Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐃

«I'm Aoi. Aoi Fujikawa. Aoi like Hollyhock, not the color Blue. Yeah, I know—nobody ever gets it right the first time.»

Aoi had always thought that made her sound a little more interesting.

A simple life as an art student in Tokyo was all Aoi ever wanted. She had one simple rule for surviving in Tokyo: ignore the weird, twisted creatures lurking in the corners of her vision, and they'd ignore her. After all, ignoring monsters was way easier than explaining them.
But life has a funny way of messing with her plans—especially when the most arrogant man alive claims her masterpieces are the problem.

[Setting in year 2010, Post Star Plasma Vessel and Pre-Canon]

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Hello everyone, and welcome back to those of you who know me from 12 Days! ❤️

As promised, I'm aiming for a totally different kind of story and for a lighter tone this time—well, as light as it gets when the Angst tag is still very much in play, but I swear I'll behave!

Before we dive into this story, I want to share a few things to set the stage and prepare you for what lies ahead.

First of all, while I'm aiming for a lighter tone compared to my previous story, 12 Days, this is still Jujutsu Kaisen, and that comes with its fair share of darkness. So, for your emotional safety, please be aware that the story will touch on the following themes:

✎ Death

✎ Violent scenes

✎ Suicide

✎ Child loss

✎ Grief

✎ Alcoholism

✎ Prostitution

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Secondly, unlike 12 Days, this story is going to dive a bit deeper into the lore. I'll be keeping it as true to the Jujutsu Kaisen universe as possible, though I might take a couple of creative liberties here and there (nothing too wild, I promise!). For context, the setting is the year 2010—post Star Plasma Vessel incident and pre-canon.

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Now, let me introduce you to our protagonist:

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𝐀𝐎𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐉𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐖𝐀

✎Kanji for Aoi: 葵 (Aoi like Hollyhock)

✎Nicknames (courtesy of Satoru): Art girl, Princess, Robin

✎Date of Birth: February 28, 1991

✎Hometown: Shizuoka

✎Height: 163 cm (approx. 5'4")

✎Eyes: Hazel

✎Hair: Brown

✎Occupation: University student at Tokyo's art department

✎Hobbies: Painting, visiting museums and art galleries

✎Likes: Mochi

✎Dislikes: Coffee

✎Phobia: Ghosts

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I'm so excited for you to join me on this journey with Aoi and the rest of the Jujutsu Kaisen universe! I hope you enjoy the blend of humor, tension, and the inevitable chaos that comes with the company of one Satoru Gojo.

Thank you for reading, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts as we go along. Enjoy the story!

P.S. I LOVE reading comments and theories, so feel free to leave a bunch of them in the comment section!

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Chapter Text

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PRELUDE

-Aoi-

Tokyo, September 2010.

The autumn air in Tokyo had a distinct chill, the kind that crept through your clothes and clung to your skin. It was the kind of day that Aoi Fujikawa would have normally appreciated, with the golden hues of the leaves swirling in the wind and the soft murmur of the city around her. But today, she barely noticed. Her focus was on the canvas she carried, her fingers gripping it tightly as if it might slip away—and take a piece of her with it.

Aoi was a freshman at the art university, and this painting was the last of her series. Ten paintings, each one born from emotion, each one born from her. Her professors had called the project ambitious. Her classmates admired her dedication. But no one knew how much of herself she’d poured into those works. Literally. Sleepless nights, a mind torn between chaos and color, emotions raw and frantic in every stroke. Now, it was done. Nine paintings had already been sold at a charity auction. Only this one remained.

And it made her uneasy.

Hate. That was its name. Unlike the others, this one hadn’t come easily. It wasn’t delicate or graceful. It was sharp, dark, painted in a fever that left her hollow. And now, as she carried it through Tokyo’s crowded streets, its weight felt heavier than ever.

She wasn’t someone who stood out. Slight in build, dressed in her favorite faded green jacket splattered with old paint stains she couldn’t bring herself to wash away. Her brown hair, cut in a bob, was tied messily at the nape of her neck, strands already escaping to cling to her damp cheeks as the first raindrops fell.

A small tattoo peeked from under her collar—a paintbrush inked beneath her ear. A reminder of her passion. Though lately, that passion had drained her dry. The dark circles under her hazel eyes said enough about how much she’d sacrificed to finish this project.

She clutched the canvas, wrapped in protective cloth, and tried not to think about the eyes she felt on her. Not the real ones from strangers passing by, but the ones no one else could see.

The eyes she had felt her whole life.

Aoi had always seen things. Shapes. Shadows. Twisted figures that lurked just out of sight. As a child, they’d terrified her—creatures with hollow eyes that watched her from corners and shadows. She’d begged her parents to believe her, pointing at empty spaces with tear-streaked cheeks.

But they never did.

Doctors were next. Specialists. They smiled kindly, explaining it all away as imagination. There’s nothing there, sweetie. But Aoi knew better. She learned to keep her mouth shut when the whispers started, when other kids called her a weirdo. Crazy.

It didn’t take long to understand that some truths were better kept silent. So she adapted. She ignored them. If she acted like they weren’t there, maybe they’d go away. Maybe they’d stop mattering.

And for the most part, they did. Or it seemed like they did. She learned to look past them, focus on what was real. She poured herself into her art, letting it become an escape. A place where only color and canvas mattered.

That became her rule. Her way to survive.

Even now, as she walked through the streets, shadows flickered at the edges of her vision. A slithering shape between buildings. A crouched figure in an alley. A grotesque shape perched on a lamppost. She didn’t look. Didn’t acknowledge. If I ignore them, they can’t hurt me, she reminded herself. The words were a lifeline. One she’d clung to for years.

Her goal was simple: deliver this final painting to the university and, finally, rest.

Aoi groaned softly as she hurried her pace, pulling her jacket closer around herself. She only had a few more blocks to go. " Rain. Perfect. Just my luck," she muttered under her breath.

She rounded a corner onto a quieter street, her mind spinning. That’s when it happened.

She collided with something—or someone. Hard. It was like hitting a wall. The impact knocked her off balance, and before she could catch herself, she fell. The canvas slipped from her grip, sliding toward the wet pavement.

"No!" The word tore from her throat. She lunged, palms scraping against the rough concrete as she grabbed the canvas, yanking it away just before it could be soaked.

For a moment, the world around her faded. The rain. The cold. Even the shadows she tried so hard to ignore. None of it mattered.

Just the painting.

Aoi reached the canvas, her hands trembling as she inspected it with desperate urgency. She barely noticed the sting in her palms from scraping the concrete. If the painting was ruined, if all her hard work, all those sleepless nights had been for nothing, she wasn’t sure what she’d do.

Relief washed over her. The cloth had held. No rips, no water damage. The painting was safe.

Aoi’s hands trembled as she clutched the canvas, her heartbeat loud in her ears. It wasn’t just exhaustion or fear. It was anger. Anger at the world, at herself—and now, at the idiot who’d almost ruined everything.

"What the hell!" She looked up, ready to confront whoever had caused the collision. She was soaked, exhausted, and now, pissed.

He was tall. His presence filled the narrow street like he owned it. White hair, a chaotic mess, stuck out in every direction, oddly unaffected by the falling rain. A dark jacket clung to his frame, and a pair of oversized sunglasses—completely unnecessary in the dim weather—hid his eyes. Who even wore sunglasses in the rain?

Her anger faltered for a moment. The guy stood there like nothing had happened, looking down at her with the same level of interest one might give a piece of trash on the sidewalk. Mildly annoyed, as if she had inconvenienced him by existing.

He didn’t even acknowledge the fact that they had bumped into each other. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t apologize. Just stood there, calm and towering, raising one brow like he couldn’t believe she had the audacity to be in his way.

Aoi’s temper snapped. Who did this guy think he was? "Are you blind?" She scrambled to her feet, clutching the canvas close. Her voice trembled, but it wasn’t fear—just frustration boiling over. "You almost ruined my painting!"

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering her for the first time. He didn’t flinch. Instead, his lips curled into the faintest smirk, like her anger was amusing. "What?" His voice was smooth and calm. Too calm. "You’re the one walking around with your head in the clouds."

Her hands tightened on the canvas. "Maybe if you weren’t standing in the middle of the sidewalk like a damn statue, this wouldn’t have happened!"

The smirk widened, just enough to make her blood boil. "Or maybe you should watch where you’re going next time, art girl."

Art girl? The mocking tone made her bristle. But there was something else, too. Something that made her skin crawl. It wasn’t just his attitude or the ridiculous sunglasses. It was the way the creatures reacted to him.

She noticed it. The shadows she always ignored—the twisted, deformed things lurking at the edges of her vision—were reacting to him. They were retreating. Subtle, but unmistakable. They didn’t want to be near him. Didn’t dare.

Aoi swallowed, forcing herself to look away. She couldn’t let it get to her. Not now.

"What’s wrong?" His voice cut through her thoughts, edged with sarcasm, like he was in on a joke she didn’t understand. He tilted his head, glancing around as if trying to see what had distracted her. "Did you see a ghost?"

She clenched her jaw. Ignore it. Ignore it, like always. If she gave in, if she acknowledged what she saw, it would be real. She wouldn’t let it be real, not after mastering for years the art of denial. "Nothing."

He laughed. Low, smug. The kind of laugh that grated on her nerves, that told her he didn’t believe a word she said. Then his gaze shifted—not to her, but to the canvas she held so tightly. His expression changed. The casual indifference was gone, replaced by focus. Intensity. Even with the sunglasses, it felt like his eyes bored straight through the cloth, seeing something she couldn’t. His head tilted slightly, like he was studying it.

Aoi stiffened, an instinctive urge to pull the painting away. His stare felt invasive, wrong. "What?" Her voice cracked, uncertain now. "Are you looking for a fight? I practiced Judo for two years, just so you know."

He ignored her. "Huh..." He muttered something under his breath, too soft for her to catch. And just like that, the moment passed. The smirk returned, sharper, calculated. "That’s a pretty ugly piece of work you’ve got there." The mockery that hit her like a slap.

Aoi blinked, her mind grinding to a halt. "Excuse me?" Disbelief sparked in her chest. "You haven’t even seen it! Are you out of your mind?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her. No, through her. The sunglasses didn’t hide the weight of his stare, the way it pressed against her skin, left her feeling vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with their argument.

Finally, he straightened, brushing dust from his jacket like she wasn’t worth his time. "Not to mention," he added with a shrug, "it’s definitely cursed."

Aoi just stared at him, dumbfounded. The words didn’t make sense. They couldn’t. He had to be insane. Who was this guy, spouting nonsense about her art? About her?

"The only cursed thing around here," she shot back, "are your dumb sunglasses. Maybe if you took them off, you’d actually see where you’re going."

He grinned, tapping the side of his head as if he had some kind of sixth sense. "Trust me, I’ve got good eyes for these things. That painting? Total disaster waiting to happen. But don’t let that stop you—carry on. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you."

And with that, he turned and walked away. Long strides. No hesitation. Like she didn’t even exist.

She stood there, rooted to the spot, words burning on her tongue. She wanted to yell, wanted to chase after him and demand an explanation—but something stopped her. A chill, running down her spine. An instinct that said don’t.

Who the hell was that guy?

The rain soaked through her jacket, but she barely noticed. She clutched the canvas close, gave one last glare in his direction, then turned on her heel and walked away, her steps brisk and sharp.

Her heart was still hammering, but it wasn’t just the confrontation. It was the strange aura that clung to him, like smoke she couldn’t shake.

She glanced back once. He was gone. But something about the encounter gnawed at her, refusing to leave her mind. His words. The way he’d looked at her painting. The unsettling certainty in his voice.

Shaking her head, Aoi forced herself to focus. She had a deadline to meet. She didn’t have time for some weirdo messing with her thoughts.

"Ignore it," she muttered, clutching the canvas tighter. The same mantra that had kept her sane for years. Ignore the strange things. Ignore the creatures. Ignore whatever that guy just said. Nonsense.

She kept walking, eyes fixed ahead. But deep down, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something off.

Something about that day wasn’t right.

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HATE

-Aoi-

Aoi finally stood in front of the art department building, her clothes soaked and clinging to her skin, her hair a wet mess sticking to her face. She was cold, exhausted, and still shaken from the encounter earlier. The guy’s mocking gaze lingered in her mind, along with the unsettling way the creatures had retreated from him. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the memory. She’d spent her whole life pretending not to see those things, but the way they reacted to him—like they were afraid—had left a mark.

It doesn’t matter. She pushed the thought away. What mattered now was the painting in her hands. The final one. The end of her year-long project.

Her fingers clutched the wrapped canvas tightly, holding it like a fragile part of herself. She had poured everything into this series, every emotion laid bare on each canvas. Her soul. And now, she was carrying the last piece: Hate. All she had to do was hand it over, and she could finally rest.

She pushed open the glass doors, stepping into the building’s warmth. The heat hit her like a blanket, but it couldn’t reach the chill sinking into her bones. Her shoes squelched against the floor as she crossed the lobby, her legs heavy with exhaustion. The familiar quiet of the building, usually comforting, felt oppressive today. The dimly lit hallways, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights—it all pressed in on her. She glanced around, instinctively scanning the corners of her vision for shadows. For them.

They were always there. Lurking. Watching. Shifting just out of sight. They never approached, but they hovered like unwanted guests. Sometimes she caught glimpses—distorted limbs, hollow eyes—but she kept her gaze forward, her steps steady. She was good at that now. Years of practice had made it second nature.

They’re not real. She gripped the canvas tighter. Just keep moving. If she didn’t look, they couldn’t hurt her.

The commission office wasn’t far. Down the hall, around the corner. With every step, the burden on her shoulders felt a little lighter. Soon, she’d be free. She could already picture it—collapsing into bed, curling beneath her blanket, and sleeping for days. Maybe treating herself to something sweet. Mochi, maybe. Or sketching something simple, just for fun. No deadlines, no pressure. The thought gave her a brief, fragile sense of relief.

As she neared the office, her eyes flicked to the shadows in the hallway. Strange. There were more of them around her today. As if something was attracting them. The creatures moved like faint mirages, flickering at the edge of her vision, bolder, almost daring to approach her. She focused and forced herself to ignore them.

She pushed open the office door and was greeted by a familiar face.

The head of the committee, an elderly man with kind eyes and white hair curling at the edges, smiled warmly at her. He didn’t seem fazed by her bedraggled appearance. "Ah, Ms. Fujikawa. I see you’ve brought the final piece."

Aoi nodded, wiping her damp hands on her jacket. "Yes, this is the last one." She placed the canvas carefully on the desk, her fingers lingering on the edge before stepping back.

The professor approached with reverence, his hands hovering above the cloth. He nodded appreciatively. "You’ve done remarkable work with this series. It’s already created quite a stir. The auction should be a great success."

Aoi forced a tired smile. Her mind was already somewhere else. "Thank you. I’m... glad to hear that."

"Each piece captures something unique," he said, eyes scanning the canvas. "And this one? The final emotion... Hate, is it?"

"Yes." The word came softly, the weight of it settling in her chest. Hate had been the hardest to confront. Harder still to paint.

"We’ll take good care of it." He offered a reassuring smile. "The auction committee is eager to see it. I’m sure it will bring in quite the donation."

"Thank you." She bowed slightly. "I appreciate the opportunity."

With that, Aoi excused herself and stepped back into the hallway. The weight on her shoulders should have lifted. It was done. The last painting was handed over. All she had to do now was leave, go home, and sleep.

But relief didn’t come.

The unease she’d been fighting all day crept back in. The memory of the guy in sunglasses, his mocking gaze, the way the creatures had retreated from him—it clung to her skin like the cold.

Her feet carried her up the staircase toward the exit, every step heavier than the last. Freedom was close. Home. Bed. Sleep. She could almost taste it.

But something shifted.

The air grew heavier, colder. The kind of chill that settled deep into her bones. She paused, glancing around. The hallway seemed darker, the shadows stretching unnaturally long across the floor.

She kept moving, faster now. Her heart beat harder in her chest, though she tried to ignore it. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong.

But it was a lie.

At the second floor, her steps slowed. She saw it. One of them. Standing still in the middle of the hallway. Its body was elongated, limbs too long, eyes hollow and black. It didn’t move. It just stood there. Watching.

Aoi’s breath hitched, but she didn’t stop. She’d seen worse. She had ignored worse. She adjusted her path, veering right, stepping into another corridor without hesitation.

It’s not real. Ignore it. Keep walking. But the unease only grew. What the hell is wrong with those creatures today?

The hallways were darker than they should have been. The shadows felt deeper, heavier. And the creatures—the ones that have been lingering just out of sight—were gone. Moments ago, they’d been there. Now, nothing. No shapes. No shadows. Just emptiness.

Or had they fled?

Aoi’s breath quickened as she reached the main staircase. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The air pressed down on her, suffocating. This wasn’t the usual unease she could dismiss. This was different.

The creatures hadn’t just vanished.

They had run.

And the only question in her mind was, what were they running from?

Aoi rushed down the stairs, her heart pounding, breath ragged. She didn’t dare look back. She didn’t want to see what might be following her. The dread was suffocating—worse than the familiar unease of the creatures. Whatever had made them vanish was something far worse.

Dangerous.

Outside, the light was gone. The campus was shrouded in heavy darkness, as if night had fallen too soon. Aoi slowed, glancing out the window. It wasn’t supposed to be this dark. It wasn’t even late. But the sky outside was black, the shadows too thick, too still, like a heavy blanket smothering the day.

It’s too early for this, she thought, her unease growing. What’s happening?

She glanced at the clock on the wall. Still early. Still afternoon. And yet, the world outside looked like it had been swallowed whole.

Instinct screamed at her to leave.

She crossed the lobby in quick strides, her soaked shoes squeaking against the floor. But the building felt dead—silent, heavy, like it was holding its breath. The usual buzz of life, of movement, was gone. Only the echo of her steps remained.

At the door, her hand trembled as she reached for the handle. The cold metal bit into her fingers.

Just leave. Get out.

The lights flickered overhead. The weight in the air pressed down harder.

Her hand froze on the handle. Her fingers went numb, the chill seeping into her bones. Something rooted her in place, an invisible force in the air that held her there. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to run, but her body refused.

She could feel it—if she moved, if she even dared to breathe too loudly, she would die.

Her chest tightened, her heartbeat thudding painfully against her ribs. She wasn’t sure why, but the feeling was undeniable. Move, and it’s over.

Don’t turn around. Don’t breathe. Don’t move.

The rational part of her mind begged her to pull the door open, to escape. But her body stayed locked, frozen with fear.

What… is happening?

Her eyes darted, scanning the lobby without turning her head. The space was eerily still, the hum of the flickering lights the only sound. There were no voices. No footsteps. The campus, once so full of life, was now hollow. Silent.

Outside, the darkness pressed against the windows, like it wasn’t just nightfall, but something living. Something creeping closer. A sick wave of nausea hit her. Where is everyone? Why is it so quiet?

The absence of sound pressed in on her. No students. No shuffling papers. No slamming doors. Nothing.

And then—she felt it.

A presence behind her.

It wasn’t like the usual creatures. Not the shadowy figures she’d learned to ignore. This was different. Real. Heavy. Tangible. Like a weight pressing down on her, squeezing the air from her lungs.

The temperature dropped. Cold bit at her skin. Her breath became visible in the chill. She didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe. Her fingers twitched against the door handle, trembling, but she couldn’t force them to turn it.

She wasn’t alone. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

Something’s watching me.

Her stomach twisted. Her mind screamed for her to run. But her body stayed rooted, paralyzed.

And then she heard the voice. It wasn’t the soft, incoherent murmurs she sometimes heard from the shadows. No, this was clear. Directed at her.

"Why... you... hate me?"

The words sliced through the silence, and Aoi’s body locked in place. Her breath hitched, her heart missing a beat as terror flooded her. Her stomach dropped, cold dread twisting through her.

No. No, no, no.

The voice was cracked, hatred seeping from every word, suffocating her like a physical force. Her legs trembled, threatening to collapse. But she stayed standing. Stayed still.

Don’t move. Don’t turn. Don’t look.

But the voice came again, harsher this time. "Why... you... hate..."

Aoi’s breath caught. Her body shook as she turned her head slowly, every movement feeling like it dragged through thick mud. She didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to see.

But she had to.

She froze.

It stood just feet away. A figure. Almost human, but twisted. Wrong. Its skin was gray and mottled, stretched thin over sharp bones. Long, spindly arms dangled at its sides, fingers ending in jagged claws that scraped the ground.

But its face—its face was the worst. Melted. Hollow eyes that bored into her. Lips pulled back in a sick grin, revealing rows of jagged, broken teeth. And in those eyes—hate. Pure, suffocating hate.

It wasn’t mindless. It wasn’t like the others. She could feel it, it was here for her.

"Don’t... hate me."

The whisper curled in the air, venomous. Aoi’s legs trembled as her mind raced. What is this thing? Why can it talk like this?

None of the others had ever spoken human language. But this... this was real. This was wrong. It wasn’t just a mindless creature. It filled the space, crushed the air from her lungs.

If she didn’t acknowledge them, they couldn’t hurt her. Right? Yet...

You can’t ignore this one.

The creature stepped forward, claws scraping the tile with a slow, deliberate screech. The sound made Aoi’s skin crawl, her pulse thundering in her ears.

Move, move, move—

Survival instinct took over. Aoi tore herself from the door, sprinting to the side just as the glass behind her shattered with a deafening crash. Shards rained around her like razors, as she covered her head.

She hit the ground hard. Pain shot through her palms as they scraped against the floor, glass cutting into her skin. But she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. She scrambled to her feet, legs shaking, breath ragged. Her mind screamed—run, run, run. Get away. Get out.

Why is this happening to me?

Heavy footsteps echoed behind her. Slow. Steady. Deliberate. Not rushing. Just... following. The steps of something that knew it would catch her. Eventually.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The floor beneath Aoi cracked with each of its steps, tiles shattering under its weight. She could hear it breathing, a slow, wheezing rasp that echoed in her skull.

"...hate... Don't... hate... Me..."

The words slithered beneath her skin. Each syllable dripping with venom. With resentment. Her mind raced, every thought a jumbled mess of fear and confusion.

Why? What does it want from me? Why me?

Her legs burned, muscles screaming as she ran. She knew the campus inside out, every shortcut, every hidden corner. But no matter how fast she moved, how many turns she took, the creature followed. Unhurried. Relentless.

It’s going to catch me.

Her breath hitched as she skidded around a corner, her feet slipping slightly, her mind still struggling to process the nightmare that was unfolding around her.

Someone. Anyone. Please. I need help-

And then—impact.

She collided with something solid. Hard. Warm. She gasped, stumbling backward as her momentum was brought to a sudden halt. Her hands instinctively grabbed at whatever—or whoever—she had run into, fingers gripping onto soft fabric.

When she looked up, her heart stopped.

It was him. The guy from earlier. The one with the white hair. The one with the ridiculous sunglasses.

Except now, he wasn’t wearing them. Blue eyes stared down at her, calm and almost bored.

Aoi’s brain short-circuited, annoyed. Of course he has beautiful eyes. Why not?

Reality slammed back. What the hell, Aoi? Focus. There was a monster behind her, and she was standing here like an idiot, getting lost in someone’s eyes. She shoved herself back, stumbling as fear and adrenaline surged through her. Her body trembled as she kept a tight hold on her panic.

What the hell is he doing here?

"Told you it was a disaster waiting to happen." His tone was so casual it felt surreal, like they weren’t standing in the middle of a nightmare.

She blinked, struggling to process the absurdity. He stood there, tall and composed, his disheveled hair gleaming under the flickering lights. Like this wasn’t a life-or-death situation. Before her mind could catch up, her body took over—she bolted, rushing past him, legs pumping beneath her, carrying her away from the threat behind them—the monster—and toward safety.

But even as she bolted down the hallway, something nagged at the back of her mind. He didn’t move. She glanced back, heart hammering. He was walking. Slowly. Calmly. Directly toward the hallway. Toward the monster.

No, no, no. What is he doing? Panic surged. Of course. He can’t see it. He doesn’t know what's coming.

She froze, throat dry. How was she supposed to explainthat there was a monster—a literal monster—right around the corner? She'd spent her life pretending not to see them. She wasn’t prepared for this—wasn’t prepared to save anyone else. It had always been her burden to see these things, and no one ever believed her. But now...

Her mouth opened, but the words tangled, choking on fear.

"Wait!" Her voice came out hoarse and thin. Am I even doing the right thing? She took a hesitant step toward him, legs heavy like lead. "You need to get out of here! There's—there's a—"

He turned, brow furrowed in annoyance, as if she'd interrupted his walk, not saved his life. His gaze swept over her like she was a puzzle he didn’t care to solve.

"Oh, come on, art girl. Just disappear already." The smirk in his voice made her want to scream.

Aoi stopped cold. What the hell is wrong with him? Here she was, risking her life to warn him, and he acted like she was nothing but a nuisance. "I'm serious!" Her voice rose, laced with desperation. "You need to run! There's a monster right there!"

She gestured wildly toward the end of the hallway. The creature’s shadow loomed closer, eyes locked on them both. A jagged, grotesque form edging nearer.

He raised an eyebrow and exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his tousled white hair with practiced nonchalance, as if she had just told him the sky was about to rain. "A monster, huh?" His voice was heavy with mockery. "Scary." He turned back toward the monster, his shoulders loose and relaxed.

Rage boiled in her chest. Is he serious?!

For a second, she almost let him go. If he wanted to walk straight into his death, who was she to stop him? He’d brushed her off once already, and every instinct told her to save herself. But then the creature stepped closer, its misshapen form emerging into the dim light.

No. She couldn’t let that idiot die. Not like this. Not when she could see it coming and he couldn’t. Aoi cursed under her breath. Damn it.

Her gaze darted around, landing on the red extinguisher mounted to the wall. She lunged for it, fingers wrapping around the cold metal. The weight steadied her. Grounded her. Without thinking, she sprinted after him. Closed the distance in a few strides. And threw, with all the strength she could muster.

"Watch out!" Her voice cracked as the extinguisher crashed into the creature’s torso. It stumbled, but only slightly. Not enough. But enough to buy her a few precious seconds.

"Listen!" She turned to the guy, her voice frantic. "I know it sounds crazy, but there's a real monster, right there! If you don’t want to die, you need to run!"

He looked at her as if she were the one making things difficult, his brow furrowing slightly as he sighed, then—grinned. Lazily. Like the whole situation was some big joke.

"A monster you say," he said, tapping his chin, his tone dry and unimpressed. "And your big plan is a fire extinguisher?"

Aoi’s jaw dropped. "What are you—are you stupid?! I'm trying to save your life! Can you just listen to me for one second—"

She didn’t finish. The creature lunged.

It was faster than she could’ve imagined, its twisted form snapping forward, claws swiping toward them. Everything slowed—her breath, her heartbeat, her thoughts.

This is it. I’m done.

She barely had time to raise her arms in a feeble attempt to shield herself, her mind flashing through a dozen impossible scenarios, none of which ended well, bracing for impact. Waiting for the pain.

Except the impact never came. Instead, there was silence.

Her breath caught as she opened her eyes. The creature’s claws were frozen, inches from them. Trapped mid-air, scraping against an invisible barrier that didn’t give.

She blinked, trying to make sense of it. Standing in front of her, calm and casual, was the guy. He didn’t even look fazed. Hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, posture relaxed—like he was waiting for a bus, not facing down a nightmare.

Aoi’s breath came in shallow gasps as she looked from him to the creature, confusion twisting her insides.

He looked her up and down, expression unchanging, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "So," he said, head tilting slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips, "you were really just pretending you couldn’t see curses before, huh?"

Curses?

Aoi’s mind scrambled, still reeling from almost dying, from the impossible. He’d seen it. He’d stopped it—like it was nothing, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. There was something unnerving, terrifying even, about the casual way he held himself.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. He can see it? Why didn’t he do anything sooner?

"What the—" Her voice cracked as she stepped closer, fists clenched tight. "You," she gestured to the monster, "you can see that thing? And you didn’t do anything?!"

He shrugged, completely indifferent. "Didn’t feel like it."

As if that were a perfectly reasonable response. Like she wasn’t still shaking from terror.

He glanced over his shoulder at the creature still frozen in place. "So? Where’s the ugly painting?"

Aoi stared, stunned. What the hell is wrong with him? A moment ago, she had been bracing herself for death, ready to be torn apart by some grotesque monster, and now, not only was she miraculously alive, but she was also stuck with the most infuriating person she had ever met.

The creature—no, the curse, if that’s what it was—still writhed, frozen in place, its hollow eyes locked on her. And this guy? This guy cared more about her painting than the thing trying to kill them?

"Hello?" he said, voice lightand almost conversational, "Where’s that ugly cursed painting of yours?"

Aoi’s head spun, her mind scrambling to process his words. He’s insulting my art? Now?!

"What? What are you talking about?" she spat. "There’s a monster here trying to kill us, and you—"

"Kill you," he corrected, with infuriating calm. "I’m perfectly fine."

He shot another glance at the curse. "But yeah, that ugly cursed painting? That's why the curse—" he gestured toward the curse with a lazy thumb, "—it’s here. So, where is it?"

She clenched her fists. Oh come on-he’s more worried about the painting than the fact that we almost died? She was two seconds away from screaming.

"I—I gave it to the commission office earlier!" She gritted her teeth, trying to keep herself from snapping.

He sighed, dramatic and exaggerated, as if she was being difficult on purpose. "Great. So you just handed over a cursed painting to a bunch of non-sorcerers. You just keep making it worse."

Before she could snap back, the curse’s voice sliced through the air, its body twitching and straining against the invisible barrier that kept it at bay.

"Why... do you hate me?"

Aoi’s head spun. She stared at it, wide-eyed. She didn’t know why it kept asking that, why its words felt like knives pressed to her skin. Her frustration boiled over. She turned on them both.

"Would you both just shut up?!" she shouted, her voice cracking under the strain. "My painting’s not ugly, and I don’t even know why you—"

The curse let out a low, guttural growl, louder this time. Its eyes burned with rage, demanding. "Why do you hate me?"

The absurdity of the situation—the man’s casual attitude, the curse’s insistent questioning, her own terror—it all came crashing down at once. Something inside Aoi snapped. "I—I hate you because when I was in fifth grade, the boy I liked thought I was weird for seeing things like you!"

Silence.

