’s not ‘true’.”

“What’s more human than a lie?” Satoru asked. His smile grew, bright and false. “Most curses
think they’re better, too, you know. What you think doesn’t matter so much. It’s more about what
you are.”

“Since when are they separate?” Mahito asked back. “Reality’s not objective. The domain of the
soul is what it thinks the world to be. Your world and mine, they won’t match. They–”

They never would. Those were the words Mahito meant to say. Before she could, Satoru’s hand
pressed under her chin. His limitless parted long enough for both his hands to wrap around her
neck. One cupped along the path of her sutures, holding her still. The other tapped her mouth shut.

“What I see is real. That’s what matters,” said Satoru. “You don’t have to be a curse, or a human.
Be my vengeance. That’s enough.”

There was a part of Satoru still stuck. The curse he’d put on himself, to love someone so much he’d
throw himself away, was never there. The rest of what he’d become, Mahito could feel draw in.
Satoru stroked a finger at the edge of her jaw, tipping her gaze to the pictures on the wall. The row
of sorcerers–of hiding places for the human they were hunting–seemed to watch them right back.

“If anyone on that board finds Okkotsu, or either guard gains that scar, text ‘shortbread’ to my
number,” Satoru told her. “Any phone, anywhere. I see that word, I’ll come.”

“You should give me a phone, then.”

“...Nah. You’ll find one. Everyone’s got phones.”

“Not with your number.”

“You know my number.”

“Not quickly.”

“It’s a number. Type it in.”

“Sheesh. How annoying are you?”

“Incredibly.”

From the angle she was being made to face, Mahito couldn’t see Satoru. Even so, as long as his
hand lingered, she could feel his soul’s form. The energy inside him practically eclipsed her just to
sense it, his energy encompassing her own. The hollow solitude he forced on himself, and the
damage that it had caused him, left such a gap that she couldn’t help sinking in.

Mahito closed her eyes to what she should have been watching. A smile she had no place wearing
crept across her lips.For as strong as Satoru was supposed to be, from inside his soul, she could feel
his hate, too.

Of all the souls she could have played with, none of them were this much like home. “Toru,”
Mahito started to ask, “what makes bread ‘short’?”

Mahito hadn’t finished the question when Satoru’s hand dropped from her chin. His soul
disconnected from her, laughing. She turned her head over her shoulder to spot him.

“Toru–”

Mahito’s boot stuck into the floor. The rest of her soul set still. Just as her blue eye could catch
Satoru, his presence vanished from her sight. Whatever vengeances he’d asked for, he’d had to
leave to find his own.

The start of a pout puffed in Mahito’s chest. The row of suspects, and the timeline of their ancient
sorcerer, streaked over the wall. She shoved her hand into her pocket, gripping the photo that
Satoru had shown her inside her fist.

“You’d better be worth the trouble,” Mahito murmured, looking at the board.

If she’d wanted to lie, Mahito could have told herself that she meant the sorcerer on the wall, or the
one in her pocket. With no one there to watch her lie, she knew better than to deceive herself, too.
 No matter what name he had insisted he’d left behind, or which people he’d convinced himself he
could sacrifice in the name of a hundred others, Satoru’s reality hadn’t changed. Even now, when
the only creatures he could turn to were the outcasts he’d been raised to hate, Satoru was still the
strongest. Because no matter what name he insisted he’d left behind, or how his soul had twisted,
this man was still Satoru Gojo.

And as long as Toru would curse himself, Mahito would, too.

The photo crinkled in Mahito’s hand. The curly haired girl and the mountain of a boy both fell from
focus. Her thumb pressed over the shoulder of the gloomy soul in the middle.

“Nice to meet you, Okkotsu,” Mahito whispered. “Guess you’re the new bait.”

She could see the plan even without the collage of scarred faces, tied together with colors of twine.
The pieces of the handmade puzzle moved in her mind, following the pattern through what she
already knew. After all, both she and Satoru had met ‘Kaori Itadori’ before–five years ago, in
Kyoto, on the day when the world of sorcerers said Satoru usurped Noritoshi Kamo as the worst
curse user of all.