A heavy, awkward kind of silence that stretched out forever. Even Aoi was stunned by her own words. But the curse... it recoiled. Twitched. Like her confession had hit a nerve. Its hatred, once suffocating, seemed to waver—just a little.

It was true. During her fifth-grade, she’d made the mistake of telling Kenta—the boy she liked—that she could see strange, shadowy things no one else could. He’d stared at her like she’d grown a second head, then laughed. Loudly. Called her a weirdo. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he’d told the whole class.

By the end of the day, she wasn’t just the weird girl. She was the crazy girl.

She never brought it up again. Not to anyone. And now, somehow, that mortifying moment had been enough to shake a curse.

Figures.

Aoi’s breath came hard and fast. Her heart still pounded, but the curse had backed off, if only slightly. For a brief moment, she wondered if it had actually understood her ridiculous outburst.

And the guy?

He sighed. Long. Dramatic. Rubbing the back of his neck like she'd exhausted him. "Wow," he muttered. "Fifth-grade trauma, huh? Well, I’m glad that’s all cleared up."

Aoi barely registered his words before he turned on his heel and walked away—calm, steady strides like he was leaving a boring conversation, not a girl about to be murdered by a monster.

"Wait—!" Her voice cracked with panic as she stumbled after him. He couldn’t leave. Not now. Not with that thing still there. Her stomach twisted, nausea rising. No.

He was really walking away. Leaving her. Alone.

"Hey!" she called, half-running to catch up as he was already several strides ahead. He didn’t slow, didn’t look back. "You can’t be serious, you can't just leave me here!"

The guy waved lazily over his shoulder, as if that was enough.

"Don't...hate...me..."

Aoi’s heart slammed into her ribs. She staggered, legs shaking as she tried to keep up. Behind her, the curse stirred, its grotesque limbs dragging across the floor with a sickening scrape. It was advancing again. Recovering.

No, no, no.

The one person who could actually do something was leaving.

"Hey! Stop!" Her voice broke, high and raw. "Save me!"

And something happened. She felt something snapping into place.

The air shifted—like a ripple, a shiver passing through her skin. The guy froze mid-step. Just stopped. Completely still, like someone had hit pause. He didn’t turn, didn’t even acknowledge her. Just stood there, tense, locked in place as if her words had caught him and wouldn’t let go.

"What?" His voice sliced through the silence, sharper now. Edged with something... uneasy. Confused. Almost alarmed. "What have you done? What was that?"

Aoi’s breath caught. She blinked. "I—I don’t know! I just... I just..."

"You just what?" He turned slightly, voice impatient, eyes sharp.

She faltered, heart hammering. What had she done? She hadn’t done anything—had she? All she’d done was beg him to save her, like any sane person would do, because that's what you did when a monster was about to rip you apart.

"I-I didn’t... I just... I begged you to save me?" Her words hung there, trembling in the air, small and pathetic. Even she wasn’t sure if she believed them.

Why was he suddenly acting like this? She thought he was going to leave her here to fend for herself, and yet, here he was, frozen in place, his body rigid and tense, as if her words had triggered something.

The guy didn’t respond. Just stood there. Silent. Processing. The hallway felt frozen, the pressure of the curse behind her thick and heavy.

The whole situation felt like a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. She was trapped—between a curse that wanted to kill her and a strange guy who seemed mentally unstable.

Aoi pressed herself lower to the ground, giving up. Her hands, still stinging from the cuts she’d gotten earlier, throbbed as they pressed against the hard surface. Blood smeared on the tiles beneath her. She winced but stayed quiet, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

And then she saw it. His expression. No longer unreadable. Confusion, yes—but also a lot of frustration.

He looked down at his hands. Raised them slowly, cautiously, like he half-expected something awful to be crawling on his skin. His fingers twitched, and then—

He started brushing frantically at his arms and chest, like trying to wipe something away. Jerky. Erratic.

"What the hell...?" he muttered, half to himself. His eyes darted from his hands to her, wild and uncertain, and for a moment, he looked genuinely unsettled, as if he had just realized something incredibly important but didn’t quite know how to process it. "Oh no, you didn't. You didn't."

Aoi stared, wide-eyed. He's lost it. Completely lost it. She watched him swat at nothing like a man possessed, his muttering growing more frantic by the second. Did I just witness a mental breakdown?

"You've gone mad," she whispered, more to herself than to him, her lips twitching in a nervous laugh. "You've... completely lost it."

But he wasn’t listening. His hands kept moving, brushing at his jacket, his arms, his chest—anywhere the invisible threat might be. His eyes darted between her and the hallway, over and over. "No way, this isn’t happening," he muttered. Then, sharper, "You must’ve done it when you clung to my jacket—ugh, great you've really done it."

His glare snapped to her like a whip. As if this was somehow her fault, whathever this was.

Aoi blinked, mind blank. "What... what did I do?"

Before he could answer, the curse growled.

"Why... you... hate me?"

The words scraped against her skin. Heavy. Suffocating. No, no, no. Not this again. She didn’t have the strength for this. Not again. Not with her body aching, her hands burning, and her head swimming from fear and confusion.

She dropped lower, curling in on herself. Trapped between a man who had clearly lost his mind and a curse that wanted her dead.

This is it, she thought, heart thudding dully in her chest. Chased by monsters, left to die with a lunatic.

And then, silence.

The guy stilled. His hands dropped. His shoulders squared. And for the first time, his eyes locked onto the curse. "Shit," he muttered.

And then he moved. One second, he was several steps away. The next, he was standing in front of her—between her and the curse. A living shield. It was as if he had kind of teleported, his speed inhuman.

Aoi’s eyes widened in shock as she looked up at him. "What—?"

He didn’t answer. Just raised a hand, slow and easy, as if it cost him nothing. A single finger extended toward the curse.

And light bloomed. A sharp, searing pulse of red. Bright and violent. It sliced through the dark, cut through the hallway like a blade. Aoi winced, raising her arm to shield her eyes. Heat rippled, sharp and stinging. Cracks spider-webbed across their surfaces, and the floor beneath Aoi's feet groaned as tiles buckled and splintered, sending shards flying in every direction.

The curse didn’t stand a chance. One blink, and it was gone. No scream. No attack. No more asking the same question.

Destroyed. Just like that.

The blast left the hallway a wreck. The once-solid floor was cracked and fractured, chunks of tile strewn about like debris from an earthquake. One of the light fixtures overhead, knocked loose by the force of the blast, dangled precariously, flickering with the last of its power before going dark.

And the guy stood there, like it was nothing. Like he had done this a hundred times before. He probably had.

He sighed. Almost bored. He glanced down at her then, raising an eyebrow with that same infuriatingly casual expression, as if to say, Well, what did you expect?

Aoi stared up at him, opening her mouth, but all that came out was a confused, incredulous whisper. "W-what... are you?"

He rubbed at his temples, eyes sharp with irritation. "You’ve got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath, as he shot her a sideways glance, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. "You know what have you done?"

She blinked, utterly lost. "I-I don’t even know what you’re talking about."

"Figures," he muttered, mostly to himself. He flexed his fingers, glancing down at his hands as if testing something. "Of course she doesn’t even know. This is why I hate dealing with amateurs." His gaze drifted to the spot where the curse had been, now just empty space. "Whatever. I’ll figure this mess out later."

Mess? Aoi wanted to scream. Her whole world had just crumbled, and he was calling it a mess? 

He let out another long sigh, brushing it all off. Like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing. "Right now, we need to get to that damn painting." He shot her a look, his lips curling into that infuriating half-smirk. "Show me the way, art girl."

She blinked, struggling to keep up. She'd just been hunted, almost killed, the guy in front of her had just disintegrated it with a finger and now he was... casually asking about a painting? And yet, the only thought that broke through her exhaustion was—

Why the hell didn’t he just blow up that monster from the very start?

Chapter Text

✎■■■■■■■■■■

HATE

-Satoru-

Mistakes. I've made plenty over the years, but this? This definitely cracks the top five.

The thought drifted lazily through Satoru Gojo's mind as he strolled through the dim halls of the art faculty, his gaze falling to the shattered remains of the curse he'd just obliterated. The destruction didn’t bother him—he'd reduced worse to ash without batting an eye. But this situation? This was something else.

Inconvenient.

He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, glancing around with little interest. The flickering lights added an eerie vibe, but it wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to.

His life had been a string of easy victories—what others saw as struggles were just minor inconveniences to him. Maybe that’s why he made so many bad choices. That’s the problem with being Satoru Gojo. When nothing's a challenge, you start getting lazy. Complacent. Sometimes, careless.

Like now, for example.

He sighed, rubbing his temple in self-pity. He glanced down at the girl huddled on the ground, her breath ragged, her face pale. Yeah, this was definitely not how it was supposed to go.

The mission had been straightforward. Curses had been appearing near the art department of a local university. Investigate. Eliminate. Find the source. Eliminate that too. Easy. Simple. Routine. He’d handled worse before breakfast.

And to be fair, he had handled it. In the few days he’d been patrolling the infestated area around the campus, he'd taken care of curse after curse. Nothing special. But then came this morning’s little surprise.

He found the source. Or rather, the source found him.

Maybe a little dramatic. Original. He smirked, fingers tracing idle patterns in the air. It was a little different from the usual cursed technique messes he cleaned up. Amusing in an amateur way. But that wasn’t the interesting part.

No. The real kicker was the girl.

The girl with the painting. The girl radiating an absurd amount of cursed energy without even realizing it. The girl pretending—badly—that she couldn’t see the curses hanging in the air like flies.

Satoru chuckled to himself, remembering how she’d tried—tried—to insult him. He'd watched her for a bit, intrigued by her odd behavior. She was bold. Or maybe just desperate. Either way, it had been entertaining.

The curses had recoiled from him, as they always did. But they’d recoiled from her too. His Six Eyes had told him that much. Interesting. Is that why she could just stroll around ignoring them?

There was something strange about her. Something off. She wasn’t a sorcerer. Not in the traditional sense. But she had a cursed technique—albeit a cowardly one, in his professional opinion. It wasn’t just the technique, though. It was the way she carried herself, like she knew more than she was letting on. Or less. Hard to tell which.

He should’ve just snatched the cursed painting from her hands and destroyed it right then and there. Problem solved. But no. He'd decided to follow her. Play it cool. See where this led. Maybe she'd show him something bigger.

Mistake number one. Letting her go.

Life has a funny way of coming back to bite you in the ass. And now here he was, standing in the ruins of a university hallway, with a broken curse at his feet and a girl who looked like she'd been dragged through hell. To be fair, she kind of had. That cursed painting of hers had birthed a special-grade curse right in the middle of the faculty.

One that had decided she was its favorite target. Which, considering she’d basically created the damn thing, wasn’t entirely undeserved.

Satoru had stepped in—because why not? It was his job. Not that it was difficult. But babysitting an art student with questionable survival instincts? That wasn’t supposed to be part of it. He was the strongest, he had things to do.

He watched her stumble and run, flailing through the hallways like a terrified rabbit. And then, he’d deactivated his Infinity for a split second when she’d clung to his jacket, with that adorable, scrunched-up look, eyes wide with fear, desperation written all over her face.

Cute, he’d thought. In a pathetic kind of way. He might’ve even felt a little sorry for her.

He would’ve liked to say that’s where his poor decision-making ended, but no. No, the universe had decided to throw him a curveball.

Mistake number two. Letting himself get just a little bit intrigued.

Because that was the moment she must have activated her pitiful excuse for a cursed technique on him.

The moment she’d cried, "Save me!" He’d felt it immediately. The way his body locked up. Frozen in place. His feet, which had been very ready to walk away, refused to move.

And that? That was bad. Really bad.

His instincts had screamed at him to leave her to deal with the curse she had practically summoned into existence. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t take a single step.

"What the hell," he muttered, shaking his head. The memory still grated. "I was stuck. I actually stuck."

Stuck. Him. Satoru Gojo. Untouchable in every sense of the word. Unacceptable. And then, as if the universe hadn't already humiliated him enough, when her hands hit the ground, he’d felt it. The sting. The sharp bite of pain on his own palms.

Not enough to matter. Hell, it wasn’t even painful. But it was enough to remind him—he wasn't supposed to feel pain. He didn’t get hurt.

And then, of course...

Mistake number three. Saving her.

Not that he had much choice. He wasn’t about to test if her technique meant that if she died, he’d go down with her into that unfortunate path. No thanks. He wasn’t about to let some art school girl with a cursed painting be his downfall.

So, he did what he always did. He saved the day. Obliterated the curse. Handled the problem.

But the problem wasn’t gone. His fingers twitched at the memory, as if he could shake off the effects of her technique. But no matter how much he wanted to walk away, he couldn’t.

Her technique was still very much active on him. He could see it. He could feel it.

She didn’t even realize what she’d done. Clueless. A complete amateur. Which meant he was stuck with her a little longer. At least for now.

Fine. He could deal with it. He always did.

His gaze flicked over to her. To her credit, she was still standing—barely. Wobbly. Wide-eyed. Like a deer caught in headlights. Poor thing looked like she'd been hit by a train.

But standing, nonetheless.

He sighed. It was going to be a long day. He shook his head, already regretting the words he was about to say. "Guess we’ll have to figure it out together then, huh, art girl?"

Mistake number four. Sticking around.

She'd finally calmed down enough to lead him to the art room where she’d stashed the painting—the source of all this chaos. Her frame was hunched, her steps unsteady, probably from a mix of exhaustion and shock. Satoru didn’t need his Six Eyes to know she was on the verge of falling apart. The tension was radiating off her. He could feel it.

And, in some twisted way, it almost amused him.

The door creaked as she pushed it open, and there it was—the painting. Her cursed masterpiece, radiating cursed energy like a beacon, practically begging to unleash another disaster. Satoru could see it clearly, the energy dripping from the canvas. This thing was ready to spit out another special-grade curse at any second.

But that wasn’t the worst part. Oh no. The worst part was the scene inside.

Bodies.

Scattered across the floor—professors, students. Some slumped over desks, others collapsed where they stood, blood pooling beneath them. Victims of the curse that had been hunting her earlier.

Satoru barely spared them a glance. Death wasn’t new. It wasn’t personal.

But for the art girl?

She stumbled into the corner of the room, her face pale. She bent over and retched, her body shaking with the force of it. A whimper slipped out, then the tears followed. Soft at first. Then louder. Messier. Raw, panicked quickly escalating into full-blown sobbing that echoed off the walls.

"Great. Just great," Satoru muttered, leaning lazily against the doorframe. He dragged a hand through his already disheveled hair, sighing heavily. "Exactly what I needed."

Why me?

He wasn’t built for this. He wasn’t Suguru. He didn’t do comfort. Hell, even Suguru didn’t do comfort anymore, in fact, he was now probably the last person anyone wanted around in a moment like this. And Satoru? The idea of consoling a crying girl in a room full of corpses wasn’t just uncomfortable. It was a nightmare.

He glanced at the cursed painting again. The sooner he destroyed it, dragged her back to Jujutsu High, and forced her to cancel this annoying technique, the better.

"Come on, get a hold of yourself," he called, his voice sharper than intended.

No response. Just more sobbing into her hands.

Satoru straightened up, as he took a step into the room, his gaze locked on the cursed painting. The cursed energy clinging to it was thick, heavy. It wouldn’t take long for another disaster to be born from it. But thanks to the ridiculous bond her technique had created, his options were limited.

Worst case scenario? If she died, he would die too. And if destroying the painting hurt her, would it hurt him? Would it kill him? 

Great.

"This is a joke," he muttered, more to himself than to her. His fingers twitched, itching to annihilate the damn canvas with a flick of his wrist.

But he hesitated. It wasn’t just the painting. He couldn’t leave her here. Whether she liked it or not, she was coming back with him. She’d undo this cursed technique, and then someone else could deal with her. Someone better suited for it.

Before he could move, her voice cracked through the silence—a small, choked sob. "Why did this happen to me?"

Satoru glanced over his shoulder, his expression blank. "Why? You made the painting, didn’t you?" His tone was flat. "Congratulations. That’s why this happened to you."

She didn’t respond. Just curled into herself, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling.

He rolled his eyes, fighting the urge to curse out loud. This was probably another mistake. One more poor choice in a long list of them. He should’ve just blown up the painting from the very start. Should’ve walked away before it got this messy. But no—here he was. Babysitting.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, already feeling the migraine setting in. "Hey."

Nothing. Just more sobbing. Typical.

"I said, hey." He snapped his fingers, sharp and loud. The sound echoed off the walls, cutting through her sobs like a knife.

Finally, she lifted her head. Her hazel eyes were red and swollen, her breath hitching painfully. She looked like a wreck. A complete mess. But he wasn’t here to play therapist.

"Look," he said, his tone clipped. "If you don’t get up and help me, we’re going to have another one of those things coming after us. Is that what you want?"

Her gaze flicked to the painting, fear twisting her features. She hesitated, and for a second, Satoru wondered if she was even capable of standing. But then, slowly, shakily, she pushed herself to her feet.

Finally.

"Get up, art girl." His voice dropped, low and tense. "You’re coming with me."

He stepped closer to the cursed painting, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. "Grab your damn cursed painting. We’re leaving."

Here it comes. Mistake number five.

Her wide, tear-filled eyes blinked up at him, confusion and fear swirling behind them. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off before she could say anything.

"To Tokyo Jujutsu High," he said, his voice final.

✎■■■■■■■■■■

«I'm Aoi. Aoi Fujikawa. Aoi like Hollyhock, not the color Blue. Yeah, I know—nobody ever gets it right the first time. I'm 19 and freshman at Tokyo University of the Arts. I really like mochi and hate coffee.»

Her voice echoed in Satoru's mind. Aoi like Hollyhock, not the color Blue. He scoffed silently. Who even cares?

He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Standing in the sterile quiet of the infirmary, he couldn't help but feel a wave of disbelief. Out of all the ways to introduce herself, she picked that? Like she was reading poetry at some awkward open mic night?

Not necessary information didn’t even begin to cover it.

His gaze flicked back to her. She was hunched on the edge of the cot, swallowed by white sheets. Damp hair clung to her face in messy clumps, stubbornly escaping her ponytail. She tried to push it back, but her trembling fingers kept returning to twist the sheets, then her lap, like she couldn’t decide where to focus.

Her eyes—wide, hazel, and heavy with exhaustion—kept darting to his face, as if waiting for him to say something, acknowledge her quirky little introduction.

Satoru wasn’t about to oblige.

Tokyo Jujutsu High at night was as quiet as a graveyard. Fitting, considering he’d just dragged in a crying girl, a cursed painting, and the residual stench of death. Not exactly how he planned to spend his evening. But then again, when did anything ever go according to plan?

Satoru stretched, bones cracking as he raised his arms over his head, the motion exaggerated and slow. Not from physical strain, but from the sheer exhaustion of interacting with people. Specifically, her. Babysitting wasn’t part of the job description, but somehow, that’s exactly what his night had turned into.

He glanced over at her, sitting stiffly while Shoko gleefully tweezed glass shards from her hands.

Satoru still couldn’t figure her out. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t here to befriend her, and her odd introduction was about the tenth thing that had annoyed him today. If she was looking for some kind of connection, she’d be waiting a long time. He had bigger problems—like figuring out what the hell to do with her and that cursed technique of her she had casted on him.

Dragging her there had proven difficult. He could’ve knocked her out and teleported them both to Jujutsu High in seconds. But no. She had to make it complicated by asking a million questions on the way. Never mind the curses, blood, vomit, or the bodies. She’d decided it was the perfect time for a full-blown interrogation.

What are curses? Why was it so dark? Do you have superpowers? Who are you? Why the sunglasses? Why? Why? Why?

It had been like babysitting a five-year-old stuck in the "why phase." Sure, she got points for persistence. She hadn’t completely fallen apart, which was... admirable, he supposed. But after her fifteenth why, Satoru had had enough.

He’d hoisted her over his shoulder—ignoring her startled squeal—and teleported them both to Jujutsu High, dumping her in front of Yaga and hoping he would take one look at her and do… something. Anything. Just to get her off his hands.

One more mistake avoided, he thought sarcastically.

And now, here they were. Principal Yaga stood, arms crossed, glaring at the cursed painting like it was personally responsible for ruining his night. Shoko looked far too amused, continuing her "medical" work with a little too much enthusiasm.

"Well?" Yaga's voice cut through the stillness, gruff as ever. He’d plastered a few talismans on the painting and now seemed to be waiting for some kind of profound insight from Satoru. "What’s your assessment?"

Satoru glanced at the painting, shoving his hands into his pockets. The cursed energy was thick and suffocating, radiating off it like heat from a fire. Dangerous. A walking disaster waiting to happen. Even without his Six Eyes, he could feel it.

But that wasn’t the real problem.

The real problem was Aoi Fujikawa. And the connection the painting had with the her, and now with him too.

"It’s a ticking time bomb," he said flatly. "The painting’s bad news. It's already spit out one special-grade curse, and it’s more than ready to do it again." His gaze slid to Aoi, who flinched every time Shoko yanked out another shard of glass. "But it’s tied to her."

Yaga’s brow furrowed. "Tied?" His tone demanded more.

Satoru leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "From what I can tell, her cursed technique involves something like fragmenting her soul. She attached a piece of it into  that lovely disaster over there. Oh, and apparently to me too." His gaze flicked briefly to Aoi before settling back on Yaga. "Case in point: I’m now stuck with a fragment of her soul attached to me that apparently I can't get rid off. Which is... inconvenient."

Yaga’s eyes narrowed. "So, you’re telling me—"

"I’m saying that thanks to her cursed technique, I feel every little thing that happens to her."

Right on cue, Shoko yanked another shard from Aoi’s hand, and Satoru winced. The sting lanced through him like a static shock as if it were his own skin being sliced open. Not agonizing, but annoying. And Shoko? She was clearly enjoying herself, her grin sly and sharp. Every time she pulled a shard free, she glanced at him, knowing damn well he could feel the same sting thanks to the cursed bond between him and Aoi.

"Ow!" Aoi yelped, jerking her hand back. Her eyes darted between Shoko and Satoru, confusion and guilt clouding her expression.

Shoko’s grin widened. "You poor thing," she said in a mock-pitying voice. She dove back in for another shard. Both Aoi and Satoru flinched. "This must hurt."

Satoru shot her a glare. "You’re enjoying this way too much."

"I told you," Shoko said, smirking as she tugged another shard free. "It’s practice for my medical training. Gotta know how to handle delicate cursed injuries. And what better test subjects than you two?" She gestured to Aoi, who looked pale and ready to pass out.

Yeah, she was suffering. But so was he. And it was getting old.

Aoi's eyes flicked between them, confusion and guilt twisting her features. "Is this… is this because of me?" she asked, her voice shaky but still annoyingly persistent.

Satoru sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This whole situation was a nightmare. Yaga looked ready to chew nails, rubbing his temples like the headache was settling in.

"Yeah," Satoru muttered, trying—and failing—not to sound too irritated, but the endless stings in his hands were making it difficult. "It’s your fault."

She winced, biting her lip to suppress another yelp. "Is he... always like this?"

Shoko didn’t look up, but her voice was dry with amusement. "Oh, you have no idea. Most people just tolerate him because they have no other choice."

Aoi glanced at Satoru, her expression softening for a second. "But he can't be all bad, right? I mean, I he did saved my life."

Shoko smirked knowingly, giving her a sideways glance. "Sure, but don’t get too sentimental. He has a habit of collecting strays. You’re just the latest."

Unbelieveble. How had a cynical being like Shoko befriended a clueless dumb art girl? Satoru rolled his eyes, his usual smug expression slipping back into place. "Are you two done gossiping, or should I get you both some tea and scones?"

He glanced at Yaga, who was still glaring at the cursed painting like it was seconds from exploding. Then back to Aoi. She sat still, quiet, watching them both with wide, uncertain eyes. She looked like a lost puppy, waiting to be told what to do next.

Satoru could see it—the thread of her cursed technique still tying her to that painting.

And to him.

Aoi opened her mouth to speak, but Shoko beat her to it. Ever the sadist, she yanked another shard of glass from her hand. 

"Ow!" Aoi yelped, biting her lip to hold back more pain. Her wide hazel eyes flickered with discomfort, but she hesitated, glancing up at Satoru, uncertain. Then, her voice trembled with a fragile hope. "So, if I don’t make any more paintings, it’ll stop, right?"

Satoru exchanged a look with Yaga, who raised an unimpressed eyebrow. She still wasn’t getting it. "Look," he said, sharper than he meant to. "Right now, we’re focused on this one painting. So maybe stop worrying about hypothetical disasters and let us do our job—"

"But what if the other paintings I made are like this one?" Aoi’s voice cracked, her panic slicing through his words.

The room went still.

Satoru’s mind froze. Other paintings? He turned to her, his casual mask slipping. His gaze sharpened, the air growing heavier with tension. "Other paintings?" he repeated, his patience wearing thin. "How many?"

Aoi’s fingers fidgeted in her lap. She looked like she’d just realized she’d said too much. She glanced between Satoru and Yaga, hesitating. But the silence pressed down until she cracked. "Um... well... the painting of ‘Hate’ you're looking at... it was part of a series. I... I made nine others."

Silence. Heavy, suffocating.

Nine. Nine other cursed paintings. Of course. Why wouldn’t there be more? One special-grade disaster wasn’t enough—no, it was part of a whole damned collection of cursed painting. Satoru wasn’t sure whether to laugh or bang his head against the wall.

"I didn’t mean to!" Aoi protested, her voice rising with panic. She twisted her hands together, knuckles white. "I didn’t know they were cursed, whatever that even means! I thought they were just... you know, paintings. I didn’t know anything about curses, or—" Her voice broke into a whisper, guilt coating every word. "I... I sold them. At a charity auction."

Yaga, rubbing his temples, let out a heavy sigh. "So, you’re telling me there are nine other paintings like this one, possibly cursed, scattered in random people's homes?"

Satoru’s eye twitched. Great. Nine cursed paintings out there, waiting to turn the world into a disaster zone. This day just kept getting better. "Alright," he said, his voice tight, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "First things first. Let’s get rid of this one before it spits out another special grade curse."

He approached the painting, every step echoing through the infirmary. His hand hovered over the canvas, the cursed energy thick and oppressive. The painting pulsed, almost alive, cursed energy that clawed at the edges of his senses.

Red light flared at his fingertips as he gathered his cursed energy, his Six Eyes narrowing with focus. It would be quick. A simple flick of his fingers, tear the painting apart, end it.

"Wait—what are you—?" Aoi’s panicked voice cut through the tension, her eyes wide as they locked onto his glowing fingertips.

Satoru didn’t bother answering. He wasn’t in the mood to explain. "Time to put this thing out of its misery," he muttered, his gaze locked on the canvas.

The red light at his fingertips burned brighter, casting harsh shadows across the walls. This cursed object—this thing that had caused way too much chaos—was about to meet its end. And then—

Boom.

The painting and the wall behind it exploded in a blinding flash of red, its cursed energy ripping through the room like a storm. The walls groaned, tiles cracked underfoot, and a shockwave rattled shelves and sent dust flying. The scent of burnt energy filled the air. Satoru stood at the center of it, arm still raised, eyes narrowed.

But something was off. His gaze snapped to Aoi, just in time to see her body jolt like she’d been struck. Her eyes, wide and terrified, rolled back white. Before anyone could react, she crumpled, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Shit," Satoru hissed, the backlash slamming into him. Pain shot through his hands, burning up his arms and searing through his chest. His breath caught as his vision blurred. His body staggered under the weight of the cursed connection dragging him down, as the wind was knocked out of him.

Damn it. He should’ve seen this coming. When the painting went, when the fragment of her soul attached to it was destroyed, it took her with it. And dragged him along for the ride.

The pain wasn’t unbearable—he’d survived worse—but it was sharp, raw, disorienting. He forced himself upright, grinding his teeth as the pain dulled into a lingering ache.

Across the room, Shoko was already at Aoi’s side, crouching beside her unconscious body. Calm, like it was just another day in her twisted job. "She’ll be fine," she muttered, checking her pulse. She didn’t even look up. "Just passed out from the shock."

Satoru clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe. The pain was easing, but the ache lingered, gnawing at him.

Her cursed technique was far more dangerous than it looked. When the painting shattered, the backlash was real. He’d detonated a bomb inside both of them, and they both took the hit.

Yaga’s stern gaze cut through the haze. "You good?"

Satoru waved him off, his jaw tight. "Yeah, yeah. Just a little..." He straightened, ignoring the ache burning in his chest. "...backlash. It’s fine."

His eyes flicked to Aoi, slumped on the cot, her face pale and fragile. She didn’t even understand the disaster she’d unleashed. He could still feel it—the sting, the echo of pain as the painting exploded. But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was what it meant.

Shoko glanced up, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Well, that answers the question of whether you two are really linked, huh?"

Satoru shot her a glare, but the pain dulled its edge. Linked. What a nightmare. His gaze drifted back to Aoi—unconscious, vulnerable, and still breathing.

Destroying just one painting had nearly knocked her out. And him too, though he'd never admit it. The shock had burned deeper than flesh. It had dragged them both under, thanks to her cursed technique.

If one painting did that, what would happen with nine? He didn’t want to test what would happen if they destroyed all of them. Would she even survive it? 

The thought made his head pound.

Yaga stood near the ruined canvas, arms crossed, his face shadowed with frustration. "This is a fine mess," he muttered, rubbing his temples. The painting was gone, but the problem had only gotten bigger.

Satoru's laugh was hollow. "Guess we’ll need to track down the others, but... destroying them?" He shook his head. "Not an option anymore. Not if this is the result." His voice was tight, his usual bravado dulled. "Figured that out the hard way."

Shoko leaned against the wall, her gaze flicking between Aoi and Satoru. "So, what? You’re gonna teach her to undo it?"

Satoru frowned, arms crossed. Teach her? The thought grated. He wasn’t a teacher. Hell, she didn’t even know she had a cursed technique, let alone how to control it. But what choice did he have? If she couldn’t figure out how to break the bond, they’d be stuck like this. Forever.

"Let’s hope she’s a fast learner," he muttered, already dreading the answer. Because if she wasn’t, he sure as hell was in trouble.

He let out a long breath, gaze flicking back to Aoi. Pale, still, too fragile for the chaos she’d unleashed.

Nine more paintings. Nine more disasters waiting to happen.

Satoru dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

"Why didn’t I just blow the damn thing up from the start?"

✎✘■■■■■■■■■

Satoru Gojo wasn’t known for his patience.

The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the university campus. Students strolled through the courtyard, laughing and chatting, unaware of the chaos that had unfolded just a day before. From the outside, it looked like a normal autumn day—leaves swirling in the breeze, the faint chill in the air. Perfectly ordinary.

But he knew better.

Leaning against a lamppost near the campus gates, his blue eyes—hidden behind his signature sunglasses—swept over the scene. His Six Eyes weren’t focused on the students. No, they were locked on the lingering traces of cursed energy that still clung to the air. Residual, but thick and heavy. A reminder of the special-grade curse that had torn through the art department the night before. Destruction, blood, bodies. Professors and students caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Most didn’t even have the chance to realize they were dying.

Collateral damage, all thanks to a cursed painting. Thanks to her.

The Jujutsu sorcerers and assistants had already moved in, covering up the mess with the usual excuses—ongoing renovations, a routine maintenance issue, ensuring that no word of what had really happened leaked to the public. The wing was sealed off, caution tape fluttering in the breeze. To the passing students, it was nothing more than an inconvenience.

If only they knew.

Satoru pushed his sunglasses up his nose, his gaze sharpening. But he wasn’t here to admire the cover-up. He wasn’t here for reflection. No, he had a more pressing matter at hand.

He was here for Aoi Fujikawa.

He watched her from a distance, tracking her with ease. She strolled through the courtyard, looking far too carefree for someone who’d unleashed a special grade curse that left a pile of bodies in its wake. Too relaxed for someone tied to him by a cursed technique she didn’t even understand.

But he saw through it. The guilt. The way her fingers gripped her bag straps a little too tightly. The nervous glance over her shoulder when she thought no one was watching. She was trying to hold herself together, but she wasn’t fooling him. Maybe she could fake it for everyone else, but not Satoru. Not when his Six Eyes caught every twitch, every flicker of tension.

No one walked away from an incident like that without feeling the burden of it. Not unless they were dead inside. He had years of experience dealing with guilt-ridden sorcerers.

She wasn’t ready for what was coming. Not even close.

When she'd finally woken up last night, he hadn’t wasted time sugarcoating things. He’d politely—okay, maybe a little brutally—told her to focus, to undo her cursed technique. Simple in theory. Call back the fragments of her soul, break the connection. She’d go back to her oh-so-thrilling little life of being an artist, and he could hunt down the cursed paintings solo.

But nothing was ever simple with Aoi Fujikawa. She didn’t know how to undo it. She didn’t even know she had a cursed technique in the first place.

Satoru sighed, watching her cross the courtyard, her oversized backpack bouncing awkwardly with each step. It was stuffed like she’d packed for a road trip instead of a cursed mission. Did she think this was some kind of adventure? Snacks, art supplies, clothes—it looked like she was ready for a vacation, not a disaster clean-up.

She wasn’t taking this seriously. He wasn’t sure if it was naïveté, ignorance, or some mix of both that made her act like this was no big deal. And that irritated him more than it should.

Aoi didn’t fit the mold of someone caught in a disaster like this that left bodies in their wake. Too bright, too light. Like she hadn’t accepted how close she’d come to dying—or how many people had died. Or maybe she was just that good at pretending, keeping her head above water by pretending it wasn’t as bad as it was.

She reached him, smiling too brightly, holding up a crumpled piece of paper like a trophy. "Got it!" she said, her voice chipper. "All the names and locations of the buyers."

Satoru raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. She looked far too pleased with herself for someone who’d barely fetched a list, but at least it would make things easier—if anything about this could be called "easy" anymore.

"Good for you," he muttered, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He didn’t bother hiding his sarcasm. She beamed like she’d solved some grand mystery, and it made him want to shake her. But instead, he waved a hand dismissively. "Now, try again."

Aoi’s smile faltered, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Try what?"

Do I really have to spell it out? He sighed, folding his arms, his patience already wearing thin. "The cursed technique. Undo it. The one tethering your soul to me. Focus this time. Really focus."

Her expression shifted—determined but unsure. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders like she was about to perform magic, and closed her eyes. She stretched out her hands in front of her, fingers trembling slightly.

Satoru watched, deadpan. Was she serious?

It was almost cute. Like a kid trying to cast a spell at a birthday party. She actually thought this might work. Pathetic, but in a way that made him want to laugh. Seconds passed. Nothing happened. No flicker of cursed energy. No shift in the air.

It was exactly as he had expected—pointless.

«Are you... what exactly are you doing?» His tone was flat, unimpressed. He didn’t even bother to hide his irritation. This is what I’m dealing with?

She opened her eyes and dropped her hands with a sigh. "I thought maybe... I don’t know. A spell? Magic words?"

Satoru ran a hand through his hair, his exasperation boiling over. "Yeah, no kidding," he muttered adjusting his sunglasses. His smirk returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Looks like you’re really stuck with me. Congrats."

Aoi groaned, her frustration clear. "Why? Can’t you just... go without me? I’m not much use here. I’ve already caused enough trouble—"

She really doesn’t get it, does she? He cut her off, sharp and fast. "No. Do you know how many people would kill for a shot at me? If they figured out taking you down would take me down too, they’d jump at it." He crossed his arms. "You’re not leaving my sight."

She blinked, clearly unsure whether to believe him, her brows knitting together as she processed his words. "Why does everyone want you dead?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with curiosity. "Is it because you’re... this annoying with everyone?"

A laugh slipped out before he could stop it. She wasn’t entirely wrong—he was pretty good at getting under people’s skin. But it wasn’t that simple, and there was no way he was going to explain the complexity of his position to her. "You have no idea," he said, grin widening.

She looked away, her fingers fiddling with the straps of her backpack. Her bright energy dimmed slightly, a flicker of vulnerability showing through. "I didn’t mean for this to happen," she said, her voice lower. "I didn’t know my paintings were cursed... I thought they were just art. My art."

He watched her for a second. She meant it. But good intentions didn’t undo damage. They didn’t bring back the dead. "Doesn’t matter if you meant it or not," he said quietly. "People are dead. They don’t care about your intentions."

Aoi flinched, her face paling. She looked like she wanted to argue, but the fight drained out of her. Instead, she bit her lip and nodded, her eyes dropping to the floor. She toyed with the paper in her hand, her fingers trembling.

Satoru could see right through her. The guilt was there, eating away at her beneath the surface. She was trying to hold on to some shred of her usual brightness, but it wasn’t going to last. Blood was on her hands now, and that wasn’t something you could just smile through.

"Welcome to the world of Jujutsu sorcerers, art girl," he muttered, his tone sharp. "You create curses, you clean them up. That's the rule."

Aoi looked up, eyes meeting his. There was guilt, yes, but also something else. Determination. Like she was bracing herself for whatever came next. She didn’t say anything. Just let his words hang between them.

Despite everything, that strange spark of hers was still there. Still stubborn. Still trying. It was frustrating. Satoru couldn’t figure out if it was resilience, denial, or just plain stupidity. Either way, innocence like that didn’t last long in his world.

"Anyway," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "What the hell do you have in there? You look like you’re moving house."

"Oh, uh, just essentials," she said with a shrug. "You know—snacks, clothes, painting supplies. We don’t know how long this is going to take, so I figured I’d be prepared."

Satoru rubbed his temples. Snacks, sure. He might even steal a few. But painting supplies? Really? Did she think they’d have time for a little watercolor break while hunting cursed objects?

"Art supplies?" he repeated, his disbelief obvious. "What, planning to make more cursed paintings along the way?"

Aoi laughed, light and unaffected, like she hadn’t just unleashed chaos on the world. She raised her eyebrows playfully. "Maybe you can teach me to be a wizard, and I’ll teach you to paint?"

He almost snorted. Him? A teacher? That was never happening. "A wizard?" Satoru scoffed. "What is this, Harry Potter? Maybe I’ll show you how to fly a broomstick while we’re at it."

Aoi just shrugged, completely unfazed. She had this annoying ability to brush off his sarcasm like it didn’t bother her and an odd sense of optimism that didn’t quite fit her situation.

Satoru started walking, but Aoi hesitated, glancing back at the campus. She wasn’t just thinking about the paintings. She was thinking about what else they might’ve unleashed. What other horrors might be waiting. And the guilt—he could see it, still gnawing at her.

Satoru almost smiled. Guilt was part of the package. She’d have to learn that sooner or later. In the world of jujutsu, people got hurt. People died. That was just how it was.

She’d have to figure it out on her own.

Her gaze lingered on the art building—the place where it had all gone wrong. She was realizing it now. There was no going back. No retreating to the safety of canvases and studios. That life was over.

Good. She's starting to get it.

He smirked to himself as he watched her. Snacks or not, this was going to be a long, irritating journey.

"So," Satoru said, already growing impatient. "Where’s the nearest cursed painting?" He glanced at the crumpled list in her hand. Tokyo, Osaka, Aomori, Nagano. Scattered across the country. Great. This is going to be a nightmare.

Aoi looked down at the list, biting her lip. "One of the buyers lives in Tokyo. They bought the painting of ‘Joy.’"

Satoru raised an eyebrow. "Joy, huh? Fitting."

Fitting for the exact opposite of what he was feeling right now.

She glanced up at him, confused. "Fitting how?"

"Never mind," he said, waving off the question. She didn’t need to know what was going through his head. "We’ll start there. Once we get close, I can track it down with my Six Eyes. I don’t need you to do much else—just follow my lead, don't get in trouble and don't curse more things on the way."

Aoi stared at him for a moment, thoughtful, like something about what he’d said had caught her attention. He could see the gears turning in her head. And sure enough—

"What are you staring at?" he asked, cutting through her thoughts.

"Hey, Satoru," she began, her face entirely serious as she met his gaze. "Where are your other four eyes?"

Satoru nearly choked, caught completely off guard by the sheer absurdity of her question. Of all the things she could have asked. He blinked, then a smirk tugged at his lips.

"Oh, art girl," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I’m never telling you that. Absolutely never."

Chapter Text

✎✘■■■■■■■■■

JOY

-Aoi-

"𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘬!"

Aoi’s fingers flew across her phone, typing furiously as she vented to Shoko. She scowled at the screen, waiting for a response. Working with Satoru Gojo was proving harder than she’d ever imagined. How was she supposed to cooperate with someone who seemed to enjoy making every single thing as difficult as humanly possible and took pleasure in her discomfort?

Her phone buzzed.

"𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴?"

She blinked. Sweets? That was the advice? From Shoko? She’d been expecting something more… practical.

"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬?"

"𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦, 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵~"

Aoi stared at the screen, confused. Maybe asking Shoko had been a mistake, but honestly? She was desperate. Satoru was impossible, and she'd try anything at this point.

She let out a huff, glancing up at the man walking a few steps ahead. Satoru looked relaxed, like all of this was just an irritating detour in his otherwise perfect life. Hands stuffed in his pockets, posture loose but confident that made her feel small in comparison. His messy white hair caught the afternoon sun, and those sunglasses—those stupid sunglasses—only made him look more untouchably cool.

Meanwhile, Aoi felt like a pack mule. Her bag was stuffed with clothes, snacks, notebooks, and even a few art supplies she hadn’t been able to leave behind. In the two days they'd spent tracking down the cursed painting of Joy, she'd carried it everywhere. Satoru? Not so much as a backpack.

He didn’t need to plan ahead because, apparently, the world would just bend to his whims. No supplies. Just him and his obnoxious confidence. If he needed something, he just walked into a store, swiped his card, and walked out. A drink here, a new shirt there. That morning, he'd emerged from his hotel room with a bag of snacks like it was nothing. She still had no idea when or where the hell he managed to buy that.

Is he filthy rich or just spoiled rotten? she wondered, glaring in irritation at the back of his head. Here she was, trudging along like she was hauling her entire life, while he looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine.

Must be nice.

Her phone buzzed again, pulling her out of her thoughts.

"𝘚𝘰? 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬?"

I haven’t even tried yet, she thought, sighing as she pulled a small box of mochi from her bag. Offer him sweets? It sounded ridiculous. Could the most arrogant, powerful sorcerer she’d ever met really be tamed with a box of mochi? Doubtful.

Still. What harm could it do?

Satoru’s voice floated back to her, completely oblivious to her internal struggle. "—cursed weapons, cursed techniques, and, of course, cursed energy manipulation. The key is understanding the flow. If you can control the flow of cursed energy, you can control your technique. Simple," he droned on, waving his hand lazily as if he wasn’t already beating the subject to death. 

Simple, she thought bitterly. Sure. Like basic math. Two days of nonstop lectures about cursed energy, techniques, and how everything would just click if she tried hard enough had left her brain feeling like mush. Satoru made it sound so easy, like she was supposed to be born understanding this stuff. But to her, it was still a confusing mess.

Taking a deep breath, she eyed the mochi and quickened her pace. Here goes nothing. 

"Hey," she said, nudging his arm gently and forcing a smile. "Want a mochi? These are from my grandma's shop. Matcha flavored. My favorites."

Satoru stopped mid-sentence, his eyes flicking down to the box, then back to her face. A slow, amused smile tugged at his lips. "Finally," he sighed dramatically, plucking a mochi from the box. "I was starting to think I’d have to wrestle one out of your hands. It's about damn time you offered."

Aoi blinked. Is this actually working? She watched as he popped the mochi into his mouth, eyes closing briefly as if savoring the taste.

"Matcha flavored, huh?" His voice was teasing. "You’ve got good taste, art girl. I’m impressed."

She couldn’t help but laugh a little, popping a mochi into her own mouth. "It’s not like I was keeping them from you," she said, her mood lifting just a little. "I didn’t think you’d want one."

He chuckled, clearly entertained. "Of course, I’d want one," he said, casting her a sideways glance. "And you’re not as selfish as I thought. See? We’re making progress."

Aoi shook her head, stifling a laugh. Who would've guessed? The all-powerful Satoru Gojo had a weakness for sweets. At least he wasn’t being completely insufferable right now. Maybe there was hope after all. Baby steps, she thought. Baby steps.

But her amusement faded quickly. Because no matter how playful their exchange, she still felt out of place. Here she was, stumbling along behind him, trying to figure out how to undo the nightmare she’d accidentally unleashed, and yet… she felt useless.

Satoru was the one who fought the curse, strategized, and knew exactly what to do. And her? She was just… there. An unwanted tagalong, an afterthought.

Her mind wandered back to her paintings—the ten pieces that had started this entire mess. She’d poured everything into them, her emotions, her soul.

Maybe too much of her soul.

She hadn’t known they would turn into cursed objects capable of death and destruction.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Her art was meant to reflect her inner world, not destroy the outer one.

Maybe my existence is just cursed, she thought, her heart sinking. She didn’t know how, but she had to make it right. She couldn’t keep letting Satoru handle everything. Not when she was the one who’d created the mess. But he treated her like she was just dead weight, dragging her along because of that cursed bond—not because he thought she could actually help.

And that stung.

She glanced at him again, her irritation cooling into something closer to curiosity. Satoru was impossible. Confident to the point of arrogance, always ready with a sharp remark. But there was something about him that tugged at her attention. Like he’d built up walls so high no one could ever climb over them.

No one gets close to him, she realized. And it wasn’t hard to see why. He kept people at arm’s length with his teasing and godlike confidence, as if he didn’t need anyone. To him, cursed energy, cursed objects, and all things related to sorcery were the only things that seemed to matter. Maybe that’s why he was so good at what he did. Maybe that’s why nothing could touch him.

But Aoi liked connecting with people. She liked breaking through walls. And maybe it was stubbornness, maybe it was this cursed bond—or maybe it was just her refusal to let him act like an ass without pushing back, but something in her wanted to try. She wasn’t about to give up.

Not yet.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice Satoru slowing until he snapped his fingers in front of her face, that usual smirk tugging at his lips. "Earth to art girl?" he quipped, amusement dancing in his voice. His blue eyes, hidden behind those ever-present sunglasses, glinted with what seemed like perpetual self-satisfaction. "You’re spacing out. Try to keep up, will ya?"

Aoi blinked, her cheeks heating. "Sorry," she muttered, biting her lip. Embarrassed but trying to shake it off. Okay, good-looking— she had to begrudgingly admit that— but that personality? Ugh.

He tilted his head, grin widening. "Getting lost in thought while staring at me? Can’t blame you. Happens all the time."

Aoi groaned internally resisting the overwhelming urge to slap him. Why am I stuck with this guy? Yes, he was the only thing standing between her and the chaos she’d caused. But did he have to be so damn insufferable?

"You’re such a—" she started, ready to fire back, but caught herself.. Cool Aoi, don’t take the bait. She forced a smile. Maybe he wasn’t all bad. Maybe he was just misunderstood.

Probably not. It was a weak excuse, but it was better than yelling at him.

Satoru’s smirk deepened, clearly pleased. Like her holding back was some kind of victory for him.

"So, let me get this straight," Aoi said, breaking the tense silence. She was trying to piece everything together, hoping it would all make sense if she said it aloud. "You’re a sorcerer who exorcises curses, right?"

"Correct," he replied, oozing that same casual confidence, walking like someone who’d never once doubted himself. Why would he? The world bent to him, and he knew it.

"With magic—no, cursed energy and cursed techniques?" she pressed, still fumbling over the terminology. This world felt like a foreign language she was just starting to learn.

Satoru gave a slight nod, the barest hint of amusement flickering across his face. He didn’t slow down, didn’t even glance at her, but the twitch of his lips told her enough—he was enjoying this.

"Right again," he said, clearly entertained by how fast she was catching on.

Subtle as it was, Aoi could tell—he liked that she was learning. Not that he’d admit it without hiding behind sarcasm. "See? You’re starting to get it, art girl." There it was—his version of a compliment, tucked behind that trademark smirk. "Maybe I should start charging for my teaching skills. You’re lucky to learn from the best."

Aoi scoffed. Seriously? Bragging about being a good teacher now? The nerve of this guy. Still, as much as she wanted to roll her eyes, a small flicker of pride warmed her. He’d noticed her effort, even if he’d wrapped it in arrogance. "And there are more like you? Other sorcerers?" she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. Yeah, it would feed his ego, but she wanted to know.

"Mmhmm," he hummed, that glint of amusement still lingering. And, of course, "But I’m still the strongest."

Aoi groaned, unable to hold it back this time. "You really can’t go five minutes without reminding me, can you?" He wasn’t just saying he was the strongest; he believed it with every fiber of his being.  And, annoyingly, it seemed like he was right.

"Just making sure you don’t forget." Satoru finally glanced back over his shoulder, his smirk growing wider as if her frustration was delicious.

Aoi sighed but pushed on. "And you all study at some kind of school for people like you? Because honestly, this is starting to sound a little too much like Harry Potter."

That earned a grin. "Don’t ever compare me to Harry Potter," he drawled, thick with sarcasm, though his eyes glinted with humor. "I’m not some wannabe wizard in a pointy hat."

She bit back a laugh. Despite herself, she relaxed a little. There were moments, brief and fleeting, where she saw glimpses of something more human—hidden under all that sarcasm and bravado. But he was like a locked door. Just enough intrigue to keep her curious, but never enough to really know him.

They walked in silence, the late afternoon sun casting golden light across the quiet suburban street. The neighborhood was peaceful, lined with tidy houses and trees shedding their autumn leaves. It felt like the perfect contrast to the chaos of her life.

Aoi glanced down at the crumpled list of names in her hand. It wasn’t just a list of buyers—it was a list of people they had to save. Her paintings had started this mess, and now it was her responsibility to fix it. Whether she was ready or not.

It wasn’t a weight she was used to. Aoi Fujikawa. The girl who always smiled, who always tried too hard. Now? The unwitting creator of cursed paintings. An accidental burden to the strongest sorcerer alive. She didn’t know whether to feel honored or horrified.

The thought made her head spin. Talk about a steep learning curve.

Her sneakers crunched against fallen leaves as she adjusted her backpack again, the heavy discomfort was grounding. Something real to focus on.

"So, curses are born from negative emotions, right?" she asked, her voice softer as she worked through the guilt twisting in her chest. "That explains the one that attacked me. It was born from my painting of 'Hate,' wasn’t it?"

Satoru nodded slightly, not slowing his pace. "You’re catching on."

Aoi felt a small surge of pride. Maybe she wasn’t as useless as she felt. "So, this time it shouldn’t be a problem, right?" she said, her hope peeking through, allowing a hopeful smile to spread across her face. "The painting we’re after is 'Joy.' No negative emotions. So, no curse?"

For the first time in days, she allowed herself to believe it. Maybe not everything she touched turned dangerous. Maybe she wasn’t cursed.

"Joy..." she whispered, clinging to the word like a lifeline. "This time, everything will be fine."

But the second the words confidently left her mouth, she caught Satoru’s smirk widening.

"Joy, huh?" he chuckled, voice laced with sarcasm. "And if you’re so sure about that, why does the house we’re standing in front of reek of cursed energy?"

Her smile vanished. She stopped in her tracks, staring at the house. Just a normal suburban home. A tidy garden. White picket fence. Perfectly ordinary. But the air around it was heavy, suffocating. A pressure settled on her chest like an invisible hand, shattering the illusion.

She swallowed hard, feeling the prickling sensation on the back of her neck. She had spent the last hour talking herself into believing that this time would be different, but now, with Satoru’s mocking words and the oppressive energy oozing from the house, her confidence was crumbling.

And, of course, he noticed.

Satoru tilted his head, smug grin tugging at his lips. "You feel it too, right?" he teased, leaning closer as if savoring her discomfort. "So dense that even an amateur like you should be uncomfortable by now."

That cursed smirk.

Aoi swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah... I feel it." That suffocating presence—she’d heard him talk about it endlessly over the past few days. Cursed energy, he called it. And this house? It was practically oozing the stuff.

And there was something else. A pull. A strange, almost magnetic force. Like something inside the house was calling to her, dragging her closer. It felt the same way it did sometimes when she stood near Satoru. That same tether. But stronger. More urgent.

She shivered.

Satoru didn’t care. He adjusted his sunglasses with a lazy flick of his fingers and strolled toward the house. "Good," he said cheerfully, though his tone was anything but. "Then let’s go see what your joyful little painting has turned into."

Aoi’s heart sank.

The painting of Joy is cursed. Just like the others.

Panic prickled under her skin. Satoru had said her soul was fractured, scattered across her paintings. And that pull she felt? It wasn’t her imagination.

There really was a part of her in there.

A cursed part.

Satoru strolled toward the house, unbothered, his white hair catching the last rays of sunlight. He looked like he belonged to a world entirely his own. Calm. Detached. Already halfway up the path.

Aoi realized with growing panic what he intended to do. She knew that look in his eyes.

He’s just going to charge in without so much as a knock?

"Wait, wait, wait!" Aoi rushed forward, stepping in front of him blocking his path. "What’s the plan?" Her voice cracked with urgency.

She’d seen him fight before. How casually he'd destroyed a curse with a flick of his wrist. She knew how powerful he was. That was the problem. He didn’t think about the people who might get caught in the crossfire.

Satoru blinked, clearly amused by her futile attempt to stop him. His smirk widened like he couldn’t believe she was serious. "Plan? What plan?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "I go in, exorcise the curse, grab the painting, and we leave. Simple." He gave her a once-over, the mocking grin never leaving his face. "You can stay here and do what you do best—stand there, look cute, and try not to get into trouble. Smile or something."

Her face flushed. Embarrassment. Frustration. Both. "Cute? I’m not—" She stopped herself. This was always how it went. He made decisions without her, treated her like an afterthought. It was like she didn’t even matter in this whole mess. "I’m serious," she said, her voice firmer now. The wind tugged loose strands of hair from her ponytail. "You can’t just barge in and start blasting red lasers like a maniac! There are people in there. What if you scare them? Or worse—what if you hurt them?!"

"Red lasers?" He chuckled, his smugness almost palpable. "Okay, first of all, they’re not lasers. Second, do you really think knocking politely will help if there’s a special-grade curse inside?" He arched a brow, his tone sharpening. "You want me to stand here and ask the curse to leave?"

Without waiting for her response, he raised his hand, muttering under his breath something under his breath that she couldn’t quite catch.

Before Aoi could process it, a dome-shaped barrier formed around them, plunging the area into an eerie darkness. The world dimmed, shadows stretching long and strange. The street felt distant, cut off like they’d stepped into another dimension. Just like at the university.

Aoi’s scowl deepened. "There has to be another way," she said, her voice soft, almost pleading. "Can’t we just... talk to them first? Maybe they’ll just give the painting back if we explain."

Satoru tilted his head, his face unreadable behind those ridiculous sunglasses. For a second, it seemed like he might actually consider it.

Then, the smirk returned—sharper. "Wow. You really are insane," he muttered, shaking his head. "And here I thought you were starting to get it. Starting to understand the stakes. But no. You’re just completely nuts."

Aoi opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off with a flick of his hand. The playfulness dropped from his voice, replaced by something colder. "There’s a special-grade curse in there. The people inside are already in danger just by being near it. Every second we waste, they’re one step closer to dying."

The words hit her like a punch. She froze. Her breath caught.

People might be dying.

The thought echoed in her mind gnawing at her resolve.

Satoru’s smirk deepened. He knew he’d struck a nerve. "That’s what I thought," he said, stepping around her like she wasn’t even there. "Now, just stay put."

Her frustration boiled over. He always acted like he knew best. Like she was just a burden, tagging along because he had no choice. Her opinion didn’t matter. She didn’t matter.

"Wait—!" She grabbed for his jacket in a last-ditch effort to stop him, but her hand hit something solid, just inches from his coat. An invisible wall.

He turned slightly, that smug grin tugging at his lips. "Nice try, but not happening," he said, his voice full of mockery. "You’re not touching me ever again. I let you do that once, and look where it got us."

Aoi’s temper snapped. "Why don’t you ever listen?!" she shot back. "I’m trying to help! You can’t just go in there and—"

"Don’t need your permission, art girl." His voice dripped with arrogance.

Her cheeks burned. The brief harmony they'd shared earlier was gone, crumbling like ash leaving them at each other’s throats. They were back to fighting, like always. Like an old, dysfunctional couple who couldn’t agree on anything.

Satoru stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then, without a word, he turned and kept walking, her protests already forgotten.

It was like she wasn’t even there.

Frustration, fear, anger—everything inside her boiled over. She didn’t even think, and before she even knew what she was doing she just snapped. "Stop, you dumbass!"

To her shock—he did.

For a second, Aoi couldn’t understand why. Satoru’s body froze mid-step, locked in place like something invisible had pinned him down. His eyes widened slightly behind his sunglasses, genuine shock flashing across his face.

Then it shifted—irritation, laced with thin amusement. "Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me," he muttered, his voice tight with frustration. "Really? We’re doing this again?"

Aoi blinked. "Doing... what?" Confused.

His smile was tight. Not kind. Disbelieving. "That thing where you freeze me in place. You’ve done it twice now. I’d really appreciate it if you stopped."

Her eyes widened. "I don’t even know how I’m doing that!" she protested, hands flailing.

Satoru let out a long, exasperated sigh, still frozen in place. "Yeah, I can tell," he said dryly. "Because if you knew what you're doing, we wouldn’t be in this mess."

Aoi stared, caught between frustration and the strange satisfaction of seeing him—Satoru Gojo, all-powerful sorcerer—stuck.

Because of her. For once, she had the upper hand. And it felt so good.

A sly smile crept onto her face. "Looks like, for once, you’re going to have to do things my way."

His smirk faltered as he realized he was well and truly stuck for good. "Oh, no, no, no." His voice was laced with frustration, though the sarcasm was still thick. "Unlock me art girl. This is a terrible idea."

But Aoi was already moving, each step fueled by determination and maybe a little too much defiance. She could feel his frustration burning behind her, but she didn’t care. For once, she was the one leading. Didn’t he realize that she had a right to be involved? To help fix the mess her paintings had created?

She glanced back over her shoulder, grin widening. "Hmm, I don’t think so," she called. "I’m going to show you that sometimes, you need more than just brute force. You need empathy."

"Empathy? Right. No." Satoru’s expression darkened. "You need common sense. Now stop messing around and—"

She ignored him, heart racing as she reached the front door. She shot him one last glance, the cheeky grin on her face only serving to irritate him more.

Satoru’s jaw twitched like he was biting back a snarl. Beneath the irritation, though, there was something else. Something raw. Maybe it was admiration. Maybe he was seeking revenge. He wouldn’t say it.

"You’re really insane," he muttered, like he was trying to convince himself as much as her. "You were doing so well. I was starting to think you were more than just an amateur with cursed paintings. But no—you’re just completely out of your mind."

Aoi chuckled, light and easy. "Come on," she said, throwing him a playful look over her shoulder. "Don’t act like you’re not impressed. I’m handling things, wasn't that what you wanted? And hey, if this works, I get to say ‘I told you so.’"

Satoru’s lips twitched, like he wanted to smile but refused. "I really preferred when you were just panicking about curses and letting me handle it," he muttered, still frozen mid-step. "No, scratch that—I can’t believe, even for a second, that I called you cute—no, no way, you’re just plain stupid, and I was delusional—"

Aoi's grin only grew. "Guess you’ll just have to get used to it."

And before he could say another word, she turned with a deep breath and knocked on the door.

Satoru stood frozen, irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior. "This is going to be a disaster," he muttered, watching as Aoi’s knuckles knocked against the door.

The air around the house felt thick, almost suffocating, but Aoi forced herself to focus, to push through the creeping sensation that something was horribly wrong. She’d spent her life pretending not to see curses. She could do it now. It’s just a painting, she told herself. Just a painting of Joy. How bad could it be?

For a few tense seconds, nothing happened. Then the door creaked open, revealing... a child?

Aoi blinked. Confused.

The boy couldn’t have been more than five or six, his black, slightly messy hair framing a round face. His large eyes locked onto hers, too still, too intense. The oppressive energy she’d felt didn’t match the sight in front of her. This is who lives here? A sweet, innocent kid?

Behind her, Satoru muttered something—probably another snarky comment about her decision to knock. Of course, he’s annoyed, Aoi thought, suppressing a sigh. Why wouldn’t he be? There's just a child and I was right.

Aoi crouched, offering the boy a gentle smile. "Hi there," she said softly. "Are your mom or dad home?"

No response. The boy’s gaze didn’t waver. There was something off about him, something she couldn’t quite place. Still, she kept smiling, pushing aside the suffocating pressure that clung to the house like fog. She kept her smile and waited.