It had also been her birthday.

Chapter End Notes

A year and a half later, and we've reached the end of Part One!

Thank you to everyone who's kept up with this project until now, or who is reading this in the
future. I appreciate anyone who's left a comment, or a kudo, or has spent time with me in this
alternate universe. This is the longest project I've ever gotten to mark as 'complete', so I'm
feeling pretty emotional about this.

I'm going to take a small break from this universe before beginning Part Two. If all goes as
scheduled, please expect to see the first chapter of the next fic in this universe at the end of
October 2023.

Although I describe the next arc as Part Two, the next fic isn't going to pick up exactly where
we're leaving off. Part Two, currently titled "Blue Infinity", will take place purely in the
alternate timeline. The next story following Suguru, Satoru, and what happened after the
incident at Mount Mitoku. The plan is to structure the fic so that readers can choose to start
with Part One (this fic) OR Part Two (the new fic), and that all of the storylines set up in both
parts will conclude in the third and final part.

The next chapter after this is a gallery of chapter cover art I made, with the title texts removed.
If you'd enjoy that, feel free to continue on and take a look. Otherwise, thank you for coming
with me on this journey!

I do have other works in this fandom, including a second long-term WIP. If you'd be
interested, please subscribe for author updates, or go to my profile page to check them out.
You can also find me on Twitter/X at "UnluckistJun" or “yoshinojunpei” on Blue Sky for
updates, previews, and a lot of talk about Jujutsu Kaisen.
 Bonus: Artbook
Chapter Notes

This chapter is a collection of art pieces which I made for this fanfic. These pieces were
posted as chapter covers. In this chapter, the text has been removed, so that they can be viewed
in full.
 Bonus: Part Two Preview
Chapter Notes

Hi everyone! A few of you may have noticed a couple days ago, but Part Two of the B.
Infinity series has started to publish!

Below, you'll find two brand-new illustrations that were made for Part One, along with an
excerpt from the first chapter of Blue Infinity, the next installment in the series. To read the
rest of the chapter and begin Part Two, please click the "Next Work" link at the bottom of the
page.

Thank you so much for your support!

 Suguru Geto

September 30, 2007

Tokyo Jujutsu Technical School

There was no rational reason why Suguru Geto didn’t belong exactly where he stood now. If
Suguru thought his path through, and followed what he’d done to some logical end, it was all but
inevitable that the only place he could have ended up was here. No amount of logic could stop the
fact that his reality felt wrong.

Paper talismans hung from the walls. Lanterns swayed across the ceiling. In every direction Suguru
could see, dozens of inscriptions were embedded in the fabric of the room, warning off curses that
shouldn’t have been capable of crossing these grounds to begin with. With the barrier around the
school, and the array of alarms which encompassed the grounds, there was only one reason to
maintain these wards.

Him. The wards on the walls, and the lock on the doors, were there for him.

The talismans swayed under a breeze that shouldn’t have been there. Silhouettes stood tall behind
paper screens, backlit to maintain anonymity. Each face Suguru couldn’t see seemed to rise more
than the last, their figures literally higher than Suguru.

Suguru knew this place. He had been here before, once, without a uniform or a button. The folding
rows of paper screens had obscured the panel of sorcerers, hiding their faces even as they spoke a
truth Suguru had already known. Anonymous men had told him of cursed spirits that harmed
humanity, the sorcerers who defended them, and the school meant to train the gifted to defend
everyone else. Those silhouettes had stood tall, preaching what a rare and blessed honor it was to
give their lives to the service of those without.

When Suguru first stepped through those walls, he had known of cursed spirits. The hive his body
had become for them made it impossible to avoid. He’d had no reason, back then, to believe the
rest of these mens’ claims were any less honest.

Suguru didn’t know if the men behind those screens were the same ones who first welcomed him to
the school. What he did know was that it didn’t matter. No matter how many other people stood
inside this room, as long as the paper screens stood between them, Suguru knew he was alone.
Whatever those anonymous faces had become, they weren’t sorcerers. He wondered, in the quiet, if
those creatures could pass for people at all.