Silence.

Just as she opened her mouth to try again, Satoru appeared beside her, grabbing her arm and yanking her a step back. Clearly, he'd shaken off whatever had been holding him back. His expression was tight, his patience thin. "This is a series of terrible choices," he grumbled, glaring down at the boy. His blue eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses.

But the boy didn’t flinch. He stared back at Satoru, his gaze steady, unsettling. Then, without warning, he lunged—small arms wrapping tightly around Aoi’s legs.

Satoru tensed, his grip on her arm firm, as Aoi’s heart melted. She looked down, her hands hovering awkwardly before she gently patted his head. He seemed so small, so fragile. "Well, aren’t you just the cutest?" she murmured.

Satoru, however, was less than thrilled. His jaw clenched. "Oi," he snapped, voice low and serious. "Don’t touch that thing."

Aoi shot him a look. "Jealous?" she teased lightly.

"Worse," Satoru bit back, his scowl deepening.

Aoi couldn’t help but chuckle, warmth bubbling in her chest. The stand-off between Satoru and the boy felt absurd, like a strange battle of wills. "Come on, Satoru," she said, her tone playful but firm. "He’s just a kid. You’re scaring him."

"Scaring him?" Satoru’s jaw tightened, his gaze locked on the boy, who refused to let go. "That’s not—"

"Shota!"

A woman's voice cut through the moment, soft but commanding. Both Aoi and Satoru lifted their gaze. A woman stood in the open doorway, her expression shifting from confusion to warmth. She took in the scene—her son clinging to a stranger, two unexpected visitors at her door. She smiled, polite and apologetic.

"Oh, I’m so sorry about him," she said, her voice filled with the kind of warmth that immediately put people at ease. "He’s a bit... clingy."

Shota didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened aroung her leg. 

Aoi’s smile softened. So much for Satoru’s doom-and-gloom predictions, she thought, shooting him a quick, reproachful glance. The woman seemed so kind, so normal. How could he have thought there was some monstrous curse lurking here?

"See?" Aoi whispered to Satoru. "No dangerous, super-powerful curse. Just a mom, her son, and a cursed painting that’s... oppressing the house." Even as she said it, the words felt ridiculous. But she wasn’t about to back down.

Satoru rolled his eyes, patience thinning. He shot her a sideways glare and nudged her gently with his elbow. "I told you I’ve got a good eye for these things, and this—"

Aoi cut him off with a look. Ignoring him and freeing her arm from his grip, she pulled out the crumpled list of names she’d been carrying. Her eyes scanned the page until she found it. Takahashi.

She looked up and smiled politely. "Mrs. Takahashi?"

"Yes, that’s me." The woman nodded, her warm smile never faltering. "How can I help you?"

Behind Aoi, Satoru sighed, loud and long. She could almost feel his irritation radiating off him, but she kept her focus.

"You might remember," Aoi began, keeping her voice calm even though unease coiled in her stomach, "a few months ago, you bought an abstract painting?" She hesitated, then pressed on. "I’m the artist who made it."

Recognition flickered in Mrs. Takahashi’s eyes. She clasped her hands together, smiling warmly. "Oh! Yes! That painting... my husband bought it for me during a difficult time. It brought so much happiness back into our home." Her voice was soft, full of appreciation. "I can’t tell you how grateful I am for it."

Aoi’s stomach twisted. Happiness? She almost laughed at the irony. This house was drowning in cursed energy, and the woman thought the painting had brought her joy? Still, guilt settled heavy in her chest. She was going to take that painting away—the thing this woman believed had brought her comfort.

Swallowing hard, Aoi straightened, brushing her hand lightly over Shota’s head. "Would it be alright if I took another look at the painting?" she asked, keeping her tone light. "I’d love to see it again."

Mrs. Takahashi hesitated. Her gaze flicked between Aoi and Satoru, whose eyes hadn’t left the kid. Finally, her eyes rested on Shota, still clinging tightly to Aoi.

After a moment, she nodded. "O-of course," she said, though a flicker of unease shadowed her features. "I’ll make some tea for us."

Aoi exhaled softly, relief loosening her chest. One step at a time. She offered a warm smile. "Thank you. That would be lovely."

Satoru’s eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. But the corner of his mouth twitched into something like a reluctant smile. "This is a mistake," he muttered, following them into the house. Clearly, he didn’t trust the situation one bit.

Shota tugged on Aoi’s hand, pulling her inside, and she shot Satoru a triumphant glance over her shoulder. Her smile was bright, almost teasing.

See? Empathy works.

✎✘■■■■■■■■■

"Remember to blow on your tea, art girl, unless you want to burn your tongue."

Aoi shot him a glare, cradling the warm cup between her hands. "It’s my tea, Satoru. I’ll drink it however I want." She raised it to her lips, stubborn, but before she could sip, he was already on her again.

"Sure, go ahead," he drawled, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. "But don’t forget—if you burn your tongue, guess whose tongue gets burnt too? Thanks to your little cursed bond, I get to share everything. Fun, right?"

Oh. Right. The cursed bond. Aoi winced slightly. She hadn’t meant to trap the most powerful sorcerer alive in this bizarre connection, but here they were. Now, anything that happened to her, in some strange way, happened to him. Like having an overqualified, perpetually irritated bodyguard on call.

Her lips curved into a small, mischievous smile. "Fine, fine, you frail man." She blew on the tea and took a careful sip. "You know, it’s not so bad. Like having a watchdog 24/7."

Satoru rolled his eyes. "A watchdog? I’m not your guard dog, art girl."

He watched her take another sip. When she didn’t flinch, his irritation barely eased. She relaxed into her seat, savoring the moment. Maybe this bond wasn’t all bad. Maybe she could even use the bond to her advantage. Expensive art supplies were pricey, and Satoru? Filthy rich. Surely he could spare a little charity.

Shota sat onto her lap, his small arms wrapped around her like he’d claimed her as his new favorite person. The warmth of him was oddly comforting, grounding her against the room's tense atmosphere.

Satoru, however, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He lounged stiffly in the quaint little living room, surrounded by polite conversation and teacups, while the cursed painting loomed on the wall behind them like a ticking time bomb. Cursed energy leaked from it, heavy and suffocating—an ominous weight only he and Aoi could sense.

Aoi forced herself to focus on Mrs. Takahashi, who sat across from them with a serene smile, gazing at the cursed painting with quiet satisfaction. She has no idea, Aoi thought, guilt twisting in her chest. No idea the danger it holds. Her art was meant to inspire joy, to connect with people, not bring harm. And yet, here it was—danger disguised as beauty.

Satoru’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and annoyed. "Can you get that thing off you already? It's been glued to your lap for ten minutes. It’s getting weird."

Aoi glanced down at Shota, whose grip only tightened. He shot Satoru a wary look, like a puppy bristling at a stranger. Aoi smiled. Sweet kid. Clearly, Shota had already chosen his side, and it wasn’t Satoru’s.

"Why can’t you relax for even a second?" she teased gently. "Enjoy the tea. Take a break. You’ve been on edge since we got here."

Satoru stood abruptly, pacing the room, running a hand through his white hair. Frustration radiated from him like heat. "Now I’m the problem? How can you be so relaxed?" His sharp gaze darted to her. "You’re just sitting there, drinking tea, with that... thing on your lap."

Shota glared at him, his small hands clutching tighter.

Satoru’s eyes wandered, landing on a wall lined with framed photos. He froze, staring at one in particular. Aoi followed his gaze, frowning.

It was a simple family photo—Shota between his parents, grinning wide. It looked like they were in front of the Kiyomizu-dera, though scaffolding from restoration marred the background. A normal picture. So why was Satoru looking at it like it was something else entirely?

Mrs. Takahashi’s voice broke the silence, a little too tense. "That was a wonderful family trip. We were all so happy."

Satoru didn’t look away. "Where’s your husband?"

A beat of silence. Mrs. Takahashi hesitated. Her eyes flicked to Shota, then the painting. "He’s... He’ll be home late tonight."

Satoru hummed, unreadable, before turning his attention back to the painting. Slowly, he removed his sunglasses, his eyes scanning the room with sharp focus.

Aoi’s stomach dropped. No. Not the sunglasses. If there was one thing she had learned about Satoru, it was that whenever he took off his sunglasses, things were about to go south. Fast.

Before he could speak, Aoi jumped in, forcing a smile. "Mrs. Takahashi, I’m afraid I’ll need to take the painting back." The words tasted like ash. "I’m… really sorry, but it’s not safe. He can pay you back." She said, her thumb jerking toward Satoru, that shot her a pointed look. "Or… I can paint you a new one."

One that’s not cursed.

The shift in the room was immediate. Mrs. Takahashi’s face darkened. She looked at the painting, her smile tight and brittle. Her gaze darted from Aoi to Satoru and back to Shota. She was calculating something, weighing her options. Shota clung tighter, as if silently pleading with her to stay put.

Satoru stood silent, staring at the ceiling, his posture rigid, a deep crease forming between his brows. Tense. Ready.

What’s with everyone? Aoi’s pulse quickened. Why did it feel like everyone knew something she didn’t?

Finally, Mrs. Takahashi nodded, her smile strained. "Of course, no problem at all." Her voice shook. "It’s your painting, after all."

Aoi blinked. That’s it? Relief swept over her, unexpected and overwhelming. She smiled, the tension in her chest loosening. She shot Satoru a look, triumphant. See? Told you it’d work out.

But Satoru didn’t share her optimism. He glanced at Mrs. Takahashi, who now looked entirely too anxious, and Shota. Suspicion burned behind his eyes, but he held his tongue.

Just as he opened his mouth, Shota piped up, his voice bright. "Can’t you stay longer?" The boy’s face lit up with excitement. "Come to my room! We can play with my toys!"

Aoi’s heart melted. That face. Those wide, hopeful eyes. How could she say no? She turned to Satoru. His glare hit like a wall. His face said it all: Absolutely not.

She brushed it off. What harm could it do? The painting was as good as theirs. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. She looked to Mrs. Takahashi, who gave a weak, encouraging smile, waiting for her to agree.

Aoi smiled back. "Sure, Shota. I’d love to see your toys."

Shota beamed, grabbing her hand and tugging her toward the hallway. As they passed Satoru, his hand shot out, gripping her arm with a strength that made her pause.

"Don’t," he muttered, voice low and tense, the warning clear in his tone.

Aoi raised an eyebrow. He was about to say something else when she cut him off, freeing herself from his grip. "Oh, now you let me touch you?" she teased, her voice light but edged. "What happened to your precious barrier? Convenient how it’s not up when you need to lecture me."

Satoru frowned, irritation flashing in his eyes as he muttered under his breath. "Of course. Go. Just go." He waved a lazy hand, turning his back, clearly done with her. "I'll be here waiting for you to say 'I told you so'."

With a last glance at his back, he let Shota pull her forward, still feeling Satoru’s presence fume behind her. He stayed where he was, grumbling to himself about her being impossible and clueless.

She didn’t need his approval. What’s the worst that could happen?

Shota, still clutching her hand, led her up the stairs, his small, excited voice filling the air with chatter about his toys.

✎✘■■■■■■■■■

Aoi sat cross-legged on the floor of Shota’s room, smiling as the boy chattered about his toys. Tiny cars, action figures, a lineup of stuffed animals that looked surprisingly well-loved for his age—it was peaceful here. The kind of peace Aoi hadn’t felt in days. She let the tension melt from her shoulders, soaking in the temporary calm as Shota rummaged through his toy chest.

For a moment, it was easy to forget the suffocating cursed energy that clung to the house like an unwelcome shadow. Here, it was just her and Shota. A sweet kid, proudly showing off his favorite things. She needed this. Needed to pretend, even briefly, that something in her life was still normal.

"And this one," Shota exclaimed, holding up a small, battered car with wheels that looked ready to fall off. "This is my favorite! It goes super fast!"

"Wow," Aoi grinned, leaning forward to inspect it like it was some rare treasure. "Looks like it’s been on a lot of adventures."

Shota nodded, clutching the car close to his chest. His enthusiasm was warm, infectious—and it made her heart ache. Such a sweet kid. And Satoru had been ready to storm in here, blasting everything in sight. She’d have to rub this in his face later.

"Your mom really loves you, huh?" Aoi said gently, still smiling. "You can tell just by looking at her. You’re lucky."

Shota froze. It was subtle, just a small shift—a tension in his shoulders, the briefest flicker of something in his eyes. But Aoi caught it. His smile stayed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Something cold lingered there now.

"Yes," he murmured, his voice quieter. "Mom loves me a lot. She loves me so much." He paused, then added, flatly, "And I love her too. I’m the Joy of her life."

The word hung heavy in the air, making Aoi’s smile falter. Joy. The cursed painting. The reason they were here. But the way he said it… it didn’t feel right. The word, his tone, it sent a chill down her spine.

It’s just the cursed energy messing with me, she told herself, shifting uncomfortably. Right? Her gaze flicked around the room trying to shake off the growing sense of dread that had started to creep into the pit of her stomach. Just nerves. Just her imagination.

But before she could say anything, Shota spoke again—lower, heavier. "You could stay here, you know," he said, eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her skin crawl. "You could stay with us. Be happy here."

Aoi blinked. The shift in his voice, his demeanor—it was unsettling. "Stay here?" She forced a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. "That’s sweet, Shota, but I can’t stay. I—"

"You should stay," he interrupted, his voice sharper now, almost pleading. "I don’t have many friends. You can be my friend."

Her heart twisted. She saw a little of herself in him. That part hit close to home. Lonely. Isolated. Misunderstood. She knew how that felt. God, did she know. She remembered what it felt like, seeing things no one else could and feeling disconnected from the world. Her childhood had been a mess of confusion and isolation, and for a moment, she felt a pang of empathy for Shota. She smiled gently, brushing away the unease.

"Aww, Shota," she said softly. "I’ll be your friend, okay? I have to go, but that doesn’t mean—"

"Stay." His voice cut through hers, sharper this time. The room felt colder, the air heavier. "Is it that man?" Shota asked suddenly, eyes narrowing. "Does he want to take you away?"

Aoi’s blood ran cold. The cursed energy thickened, pressing against her chest like a weight. Her stomach twisted. Oh no. This is not good. Panic clawed at her chest as her thoughts scrambled to make sense of the situation. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. Did I misunderstand?

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay calm, even as her mind spun in frantic circles. "Shota, what do you mean?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "No one’s trying to… take me away."

Shota’s gaze darkened. His small hands clenched into fists. "That man downstairs," he said, venom lacing his words. "He wants to take you away. I don’t like him. I don’t like it when people want to take away the people I like."

The walls seemed to pulse, the air thickening with cursed energy. Panic clawed at her throat. Oh, god. This isn’t just a kid. Crap. I’ve totally misunderstood everything.

"Shota..." Aoi stammered, standing up quickly, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. "I think… we should—" She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Shota stood too, slow and deliberate. The cursed energy rolling off him made the walls shiver. "That man's bad," he said coldly. "I don’t want him here." His dark eyes never left hers. "Dad wanted to take Mom away too." His voice dropped, flat and emotionless. "I didn’t like that, so I stopped him."

A cold dread flooded her, her movements clumsy and panicked as she backed away from the child. Her mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening. Satoru was right. God, he was right, and I didn’t listen. I’m so screwed. I’m going to die in a kid’s room surrounded by cursed toys. Why didn’t I listen?

Another pulse of cursed energy shook the room. A wardrobe door creaked open, and something heavy fell to the floor with a sickening thud.

Aoi’s breath caught.

No.

It was a body.

Twisted. Mangled. Limbs bent at unnatural angles. Bruises deep and dark. The skin pale, cold. The body looked like it had been through hell, shattered and broken. And worse, Aoi had a sickening suspicion that she knew who it was.

Why did I think this was a good idea?

"That’s Daddy," Shota said softly, his voice devoid of emotion.

Aoi’s stomach lurched. Her vision blurred. Her mind spiraled.

Oh shit. Her mind went blank, her thoughts a chaotic mess as the reality of the situation slammed into her like a freight train. Satoru was right. She hated it, but he was right. She was so stupid.

"Shota…" Her voice was barely a whisper. She stumbled back, her knees weak.

Shota just stared, his once sweet face empty. Cold. The air pressed down, suffocating.

"I… I need to go," she stammered, inching toward the door. Her hands trembled as they brushed against the handle.

"You don’t really want to leave, do you?" Shota’s voice was a whisper, cold and sharp. He stepped closer, cursed energy radiating from him, warping the room again, causing the very walls to tremble. The child’s once bright, innocent eyes were now black pits. "We can stay here. Be happy."

Aoi’s heart slammed against her ribs. Panic roared in her ears. She could barely breathe. That was enough.

Panic. Definitely panic. I need to get out of here. Now.

She bolted, her legs moved before her brain could catch up, fumbling with the handle as her hands shook uncontrollably. Yanking the door open, she stumbled into the hallway, her shoulder slamming into the wall, knocking the wind out of her for a second.

"Shit, shit, shit-" she muttered under her breath. Satoru was right. She was never going to hear the end of it.

"Satoru!" she screamed, her voice raw, broken. She ran, feet skidding on the wooden floor, as she sprinted toward the stairs. She could hear the sound of footsteps behind her—small, deliberate, too calm.

Her legs moved on autopilot, propelling her down the hallway as fast as they could carry her. Her breath coming in ragged gasps as was barely able to think straight. She crashed into the stairs, nearly missing the railing as she threw herself downward, tripping over her own feet, and she could almost see the smug expression on Satoru's face from the other floor.

She didn’t care if she looked ridiculous. She didn’t care that she was panicking like a maniac.

"Satoru!" her voice high-pitched as she screamed, her voice echoing through the house. "The freaking kid is the special-grade curse!"

Chapter Text

✎✘■■■■■■■■■

JOY

-Satoru-

"I told her to stay outside, safe, smiling, and—oh, I don’t know—not get herself killed."

Satoru lounged in his chair, legs crossed, arms draped lazily over the backrest, wearing an expression of exaggerated patience. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, tracking Aoi’s movements upstairs with his Six Eyes. She was in the kid’s room now, blissfully unaware of how deep she'd wandered into danger. Honestly, he didn’t know why he bothered anymore.

Stay safe.

"How hard could that possibly be? Just let me deal with the special-grade curse that’s probably going to kill everyone in this house." He sighed, dragging out the exhale like it would help ease his frustration. Most people would have been grateful to be kept out of a life-or-death situation.

But not Aoi. She had to play the hero. She had to talk. Worse, she had to empathize.

And to top it all off, she’d used her cursed technique to freeze him. Again. Twice now. Like he was some kind of puppet for her to manipulate. He didn’t care how accidental it was—nobody froze Satoru Gojo.

Just thinking about it made his jaw tighten. Well, aren’t you just the cutest? she'd said. Satoru almost scoffed. Yeah, cute. A cute special-grade curse that held her hostage, its claws wrapped around Aoi's legs so tightly that if he blinked wrong, it could snap her in two.

And thanks to the cursed bond she’d unknowingly tied between them, he'd be dragged down too. He wasn’t about to risk that. Not yet. Wonderful. Just what he needed—being tethered to an impulsive art student with the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.

Satoru pinched the bridge of his nose. "Great job, Aoi. You’ve really outdone yourself."

He couldn't even take the direct approach now. He was stuck sitting here, simmering in his irritation while she played tea party with a damn curse, believing she had everything under control, like she was steering the ship instead of being dragged along for the ride. Satoru's gaze flicked to the cursed painting on the wall. The thing was practically vomiting cursed energy, and his Six Eyes were working overtime just trying to untangle the chaos. It was giving him a headache.

Then there was Mrs. Takahashi, sitting across from him with her hands neatly folded in her lap, as if she wasn’t harboring a cursed spirit and a dead husband upstairs. She'd been lying through her teeth since they walked in. Her husband would be home late tonight? Sure. Like his Six Eyes hadn’t already seen the corpse stashed away upstairs. She was either delusional or complicit. Or both.

Satoru’s gaze shifted to the family portrait on the wall. The Takahashi family in front of Kyomizu-dera, smiling like a picture-perfect postcard. Except for one detail—the restoration work in the background had been completed at least five years ago. And yet, there was Shota, exactly the same age as he was back then.

Yeah. He had a pretty good idea of what was happening here. The kid was long dead. No question. But Aoi? She was still stuck in her own little world. It was almost endearing, the way she had decided she needed to prove something. To herself, or maybe to him. She insisted on negotiating, asking politely for the cursed painting back, like it was all just a big misunderstanding. The curse had exchanged a glance with Mrs. Takahashi, a look that screamed, We need to get rid of her. And Aoi, bless her naive soul, had fallen for it.

Hook, line, and sinker.

And that’s when it hit him.

Yeah. She’s an idiot.

An idiot with more guts than most sorcerers he’d ever met, and, begrudgingly, Satoru could respect that. Not that he'd ever say it out loud. Aoi would never let him live it down. But it didn’t change the fact that she was hopelessly out of her depth. He could already picture her scrambling back downstairs, realizing her mistake, begging him to fix it.

And honestly? Let her learn. She wanted control, wanted to "empathize"? Fine. Maybe smashing face-first into the reality of cursed spirits would teach her a lesson. Old school style. Maybe then she’d learn to listen.

Satoru kept his gaze locked on the ceiling, his Six Eyes following her every move. She was in the child's room now. He could feel her panic rising, the curse tightening its grip around her. And... ah, there it was. The body in the wardrobe.

He smirked. She’s going to lose it. Any second now.

His gaze shifted to Mrs. Takahashi. She sat there, hands folded neatly. She met his eyes briefly, then looked away, her fingers twitching nervously in her lap.

Satoru had had enough of the charade. "Alright," he muttered, leaning forward. His gaze sharpened, his tone deceptively casual. "So, when did you figure out that your son wasn’t really your son?"

Mrs. Takahashi blinked, startled. For a moment, real fear flashed in her eyes before she managed to mask it. She forced a laugh, but it came out hollow. "I... I don’t know what you mean."

Satoru tilted his head slightly, watching her like he was studying a particularly uninteresting insect. "Come on. You’re not fooling me. Was it after you brought the painting into the house, that it appeared? Convenient, huh?"

She blinked, caught off guard. "I... I don’t—"

"Do you think I’m an idiot?" Satoru snapped, his patience fraying. The curse's presence upstairs was growing stronger by the second, and he didn’t have time for this. "You know what I’m talking about."

Mrs. Takahashi’s face paled. Her hands twisted in her lap, eyes darting around the room, avoiding his gaze. "You don’t understand," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You couldn’t possibly understand. Shota—he’s—"

"Dead," Satoru cut her off, his voice cold. "That thing upstairs? That’s not your son."

Her eyes widened, shaking her head violently. "No!" she cried, her voice breaking. "You don’t know what you’re talking about! He came back to us! He came back me!" Her hands clutched the edge of her seat, knuckles white.

Satoru sighed, rubbing his temples. He really didn’t have time for this. "Your husband," he said, his tone sharper, "let me guess. He wasn’t as easily convinced. He tried to make you see reason, and that thing upstairs didn’t like it, did it?"

Mrs. Takahashi flinched, her eyes flicking toward the stairs. "Shota... Shota came back to me after all that time," she whispered, her voice breaking. "He came back, and everything was fine until... until..."

Her voice wavered, teetering on the edge of the truth. Satoru’s eyes narrowed. Ah, there it is. The truth, finally bubbling to the surface. "Until your husband ended up dead?" Satoru finished for her, his voice cutting and cold. He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. "Your dead son shows up good as new after years, kills your husband, and you really expect me to believe you didn’t notice anything wrong?"

"You... you don’t know what you’re talking about," she snapped, her voice trembling. "You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like to lose a child, to—" Her words crumbled as her breath grew erratic, her composure unraveling fast.

"That thing killed your husband," Satoru said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was calm but heavy. "And you’re okay with that?"

She froze, face pale as his words hit. The room fell into silence, broken only by the faint sound of Aoi's voice from upstairs. Then Mrs. Takahashi's voice cracked through the quiet. 

"Shut up!" she screamed, her hands balling into fists. "You don’t know anything! Shota is my son! He’s the best thing that’s happened to me since—" Her voice broke, rage crumbling into grief. "Since the accident... since I lost him." She choked on her words, tears filling her eyes. "I won’t lose him ever again. I won’t let anyone take him from me. I don’t care if that girl is the artist, we—"

Satoru’s expression didn’t waver. He’d seen this too many times—people clinging to curses because they couldn’t bear to let go of grief. It was tragic, sure, but that didn’t change the fact that the curse had to be exorcised.

"You’re pathetic. You’re in denial." The words left him sharp and unfiltered. He didn’t care. "I get it—you’re grieving. But come on. You can't be that blind."

She stood trembling, her breath ragged, on the brink of a breakdown. Satoru felt a flicker of pity. But still—your dead kid comes back from the dead, kills your husband, and you don’t think twice?

She wasn’t the victim anymore. Not really.

Upstairs, cursed energy surged. Aoi’s panic spiked with it. Satoru’s jaw clenched. She was about to lose it. And there it was—the telltale thud of a body hitting the floor, then Aoi’s frantic, stumbling footsteps racing toward the stairs.

"Satoru!" Her voice cracked through the silence, high and panicked. "The freaking kid is the special grade curse!"

Satoru closed his eyes, a slow grin spreading across his face as he leaned back in his chair. Finally. The moment he’d been waiting for. He had told her. Over and over. Now, she’d be begging him to fix her mess.

"Ah, here we go," he said, more to himself than to Mrs. Takahashi. "The realization."

He stood, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket. This was going to be satisfying. He could already see it—Aoi panicking, clinging to him, begging him to fix everything. And he couldn’t wait to say it.

I told you so.

Satoru stood with his arms crossed, listening to the chaos above. Crashing furniture, panicked footsteps, a shrill, frantic scream. Then a heavy thud.

He sighed. 

Right on schedule, Aoi came barreling down the stairs like a tornado, ricocheting off the walls, stumbling with the grace of a drunk deer, her eyes wide with terror. She barely reached the bottom step before she tripped, crashing with a messy thud.

The walls groaned, debris rattling down the stairs behind her told him everything he needed to know.

Yep. The curse is definitely on a rampage now.

Satoru didn’t move. He just stood there, his face a picture of exasperation. His trademark smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth as he looked down at her sprawled on the floor.

"Really?" he muttered, dripping with sarcasm.

Behind her, the house trembled, cursed energy surging. The walls shook like something monstrous clawed its way toward them. And maybe it was. Shadows stretched out along the walls, long and thin like claws, creeping down the staircase.

Aoi scrambled to her feet, panic and determination mixing in her eyes. She bolted toward him, latching onto his arm like a lifeline, her fingers trembling as they dug into his sleeve. Her hazel eyes stared up at him—wide, scared, but stubborn too. As if this girl who had no business trusting anyone, especially him, had already decided he was her shield against all this, whether he liked it or not.

Well, she sure as hell know how to run fast. It was... honestly, a little adorable. In a dumb, reckless way.

Satoru felt a dull ache in his ankle. Perfect. She’d hurt herself, and now he had to deal with phantom pain too. "You're hurt? Again?" he said, voice heavy with exasperation. "Why are you always hurt?"

The house shook violently, and Aoi flinched, clinging tighter. From the stairs, the shadows crept closer, slithering like razor-sharp claws.

"Satoru, it’s the kid," she blurted, voice high with disbelief. "The kid is the special-grade curse!"

He blinked down at her, lips curling into a slow, smug grin. He arched an eyebrow, his voice thick with mock confusion. "Oh, really? Wow. Shocking. Who could’ve seen that coming?" He shot her a sideways glance, his grin widening. "Oh wait—I did. I told you so. Over and over. But did you listen?"

Aoi’s grip tightened, making him wince. For someone so small, she really knew how to hold on like her life depended on it—because, well, it kind of did.

Another tremor shook the house, and she flinched again, rattled to her core. Still, she didn’t freeze. Not fully. That was one thing he could never fault her for—no matter how terrified she was, she never really let it paralyze her.

Behind her, the cursed child crept down the stairs. The sound came first—a slow, scraping drag, like nails clawing across the walls. Satoru’s eyes flicked toward the shadows.

And there it was. The kid.

No longer the sweet, innocent child. The creature floated just above the ground, spider-like legs sprouting from its back. Long, black, spindly limbs scraped the walls as it moved. Its face was blank, eyes wide and glowing a sickly, pupil-less yellow.

The cursed energy pressing down on them was suffocating, thick and heavy. Like a nightmare come to life, its shadowy body twisted at impossible angles. It oozed despair, filling the air like a choking fog.

Satoru sighed. "Oh yeah. Definitely not creepy at all."

"Satoru!" Aoi snapped, her voice high and sharp with panic, but somehow still laced with that edge of defiance that he’d come to expect from her. "That... thing was on my legs! Hugging me the whole time! And you didn’t say anything?"

Satoru’s grin didn’t budge. He leaned in, voice casual, like they were discussing the weather. "Oh, trust me, I tried. But you were too busy playing therapist. Empathy and all that." He shrugged. "Maybe now you’ll learn."

Aoi opened her mouth, but the words died on her lips . Her eyes were locked on the curse. And then it spoke.

"You should stay with us, Aoi," it rasped, voice eerily soft, yet inhuman in its monotony. "You should be happy with us."

The air grew heavier, the pressure almost unbearable. Aoi’s grip on Satoru’s arm became vice-like, her whole body pressing into his, as if trying to disappear into him.

He sighed again, his irritation surfacing, even if he couldn't help feeling a little amused. "You know, clinging to me like that isn’t going to help. It’s just making things worse."

"Do something!" she whispered, her voice trembling, eyes wide and fixed on the cursed child descending toward them.

"Oh, now you want me to do something?" His tone was teasing. "But I thought you wanted to talk. What happened to all that empathy you were throwing around earlier?"

"I get it, I'm sorry you were right and I am stupid!" she stammered, her gaze locked on the curse, its limbs twitching as it crept closer, eyes glowing like a predator in the dark. The temperature seemed to drop with every step it took. Satoru could feel Aoi’s fear, thick and heavy in the air.

Almost feel bad for her, he thought, glancing at her pale, tense face. Almost.

Satoru shifted his weight, fingers flexing as cursed energy gathered at his fingertips. The air around him hummed with the buildup of cursed energy, the telltale sign that Blue was ready to obliterate the curse in an instant. "Alright, alright," he said, voice still casual but edged with readiness. "Guess it’s time to clean up your mess."