Behind the guarding talismans, and folding paper screens, the same faceless old men stared him
down, leaving no room or eyes for Suguru to do the same.

The center panel rose, as if speaking. If it was truly their voice, Suguru couldn’t know. “Geto
Suguru. Where were you yesterday morning?”

Suguru knew how to answer that. He gave them the truth.

“I was stationed as assigned,” he said, his head falling with a bow. “At the village outside
Nageiredo Hall, in Tottori.”
The silhouette stiffened, the old men at the other side unmoving. There was no warning, or twitch,
just the sound of a new voice as someone else joined the scrutiny.

“And what happened while in Nageiredo Hall?”

Suguru didn’t hesitate.

“An exorcism,” he said, too sharp not to be true.

There was more to the answer–further truths beneath the surface. Suguru knew better than to give
that away. It was a guilty man, and a weighted conscience, who added details they hadn’t asked for.
No matter what he’d done, Suguru’s conscience ran clear.

A different silhouette moved behind the screen to his left side, a new anonymous old man drawing
closer.

“You mean to tell us there was a cursed spirit, at a holy site?” The man asked, clearing his throat as
if he’d gag on his own words if he couldn’t. His shoulders shifted, puffing with outrage. “That hall
was integral to cultural heritage!”

Again, Suguru gave no pause.

“Cultural significance makes a site all the more susceptible to manifesting a curse, does it not?”
Suguru asked in turn, knowing full well he was right. “Greater myths create curses at higher grades,
concentrating cursed energy. It’s a risk to any heritage site, not just there.”

The instructors that these men had appointed, and the school they had invited him to join, had
taught Suguru that.

“Geto Suguru,” the center silhouette repeated his name like a summoning, the syllables turning
stern with judgment. “I suggest you answer the questions as they’re asked, without further
commentary. If we want your opinion, you’ll know.”

In other words, they didn’t want to hear when they weren’t right.

Suguru swallowed back. He set his eyes ahead into the deliberate shadows, his chin level,
unflinching. Even if Suguru’s facts were correct, asserting ones the higher ups had no interest in
accepting was pointless. There was no persuading someone who had closed themselves to what was
true.

Suguru cursed that to himself. He set his eyes ahead, his composure settling.

“Then, yes,” Suguru nodded, feigning compliance. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

There was no seam in the smile except the one between Suguru’s lips–no hesitance that would
betray his thoughts were anything less than true. No matter how little these men saw of him, and
how much Suguru couldn’t see back, he wouldn’t betray himself, or Satoru.

Whatever these men were after, Suguru wouldn’t slip, for Satoru. Even if he’d wanted to, there
were limits to what Suguru knew.

For now, there was no reason to lie. Everything Suguru had done was to the letter of the mission.
The truths these men were after had nothing to do with Suguru, and everything to do with what
Suguru didn’t know. All Suguru had to do, here, was not let the anonymous men in enough to
recognize he didn’t know.

Another face Suguru couldn’t see drew closer, a new question cutting through. “And what occurred
during this exorcism, Geto?”

Suguru didn’t so much as twitch.

“That you say ‘was’, not ‘is’, makes me think you already know.”

The silhouettes surrounded Suguru in a semicircle, each one just as obscured as the last. Suguru
kept focus as if he could see through them, and find the men behind those curtains just by staring
ahead.

The shadow in the center tapped at the side of the frame. “As asked, Geto.”

Suguru nodded. The chunk of his bangs swayed over his eyes. “Of course.”

The shadow to the near left cut in.

“How did you arrive at Nageiredo to begin with?” the next, rasping voice asked. “Your assignment
was in the village, not the temple.”

“We took a car.”

“A car?”

“A vehicle, yes. I’d imagine you’re familiar.”

The befuddlement in the old man’s voice could have been due to either. Without the specification,
Suguru imagined that Satoru would’ve asked questions right back–to make some smart remark
about how the questioner was old enough to remember using horse drawn carts, instead.