He was seconds away from releasing when Mrs. Takahashi, face streaked with tears, threw herself in front of it. Arms outstretched, trembling, as if she could shield it with her body.

"Please! Don’t hurt him!" Her voice cracked, raw with desperation. "He’s my son! He’s my Shota!"

Satoru’s expression hardened. The usual smirk disappeared, replaced by something sharp and cold. His voice sliced through the air. "Step aside."

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. There was no room for argument here.

But she didn’t move. She shook her head, frantic, her whole body trembling as sobs wracked her frame. "He’s all I have left!" she cried, her voice breaking. "You can’t take him from me again... please, he’s all I have..."

Satoru caught the slight shift beside him. Aoi’s grip on his arm loosened. Her expression faltered—eyes wide, soft with sympathy. Damn it. She was getting that look again. He saw it in the way her lips trembled, in the way her eyes glistened. She was torn, caught between compassion and reality.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Aoi’s empathy always complicated things. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The house shook violently again, and before he could make a move, the curse took advantage of the moment. Long, grotesque, spider-like limbs shot out from its back, coiling around Mrs. Takahashi like a serpent. The claws dug deep into her flesh, blood trickling down her sides as she was lifted off the ground. Her gasp of pain echoed through the room, her eyes wide with shock as she dangled helplessly in the curse’s grip.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. A hostage. Again. First Aoi, now the woman. How... cowardly.

His hand stayed raised, energy crackling at his fingertips. He could end this in seconds—exorcise the curse, walk away, be done. The woman? Mrs. Takahashi wasn’t moving. Worse, she was now useful to the curse, its perfect shield. He knew exactly what was coming next—the curse had already won. It had manipulated the woman’s grief, her desperation, twisted her love for her child into beyond reasoning now.

Try to save the woman, complicate the situation, drag this out longer than necessary. Collateral damage. A sad reality, but not his problem. It wasn’t ideal, but in his line of work, it was inevitable. Better one loss than letting this thing escape.

Satoru hesitated. Not because he cared about the woman—he didn’t, not really, or so he told himself. But Aoi… Aoi made it unnecessarily complicated.

Her breath hitched beside him. He could feel the tension radiating off her, the way her fingers trembled against his arm. She tugged at his sleeve, her grip barely there, but enough. Her eyes met his, wide and pleading. Too much hope. Too much trust. Too much kindness.

Oh no. Not the puppy eyes. Not now.

She wasn’t going to let it happen. Not without a fight. If he let the woman die, he’d never hear the end of it.

This was getting ridiculous. He had to finish this. Satoru locked eyes with her. No words, just a silent exchange, one he really didn’t want to have. He knew that look all too well. And god, how he hated it.

Really, art girl? You’re going to make me save her, aren’t you?

You’re a good guy, right? her eyes seemed to ask. You can’t let her die. Not like this.

His lips twitched in annoyance. I could. Technically. He glanced back at Mrs. Takahashi, still dangling in the curse’s claws, her blood pooling beneath her. This is her fault anyway. She’s practically asking for it.

But Aoi’s grip tightened, her fingers trembling. Please, her eyes begged.

Satoru sighed. A deep, tired breath that felt heavier than it should. He stared at the woman, weighing the choice. He hated this—being forced to care. Being pushed to make the harder call because someone still believed there was a way out.

Because Aoi believed. Now she was giving him that look—the one that made him question every cold, calculated decision he’d ever made. In the back of his mind, he knew she was naïve. She didn’t understand what it meant to deal with curses the way he did.

Great. Just great.

Satoru turned his attention back to the scene before him. Mrs. Takahashi hung limp in the curse’s grip, blood dripping from steadily from her wounds, her eyes wide and glassy with pain and terror. The curse, now fully aware of its advantage, tightened its hold, a low, guttural growl emanating from its deformed mouth.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. And yet... Aoi’s grip on his arm tightened, and he knew. She was stubborn, and apparently, that stubbornness was contagious.

"Ugh, fine," he muttered, frustration bleeding into his voice. His gaze dropped to Aoi. "But let’s be clear," he added sharply. "Your safety comes first. Then that damn painting. The woman? She’s third. A distant third."

He had no illusions about how this would go. The second Mrs. Takahashi was freed, she’d go right back to her sobbing mess, crying over her “son” while completely missing the point of the danger she was in. It was inevitable. She was already too far gone. But whatever, he’d try. He’d make it work, like he always did.

Aoi’s lips twitched into a small, grateful smile.

And for a second, Satoru almost regretted agreeing. Almost. He shifted his attention back to the curse. This is going to be a pain.

He rolled his eyes dramatically as the curse shifted, its claws digging deeper into the woman’s skin. Her blood pooled on the floor, her sobs pitiful, weak and broken. She barely looked human anymore—just a body, fading fast, as the curse fed off her pain.

Satoru’s jaw tightened. Coward. The curse couldn’t fight him directly, so it used a human shield. It always came to this.

But then the curse's gaze shifted, and its words came slow and venomous. "I know why you created me," it hissed, voice like silk over broken glass. "You’ve always wanted friends, to be happy. But... you’ve always been alone, haven’t you? Always so alone."

Satoru felt Aoi freeze. Her fingers twitched against his arm, breath catching. That subtle tremor in her body, the way her fingers twitched, told him everything. It had hit its mark. Oh. That hit home, huh, art girl? He thought, rubbing the back of his neck in irritation.

The curse pressed on, relentless, knowing it had found a vulnerability. "You’re different, aren’t you?" it whispered, voice dripping with mock sweetness. "You see things no one else does. Always on the outside, looking in. Never part of the whole. That’s why you made me. You wanted someone like you. Someone that could understand. So you could be happy. So you could be like everyone else."

Aoi’s face paled, her lips trembling. She stood still, frozen in place. Caught in the memory of something she wouldn’t say aloud.

Satoru watched her struggle with those thoughts, and for a brief moment, his mind wandered. Alone, huh? he mused silently. That struck a chord. He knew that feeling. The strongest sorcerer, untouchable, feared, revered. He understood all too well what it was like to feel cut off from the rest of the world.

And the only one person who had understood that wasn’t here anymore.

He shoved the thought aside. He wouldn’t admit it. But seeing that flicker of pain in Aoi’s eyes—it echoed. Just a little.

And maybe that’s why he couldn’t just walk away.

"I’m not alone," Aoi said suddenly. Her voice was soft, shaky, but it cut through the silence.

The curse’s claws sank deeper into Mrs. Takahashi, the blood running faster. "Yes you are," it crooned. "We’ll be happy together. I can be your joy. You, me, and Mommy—we can be happy. All of us."

Satoru’s jaw clenched. The thing was twisting her, manipulating her. And the worst part? It was working. He could see it. She was thinking about it. Considering it.

She shifted, her grip on his arm faltering. He could see the reckless plan forming in her eyes.

Oh no. Not again.

"Art girl," Satoru warned, his voice low, laced with irritation. He shot her a sharp glance, a silent command for her to stop whatever foolish idea was forming in her head. "Don’t do anything stupid. If you screw this up, I’ll end it in a second. And trust me—you won’t like how I do it."

But of course, she didn’t listen.

She let go of his arm, trembling but determined. That stubbornness again. The kind that made him want to shake her and ask what the hell she thought she was doing.

"Aoi," he snapped, louder this time. "Don’t—"

But she was already stepping forward. Her gaze locked on the curse.

"I’m not alone," she said again. Stronger this time.

A pause. Satoru blinked, watching her, half-expecting her to say something sentimental and ridiculous, which she did.

"He’s my friend," she said, voice steady but soft. "He's a weirdo, just like me. Someone who sees the same things I do."

Satoru stared, dumbfounded. She’s not talking about me, right? Weirdo?

He scoffed internally. Was that supposed to be a compliment? He wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or—

No. Scratch that. He was insulted.

"A weirdo that understands me," she added, puffing out her chest like she was proud of it. "So now I'm happy."

Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got, art girl?

And yet, ridiculously, it seemed to be working. The curse twitched, its grotesque form faltering, almost... confused. Satoru blinked, barely believing what he was seeing.

Is she really reasoning with a curse? Is it becaus she created it?

The curse's grip on Mrs. Takahashi slackened, its spider-like limbs hesitating, as if her words had reached something deep within it—something almost human.

Satoru wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or horrified. But that pause, that split-second of confusion, was all he needed.

He moved on instinct. His Six Eyes locked onto the curse's movements, his body flashing forward in an instant. His hand sparked with the bright glow of Blue, cursed energy humming as he unleashed it with pinpoint precision. The gravitational pull tore into the curse, yanking it off balance.

In the same breath, his free hand shot out and grabbed Mrs. Takahashi from its grasp. One smooth, decisive motion, and she was free—limp, bloodied, but alive. Not that Satoru spared her much attention. He was only saving her because Aoi would never let him hear the end of it if he didn’t.

The shockwave from Blue tore through the house, shaking the foundations, debris crashing like thunder. Dust filled the air, the walls groaned in protest, debris cascading down like rain.

And then, of course, Aoi did what she did best—something reckless.

She dove for the cursed painting, skidding across the wreckage like a soldier on a doomed mission. Her foot caught on a broken beam, and down she went, crashing to the ground with all the grace of a dropped brick. The thud echoed, sharp and painful, and Satoru winced for her, feeling the pain. He caught the flash in her eyes as her knees slammed into the floor.

Of course. She’d fallen. Again.

He rolled his eyes. Seriously? Can’t take her anywhere.

But instead of staying down, she scrambled up, clutching the painting and dragging it toward the exit with grim determination, in what he could only describe as a moment of rare intelligence. Her hair was a mess, knees scraped and bleeding, pants torn to shreds—but her stubbornness and survival instinct was in full force.

Then Satoru’s eyes flicked up.

The ceiling above her groaned. A massive chunk of debris, ready to fall. Right above her head.

Oh, for the love of—

He moved before thinking, a blur of motion. One arm looped around her waist as she clutched the painting like it was made of gold. He yanked her close, dragging her out of the collapsing building just as the beam crashed to the floor where she’d been.

The painting, still clutched tightly in her arms, was saved, of course, because she hadn’t let go of it for a second. And because the universe was cruel, he found himself hauling two damsels in distress—Mrs. Takahashi under one arm, Aoi and her cursed painting under the other.

What a sight, he thought dryly. The strongest sorcerer, reduced to dragging around these two like sacks of rice.

With a final burst of cursed energy, he landed in the middle of the street. The sunset air was cool against his skin, dust settling like mist around them. Without ceremony, he dropped both women onto the ground. Mrs. Takahashi hit the pavement with a gasp, still sobbing for her so-called son. Aoi landed with a breathless yelp, her hands clutching the painting.

Because of course she was still holding onto it. Like a stubborn raccoon with a shiny object.

Satoru straightened, brushing the dust off his sleeves with exaggerated indifference. "Seriously?" he muttered, eyeing her torn clothes and scraped bloody knees. "Can’t you go five minutes without getting hurt?"

She shot him a glare, cheeks flushed with exertion and embarrassment. "I was—"

"—being reckless, as usual," he finished, his voice flat but laced with a teasing lilt. He crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "You have a talent for it. But I'll give you credit, nice job grabbing the painting."

Aoi, panting and clearly disoriented, still had the audacity to glare at him. She opened her mouth to argue, but another guttural roar tore through the air. They both turned. The curse burst from the wreckage, its form even more twisted, more monstrous. Spider-like limbs snapped and twitched, dragging it free from the ruins. Its hollow yellow eyes locked onto Aoi.

Great, Satoru thought, jaw tight. And to think this could’ve been clean. The street was a mess. Debris everywhere, cracked pavement, dust choking the air. And of course, the loud sobbing of a woman who still refused to admit that her son was a walking horror show.

He glanced at Aoi as she managed to drag herself and the woman to a safe distance, still clutching that damned painting. She gave him a sheepish look, one that screamed: yeah, I know I messed up.

No time to say it, though.

The curse’s voice split the silence from the wreckage, shrill and accusing. "You created me for joy, and now you discard me? You don’t need happiness anymore?"

Satoru’s eyes narrowed. The words echoed, sinking in deeper than they should have.

You created me.

He had more and more the feeling that those paintings were not just cursed objects gone wrong. They were.. personal. A reflection of Aoi’s emotions, her soul poured into canvas and twisted into something dark.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the curse. So this is her twisted version of joy? A make-up friend, warped, rotten, clinging to her like a parasite?

That made sense—cursed energy could taint anything, and Aoi, despite not being a sorcerer in the traditional sense, had certainly created a mess with her emotional turmoil. She wanted a friend so badly it had turned into this. Loneliness twisting it into something monstrous.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. Well. Looks like art girl is more messed up than I thought.

Destroying the painting might fix it—or so he’d assumed. But the idea gnawed at him: what if destroying it erased a part of her? What if taking away the curse meant taking away her joy entirely?

What happens when you destroy a curse that's literally a piece of someone's soul? Do you erase part of that person’s emotions, too?

Satoru grimaced, remembering the Hate painting. Uh-uh. Did I already mess up?  Was that why she couldn’t hate this curse anymore? Because he’d ripped that feeling out of her? Because she literally couldn’t hate it now?

"Interesting," he murmured, a spark of excitement flickering in his eyes. Nerdy curiosity always won. Cursed energy pooled at his fingertip as he readied Red, his mind racing through all the possibilities. Theories spun like clockwork. What if this was a whole new category of cursed technique? An art of emotions, fragmenting a soul into cursed vessels? The implications were... kind of fascinating.

And terrifying.

But before he could indulge that thought, Aoi did what she did best—decided to take matters into her own hands again. She stepped forward, hesitant but brave. Her eyes darted between the curse and Mrs. Takahashi, her lips pressed into a tight line.

"You didn’t really want to hurt me or your mommy, did you?" Her voice trembled, but she didn’t back down. "When you said that you were her joy… you meant that, didn’t you? You wanted to make us happy."

The curse twitched, hesitating. Its grotesque limbs faltered. And for a moment, those hollow yellow eyes seemed... uncertain. Fragile.

Satoru blinked. Surprised? Sure. He shouldn’t have been, but... this was classic Aoi. Talking to monsters. Trying to fix the unfixable.

And damn it, that day it seemed to be actually working.

He watched the war playing out inside her. She’d been through hell in a single day—faced mistakes, realized how deep the curse ran. Part of her wanted to fight. Destroy it. But the other part? The stubborn, infuriatingly empathetic part? It wanted to save it. Save the woman, save the curse. Fix things without breaking them.

He held still, Red ready at his fingertips, waiting. Just in case.

Aoi’s voice steadied, though it still shook at the edges. "She doesn’t deserve to see her son die again. If you really want to make her happy, you can’t stay like this. Not like him."

Silence.

The air thickened, heavy and suffocating. Satoru’s eyes narrowed, his body coiled and ready to strike. Just give me a reason, he thought.

But then... the curse began to shift. Its spidery limbs twitched, recoiling. Shrinking. The illusion of Shota melted away, layer by grotesque layer, until there was nothing left but a beast of raw cursed energy. No longer a mimicry of a child. No longer tethered to a mother’s grief.

Just a monster.

Satoru let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His smirk returned. Finally.

He raised his hand, the red energy of Cursed Technique Reversal: Red glowing at his fingertip. He glanced briefly at Aoi, still crouched next to Mrs. Takahashi, trying her best to comfort the inconsolable woman. The curse, however, wasn’t waiting. With one precise motion, he unleashed the technique. 

Red slammed into the curse like a tidal wave, tearing it apart in an instant. The air shattered with the force, cursed energy vanishing into nothing. Silence followed, eerie and final.

But it didn’t last.

Mrs. Takahashi crumpled, sobbing into the dirt, her cry broken. She wept for her son, for the illusion that had died twice before her eyes. For the dream that shattered in Satoru’s hand. But at least, in the end, Aoi had given her a small mercy. She wouldn’t have to watch Satoru destroy something that looked like her son.

Aoi stood nearby, eyes glistening, her lip trembling as the weight of it all crashed down. She had known. She knew it wasn’t Shota. But knowing didn’t stop the pain. Watching the woman grieve for her lost child... that still hurt her.

Satoru sighed, raking a hand through his hair. He watched her kneel there, trying—futilely—to comfort the inconsolable. He wanted to roll his eyes, wanted to call it pointless, but instead his gaze caught on something else. Aoi's knees—raw and bleeding under her thorn pants. He felt the faintest sting in his own knees, the cursed bond between them echoing her pain.

"Great," he muttered under his breath. "Now I’ve got phantom knees pain to deal with."

Is this what it’s gonna be like from now on? Every time she trips, I get the bruises?

He shifted, pulling a small stack of talismans from his jacket. Same as the ones they’d used at Jujutsu High to seal Hate. Simple, clean, effective. He stepped toward the cursed painting of Joy, ready to slap them on and be done with it.

But just as his hand hovered over the painting, he paused. Glanced sideways.

Aoi was watching him. Half-focused on the grieving woman, sure, but also watching him like she expected something. Or... hoped. 

Ugh. Satoru groaned internally. This entire disaster had spiraled because he’d tried to keep her out of it. Maybe—just maybe—if he let her have more control, she’d stop diving headfirst into chaos. Maybe it would make her a little more manageable in the future.

He held out the talismans. "Hey," he said, his tone clipped. No emotion. Just another job. "Wanna do it yourself?"

Aoi blinked, clearly caught off guard. For a moment, she just stared. Wide-eyed. Then, slowly, her surprise melted into something else. Excitement.  And way too much of it for his liking. Like a puppy that had just been promised a walk.

"Sure!" she said, maybe a little too eagerly. Her fingers brushed his as she took the papers, grinning childlike as if she’d just won a prize. Like this was some grand honor.

Satoru just raised an eyebrow. Great. Now she was gonna act like the hero of the day.

He stepped back, arms crossed, watching as she approached the painting. She was tense, cautious. Her eyes kept darting to Mrs. Takahashi, who was still lost in grief. Her hand hovered over the painting.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed. His gaze flicked to the sobbing woman, her face buried in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks as she sobbed for her lost son—no, for the twisted illusion of a son that had just been shattered. Then back to Aoi. She was softening again. Doubting. Probably wondering if sealing the painting would erase the only piece of the boy left.

His patience frayed. Fine. I guess I’m doing this now.

"That wasn’t your son," Satoru said, his voice breaking the tension, his words direct but pointed. He let the words hang in the air, not bothering to sugarcoat the truth. "You keep clinging to what’s not real, and it’ll eat you alive."

Mrs. Takahashi’s eyes flickered, hollow and wide. She didn’t answer. She just... stared.

Aoi turned to him, absorbing his words. There was a flash of understanding. She nodded slightly, her gaze softening as she faced the grieving woman. When she spoke, her voice was gentler, more compassionate than his could ever be. "I know it’s hard to hear," she said, "but that thing... it wasn’t him. It was using his memory to hurt you. You deserve to heal, not live in this nightmare."

A long pause. Then, slowly, Mrs. Takahashi blinked. Her sobs didn’t stop, but something shifted. Awareness, maybe. Or acceptance.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough to take some of the edge off Aoi’s expression. She turned back to the painting,  now seemingly more resolved. Her hand brushed its surface, fingers light, hesitant.

And that’s when Satoru’s Six Eyes flared instinctively, picking up on the faint shift in cursed energy the second her hand made contact with the painting.

Wait...

His breath hitched, eyes narrowing. The cursed energy, once tangled in the canvas, now started to unwind, as if they were being gently pulled back. He could see it happening, though Aoi seemed unaware. Her fragmented soul, the piece of herself that had been bound to this object, was returning to her, retracting like a shadow in the light.

And when it was gone... the painting was just that. A painting. Harmless. Ordinary and still.

Did she just undid her technique? he thought, incredulous. Just like that? She didn’t even seem to realize she was doing it—just like she hadn’t realized when she’d cursed the painting in the first place.

Aoi froze, her fingers still resting on it, her eyes wide in shock, realizing what had happened. She glanced back at Satoru. "Did I...?" she started, voice uncertain.

Satoru sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Looks like you did." His tone was dry, irritation clear. Of course. She could undo her technique. Just like that. Without knowing how. Or why. Or even realizing she was doing it.

Perfect.

The silence stretched awkward between them. Only Mrs. Takahashi’s soft sobs filled the air. But then Aoi’s lips curled into a small, mischievous smile. Her eyes sparkled with playful triumph.

"See?" she said, her voice playful. "Empathy always works. I told you so."

Satoru stared, deadpan. Processing. Then, with a long-suffering sigh, he rolled his eyes.

She’s like a damn golden retriever, he thought, fighting a reluctant smirk. How am I supposed to stay mad at that?

"Yeah, sure," he muttered, rubbing his neck again, his lips twitching despite himself. "Empathy. Whatever you say."

✎✘✘■■■■■■■■

"So... we can just leave the painting with her?" Aoi asked, her voice a blend of uncertainty and exhaustion as she leaned back in her seat. She bit into her burger, speaking with her mouth half-full. Classic. She didn’t seem to care that she was still covered in dust and debris, her hair a wild mess, and her jeans torn at the knees, revealing scraped, bloody skin. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, probably from all the running around, and she had a distant, thoughtful expression as she poked at her fries. Despite it all, she looked oddly carefree, like none of it mattered now that the danger had passed.

Satoru, seated across from her, took a lazy bite of his own burger. "Yep. It’s not cursed anymore, so it’s safe. Not my problem now."

He was the picture of casual perfection. Clothes spotless, hair artfully tousled, and sunglasses in place, shielding the world from his ever-busy overloaded Six Eyes. He was still annoyed at how he’d had to explain to the assistants and clean-up team why the mission wasn’t clean and the residential area was a mess, but still. He lounged back in his seat, legs stretched out, looking like he hadn’t just spent the day exorcising a curse and hauling people out of a collapsing house.

It was almost unfair how clean and calm he looked after everything.

The fast-food joint was a pit stop—a place to catch their breath after a long day of chaos. Greasy food, bright lights, and cheap tables. Not exactly the height of sophistication, but after all that cursed nonsense, it felt weirdly comforting. And now, with full stomachs and a moment of peace, there was an odd sense of camaraderie between them.

Aoi nodded, chewing thoughtfully as she glanced down at her scraped knees. "Still... I didn’t recognize the curse. I’ve seen them all my life, but that one felt... different. Too human. It was practically a kid until it wasn’t."

Satoru almost smiled. Finally, something he could explain. Maybe he was starting to enjoy these little lectures more than he cared to admit. "The stronger the curse, the better it mimics humans. Higher-grade curses can act, look, and even think like us. It's how they lure people in—make them drop their guard. That one was old. Much older than the curse on your campus. That thing was practically a newborn, even if it was special grade."

She nodded slowly, though the distant look in her eyes said she was still piecing it all together. "Yeah... that makes sense. The Joy painting was sold months ago. I guess the curse had time to... grow?"

"Exactly," Satoru said grinning, leaning forward slightly. "Old curses are dangerous. They learn, adapt, manipulate. But hey, you handled yourself, you didn’t die, so that’s a win." He smirked at her, his tone playful, though a part of him wondered if she truly understood how dangerous it had been. She had a way of making everything seem less threatening than it was, probably because she’d been seeing curses her entire life. It was like she had built up a tolerance.

Aoi looked down at her burger, before turning her eyes back to him. . "So... if I managed to dissolve the curse in the painting of Joy, maybe I can do the same with you? Y’know, break the connection between us?"

Satoru blinked, staring at her like she’d just suggested exorcising him with a stick of gum. "Did you just compare me to a cursed painting?" He leaned back, shaking his head with a dry laugh. "Go ahead, try. Maybe you’ll free me from this delightful partnership." His voice dripped with sarcasm, though a part of him was genuinely curious. Could she pull off another miracle?

Without missing a beat, Aoi leaned forward, eyes narrowing in mock concentration, and slapped her hand right in the middle of his hair. No warning, zero grace.

Satoru froze.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, and for a second, he could only blink. She was a bit too close. And... was that a tattoo? His eyes caught the faint shape behind her ear—a small, fine-lined paintbrush. He hadn’t noticed it before. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Worse, why was he noticing it at all?

"What’s that?" he asked, surprised at how quickly his curiosity pushed out his irritation.

Aoi blinked, still focused on whatever mystical nonsense she was trying, fingers still in his hair. "Huh? Oh, this?" She tilted her head slightly, giving him a better view. "It’s a tattoo."

Oh, you don’t say.

Satoru tilted his head, studying it. It suited her—simple, artistic, and somehow meaningful in that way artists always insisted things were. He didn’t say anything, though. He wasn’t about to compliment her. Not now. Instead, he looked back at her, waiting for her to finish her ridiculous attempt to break the bond.

Aoi scrunched up her nose in the way she always did when she was focused or annoyed, eyes squeezed shut in determination. Cute, he thought. She looked about to sneeze.

And then... nothing. Of course.

Satoru just raised an eyebrow, watching her with mild amusement.

Aoi opened her eyes, her hand still resting lightly in his hair. She blinked, then grinned. "Nope. Didn’t work."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair to fix whatever mess she’d made. "Shocking."

Aoi leaned back, still grinning and looking far too pleased with herself for someone who had just failed. "Guess I don’t know what I did back there."

"Typical." He smirked, leaning forward again and propping an elbow on the table. "Maybe you just need more empathy. Isn’t that your thing now? Empathy, empathy. Maybe if you empathize with me hard enough, you’ll undo this."

Aoi’s eyes sparkled, mischief dancing in them like she’d won some unspoken battle between them. "Oh? So you believe in empathy now?"

He chuckled, leaning back lazily. "Sure. Next time we fight a curse, I’ll just stand back and let you talk it to death. I’m sure that'll go great."

Aoi crossed her arms, grinning like she’d just won some unspoken battle. "You know, it might."

Satoru raised an eyebrow, smirking. "But. One condition. When I say something’s a bad idea, you actually listen to me."

Aoi's grin faltered just slightly, her eyes grow just a little too shiny. Tiredness. Sadness, maybe. The weight of everything that had happened. He could already see where this was going.

Satoru tensed. Oh, hell no. Not again.

"Please don’t cry," he muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing slightly as he waited for the inevitable. He’d survived curses, but her tears? Not so much. He mentally braced himself. If she started crying again, he was going to lose it. She had been a wreck the entire walk here, going on about the tragic fate of the woman they’d left behind. He could barely get a word in between her sniffles, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he could deal with any more tears today.

She blinked rapidly, the tears threatening, but to his relief, she swallowed them down. Instead, she puffed out her cheeks in mock offense and shoved the last bite of her burger into her mouth with more force than necessary.

"Fine," she said, her words muffled. "But if you don’t want me to cry, maybe buy me some fancy art supplies. That’d cheer me up."

Satoru raised an eyebrow, biting back a grin that threatened to form. "I’m not your sugar daddy," he retorted. "I already pay for your meals and travel."

"Mmm." She gave him a cheeky smile, clearly not taking no for an answer. "Well, you did say you'd let me handle things next time. Seems like a good deal to me."

Satoru chuckled, shaking his head. She was relentless. And somehow, that made her... fun. Annoying, yes. But fun. How had he gotten roped into this mess again?

Before he could answer, Aoi pulled out a crumpled map and train schedules, spreading them across the table like she was planning a heist. "Alright, next logical stop is Nagano, right? That’s where they bought the Envy painting."

Satoru watched, mildly amused as she fumbled with the papers like a kid playing with puzzle pieces. She was at organizing anything. She reminded him of a puppy, all energy and no coordination, but somehow she made it work.

"You’re hopeless," he muttered, though there was no real bite to it.

Aoi grinned up at him, her cheeks still puffed slightly with food. "Hopeless but effective." She tapped her finger on the schedule, her brow furrowed in concentration. "If we take the next metro, we can catch the last train to Nagano and find a hotel when we get there-"

Satoru stood up abruptly, brushing crumbs off his shirt. Without a word, he headed for the door.

Behind him, a chair clattered as Aoi scrambled to gather her things. "Wait—Satoru!"

The chaos that followed was pure Aoi. Behind him, he heard the clatter of a chair as she scrambled to catch up. "Wait—" Bag half open, hair flying everywhere, nearly tripping over her own feet. Somehow, she managed to catch up, breathless and wide-eyed. She wasn’t exactly graceful. "Why are you always so fast?" she huffed. "Can’t you just teleport us? You’re like some freaky teleporting god, right?"

He walked out the door without a glance back, though he could hear her footsteps pounding behind him, her bag slapping against her side with each hurried step.

Satoru glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, a smirk playing on his lips. "It’s not that simple," he said, keeping his tone casual as if he wasn’t showing off in the slightest. "Besides, this is more fun."

Aoi groaned dramatically, running a hand through her messy hair, a frustrated pout on her face. "Fun for who? My knees are busted!" She gestured to her scraped legs, still dirty from the earlier fight.

Satoru’s gaze flicked to her legs, lingering for a second longer than necessary. Dusty, scraped, bruised. She looked like she’d lost a fight with gravity—but something about her still managed to make him smirk, picking up the pace just a little.

Definitely more fun for me.

Chapter Text

✎✘✘■■■■■■■■

ENVY

-Aoi-

The weeks in Nagano felt endless.

Every morning was the same: Satoru pounding on her hotel door just before dawn, cheerfully insisting they had to seize the day, no matter how desperately she wanted five more minutes of sleep. Before she could even drag herself from under the covers, he’d already be inside, annoyingly awake and immaculately groomed.

Today was no different. He stood in her doorway, arms folded across his chest, with a perfectly-irritating smirk. Not a single hair was out of place, clothes crisp and fresh, as if they’d never seen a day of wear.

Aoi, meanwhile, was still fighting her sweatshirt over her head, hair tangled and eyes barely open. She squinted at him through a curtain of messy bangs. "You know, normal people sleep in sometimes."

He tilted his head, still grinning. "Good thing we’re not normal, then."

Before she could protest further or tie her hair up, he guided her out the door and into the early morning chill.

They’d spent days chasing dead ends, tracking down one previous owner of the cursed painting after another. Now, they were down to wandering the city streets, hoping that his Six Eyes would pick up some trace of cursed energy. Anything.

By the time they reached a quaint café in the afternoon, the kind with little flower pots hanging on the walls, Aoi felt like she'd walked the length of Nagano twice over. She collapsed onto a bench outside, sighing dramatically as she dropped her heavy bag at her feet.

Satoru sat down beside her as if he’d just strolled from the hotel, stretching his legs with effortless ease. Even his sunglasses looked irritatingly stylish perched on his nose.

Aoi gave him an annoyed glance as she pulled an art history textbook from her bag, opening it with exaggerated frustration. "How are you always spotless? Seriously, dirt must just avoid you out of fear."

He smirked, sipping casually from his cup of hot milk.  "It’s one of my many talents."

She sipped her own drink, the warmth settling her nerves. She hated coffee, so hot milk was the closest she’d get to feeling somewhat civilized, and had been surprised when he copied her choice. Hot milk, odd for someone as over-the-top as he was. She stole a glance at him, lips quirking into a playful smile. "So, is this what we’ve become? Nagano’s Batman and Robin, hunting cursed paintings… fueled by hot milk?"

He chuckled softly, settling back against the bench, one arm draped casually over its back. "I might be convinced to play along, if you’re okay being Robin. But let’s get one thing straight—I’m nobody’s sidekick."

She nudged his side lightly with her elbow, meeting his damn Infinity barrier and biting back a grin. "Oh please, you'd be lucky if I even agreed to be your sidekick. I’d never be caught dead in spandex."

He arched an eyebrow, gaze drifting over her messy hair and worn-out jeans. "Right, because you have such high standards for fashion."

She stuck her tongue out at him, leaning into the banter. "Says the guy with sunglasses that scream 'wannabe celebrity.' Seriously, do you even need them?"

"They’re a fashion statement," he replied smoothly, adjusting the sunglasses slightly. "Besides, you're one to talk. Why exactly are you buried in a textbook during a cursed painting hunt?"

She shut the book dramatically, waving it in his direction. "Some of us have real-world responsibilities—like university exams. I doubt you can relate."

His lips twitched upward. "Are you saying being the strongest sorcerer isn’t a real job?"

"More like you skipped right past being a normal human," she shot back, crossing her arms. "What are you, twenty? You ever even thought about university?"

"University?" he quipped, smiling arrogantly. "Sorcerers have their own school system. It’s pretty intense—by the third year, we're usually out in the field, full-time. University is pointless."

She scrunched her nose skeptically. "Sounds less like a school and more like a military training camp."

He let out a quiet laugh, but something flickered briefly in his expression—something more serious. "That's not too far from the truth. Sorcerers are always soldiers first."

Aoi faltered, her teasing smile fading slightly. She hadn't expected that. For a moment, she felt a strange sympathy, wondering how someone like him might’ve grown up in a world so removed from her own. But as quickly as the seriousness appeared, he shook it away, his expression shifting back to his usual teasing smirk.

"So, art girl," he said casually, leaning slightly closer with an amused glint in his eyes, "you still sure you can’t feel where this painting might be? You said something about sensing a pull—like you did with the Joy painting. Kinda like—" He leaned even closer, smirking. "—you do with me."

She blinked, suddenly flustered by the closeness. Of course he would be smug about that. Her pulse quickened traitorously, but she quickly masked it with an eye-roll and a sigh. "Don’t flatter yourself. It's strictly my—what did you call it again?—cursed technique at work. It’s nothing personal."

He raised his hands in mock surrender, clearly enjoying her reaction. "Oh, trust me, I’m flattered. Here I am, generously helping you gather fragments of your soul, and you still treat me like the villain in your story."

She gave him an exasperated glare trying to hide the laughter threatening to break through. "You're the one who keeps waking me up at ungodly hours and dragging me around Nagano. If anyone’s doing someone a favor, it’s me."

Satoru shrugged, stretching his legs further, completely unfazed. "Think of it as my good deed for the year—touring the city with an art student who doesn't even fully grasp her own abilities. Quite generous, don’t you think?"

He laughed, and despite herself, Aoi felt a small tug of genuine amusement, as if they were actually partners in this absurd mission. Something had shifted subtly between them over the last few days—somehow, the relentless bickering had grown comfortable. Even enjoyable.

She stretched her arms above her head, glancing upward at the clear sky and breathing deeply. The afternoon air had a sharp chill, but for a moment she forgot about cursed paintings, fragments of her soul, and everything else that had turned her life upside-down. For just this moment, there was only the peaceful hum of the city, the warmth of her drink, and Satoru’s annoying presence.

Maybe Nagano wasn’t so bad after all.

She risked a glance sideways, taking in his relaxed posture and easy confidence, immune to exhaustion, dirt, and any normal human struggle. Annoying—unfair, really—but also, she couldn’t deny there was something oddly steadying about it. Like his calm made the chaos feel a little less heavy.

"What?" He noticed her stare, smirk widening slightly.

"Nothing," Aoi quickly averted her gaze, cheeks warming just a bit in frustration. "Just wondering if you had any grand ideas on where this painting might be hiding."

Satoru smirked, shaking his head slightly. "If I did, we wouldn’t be sitting here drinking milk. But," he leaned in a little, his tone dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper, "I’m open to suggestions from our resident curse magnet." He sat back with a lazy grin. "Why don’t you give that lovely cursed technique of yours a shot? Lead us straight to Envy."

Aoi rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small, grudging smile that tugged at her lips. "Fine. If it’ll shut you up, I’ll try. But don’t expect miracles."

She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath as she let the ambient noise of the city fade. The crisp Nagano air brushed against her skin, but all she could feel—unfortunately—was him. That stubborn, steady pull that always seemed to tether her to Satoru. She swore she could sense the brush of his sleeve against her arm even though they weren't touching.

And of course, he noticed.

Satoru wasn’t the type to let a moment like this pass quietly. She could almost feel his smirk, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It was like he was using the cursed bond as an endless excuse to tease her, throwing her off-balance whenever he could. "Well, Robin?" His voice teasing. "Sensing anything?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, holding back a smile. She wasn’t going to let him break her concentration—not yet, anyway. "Nothing. Only you," she muttered, keeping her eyes closed.

He hummed thoughtfully. "Only? Ouch," he murmured, his voice practically dripping with faux offense. "Should I be flattered or offended?"

The corner of her mouth twitched, but she didn’t open her eyes. "Neither. Just… shut up and let me focus, will you? Or is this just another opportunity for you to hear yourself talk?"

"Focus a little harder," he said, voice dipping low with mock patience. "Forget me—hard as that is. Think of it like tuning a radio. Find the right frequency."

She cracked one eye open, giving him a skeptical look. His face was closer than she’d realized, his expression serious in a way that was almost distracting. "A radio? That’s your grand advice? I’m not some sorcerer prodigy like you. I can’t just dial in cursed energy like it's a playlist."

He chuckled, unfazed, leaning back slightly but not taking his eyes off her. "It’s more like static. You’ll know it when you feel it—like a buzz in the background that’s just off." His tone softened, but only just. An edge of worry, maybe. A faint glimpse of the Satoru who cared more than he let on.  "And don’t guess. You need to be sure. This isn’t one of your art projects where you can mess up and try again."

Aoi swallowed hard, shutting her eyes tighter. She focused on her breathing, letting his voice linger in her thoughts, picturing the sensation he’d described. Slowly, the city faded. Slowly, his presence—even with that frustrating pull—faded too, like a steady heartbeat she no longer had to consciously feel. And in that stillness, something else stirred. A faint hum, a whisper of cursed energy that tugged at her senses, barely there but unmistakable.

"I think… I think I feel it," she whispered, her fingers curling into her sweatshirt. Aoi nodded, the energy thrumming quietly, almost singing to her senses now. The more she focused, the clearer the sensation became—a faint, ghostly pull. It was just within reach. 

"About time." His voice was smooth, but there was a note of relief in it too. "Shall we?"

"Wait," she hesitated, keeping her eyes shut. "If I open my eyes, I’ll lose it." The sense was fickle, fragile—it didn’t work like his Six Eyes, which tracked cursed energy as naturally as breathing. Hers was more like trying to hold onto the last note of a song, or a dream that slipped away if she moved too quickly. 

There was no sarcasm in his reply, no teasing. Just quiet confidence. "Okay Robin. Then keep them closed." His hands were on her shoulders, steady as he pulled her to her feet. She froze for half a second, her heart skipping when he stepped in close behind her. His grip was firm and grounding. "I’ll guide you. Just tell me where to go."

She swallowed, torn between a laugh and a sigh, as she imagined him in a ridiculous costume, caped and masked. "You’re really taking this whole 'hero' thing seriously, huh?"

His fingers squeezed lightly. "Don’t lose focus now, Robin," he murmured. "Just tell me where to walk. I’ll handle the rest. Just don’t trip on your feet or it’ll be my fault," he added with a scoff, though his hand remained steady on her shoulder, a little too careful for his usual indifferent manner

Aoi let herself relax into the strange comfort of his hands, letting the warmth of him become her anchor. "Alright. Left," she whispered, letting the pull guide her.

They moved slowly, Satoru matching her pace. His hands were steady, keeping her balanced as they wove through unfamiliar streets. She directed him without opening her eyes, murmuring quiet instructions as they made their way through unfamiliar streets. Occasionally, she felt his fingers shift—subtle, testing. Checking to see if she was still focused.

"Left again," she said, her breath catching slightly as the pull grew stronger.

"You know," his voice was low, almost thoughtful, "you’re doing better than I expected. You’re like a human GPS for cursed objects."

She felt a surge of pride, smiling despite herself. "See? I'm a natural."

He snorted softly guiding her a bit more firmly through a crowded patch. "Let’s not get cocky. But better than your first attempt. I’m definitely taking credit for that."

Their steps fell into rhythm, the silence between them surprisingly easy. His hands on her shoulders felt less like guidance and more like a reassurance. The kind that said he was watching her back, even if he’d rather die than admit it.

And then, he stopped. Abrupt. 

Aoi stumbled back, colliding into his chest with a muffled gasp. She blinked her eyes open, tilting her head back to glare up at him, pressed against his body. His hands steadied her, his gaze fixed on her face, with a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Hey," she snapped. "What was that for?"

He just tilted his head, looking far too pleased with himself. "Thought you’d want to know we’ve arrived."

"Arrived?" Aoi’s heart skipped. She took a tiny step quickly, looking away from him to take in their surroundings. And there it was—a grand, old building just on the outskirts of the main Nagano district. The architecture suggested it was a theater, maybe even a conference center, and while it had the elegance of old wood and polished stone, there was something almost eerie about it. The building exuded a silent, heavy atmosphere, which only added to her suspicion.

But that wasn’t what made her stomach twist.

It was the crowd. Streams of young women, dressed to impress, gathering at the entrance. Laughter. High heels clicking against the pavement. Excited chatter. An event. Of all times, an event. Just what they didn’t need.

Her stomach dropped. "You’ve got to be kidding me," she whispered, scanning the large entrance.

Satoru’s smirk was audible, even if she wasn’t looking at him. "A cursed painting hiding in a building full of people. What could possibly go wrong?" He nudged her shoulders forward with a teasing grin. "If that painting lets loose a special-grade curse here, we’re looking at a full-on massacre." He tilted his head slightly, tapping his sunglasses with his index finger. "But hey, nothing Batman and Robin can’t handle, right?"

Aoi shot him a sharp glare but didn’t let her smile fade entirely. Typical. If there was a way to joke through an impending disaster, Satoru would find it.

And as annoying as he was, she found herself believing him.

They pushed closer to the entrance, blending with the crowd of young women. Her heart thudded with every step, her nerves prickling under the weight of so many bodies pressing in around them. And yet, Satoru’s hand lingered on her shoulder—a steady, grounding presence she was grateful for. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm enough to keep her close, to guide her without losing her in the throng.

The lobby buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the occasional nervous whisper. A faint tremor of unease ran through her as she caught a snippet of conversation, as they edged deeper.

"Are you sure about this?" one girl asked in a hushed voice, glancing around nervously. "They say girls have been disappearing after these events..."

Her friend waved off the concern with an airy laugh. "Please. Ghost stories? Don’t be ridiculous."

Aoi’s gaze flicked to Satoru, and their eyes met. His expression was unreadable, but she saw the flicker of interest, that telltale spark that meant he was fitting the pieces together. They were in the right place. 

He leaned closer, voice low enough that only she could hear. "Looks like we’ve hit the jackpot." His lips curved into a faint smile.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the unease curling in her stomach. "Feels like we’re walking straight into a horror movie."

They edged further inside, the crowd thickening. A few girls threw lingering glances Satoru’s way, giggling behind their hands. He stood out in every way—tall, sharp, effortless. The sunglasses, the grin, the confidence. He didn’t need to try; people just noticed him.

Of course, he acted oblivious—or simply indifferent. Cool and detached, as if none of it mattered. His hand remained on her shoulder, guiding her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Aoi elbowed him playfully, behind her. "Seems like Batman has his fair share of admirers," she whispered, smirking up at him.

His grin widened, that insufferable, self-satisfied curve of his lips. "Let them admire," he said smoothly. "I’m on the clock."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small, traitorous smile tugging at her lips. "Any chance you can focus on finding the painting instead of basking in your fan club’s admiration?"

He tilted his head, glancing around the crowded room. After a brief pause, his brows drew together. "There’s definitely a curse here. But it’s muffled. Insulated. Like someone wrapped it in cotton."

Aoi crossed her arms. "So, you don’t actually know where it is."

He gave a small, annoyed shake of his head, lips pursed in mild frustration. "Not exactly. But I have an idea."

They wove through the crowd again, his hand steady on her back—like moving with a shield that made it easier to slip between people without too many collisions.

Eventually, they reached a side entrance, quieter than the main one, with only a few girls heading inside. Both Aoi and Satoru paused, glancing around as they prepared to head in, but before they could take another step, a large hand blocked their path.

"Sorry. Contestants only past this point." The security guard crossed his arms, eyeing them with bland suspicion.

They froze, processing the guard’s words.

Aoi blinked. Contestants?

Satoru arched an eyebrow at the guard, a sly grin starting to form. "Contestants, huh? So, what exactly is going on?"

The guard shrugged, bored. "Beauty contest. Female contestants under twenty-five only. No exceptions."

Aoi turned to Satoru, watching the gears turn behind his sunglasses. He was thinking about bulldozing his way in—she could practically see the gears turning in his mind as he weighed the pros and cons—but surprisingly, he didn’t.

Instead, he tilted his head, his tone light. "Only girls contestants under twenty-five? No exceptions?"

"That’s right," the guard said without interest.

They both glanced at each other, clearly processing this unexpected development. Satoru’s face lit up, and Aoi’s stomach did a strange flip. She knew that look. The look that meant he’d already decided on a plan, and that plan probably didn’t bode well for her.

He leaned down to her level, lips twitching into an annoyingly charming smile. "Good news," he murmured in a too cheerful tone. "You qualify."

She blinked, already dreading his next words. "Wait. You don’t mean—"

Before she could finish, he gave her a gentle shove forward. "She’s one of the contestants," he announced, all bright enthusiasm and big smile.

Aoi stumbled, barely catching herself before glaring back at him, eyes widening in horror. "What?!"

The guard eyed her, his gaze sweeping over her casual clothes and oversized hoodie with thinly veiled skepticism. She shot Satoru a desperate look, silently begging him to end whatever ridiculous scheme he’d started. But his grin only deepened, completely undeterred by her silent plea.

"You’re serious?" she whispered sharply.

"Dead serious," he said without missing a beat. "Come on, Robin. You’ll blend right in. Just smile and act cute."

"A beauty contest!" she practically shrieked, drawing a few curious glances from nearby onlookers. "I am not entering a beauty contest! What about you? " She steppedd closer jabbing a finger to his chest, colliding with Infinity as usual. "Gonna sit in the audience with a big bowl of popcorn while I humiliate myself?"

He shrugged, utterly unconcerned. "Someone’s gotta be ready if things go south."

She threw her hands up, incredulous. "Why don’t you enter, huh? With those stupid long eyelashes, I’m sure you’d make all the other girls jealous."

"Tempting," he replied, entirely unruffled, though a hint of laughter played at his lips. "But I’ll pass. Besides," he added, his grin deepening, "didn’t you say you wanted to be part of the action? Come on,don’t tell me you’re—" he paused, leaning down slightly, voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "—insecure."

She scowled, but her heart sank. It wasn’t just about the absurdity of the situation. She wanted to brush off Satoru’s comment, roll her eyes and joke it off, but there was the quiet voice in her head whispering that she wasn’t enough for this. She was fine, sure but she’d never been one of those girls who turned heads the moment they walked into a room. Not pretty enough. Not elegant enough.

She could feel her cheeks warming at the mere idea of it, of standing next to all those effortlessly beautiful contestants and—competing?

Insecure… well, yeah. Maybe a little.

And the worst part? That smirking bastard knew it.

But she’d be damned if she let him see that insecurity.

"Of course not," she said, forcing a casual smile, hoping it came off as convincing. Her eyes narrowing at his victorious grin. "It’s for the mission, isn’t it? But if anything goes wrong, I’m dragging you in too. Eyelashes and all."

"Deal," he said, entirely too pleased, his blue eyes hidden behind those absurdly expensive-looking sunglasses, which he wore even though they were standing in a dim hallway. "Just keep your phone on you and let me know what you find. If it goes south, I’m only 0.2 seconds away."

She sighed, masking her nerves with forced confidence. "Right. Because you breaking down the wall wouldn’t be subtle at all."

He smirked, apparently satisfied, and released her shoulder with a small nudge that nearly sent her stumbling forward. Her mind raced, wavering between flat-out refusal and the dawning realization that, logically, this might actually be their best chance to get inside without causing a scene. Still, she couldn’t stop her heart from pounding uncomfortably fast as the guard finally shrugged, motioning her through with a gruff nod.

She moved to step forward but paused, glancing back at him. Her voice dropped. "Any last-minute advice?"

He seemed caught off guard for a second but then smiled, genuinely—just for a moment. He leaned in, just close enough that she could see the subtle blue glint behind his sunglasses. "Trust your guts," he said, voice low. "You’ve got this."

And she hated how those simple words steadied her, hated how they made her believe she could actually do this.

She shot him a final glare. Satoru only grinned, giving her a thumbs-up as she passed the security guard, who nodded approvingly as he let her through. As she walked away, she could practically feel Satoru’s smug satisfaction radiating behind her.

She wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact that he’d talked her into entering a beauty pageant, or the fact that she was actually going along with it.

✎✘✘■■■■■■■■

As soon as Aoi stepped into the dressing room, her stomach twisted with nerves. She was surrounded by girls who looked like they belonged on magazine covers—long, sleek hair in shades of brown, black, and blonde, makeup expertly applied to highlight every perfect feature, dresses that hugged curves in all the right places. They moved with ease, gliding from mirror to mirror, adjusting clothes, fixing eyeliner, exchanging effortless smiles. They belonged here, in this world of beauty and confidence.

And then there was her. Aoi. Second-hand clothes, hair cut short for practicality, sneakers that had seen better days. She looked like she’d stumbled into the wrong room, and she felt it too.

If she hadn’t felt out of place before, she definitely did now.

She lingered by the door, feeling like a child who had stumbled into an adults-only party. Her reflection caught her off guard—nervous eyes, soft features, and none of the practiced poise of the other girls. She didn’t have makeup. Or a dress. Or any clue what she was supposed to be doing. She wasn’t here to compete, she reminded herself. She was here to find the cursed painting.

Right?

Swallowing her nerves, Aoi stepped further into the room, glancing around in search of someone approachable. But most of the girls were lost in their routines, focused on themselves, adjusting hair, applying lipstick, ignoring the outsider in their midst.

She caught her reflection again and took a breath. Trust your guts, Satoru’s his infuriatingly vague advice echoed in her mind. Annoying as he was, his words grounded her. She closed her eyes and tried to focus, to tune into the cursed energy like he’d taught her. She imagined his hands on her shoulders, his quiet confidence.

It helped.

The background chatter and her own racing heartbeat faded as she concentrated. She reached for that tugging sensation, that faint, invisible thread of cursed energy. And then—there. Subtle, but there. A shadow just beyond reach.

Her fingers twitched, almost instinctively, as if reaching out for it.

Her eyes snapped open, and she turned. Standing behind her was a girl who seemed… unreal. Stunning, with long, black hair like silk and skin so pale it almost glowed. Her eyes were black, intense as midnight. She stood with effortless grace, the kind that came from knowing she belonged in that world.

Their gazes met, and Aoi felt her stomach twist. She felt small, awkward. The girl’s stare was steady, almost assessing, and Aoi nearly flinched when she spoke.

"First time?" The girl’s tone was smooth and quiet, her smile just a little too knowing.

Aoi blinked, caught off guard. "Uh… yeah. Kind of," she stammered, forcing a smile even as her nerves twisted tighter.

The girl tilted her head slightly, humming thoughtful. Finally, she nodded, her expression softening just a little. "I’m Akemi," she said, holding out a hand. "Here, I’ll help you. It can be overwhelming the first time."

Someone normal. Maybe. Relief washed over Aoi as she shook her hand. Her fingers were long and elegant, and surprisingly cold. "Aoi. And… thanks. I wasn’t exactly prepared for this whole… pageant thing."

Akemi’s smile deepened, her tone confident and reassuring, a far cry from the dark energy Aoi had sensed. "Don’t worry. You’ll be fine." She gestured toward an open vanity. The trays were filled with makeup brushes, shadows, powders, and other tools she barely recognized, a collection that seemed intimidating in its precision. "Sit. I’ll help you blend in."

Aoi hesitated but obeyed, sinking into the seat, watching as Akemi began to sort through her makeup with an expert’s touch, selecting items with care.

"These are all mine," Akemi said, as if reading Aoi’s nervous glance. "Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing."

Aoi nodded, watching their reflections in the mirror. Akemi looked effortlessly perfect. Beside her, Aoi felt plain and uncertain. But she stayed still, breathing slow, reminding herself of why she was here.

As Akemi started applying foundation, Aoi felt more than just the strange sensation of makeup on her skin. That faint thread of cursed energy was still there, subtle but unmistakable, threading through the air like an invisible current.

It was coming from Akemi. Aoi was sure of it even without the Six Eyes that Satoru relied on. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Akemi was somehow tied to the cursed painting they were hunting.

Trying to stay calm, she ventured a question, if only to distract herself from the odd tug of cursed energy she could still feel radiating from Akemi.. "So, um… is this something you do a lot? Pageants, I mean."

Akemi’s eyes flickered to meet hers in the mirror, her expression neutral as she concentrated on Aoi’s makeup. "Mm-hmm. Head straight, and look forward," she reminded her softly. Aoi obeyed, her gaze drawn once again to the mirror. She noticed a small beauty mark just below Akemi’s cheekbone, a tiny imperfection that somehow made her even more striking.

Her mind raced, formulating a way to bring up the topic without drawing suspicion. "Hey, Akemi," she asked slowly, choosing her words carefully, "do they ever display artwork here? Paintings or anything?"

Akemi’s hands paused for a split second, though her smile didn’t falter. "Paintings?" she repeated lightly. She tilted her head, seeming to contemplate the question. "Sometimes. They use some paintings for the shows, backdrops mostly. Why you ask?"

Aoi forced a casual shrug. "I’m into art. Just curious."

Akemi’s smile lingered, but there was something strange about it. Something that set Aoi’s nerves on edge, as if she were peeling away Aoi’s layers with each glance. Her lips curved into a sly smile, both friendly and unsettlingly knowing. She leaned in close, her whisper soft but carrying an oddly conspiratorial tone. "If you’re interested," she said slowly, "I could show you the storage room after the show. That’s where they keep the props and paintings."

Aoi’s pulse kicked up. She nodded, her voice careful, every nerve in her body on high alert. "Sure. That’d be great."

Akemi’s smile lingered, as she continued working on Aoi’s makeup. They fell into silence, the only sound the soft sweep of brushes and the click of compacts. And then, without warning, Akemi asked, "Tell me, Aoi. Do you think I’m beautiful?"

The question caught Aoi off guard. She blinked, startled. "Um… yeah. Of course. You’re stunning, anyone would think so."

Akemi’s lips curled, in a way that made Aoi’s skin prickle. "Good. I thought so too." he kept working in silence for a moment, applying mascara to Aoi’s lashes with feather-light touches. And then she asked, quieter this time, "Would you like to be me?"

Aoi’s stomach flipped. The words felt strange. She wanted to laugh it off, say something to lighten the mood, but the intensity in Akemi’s eyes made it impossible. Be her? The way Akemi had said it sounded so literal, as if she were offering it as an actual possibility.

She forced a laugh, though it sounded weak in her own ears. "I think it’d take more than looks to be someone. You’re… confident," she added quickly, hoping she didn’t sound too awkward. "I don’t think I could pull that off, even if I looked like you."

For a moment, Akemi’s smile faltered, her eyes distant, as though Aoi’s words had struck something raw. "So, I’m too beautiful for you, huh?" she whispered, her voice almost wounded. But then the mask slipped back into place. "Anyway," Akemi said, breezy and bright, moving to a rack of costumes. "You’ll need something for the swimsuit round."

Swimsuit? Aoi’s stomach dropped. She can't mean-

Akemi pulled out a midnight-blue one-piece, holding it up with an approving nod. "This will be perfect for you."

The realization dawned on her like a bad dream. Panic surged in Aoi’s chest. A swimsuit. In front of all those strangers—and that included Satoru.

Oh, no.

She could already hear his teasing. Already see the grin he’d flash. Already feel the embarrassment burning through her skin. She could imagine him backstage, smirking and whispering some terrible comment that would haunt her forever, like "Nice look, Robin."

This was her worst nightmare materialized.

Akemi didn’t seem to notice her discomfort, sifting through the racks of costumes as she searched for one in Aoi’s size. "Found it," She announced, holding up a sleek one-piece with a smile that could only be described as devilish. She handed it to Aoi with an approving nod. "Go on. Try it. You’ll look perfect."

Aoi took the swimsuit, holding it like it might bite her. This is for the mission. Find the cursed painting, she reminded herself, trying to push down the bubbling panic. Just get through this, and then you can focus on the job.

Her cheeks flamed at the thought, and a small voice in the back of her mind whispered that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t laugh. It was just a mission. Surely he was professional, he'd understand, he wouldn't turn it into a spectacle.

But deep down, she knew better.

As she stepped toward the changing area, she muttered under her breath, "He’s going to be unbearable about this."

Aoi tugged at the edges of the midnight-blue swimsuit, feeling like she was holding her breath with every step in line. The suit fit—maybe a little too well—but that didn’t make her feel any less exposed. Around her, the other contestants looked flawless, gliding through the pre-show preparations with the kind of ease that came from years of confidence and practice. They belonged here, with their perfect makeup, practiced smiles, and graceful stances.

Aoi… did not.

She wasn’t here to be admired or judged. She wasn’t here to win anything. She was here for one reason: to find the cursed painting before a curse could manifest and causa a massacre. But that was hard to remember with every uncomfortable shuffle of fabric and each second spent trying to ignore her reflection.

Assistants hurried around, adjusting sashes, calling out numbers, lining the girls up like carefully crafted dolls. Aoi did her best to blend in, keeping her head down, shoulders straight, and fighting the overwhelming urge to bolt for the nearest exit. She just had to get through this.

And then, like some nightmare reincarnate, Akemi strolled by. Effortlessly graceful, perfectly poised, like she was made for the spotlight. She caught Aoi’s eye and smiled, leaning in to murmur something that sounded half like advice, half like a dare. "Stand tall, Aoi," she said, her voice smooth and confident. She gently repositioned Aoi’s arm, placing it on her hip. "Head up. Smile. You’ll look amazing. I promise."

Aoi blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected touch. Cold. Too cold. But she nodded, forcing herself to mimic the stance, lifting her chin even though every part of her wanted to shrink into the floor. She glanced at Akemi. not sure if it was admiration or envy that curled in her chest. Maybe both.

The assistants finished arranging them, each girl assigned a number. Aoi glanced down at hers—31. Then her gaze flicked to Akemi’s, several spaces ahead. Number 4.

Of course. The only person she vaguely befriended, and she was standing at the front. As far away as possible. Great.

Aoi took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, mentally running through her plan. All she had to do was survive a few minutes on stage, slip a signal to Satoru, and let him handle the rest. Easy. She just had to keep her cool.

You’ve got this, Aoi. Just breathe.

And then it started. The line moved forward, each girl stepping out onto the stage, one by one. Aoi’s heart slammed in her chest, her pulse matching the quick pace of her footsteps. Her throat felt dry. Her stomach twisted into knots. But she focused on the girl in front of her. Just follow her steps. Don’t trip. Don’t freeze. Just act like you belong here.

It’s just a performance. Just another role to play.

Then, the stage lights hit her, hot and blinding, as she stepped onto the platform. The murmur of the crowd swelled, surrounding her like static, buzzing in her ears. She could feel every set of eyes on her, watching, judging. The swimsuit felt tighter under the weight of it all, her skin prickling beneath the heat of scrutiny.

Keep your head high. Just like Akemi said. Walk. Smile. Look confident. Even if you’re dying inside.

But then, she made the mistake of looking into the crowd.

It was packed, a sea of faces she didn’t recognize—all except one. There he was. Leaning lazily against the far wall, arms crossed, white hair glowing under the dim theater lights. Satoru. Impossible to miss. Impossible to ignore. His lips were curved in a smirk so smug it should’ve been illegal. And when their eyes met, she saw it—he was trying so hard not to laugh. One hand even came up to cover his mouth, but she could still see the grin. The mischief. The pure, unapologetic amusement.

Oh, for the love of—

Heat shot up her neck, flooding her cheeks as she resisted the urge to glare at him. She was already dying of secondhand embarrassment, and now this? She had to stand here, practically half-naked, while Satoru stood there, laughing his head off in silence?

She imagined a stream of mental insults flowing toward him, and if they could be felt, he’d surely be feeling them now.

She wanted to kill him. Slowly.

Forcing herself not to glare, Aoi lifted her hand, folding down her thumb to signal four fingers—this was what they’d come here for, and it was no time for him to be laughing like a child. The message was simple: Contestant Four. Akemi. She shot him a sharp look, her eyes practically screaming, Pay attention.

Satoru’s grin only widened. The absolute menace.

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he gave her a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up. Like they were sharing some private joke. As if this wasn’t the single most humiliating moment of her life.

She could almost hear him in her head, his voice teasing. Oh yeah, I got the message. But hey, you're really working that swimsuit, Robin.