“I’m well aware of what a car is. Why in the world did you leave the village you were assigned to,
and travel to Nageiredo?”

That time, the question was too clear not to answer.

“We spoke with a villager, to assess the local legends,” Suguru answered, still honest. “Based on
their testimony, we believed it best to begin at Mount Mitoku. The reports of suspicious activity
were centered there.”

The old man cleared his throat, agitation still rising as he snapped back,

“ We ?”

For the first time, Suguru paused. He waited, thinking through what to say. For as long as he
thought, he drew nothing.

“...I don’t understand the question,” he admitted.

The admittance did nothing to stop the man at the other side.
“The dispatch log indicated you were sent to the incident in Tottori, alone,” the silhouette pressed.
“You said we. Who is the second person?”

If any person in this room had the slightest idea of how this mission had gone, they would have
already known.

“Satoru Gojo,” Suguru answered, just as direct as before.

The shadow on the far right shifted, drawing closer.

“No one authorized Satoru Gojo for that mission. If Gojo was needed, he would have been
dispatched.”

Suguru set his shoulders back, his posture correcting to be as flawless as possible–to mold himself
into the image of precisely who these men wanted Suguru to be.

“It wasn’t a matter of need, sir,” he said. “Satoru chose to come.”

Again, it was true. The truth made the men stir all the more.

“He chose to attend a privately assigned mission, with you?” one all but snapped. “Why?”

“Because he wanted to.”

“Why in the world would he want to?”

For now, there was no reason to lie.

“He wanted fluffy pancakes, sir,” Suguru told them, quick as ever.

Like most things that were honest, the panel seemed to reject it.

“You expect us to believe a special grade sorcerer, who was not asked to do a mission, decided to
do so, for ‘fluffy pancakes’?” The center silhouette asked, drawing forward. Suguru held his hands
behind his back, and his ground.

“I believed him, so, yes.”

When Suguru had asked Satoru, when they’d headed for the village that day, Satoru had told
Suguru he was coming along for pancakes. Though it was what Satoru said, Suguru had known
better. Satoru hadn’t come to some remote village in Tottori chasing desserts. He’d come for the
same reason that he’d come on every mission Suguru had been assigned to for that month, even if it
meant rushing his own missions and handling twice the work. The reason Satoru had been there, in
the village, was for Suguru.

It had taken all of Suguru’s dignity, and a good deal of lost common sense, for him to admit he’d
missed Satoru. If Suguru hadn’t met Yuki Tsukumo in the hallways of their school, the day before
Yu Haibara had passed away, Suguru never would have dared. Tsukumo hadn’t come to the school
to meet Suguru, yet, she’d given him some advice. At the end of a meeting they never should have
had, Yuki told Suguru to tell Satoru how he felt. From the context, Yuki had meant to make a
romantic confession. Suguru had taken it more literally. He told Satoru exactly how he felt. Adrift.
Alone. Like, maybe being a sorcerer wasn’t the path Suguru wanted to take.
Satoru had kissed him that day. He teased Suguru, like the idiot he was, grabbing him by the hair
and calling him a porcupine. And then, when he was done smiling, Satoru hadn’t let him be alone.
Every mission they’d been called on, they went on, together.

To have Satoru at his side again, shining, untouchable and yet always in reach, was the one thing
that kept Suguru from tipping over the edge of his sanity. No matter what feelings they hadn’t
spoken about, it was enough to have Satoru there. If Satoru hadn’t been with Suguru in that village,
Suguru didn’t know what he would have done. But maybe, if Satoru hadn’t been in that village,
Suguru wouldn’t be having this conversation.

“I expect you to believe the truth, yes,” Suguru answered, deflecting. “If you can’t do that, then,
there’s little purpose in interrogating me.”

One of the silhouettes let out a cough. Another shifted under the backlight, looming in.

“This is not an interrogation, Geto.”

Suguru stared back. “Then what is it?”

[ ... ]

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