Aoi resisted the urge to groan. She turned her gaze forward, shoulders stiff, counting down the seconds until she could escape. Oh, he was going to pay for this. She was going to make sure of it. The second this mission was over, she’d find a way to make him suffer. She didn't care how long it took. And he better be planning something that doesn’t involve destroying the entire theater, she added to her mental list.

Still, she had to focus. She had a job to do. She couldn’t let him—or her own mortification—distract her. With one last, pointed glare his way, she straightened her posture and forced herself to walk with as much dignity as she could muster.

Just survive this. Then it’s over. Then you can kill him.

✎✘✘■■■■■■■■

Aoi stormed down the hallway, her oversized hoodie pulled tight around her over the swimsuit, like it could shield her from the embarrassment still burning in her chest. Her sneakers squeaked against the floor, echoing louder than she'd like. She kept her head down until she spotted him—Satoru. Leaning against the wall like he owned the place, arms crossed, his sunglasses reflecting the hallway lights. That stupid, insufferable smirk already pulling at his lips. Aoi had seen him wear that expression a hundred times before, but today it grated on her nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He looked like he was waiting just to make her life miserable.

Of course.

Even from across the hall, she could feel his amusement, see the way mischief glinted behind his shades. He wasn’t going to let this go easily. A faint heat rose to her cheeks, half from anger, half from a nervous flip she tried hard to ignore.

"Well," he drawled as she approached, his grin lazy and sharp. "Look who survived her big debut. You didn’t do half bad out there." He paused, chuckling lightly. Middle of the rankings, you know?"

Aoi stopped short, trying not to let his comment get to her, but the sting of his words crept under her skin. Middle of the rankings? She wasn’t here to win anything—she was here to finish a mission, to find that cursed painting and get out. But of course, he couldn’t resist twisting the knife, making a joke of her humiliation.

"Ha-ha. Hilarious," she snapped, crossing her arms and leveling him with a look. "Can we focus on what matters?" She forced herself to keep her voice level, even though her heart was still hammering. "Contestant number four—Akemi. She’s drenched in cursed energy. It’s clinging to her like it’s part of her. She’s definitely connected to the painting."

That caught his attention. The humor in his expression faded, replaced by something more focused. He tilted his head, thinking, eyes narrowing slightly behind the shades. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I noticed it the moment she stepped on stage. She’s carrying something. The curse, maybe… or something worse." His gaze drifted, thoughtful, like he was piecing something together that he didn’t quite like. "Although..."

Aoi frowned as she watched his expression shift. "What?" she pressed. "What is it?"

He shook his head, giving a dismissive shrug. "Nothing. Just thinking out loud."

"Right." She wasn’t buying it. But they didn’t have time to argue. "Akemi mentioned a storage room," Aoi continued exasperated by his non-answers, lowering her voice. "Said she could take me there after the next round. She said that’s where they keep props, paintings—" She stole a glance down the hall, where the quiet murmur of pageant participants filled the air. "I’ll head back in, but—"

She didn’t get to finish.

"What?" Satoru’s whole demeanor shifted, his body stiffening as his gaze snapped back to her. His voice cut through the air, sharper than before. "You’re seriously thinking of going with her? Alone?" His sunglasses caught the light as he tilted his head, disbelief written across his face. "Yeah, no. That’s not happening."

Aoi blinked. "What?"

"You heard me," he said, arms crossed tighter, his stance stubborn. "You’re not going down there with her. Not alone. She’s radiating cursed energy and practically screaming ‘bad idea.’ And I don’t care if she’s your new best friend. You really need me to spell out that it’s reckless? Best-case scenario, she’s just clueless. Worst case? It’s a trap." He gave her a stern look. "That is not a risk you’re taking. I’ll be the one to deal with her."

His words struck a nerve, stirring up a tangle of frustration. She straightened her shoulders, her chin lifting. The last thing she needed was for him to think she hadn’t considered the risks. Again. "And what’s your plan, genius? Because I’m not exactly seeing you come up with anything better."

He didn’t even flinch. That was all the prompting he needed. His expression softened just slightly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his stance loosening just enough to seem casual again. "Curses don’t wander far from where they’re born," he said, voice slipping into that low, measured tone she’d come to recognize. The tone he used when he was teaching her something pretending he wasn’t enjoying this just a little too much. "If the painting’s down there, the curse is sticking close. But if it’s found a host instead…" He trailed off, tapping his fingers against his arm. "Well, that’s when it gets interesting."

Aoi hated how easily she hung onto his words, how her irritation wavered as he spoke. For all his insufferable arrogance, there was something solid in the way he talked about cursed energy—like he wasn’t just confident, but certain. There was a part of him that cared—deeply—about this strange, deadly world they navigated. And, in that moment, it was almost difficult to look away. 

"So here’s what’s gonna happen," Satoru continued, his grin sharpening. "You stick with her. Keep her talking. Keep an eye on her, away from the storage room. I’ll check the there. If anything feels off, you get out, no hesitation. Don’t argue."

There wasn’t room to argue, not with the way he looked at her—like it was a done deal. And maybe it should’ve annoyed her more, but… a part of her, the smallest part, felt steadier for it.

"Fine," she muttered, though her annoyance lingered at the back of her mind.

He gave a satisfied nod, but he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. "And don’t get too distracted by all the pageant lights, yeah?" His grin turned smug again, gaze sliding over her with an infuriatingly slow appreciation. "You’re supposed to be on a mission, after all." His gaze slid over her with an amused glint, taking in the oversized hoodie thrown over her swimsuit, her hair still half-damp from earlier, and the makeup stil on point on her face.

Aoi’s face heated instantly, and she crossed her arms tighter, suddenly hyper-aware of the messy, hurried look she probably had. She wanted to pull the hoodie tighter, to disappear into it and out of his gaze.

Before she could speak, he leaned in. Close. Too close. His sunglasses dipped low, just enough for her to see the blue of his eyes. His gaze held hers, steady, and for a moment, she swore he was going to say something serious.

"You know," he said, voice low, tilting his head slightly. "All things considered… you actually look kinda cute."

Aoi’s heart stilled. Her breath caught in her throat. For a second—just one—she believed him. She saw it in his eyes, the soft edge to his words that didn’t sound like a joke. Had he really just said that? Him, of all people, giving her a genuine compliment? Her cheeks warmed despite herself, and she swallowed, scrambling to regain her composure.

And then it shattered.

His grin widened. "Like a kid playing dress-up. You know, sneaking into her mom’s makeup drawer," he added, amusement lacing his tone. "Cute, but… kind of tragic. Trying to look all grown-up."

Aoi blinked. Her stomach dropped, replaced by a white-hot flush of anger. That did it. She clenched her fists at her sides, blinking past the sting of his words. Of course. Of course, he couldn’t leave it at that. He couldn’t let it be real. He had to twist it, make it a joke just like he always did, as if her insecurities were some kind of entertainment for him. She should’ve known.

It was like he’d grabbed onto every insecurity she’d ever had and turned it into a punchline.

"You’re such an ass," she muttered, holding back the urge to shout at him right there in the hallway.

He chuckled, smug and self-satisfied. "Come on, Robin. I’m just being honest."

She gritted her teeth, feeling like a fool. He didn’t know—didn’t care—how it made her feel. Sure, she was used to people calling her strange, used to the world feeling just a little out of sync with her. But for some reason, hearing it from him stung more than it was tolerable.

Her patience snapped. "Oh, you think you’re funny, don’t you?" 

Without thinking, she yanked her backpack off her shoulder and hurled it straight at him. Predictably, it bounced off his Infinity barrier and fell to the floor with a soft thud. His grin didn’t falter.

"Really art girl?" he said, laughing now. "Can’t take a joke now? You’re cute when you’re angry."

Aoi didn’t even think. Her gaze flicked down to her own hand. "Oh, you want to hide behind your stupid barrier?" she muttered, feeling the irritation simmer into something sharper. Fine. She raised her hand, and without another second’s hesitation slapped herself across the cheek.

The sound echoed in the hall. The sting was sharp, immediate. And satisfying.

Satoru flinched.

His own hand flew to his face, rubbing the spot where the bond between them mirrored the impact. He looked at her, stunned, his eyes wide in genuine surprise as he processed what had just happened.

For a moment, his shock morphed into irritation, his jaw clenching as he glared at her. "What the hell?" he demanded, rubbing his cheek with an almost wounded expression. "Are you out of your mind?"

Aoi shot him a glare, her voice cold. "Next time, think twice before running your mouth."

She turned on her heel, stalking down the hallway, gnoring his protests, ignoring the way her face still burned, ignoring the faint hum of satisfaction at catching him off guard.

"Seriously?" he called after her, his voice laced with frustration. "That was petty."

But she didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. Good. Let him stew. Let him feel just a little of what she’d been carrying all evening. She’d had more than enough of his bad attitude for one day.

Idiot, she fumed. Complete and total idiot. She knew she shouldn’t let his stupid comments get to her, knew she was above that kind of pettiness. But something about the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d said she was “cute” only to ruin it, stirred something she wasn’t prepared to confront. It wasn’t like she needed his opinion, least of all on something as trivial as her appearance. She’d dealt with far worse than his snide comments.

And yet, somehow, his words had slipped right past it, hitting a nerve she hadn’t even realized was exposed. Why was she fuming? Why did his backhanded compliment worm its way under her skin?  She’d always been stronger than that.

But somehow, he’d found the one crack in her armor. And she hated that he’d managed to do it with just one stupid, careless grin.

✎✘✘■■■■■■■■

Aoi stood before the mirror, her reflection scowling back with the same sharp anger burning in her chest. She’d already cursed Satoru in every creative way she knew, but the frustration still clung to her like smoke, stubborn and choking. His smug grin, that insufferable laugh, the way he pushed her buttons just for fun—it was all crawling under her skin.

Breathe, Aoi, she told herself, closing her eyes and counting to ten and willing her pulse to steady

She needed control. Calm. She remembered what happened the last time her emotions spiraled, how it had seeped into her art, how it had cursed her own work. No way was she going to risk cursing something else just because Satoru Gojo couldn’t keep his mouth shut. The thought of cursing an entire dressing room full of mirrors? Yeah, that was the last thing she needed.

Her eyes flicked open, landing on her own reflection. The mirror almost seemed to shimmer beneath her gaze, and she looked away quickly, swallowing down the prickling unease. The last thing she needed was to accidentally curse an entire dressing room. That would be… problematic.

She reached for her phone, the urge to send a furious rant to Shoko bubbling up—only to remember she’d thrown her bag at Satoru. Phone and all. Of course. Now she was stuck, phone-less, and probably firmly on his "bad list," for ditching her only lifeline to the outside world, though she wasn’t sure he cared.

"This isn’t me," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. "I’m Aoi. I smile, keep my cool. I don’t let jerks like him get to me." She tried to summon her usual calm, the easy smile she wore when things got tense. Her eyes softened slightly as she tried to bring herself back to her center. Smile, she reminded herself. Smile like always.

But then her stomach dropped. In all her anger, she'd forgotten why she was here. Akemi. Her gaze snapped back to the room, scanning the sea of girls. Makeup brushes swiped over skin, dresses were adjusted, laughter bubbled from clusters of contestants—but no Akemi.

Worry pinched her gut. Where is she?

Aoi stood, weaving through the maze of vanities and girls, her eyes scanning every figure, every shadow. But Akemi was gone. And the longer she searched, the tighter her chest felt. She stopped, closing her eyes again, reaching for that strange connection, the thread of cursed energy she’d felt before.

The room dulled around her as she tuned into that faint, shadowy hum. That dark pull. She pushed deeper, willing herself to sense it. And there it was—cold, sharp, familiar. Right in front of her.

With a breath, she opened her eyes.

But it wasn’t Akemi standing there.

It was another girl. Red hair, wild and loose around her shoulders, skin soft and warm, eyes an earthy hazel. She was beautiful, but in a raw, untouched way. Softer. Realer. But wrong. Very wrong. The cursed energy clung to her too, faint but unmistakable, pulsing just beneath the surface. The same cursed energy that had clung to Akemi earlier. It crawled over Aoi’s skin like a warning.

The girl smiled, soft and friendly. But there was something hollow in it. Something that made the air feel too tight.

"Sorry," Aoi said quickly, momentarily thrown off by the resemblance in aura but catching herself quickly. "I thought you were someone else."

The girl’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. "Looking for someone?" she asked, her voice soft, smooth. Too smooth. Her eyes flicked over Aoi’s shoulder, like she was scanning their surrounding. Looking for someone that she didn't find. Her gaze returned to Aoi, more confident.

"Yeah," Aoi said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "Have you seen contestant number four?" She tried to keep her voice casual, but the tension coiled beneath her skin, making her words too sharp. The girl’s gaze was too intense, too fixated, and Aoi felt as though she were being scrutinized under a microscope.

The girl tilted her head, her smile never breaking. Her eyes dropped to Aoi’s cheek, where the faint sting of her earlier slap still lingered. "What happened here? Who hurt you?" she asked, dropping her smile, her fingers brushing against Aoi’s skin—cold, too cold. "Was it him?" 

Him? Aoi flinched, stepping back. "Oh, that?" She forced a laugh, light and dismissive. "Just an accident. Nothing serious."

But the girl’s gaze stayed intense, calculating. "Let me fix that," she said, her cold hand closing gently, almost possessively, around Aoi’s wrist. "A little makeup will do the trick."

Before Aoi could react, she was being pulled toward an empty vanity—Akemi’s vanity. Her pulse stuttered. What is happening? Every nerve in her body screamed at her to pull back, to get away, but the girl’s grip was too firm and steady, as though she were a piece being moved in some unseen game.

"I… I’m really fine," Aoi tried, but the girl ignored her, reaching for a brush with the same calm, practiced ease Akemi had shown.

The brush swept over Aoi’s cheek, soft but unwelcome. Too careful. Too exact. The girl’s smile was pleasant, but her eyes were sharp, cutting. Watching too closely.

Aoi fought to keep still, though her pulse thundered in her ears. every instinct within her screamed to pull away. To run. But something in her gut warned her that running now wouldn’t help. If anything, it would only made this worse, whatever this was.

The silence stretched until it felt suffocating. Then, the girl spoke, her voice low and reverent, almost seductive. "Tell me, Aoi… do you think I’m beautiful?"

Aoi’s heart stumbled. Her breath caught in her throat. How does she know my name? The question felt sharp, invasive. Wrong. Exactly like Akemi’s had been.

And suddenly, every alarm bells inside Aoi screamed. "Uh… yeah," she managed, her voice thin and tight. She forced a small smile, choosing her words with care. "You’re really beautiful."

The girl’s smile widened, but her eyes didn’t warm. "Good," she murmured, as if she'd expected the answer. "I thought so too."

Aoi swallowed thickly, her mind racing. It wasn’t just the words. It was the cadence, the rhythm. Exactly like Akemi’s. The same eerie question. The same sharp undertone. A cold realization settled in her stomach. Her hands clenched slightly in her lap as she forced herself to hold the girl’s gaze.

This wasn’t coincidence. This wasn’t normal.

The girl leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing just slightly. "Would you like to be me?"

The question was soft. Almost sweet. But there was something beneath it—something dark and dangerous. The air felt heavier, pressing against Aoi’s chest. Her throat tightened. She couldn't move, she felt pinned.

"Honestly?" she forced a smile, her mind racing to make sense of what she was hearing, of what exactly she was facing. "I think I’m okay being myself." She tried a small laugh, tried to keep it light, but her voice betrayed her. Too sharp. Too nervous.

"Oh," the girl’s smile didn’t falter, but her gaze seemed to darken, taking on a cold, almost calculating glint. Her warmth vanished like smoke. "I see," she murmured. Her eyes shadowed. "I’m still too beautiful for you."

Aoi’s blood ran cold.

The words hit her like ice, sinking deep. A perfect echo of Akemi. A perfect match. Her hands clenched tight in her lap, her heart thudding painfully, and she felt a horrible realization dawn over her.

Chapter Text

✎✘✘■■■■■■■■

ENVY

-Satoru-

Satoru moved swiftly through the theater’s backstage corridors, his footsteps echoing against the empty floors. He rubbed his cheek absently—it still burned from Aoi’s slap. Honestly, art girl, always so damn dramatic. He wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or reluctantly impressed. Maybe both.

Nobody ever slapped him— let alone someone like Aoi. Not even his own mother—hell, especially not his mother—whose cold detachment had always kept him on a pedestal untouchable and revered as the golden boy of the Gojo clan. But then along came Aoi, this random art student, bound to him through a curse, and suddenly he had a handprint on his face. Great, just great.

He shifted the strap of her backpack on his shoulder, feeling the reassuring weight of her belongings. Of course she’d thrown it at him without a second thought. He sighed in irritation. She probably hadn't even realized she'd tossed her phone away, cutting off her only way to call for help in the middle of this circus act they were calling a mission. Typical Aoi, impulsive as ever.

If she was in trouble and couldn’t call for help… Well, he’d just have to find her before it came to that.

For a fraction of a second—barely a heartbeat—he paused, wondering if he’d gone too far with his teasing earlier. Was it his fault? Did he deserve that slap? The thought annoyed him more than it should have, and he quickly pushed it away. No way. If she couldn't handle his sense of humor, that was her issue. But even as he dismissed the thought, a lingering discomfort settled into his chest, annoying him further. He blamed it entirely on the cursed bond, the way it twisted and tangled around them, messing with his head, making him feel things he’d rather ignore.

He didn’t want to think too hard about why he might have actually deserved that slap. And yet, there was that nagging feeling, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Satoru sighed and pulled off his sunglasses, tucking them neatly into his pocket. The dim lighting backstage made the place feel eerie, abandoned props and mannequins casting strange creepy shadows across the floor. His Six Eyes sliced effortlessly through the gloom, illuminating every detail with unsettling clarity. If the cursed painting was nearby, he’d find it in seconds. They’d end this mess, leave Nagano, and maybe he’d even treat her to food—just to stop her glaring at him for five minutes, long enough to give him a break.

He smirked. Maybe she'd even say sorry for the slapping him trough their cursed bond. 

Just as the thought crossed his mind, his senses sharpened. There it was—cursed energy pulsing brightly, almost fluorescent in his vision. He smirked, following the invisible thread around piles of dusty props, mirrors, and stage equipment. But as he approached, a nauseating, metallic stench hit his nose, stopping him in his tracks. Blood. Fresh, mingling with something far more putrid. His jaw tightened as the gruesome sight came into view.

"Ah, hell."

The painting sat propped against the wall, its canvas splattered with toxic green brushstrokes that pulsed with cursed energy. Around it lay a grisly scene—blood pooling on the floor, viscera twisted grotesquely. Glistening entrails sprawled across the concrete, dark pools of congealed blood spreading in grotesque patterns. The sheer amount of gore suggested more than one victim. The curse hadn’t just killed; it had feasted.

Satoru stepped closer, his shoes barely making a sound on the slick floor. He covered his nose and mouth with one hand, his eyes narrowing as he examined the scene.  And then he saw it, a pale, rubbery mass sprawled amidst the carnage. Skin. Human skin. Carefully peeled and discarded like clothing, complete with long black hair matted in blood that clung to the scalp. A name tag dangled limply from the torn fabric. Contestant Number 4—Akemi.

His mind worked quickly, piecing the puzzle together.

The curse hadn’t been trailing Akemi; it had been wearing her skin like a custom, walking among the living like some perverse puppet. That’s why Akemi had been drenched in cursed energy. That explained why even ordinary people had seen her. They’d been looking at a walking corpse, a curse draped in human flesh.

He scanned the room, noting other discarded human husks in various stages of decay. How many times had it done this? How many skins had it stolen and wear?

"Charming," he muttered, sarcasm barely covering the anger in his voice, his senses flaring as he searched for any trace of the curse.. "Where the hell is it now?"

Satoru’s gaze darkened, his fists tightening. If the curse had abandoned Akemi’s skin, that meant it had probably found another disguise already. It could be anywhere, hiding among the crowd. And right now, Aoi was somewhere out there, completely oblivious to the danger. He adjusted her backpack on his shoulder, the weight suddenly heavier. He could still feel the sting on his cheek.

His lips twitched. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

He turned swiftly, his stride quickening as he headed back down the hall. Despite the irritation he felt—her stubbornness, her impulsiveness, her absolute inability to shut up and listen—there was a dumb sense of concert twisting in his chest, something he refused to acknowledge directly.

It had to be that stupid bond, messing with him again. The strongest sorcerer alive didn’t get sentimental, especially over an art studend who was constantly driving him insane.

Still, he moved faster, urgency fueling every step as he left the macabre scene behind.

He’d find that curse, get Aoi out of trouble, give her backpack back and make sure to glue her hand to that damn phone.

✎✘✘■■■■■■■■

Satoru pushed through the crowded theater hallway, ignoring the annoyed glances and occasional curses thrown his way. He paid little mind to the scowls and muttered complaints as he bumped into shoulders, stepped on toes, or shoved past anyone unlucky enough to cross his path.

He didn’t have time for politeness, not with the sharp sting still lingering on his cheek as a constant reminder. She just had to make everything complicated, didn’t she? he thought bitterly.

He kept his Six Eyes sharp, scanning for the slightest disturbance, the faintest glint of cursed energy that might betray the curse’s hiding spot. Somewhere in this dense knot of people, a special-grade curse was biding its time, lurking in disguise.

The crowd grew thicker as the announcer’s voice echoed through the PA system, signaling the pageant was about to continue. Spectators surged toward the auditorium, chatting excitedly and unknowingly placing themselves at risk.

Great timing, Satoru thought, rolling his eyes. This was shaping up to be a total disaster. A room full of civilians packed together while he was hunting down a special-grade curse was inconvenient, to say the least. He couldn't risk collateral damage, but at this point, putting up a veil would only draw more attention. So much for subtlety.

He reluctantly pulled out his phone, quickly dialing a familiar number.

The line clicked, and he barely waited for a greeting. "I need a cleanup crew ready," he said briskly. "Nagano theater, asap. It’s going to get messy. Crowded area."

He hung up without waiting for a reply, his focus already shifting back to Aoi. Where the hell are you? His jaw tightened at the thought. Was she still backstage? She better be safe in the dressing room, preferably out of the curse’s reach and preferably not in a damn swuimsuit anymore.

If only she hadn’t thrown her phone at him earlier, he could have easily tracked her down. But no, she just had to let her emotions run wild. Typical. He told himself not to worry; their cursed bond would have warned him if something serious happened. If she were hurt, he’d know for sure. So far, nothing. Which meant, thankfully, the curse hadn’t realized he was closing in.

Yet, the anxiety sat uncomfortably and he cursed himself for not keeping a closer watch on her.

He pushed faster toward the the back exit that led to the dressing rooms. Just as he was planning his next move, his thoughts were interrupted. A burst of sound broke through the crowd, high-pitched and filled with a raw, desperate terror. Satoru paused, tilting his head, watching as the audience turned to see the source of the commotion.

A group of contestants staggered out, half-dressed and panicked, their faces pale and splattered with blood. They clutched at each other, hair tangled and makeup smeared, their bodies quivering as they stared wide-eyed at the sea of people before them. Splotches of blood marred their skin, stark against their pale, exposed arms and legs, and their breaths came in panicked, shallow gasps as they stumbled forward.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed. This was bad. One of the girls let out a strangled sob, pressing her bloodstained hands to her face as she staggered into the audience. The horror etched on her features seemed to snap the crowd out of their stupor, and a low murmur rose, whispers of dread passing from person to person, like ripples in water. The murmurs swelled into shouts, and in seconds, the air filled with the frenzied cries of terrified spectators.

The audience broke into terrified chaos, people bolted from their seats, their movements wild and disorganized, pushing and shoving as they scrambled to escape, bodies pressing against each other in a mad rush for the exits.

Ushers yelled for calm, but their voices were swallowed by the collective roar of the crowd.

"What a mess," he muttered under his breath, his expression tightening into a wry smile, Infinity snapping into place. He moved easily through the terrified mob, untouched as they jostled and clawed their way past him. "Seriously, Aoi," he muttered, half-irritated, half-worried, "Can’t you ever do anything without causing trouble?"

The chaos only grew worse as another girl stumbled onto the stage, eyes blank and bleeding heavily. He moved with precision, stepping around fallen chairs and discarded bags, his gaze fixed forward. People clawed at each other, eyes wide with fear, their faces painted with horror as they stumbled, fell, and fought to reach the doors.

Good, Satoru thought coldly, a glint of satisfaction flickering in his eyes as the theater continued to empty. With each person who ran, the room cleared, giving him more space to work. It was surreal, almost laughable in its absurdity—how quickly things had went south, but he knew better than to underestimate the level of chaos that tended to follow Aoi wherever she went.

He slipped effortlessly through the crowd, following the pulse of cursed energy toward the source—straight to the dressing rooms. A grin ghosted over his lips as he reached for the door. Here it was, what he’d come for. His target: the dressing room exit, where the screams of terrified girls rose in a crescendo of fear. As he pushed through the last few people, he barely spared a glance for the sobbing contestants he passed. He wasn't here to play the hero for a bunch of damsels in distress.

Well, one in particular, maybe. The one whose misfortune was inextricably linked to his own.

The moment he stepped into the dressing room corridor, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. s senses exploded, every nerve on high alert as he registered the sensation. Not his pain—hers. The cursed bond flared in response, making his heart skip uncomfortably. Dammit, Aoi, what have you gotten yourself into now?

His eyes landed on the scene before him, and he immediately knew he’d found the source of the problem. The curse, disguising itself as a girl. His eyes norrowed slightly at the sight of the curse.

It barely looked human anymore, its skin hung loose and sagging, folding and peeling like discarded fabric, sliding off her shoulders. Its red hair, once sleek and neatly styled, was now matted with clumps of blood, sticking to it face in greasy strands. It turned slowly, eyes vacant, movements jerky and unnatural, like a puppet on frayed strings. A scaly serpentine tail writhing beneath the torn fabric of its disguise, coiling around her ankles like a living thing. It slithered across the floor, twitching and writhing with a life of its own.

"There you are," he murmured, voice edged with cold amusement. The curse had decided to reveal itself, shedding the pretense of humanity.

He stepped further into the wrecked dressing room, shoes sliding slightly in the blood pooling on the floor. Bodies lay scattered around—girls who’d been alive moments before, now silent and still. He counted four quickly, a wave of irritation mingling with genuine anger. Nothing new in his line of work, but this kind of pointless slaughter pissed him off.

And still no Aoi.

The pain he'd felt earlier meant she’d been struck. Had the impact thrown her somewhere, or had she gotten herself out of harm’s way? That would be asking too much, wouldn’t it? Satoru clicked his tongue in irritation. Damn it. He needed to find her.

"Art girl?" he called out, trying to keep his tone light despite the urgency he felt. "You still breathing somewhere?"

No answer. Great. Perfect. As if things weren’t bad enough, now he had to deal with a missing art student on top of a special-grade curse in a room full of traumatized pageant girls.

His call drew the attention of the curse, though. Its serpent-like tail curled and uncurled, muscles coiling beneath the peeling human skin that clung to its form. It watched him now, wary and defensive, the peeling, half-discarded skin of its last disguise dangling grotesquely from its distorted frame.

Before he could do anything else, a terrified bikini-clad contestant stumbled toward him, nearly falling into his arms, blood smearing her bare legs. She’d been hiding under one of the vanities, but she must have decided this was her chance to escape. Satoru grabbed her arm as she tried to dart past, and she let out a strangled yelp, her fear momentarily redirected at him. He didn't have time for gentleness.

"Number thirty-one," he demanded firmly. "Have you seen her?"

The girl’s eyes darted between him and the creature, voice shaking. "S-she was telling everyone to get out—" she stammered, barely getting the words out. "-to run, to save—"

Of course she did, Satoru thought with a roll of his eyes, a wave of exasperation breaking over him. Aoi would never prioritize her own safety if she thought she could save someone else.  Reckless, stubborn, and endlessly irritating. He should've spelled it out clearly: your safety first, worry about heroics later.

He let go of the terrified contestant, and she sprinted toward the exit without a second glance, clearly not willing to risk staying a second longer.

"See, Aoi?" he muttered dryly, eyes narrowing with exasperation, his lips twisting into a wry smile. "That’s how you're supposed to run away from a curse."

But there wasn’t time to dwell on her stubbornness now. The dressing room was cramped and far too small for a battle—especially against something as dangerous as a special-grade curse. He placed Aoi's backpack down, cracking his knuckles and eyeing the curse carefully, already planning his next move to exorcise the curse without causing the entire structure to collapse on top of them.

As if sensing his intent, the curse swung its tail in a wide arc, smashing the wall behind it . Dust and debris crumbled down in a miniature landslide,and he felt the sensation like an irritating itch on his back, head and shoulders. Ah. That told him exactly what he needed to know. So that's where she was hiding. Of course she was behind a damn collapsing wall.

A glint of relief flickered in his eyes, but it was quickly doused by the renewed awareness of how dangerous the situation had become. If he attacked head-on and brought the structure down, he’d risk crushing her.

"Come on, art girl," he muttered impatiently, eyes narrowing. "Now would be a great time to crawl out of your hiding spot."

Yet the curse ignored him, its eyes fixated instead on the rubble concealing Aoi, though it kept Satoru in its periphery. Its voice dropped to a whisper, soft and disturbingly intimate. "It's okay. Just tell me which of those pretty girls you envy the most," it said soothingly. It wasn’t addressing him. No, its words were directed at Aoi. "I'll give you her skin. No more insecurities, no more doubts."

Satoru stiffened. The curse's words held a sinister familiarity, echoing the behavior of the curse tied to the painting of Joy. What the hell was with these curses and their twisted obsession with Aoi's desire? He’d thought it was a coincidence at first, but now it felt undeniably personal. There was something about her paintings, about her technique, that he wasn’t understanding. It nagged at him—like a puzzle he couldn't solve.

"Come on," the curse coaxed gently, ignoring Satoru entirely, the tail sweeping across the floor and breaking more tiles.. "All you have to do is choose. Just point to the one you want to become, and I’ll take care of the rest."

He waited, straining to hear any sign of Aoi's response, but there was only silence from the other side of the shattered wall. The curse was offering to… what, peel the skin off one of these girls and give it to Aoi? No answer came from her, but he could imagine Aoi frozen, perhaps terrified, listening to the curse's offer. He clenched his fists, the sharp pang of worry twisting in his gut.

Surely she wouldn’t. She wasn’t that desperate, that far gone... right?

Still, better not risk it. Enough was enough. He wasn't letting it get inside her head any further. "Alright, that's enough bullshit," he interrupted loudly, folding his arms with exaggerated annoyance. He knew Aoi was listening. "Hey, art girl! Ignore the creepy snake and come out. Your skin’s fine as it is. More than fine, actually, just get out of there."

The curse whirled around, eyes blazing with fury. Its voice twisted into a snarl, filled with sudden hatred. "Ah, you. The one who slapped her." It bristled, its tail thrashing and tearing through more of the room, smashing through mirrors and partitions. Its full hatred now aimed squarely at him.

"Seriously?" Satoru said incredulously, grinning in frustration. "You think I'm the bad guy now?"

But now, he had its attention, and that was all he needed. A spark of cursed energy flared in his palm as he summoned Red, the cursed energy crackling to life. In a single, fluid motion, he moved faster than the curse could track, positioning himself directly in front of the semi-destroyed wall that separated him from Aoi.

His hand shot forward, aiming to unleash Red right in the curse’s blind spot, but just as he was about to let the energy fly, the curse spun around, its tail lashing through the air and sending more debris scattering. The room trembled, a wave of destruction crashing over the cramped space.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Satoru saw her—Aoi—scrambling out from the hole in the wall, clutching.. a mop?

She had a mop clutched in both hands, her knuckles white, and she stumbled into the open space with a fierce, defiant glare that shouldn’t have belonged to someone so clearly out of her depth.

He stopped dead, stunned, his concentration momentarily shattered. Of all the things he’d expected to see, Aoi wielding a mop like a knight with a sword was not one of them. "Are you kidding me?"

He forgot to fire Red. Was she brave or just completely unhinged? He didn’t know whether to laugh or be impressed. Okay, definitely unhinged, he decided. He laughed, unable to help himself. "You're fighting curses with cleaning supplies now?"

"Shut up!" Aoi shouted back, frustration and embarrassment evident on her face. She charged forward, mop raised like Excalibur, and brought it down across the curse’s face. "Why is everyone so obsessed in pointing out my insecurities today?!"

And amazingly, the curse didn't dodge. It just stood there, like frozen in place, taking the hit tight in its face, tail thrashing in wild arcs, recoiling slightly as if stunned—not hurt, exactly, but surprised. The loose skin, already slipping from the curse’s face, stretched and drooped, giving it an even more grotesque, mask-like quality.

Satoru’s amusement faded instantly into suspicion. Why hadn’t it defended itself? A special-grade curse should have easily avoided or blocked an attack like that, even from a mop-wielding lunatic. But it had stood there, motionless, letting Aoi strike it.

Frozen in place? Could it be...?  Was that why the curse associated with Joy had never harmed her, even when it had the chance, keeping her as a hostage but never laying a finger on her?

Just like he felt Aoi’s pain through their cursed bond, just like she could stop him in his tracks, maybe these cursed paintings shared something similar—maybe they genuinely thought they were helping her, in some twisted way. Did this curse actually believe he was the threat to Aoi? Was this some unintended consequence of her technique? A flaw in the way these curses were bound to her emotions?

He glanced back at her, still gripping that ridiculous mop, hair messy, swimsuit half-hidden beneath a hoodie—looking completely out of her depth but somehow defiantly triumphant.

For a split second, he considered what would happen if he just killed her right now. Would all these cursed paintings vanish along with her?

The thought came and went immediately, leaving a sense of guilt. No. Even if that would stop the chaos, he couldn’t do it. Well, that, and there was a very real chance he’d die too. And ridiculous as it was, he wasn’t really willing to hurt her. Not even close. Damn her, he thought, for being so infuriatingly herself, for making it impossible to even entertain the notion of sacrificing her life for a greater good. Maybe it was the cursed bond clouding his judgment. It had to be.

Definitely the bond. 

He shook off the uncomfortable thoughts. The curse re-focused on Aoi, its voice strained with rage, still clearly believing it had to protect her from him. The remnants of its human disguise melting away into a puddle of fleshy ruin.

"Don’t think for a second I need your help," Aoi shouted voice cracking with both fear and bravado. "I'm more than fine the way I am!"

The curse hissed angrily, its coils tensing, ready to strike. Before it could make another move, Satoru shot forward, cursed energy crackling fiercely in his hand.

"Time's up, snake-face," he said sharply, unleashing Red in a blinding flash.

The curse shrieked as the blast ripped through its body. For a moment it crumbled, dissolving into pieces, but just as Satoru was about to relax, it began knitting itself back together, tendrils of dark energy swirling menacingly.

"Oh, come on," he groaned, irritation flaring. "Just stay dead already." He wasn’t about to give the curse a chance to recover. "Try coming back from this," he challenged, his voice low and dangerous. With a precise motion, he fired another blast of Red, the cursed energy output higher than the first.

A wave of destructive force obliterated the curse entirely, leaving nothing but a shattered, smoldering ruin in its wake.

The blast shook the entire room, shattering the wall behind the curse and opening a massive hole into the theater beyond. Instinctively, Satoru spun around and grabbed Aoi's arm, pulling her close just as chunks of plaster crashed onto the spot she'd occupied moments earlier.

Clouds of dust and chunks of rubble scattered across the floor, muffling the distant murmur of panicked voices that drifted in from the main hall.

Maybe he'd overdone it. Definitely overkill.

Dust filled the air, and Satoru let out a relieved breath, releasing Aoi’s arm realizing he’d been holding onto her a bit too tightly. The curse was gone—exorcised—but the room was a wreck. Dust hung thick in the air, catching in the broken beams of sunlight filtering through the shattered wall.

He glanced down at Aoi, her expression dazed, like she still hadn’t processed that she’d survived. The swimsuit she wore was partially covered by the oversized hoodie, and with her hair a chaotic mess and her face still bearing smudges of makeup, she looked utterly out of place in the midst of such devastation. Dust and plaster settled in her hair, and he couldn’t help but notice how it made her look even more ridiculous, like a little gremlin who’d just tumbled out of an art project gone horribly wrong.

He couldn't help himself; he reached out casually, brushing debris off top of her head making her messy hair even worse. His gaze sweeping the carnage, surveying the wreckage with a quick sweep of his Six Eyes. The casualties and property damage were… less than ideal.

He wasn’t sure how he’d explain the entire mess to the cleanup team.

He ran a hand through his own hair, brushing off the remnants of destruction, and turned to her with a half-amused, half-irritated expression. "You okay?" he asked lightly.

Aoi blinked, finally coming back to her senses, cheeks flushing red as she stared at him. She seemed caught somewhere between shock and embarrassment, nodding furiously.

"Not bad, art girl," he drawled, his voice thick with mock exasperation, "But a mop? Really? Brave or just stupid? I’m still deciding." He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that signature cocky grin of his.

She rolled her eyes but a faint smile tugged at her mouth, despite everything. "Shut up." She sagged against the wall. The mop slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor as she rubbed at her shoulder, her brows knitting together as she winced.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed down at her, and he stepped forward. "You’re hurt," he said, more statement than question, his voice losing a bit of its cocky edge. He gestured to her shoulder, peering at the bruise forming beneath her oversized hoodie. "What happened?"

Aoi hesitated, biting her lip as she glanced at the bruising skin. "I hit a wall," she admitted sheepishly. "I wasn't exactly careful when I tried to hide. I sort of… slammed into it. Hard."

"Figures," he sighed. "You’re lucky it wasn’t worse."

Aoi's gaze drifted toward the wrecked room, to the spot where the curse had stood moments ago. Her eyes lingered on the blood and remnants of the fallen debris as her legs wobbled. The adrenaline crash hitting her all at once. She looked at Satoru, her eyes wide with concern. "Did the others make it out? The girls, are they—?"

"Most of them got out," he said quickly, voice softening slightly despite himself. "Well, except the one stubborn girl who really needed to get her butt to safety."

She stared at him blankly, the confusion evident on her face. "Who?"

He groaned dramatically leaning in slightly, jabbing a finger at her. "You, idiot. Who else?" he snapped

Aoi flushed bright red, opening her mouth to protest, but before she could say anything, Satoru tilted his head with a sudden thoughtful expression. "You weren't actually thinking about that offer from the curse, were you?" he asked, sounding casually teasing, though beneath the teasing there was genuine curiosity.

There was a pause—a second too long. Aoi’s gaze dropped, just a flicker of indecision crossing her face, and in that small hesitation, Satoru’s brows shot up. Seriously? She’d actually considered it?

That irritated him more than it should've.

"Seriously?" he pressed. "You actually thought about it? Even for one second?"

Her blush deepened, and she shook her head quickly. "No! Of course not! I’m fine… More than fine, right?"

Satoru rolled his eyes, crossing his arms, skeptical, but decided to let it drop. She looked exhausted, out of place, and strangely cute in that absurd hoodie-swimsuit combo. He quickly brushed it aside.

"What?" she mumbled.

"Nothing," he shrugged, unable to resist teasing her further. "Just thinking how funny it is—the curse was convinced I was the villain here. It practically wanted to avenge your honor."

She stared at him in disbelief, and then, despite herself, she laughed—a tired, breathless sound that somehow softened the tension between them. "Great," she sighed. "Now even my curses think you're awful."

"Exactly," he grinned, gently flicking another speck of debris from her hair, lingering a bit longer than necessary before stepping back. "Just another perk of being bound to you, art girl."

She smiled up at him, something genuine and a little warm slipping past her usual defenses. And then, in the middle of the wrecked dressing room, surrounded by dust and debris, she let out a laugh—a small, disbelieving laugh.

He found himself smiling despite everything, despite the chaos and the danger and the fact that she drove him absolutely insane. He didn't need her smiles or warmth—definitely not hers, of all people. He cleared his throat, masking his sudden awkwardness with sarcasm, tilting his head with that familiar cocky grin. "What’s so funny, mop knight?"

She shook her head, her laughter fading into a tired smile.

«I just… I can’t believe I survived all of this with a mop.»

✎✘✘■■■■■■■■

The cleanup team swarmed through the theater like ants after a storm, each person efficiently managing their tasks. Phones buzzed, voices hummed quietly as explanations were quickly pieced together to cover the mess. It wasn’t exactly ideal, but Satoru had dealt with worse. Not that it made things easier now.

He guided Aoi through the hallways littered with rubble, trying not to look back too often, keeping to himself any sarcast remark about how she was still wearing that ridiculous swimsuit beneath her oversized hoodie. Her hair was tangled, her gaze distracted—typical Aoi after yet another disaster. He needed her to stay focused, not drift into another wave of guilt or sympathy. She had a habit of losing herself to misplaced compassion, and he couldn’t handle another emotional crisis right now.

But of course, she wouldn’t stop asking questions.

"So," she broke the silence cautiously, as though trying to act casual, "how come normal people saw the curse this time? Was there something different about it?"

He didn’t slow his pace as they approached the storage room, stepping over broken props scattered along the corridor. "They didn't exactly see the curse," he explained casually. "They saw the human skin it wore as a disguise. Pretty twisted, even by curse standards."

She cringed slightly. "That's horrible."

"It’s clever," he said, flashing her a teasing grin. "Almost fooled me, actually."

Aoi narrowed her eyes skeptically. "Almost fooled you?" she echoed. "Because of those… Six Eyes of yours, right?"

"Exactly." He smirked at her disbelief. "You're finally catching on."

Aoi wrinkled her nose. "You make it sound like some kind of superpower."

"Well," he drawled, leaning toward her just enough to be annoying, "it sort of is. I can see everything—curses, weak points... and unfortunately, your questionable fashion choices." He gestured at her swimsuit with a grin, earning a glare in return. He couldn't help himself in the end.

She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. "Very funny."

Despite himself, Satoru chuckled. Aoi’s retorts seemed almost automatic, like she couldn’t help herself. And maybe, he realized, he didn’t actually mind it. He liked the way she talked back. He’d never tell her that, though—last thing he needed was for Aoi Fujikawa to think she was actually winning him over.

They stopped in front of the storage room door where the cursed painting of Envy rested. Satoru hesitated, glancing at Aoi. The mess behind this door was nothing short of horrifying, blood and bodies of the curse’s victims scattered everywhere. He felt a twist of discomfort. Her wide eyes were focused on him, trust and expectation shining a little too brightly.

He bit back a sigh. She didn’t need to see that. He was just being practical. No way was he letting her wade into a pool of blood and guts—he'd seen enough people break under lesser sights. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to protect her from more nightmares, even if she didn’t realize it.

"Stay here," he told her firmly. "I’ll get the painting myself."

Aoi’s brow knitted in confusion. "What? Why?" she protested immediately. "I can help—"

"Just do what I say for once, will you?" He gave her a pointed look, a hint of exasperation in his tone. "Trust me, you don't want to see what's in there."

Aoi's lips parted to argue, but something in his expression must've made her pause. She frowned slightly before giving a reluctant nod.

Satoru cursed himself silently. Damn this stupid cursed bond. It made him think irrational thoughts, do irrational things. He stepped into the room, moving carefully over the remains as he grabbed the cursed painting. When he returned, he handed it to her, feeling the weight of it transfer from his hands to hers.

"Alright, art girl," he said lightly, trying to break the awkward silence with casual arrogance. "Time to work your magic. Let's get this over with."

Aoi held the painting uncertainly, closing her eyes and concentrating. They waited. And waited. Seconds ticked by. And… nothing. The energy didn’t dissipate, and his Six Eyes still showed the cursed energy swirling around the painting, growing more erratic by the second., refusing to dissipate.

Great. His frustration simmered, but he tried not to let it show.

"What’s the hold-up?" Satoru asked impatiently, trying not to sound too irritated. "Did you forget how you did it last time?"

"I didn’t exactly take notes!" she snapped back defensively, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "It just sort of… happened."

"Right," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Because relying on feelings always works out so well."

"Maybe… maybe I’m not in the right mood?" she offered, her voice cracking slightly. She looked sheepish, and he almost felt bad for pushing her. Almost. 

"Not in the mood?" Satoru raised an eyebrow, his patience thinning. "Art girl, this isn’t some meditation exercise."

She bit her lip, looking frustrated and flustered. "Well… last time, I didn’t have to try that hard. I think… it just felt right."

He clenched his jaw, trying to suppress his irritation. She was trying, and he had to remember that this was as new and terrifying for her as it was annoying for him. She wasn’t a sorcerer trained in controlling cursed energy; she was an art student caught in a mess she barely understood. Still, why wasn’t it working?

He wracked his brain, recalling their last experience. What had she said before? Something about empathy… something about feeling something? Was it really that simple? That absurd? Emotions, empathy… all those things he usually dismissed as pointless distractions?

An idea formed, one that made him cringe internally. But if it worked… 

He tilted his head, a confident smirk forming on his lips. He didn’t want to admit it, but there was a small, nagging worry in the back of his mind—if she couldn’t dispel the curses energy, they’d have another disaster on their hands.

So he tried something he never thought he’d resort to: empathy. Or at least, something close enough.

"Fine," he said grudgingly. "Maybe you need a bit of motivation."

Aoi looked up, puzzled. "Motivation?"

Satoru hesitated. He loved teasing people, loved digging under their skin and making them squirm. But seeing the art girl embarrassed, he wasn’t sure if it was entirely satisfying. In fact, it made him feel an odd discomfort, like he’d stumbled into dangerous territory.

He took a deep breath, feeling every bit the fool already. "Cute. I meant it. Like, nothing to envy to those girls." He leaned in slightly, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. "You're... you know, fine as you are. You have this look, you know? The messy, lost-in-your-own-world artist look. It’s kinda cute."

The silence that followed was excruciating. Aoi stared at him, her mouth hanging open slightly, her face flushed a deep, brilliant red. He quickly glanced away, trying desperately not to squirm. Since when did genuine compliments make him feel like this much of an idiot?

"Are you joking?" she finally whispered, her voice barely audible. She looked utterly bewildered, like he’d grown a second head.

"Don't," He kept his eyes fixed stubbornly on the cursed painting, fighting the urge to backpedal. Great, now he was the one feeling awkward. No, he had to commit. "Don’t look at me like that. It’s the truth but don't make It weird. Just accept it and get on with the magic trick already."

Aoi blinked rapidly, clearly flustered, and a faint blush crept across her face. Normally, this was the part where he’d relish in someone’s embarrassment, where he’d enjoy the chaos he’d caused. Satoru wanted to smack himself. Why again had he thought this was a good idea? He was the king of mockery and snide remarks, not heartfelt admissions. What was he thinking—

But then, to his utter astonishment, the cursed energy around the painting began to dissipate. The wild, erratic swirls of darkness faded, and his Six Eyes picked up on the fragment of Aoi’s soul returning to her. The painting’s curse unraveled, leaving it just an ordinary canvas once more.

Normal. Harmless.

Satoru blinked, astonished. It had actually worked. A slow grin spread across his face, half in disbelief, half in triumph. He glanced at Aoi, who was still gaping at him like he’d just told her the most scandalous secret in the world.

"Huh," he muttered, raising an eyebrow at her. She looked like she was trying to process the world’s biggest shock. "Looks like the universe agrees with me."

Aoi’s cheeks went from pink to bright red. She glared at him, though the embarrassment on her face softened her anger. "Did you really mean all that?" she finally asked in small voice.

He leaned closer, recovering some of his usual arrogance now that he wasn’t completely mortified, though there was still a nervous energy under his skin. "Yeah, I meant it, but don’t get cocky art girl," he said lightly, his voice turning teasing again. "You’re still annoying."

She shot him a withering look, but the small smile on her lips and the color on her face betrayed her. "You're really the worst," she took a step back, hugging the now-harmless painting tighter.

He grinned, feeling oddly relieved despite himself. "Maybe, but don't pretend you didn't enjoy hearing it."

She rolled her eyes again, shaking her head—but the smile remained. It made the whole ordeal almost worth it.

Satoru made a mental note: never underestimate the power of a genuine compliment. Even if it made him feel like a complete fool. Who knew?

He wasn't about to make it a habit, though.

✎✘✘✘■■■■■■■

They’d been wandering around Nagano for almost two hours, navigating crowded streets lined with upscale boutiques and cafés. Satoru had somehow ended up with several shopping bags hanging off his arms, each stuffed with various art supplies he'd never even heard of. He sighed dramatically, glaring at the assortment of pencils and sketchbooks as if they’d personally offended him.

He let out an exaggerated groan, clutching the bags more tightly. The muscles in his arms protested slightly, and he tried not to think too hard about how ridiculous he probably looked. 

How exactly did the strongest sorcerer alive ended up now reduced to a glorified shopping assistant alive, wind up carrying bags of charcoal sticks for an art student who couldn’t even keep track of her own clothes? He glanced at Aoi, who was practically bouncing ahead of him, still wrapped snugly in his jacket. His jacket. His only jacket, currently draped around her like some kind of ridiculous blanket, the sleeves drooping past her fingertips, the hem reaching her knees, obscuring the ridicolous swimsuit she still wore beneath. Only her bare calves and scuffed sneakers were visible, a strange and frankly ridiculous look, especially in the biting chill of October.

Her brown hair, that brushed just above her shoulders, had started to frizz from the cool autumn breeze, strands sticking out in every direction.

"Art girl," he drawled, breaking the silence with exaggerated weariness. "I get that your clothes went MIA—or maybe got obliterated—in the chaos of the dressing room, but I distinctly remember agreeing to one clothing store."

Aoi turned to him, hazel eyes bright and lips curled into a playful smile. "You said you'd buy me clothes because mine got vaporized by your over-the-top curse-killing techniques," she countered breezily, holding the jacket tighter around herself. "You didn't say I couldn't grab a few art supplies along the way."

He huffed, annoyed at being caught on a technicality. "I meant essentials. Not…" He lifted the bags higher, eyeing them dubiously, "...whatever this is."

"They are essential," she insisted, sticking her chin up defiantly. "Art student, remember?"

"How could I forget? You're reminding me every five seconds," he shot back dryly, adjusting his grip on the bags. "Seriously though, charcoal sticks, sketch pencils, sketch pads of every size and thickness," he listed, his voice rising in disbelief. "What exactly are you planning to do with all this? Build an art fortress? I’m supposed to be covering travel and hotel expenses, not fund your entire art career," he shot back, his tone incredulous.

She shrugged lightly, her hair tousled by the crisp evening breeze. "Sketch, paint, practice... you know, something that it's not blowing things up or terrorizing innocent bystanders," she explained, as if that made it perfectly reasonable. 

He arched a skeptical eyebrow at her. He wasn't about to dignify that with an actual answer. Instead he opted for something more urgent. "Why are you still wearing my jacket?"

Aoi huffed but smiled despite herself, hugging his jacket tighter around her small frame. Her nose was red from the cold, but her eyes were sharp, almost daring him to keep arguing. "I can't exactly change in the middle of the street, can I?"

Satoru groaned, rolling his eyes skyward as if praying for divine intervention. "Right, because wandering around in my jacket over a swimsuit is perfectly fine." He looked down at his own outfit: a simple short sleeved black T-shirt, completely inadequate now that the evening chill had started to settle in. Goosebumps prickled along his bare arms, and he was definitely feeling the regret of having handed over his only source of warmth.

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening mischievously. "Didn't you say the great Gojo Satoru doesn't feel the cold?" she reminded him smugly. "‘I’m Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer. The cold doesn’t faze me.’" She even attempted to deepen her voice, her imitation of him both ridiculous and annoyingly accurate.

He gaped at her, genuinely offended by the mockery. "First, yeah, well, maybe even the strongest can get chilly when it’s practically winter," he defended, though he couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down his spine. "Second, I don’t sound like that," he protested, but his complaint was half-hearted.

He knew he’d bragged. He had been so annoyingly confident when he handed over his jacket, thinking he wouldn’t feel the temperature drop. But now, with the sun dipping lower and the crisp autumn air biting at his skin, he was paying for his arrogance. He rubbed his bare arms, glaring at her. "Okay, fine. Maybe I did brag a little. But seriously, can I have my jacket back now?"

Aoi just grinned at him, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "Nope," she chirped. "Just think of it as training."

"Oh, so now you're the master of training methods?" He scoffed, feigning offense. "Don't make me laugh."

"I don’t have to try very hard," she teased, taking out her phone suddenly. "Now hold still."

"What—?" he began, but too late.

Aoi snapped a photo, the flash temporarily blinding him. He winced, turning away dramatically. "Hey! Six Eyes here—very sensitive equipment! You can't just flash me like that," he snapped, blinking furiously to clear the afterimage. His vision finally adjusted, and he fixed Aoi with a glare.

She stood there, looking as pleased as ever, her phone in hand. "Sorry," she said cheerfully, clearly unapologetic, her expression far too innocent. "Shoko asked for proof your carrying my bags in the cold. Thought it would brighten her day."

She glanced at her screen, fingers already tapping out a message, likely attaching the photo.

He crossed his arms exasperated, making the bags on his arms sway comically. exasperated. "Shoko? Since when did you and Shoko become besties?"

"I don’t know, since you dropped me off at Jujutsu High without even a proper introduction?" Aoi retorted smoothly, thumbs flying over her phone. "She's nice. At least, compared to you. She actually explained a few things instead of just… dropping me there and hoping for the best."

He barked out a laugh. "Nice? Right. Shoko’s not nice. She’s twisted. Trust me, she just wants to see me suffer. You’re probably her newest weapon against me."

Aoi tilted her head innocently. "Is it working?" She laughed lightly, eyes glinting with satisfaction as she tapped her phone again, sending off whatever she was typing.

Satoru frowned, watching her laughing at her phone. "What are you laughing at? What, did she respond already? What’d she say that’s got you all giggly?" he pressed, narrowing his eyes as he tried to peer over her shoulder.

Aoi just shrugged, holding her phone out of his reach with an air of smugness. "Not telling you." 

He clicked his tongue in irritation. "If you care about that phone so much, maybe next time you could actually keep it with you during a mission," he snapped. "You know, in case you need it for, oh, I don’t know, calling for backup?" 

She pocketed her phone, looking triumphant. "Fine, message received," she said, not sounding even remotely chastened.

"Alright," he continued, "have you decided what you want for dinner yet? Or are you planning to starve us both?"

His voice had an edge of desperation, as if hoping she’d choose something that wouldn’t completely annihilate his budget.

Aoi perked up, her eyes lighting up like a child’s at Christmas. "The hotel restaurant should be fine," she replied breezily. "I saw on the menu that they serve Kobe beef."

Satoru came to a dead stop. He turned to face her, a look of pure horror on his face. "Kobe beef?" he repeated, his voice cracking. "You think I’m made of money?"

He sighed dramatically, but as much as he wanted to protest, he knew he’d cave. If it made her happy, he’d somehow manage. He didn’t want another episode where she slapped herself and, by extension, him. He rubbed his cheek, the memory still fresh.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Whatever keeps you happy."

She giggled, making the whole ordeal feel less like a chore. Her smile was genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners. He scowled, though a reluctant smile crept onto his face anyway. Why was it so annoyingly difficult to stay irritated at her?

She sobered slightly, her brow furrowing as she thought about their next destination. "So," she began, her tone more serious, "the painting of Remorse was transferred to Aomori," she explained. "We should go there next."

Satoru’s eyes widened, and he let out a low whistle. "Aomori, huh?" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That’s way up north. Guess I’ll definitely need my jacket back if we’re heading there. No way am I freezing my ass off in Aomori."

Aoi gave him a look that was both amused and exasperated, challenging him with a defiant tilt of her chin. "You big baby," she teased. "You’ll survive, strongest sorcerer and all."

"Hey, even the strongest need warmth," he shot back, leaning in a little closer, his voice lowering playfully. "Especially if we’re dealing with a painting called Remorse. Sounds like we’re in for a real emotional rollercoaster.» he mused, pretending to shiver. "What do you think we’re in for? Any idea? Seeing as these cursed paintings seem to be obsessed with your life."

For the briefest moment, something flickered in Aoi’s eyes—something vulnerable and unguarded, like a shadow passing over her features. But she quickly forced a smile, her expression brightening.

"Who knows?" she deflected, her voice cheerier than before. "Think you can handle it?"

Satoru studied her carefully. He wasn’t used to seeing her falter, even for a second. But before he could dwell on it, she brushed her hair out of her eyes, the playful grin returning to her lips, and he found himself mirroring her smile, realizing.

Damn this artist.

He straightened quickly, adjusting his sunglasses, pretending she hadn't just faltered. "As long as you don’t start crying on me, art girl," he said, his voice low and mock-serious. "I might be the strongest, but I’m not dealing with tears."

Aoi nudged him with her shoulder. Despite everything, despite the chaos and the absurdity, there was something about walking together with arms full of shopping bags he didn't actually mind carrying and banter in the air, that felt... oddly normal.

But he still wanted his damn jacket back.

Chapter Text

✎✘✘✘■■■■■■■

REMORSE

-Aoi-

Aoi sank deeper into the plush first-class seat, still struggling to believe it was real. The soft leather felt ridiculously luxurious beneath her fingertips, and the abundant legroom made her feel like she’d wandered onto someone else’s flight by mistake. She bit her lip to hide her smile, but excitement shone through anyway.

"Thanks for the upgrade," she whispered to Satoru, nudging him playfully with her elbow.

She didn’t dare imagine how much these seats had cost. Apparently, traveling with a wealthy, top-ranked jujutsu sorcerer had its perks.

Pulling out her sketchbook, she slipped her earbuds in, scrolling through her MP3 player until she landed on Kiseki by GReeeeN. The cheerful melody filled her ears, instantly easing her nerves. Her pencil danced smoothly across the paper as she began to sketch, happily losing herself in her own world and in the comforting rhythm of familiar strokes.

Next to her, Satoru hadn’t quite switched off mission mode.

He had claimed the aisle seat, effectively blocking her in, and now he couldn’t stop fidgeting. Without his usual sunglasses, his blue eyes darted around the cabin, alert and sharp, scrutinizing everyone from passing flight attendants to other passengers. It was almost amusing. Here he was—the strongest sorcerer, looking like he expected someone to spring an attack mid-flight.

After a few minutes of watching him play secret agent, Aoi gave him a sidelong glance, pulling out one earbud. "Hey," she whispered, careful not to disturb the tranquil silence of first-class. "Are you ever going to relax? You're acting like someone's about to hijack the plane."

Satoru turned to look at her, giving her a smirk that was somehow both amused and annoyed.  "I am relaxed," he insisted, leaning back dramatically in his seat. His eyes, however, flicked suspiciously toward a flight attendant passing by like they might pull out cursed objects at any moment.

"Uh-huh. Could’ve fooled me," Aoi teased. She sighed softly, offering him one of her earbuds. "Come on, just listen to some music. Maybe it'll help you chill out."

He eyed the earbud skeptically, as if she might be tricking him. But finally, he relented, putting it in with an exaggerated sigh and settling back in his seat. A second later, he raised an eyebrow at her, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "GReeeeN? Cute. Didn't peg you as someone with such… basic tastes."

Aoi glared, though she struggled to suppress her laughter. "Basic? Coming from the guy who probably thinks using an MP3 player is sorcery. Go on, Mr. Refined Taste. Recommend something better."

Satoru chuckled, tapping his fingers rhythmically on his knee to the beat. "Wouldn't you like to know," he replied casually.

Despite his teasing, he didn’t take the earbud out. From the corner of her eye, Aoi noticed how his tense shoulders gradually relaxed, and he began to settle into the rhythm of the music, drumming his fingers to the beat of the song as if he actually enjoyed it. It was odd watching him let his guard down just a little—like a different version of Satoru, softer somehow. 

But peace never lasted long with Satoru around. After a few moments, bored already and unable to keep his hands to himself for more than two minutes, he leaned over her shoulder and snatched her pencil away and began scribbling something on the edge of her page.

"Hey!" Aoi protested, reaching out to grab it back, but he dodged her effortlessly, grinning mischievously, doodling across her page. "What are you doing?"

"Improving your sketch," he announced, with exaggerated seriousness. He began scribbling rapidly, muttering dramatically about his hidden artistic genius. When he finally handed the sketchbook back, he had that insufferable look of pride plastered on his face, as if he’d just improved the Mona Lisa. "There," he said proudly, crossing his arms as if he’d just produced a masterpiece. "And you thought you were the only artist here."

Aoi took one look at his artwork and burst out laughing, covering her mouth to muffle the sound. His masterpiece was a potato-shaped creature with oversized bug eyes and wild, spiky hair—utterly ridiculous.

"Satoru," she said through laughter, holding up the sketchbook for him to see. "You've just drawn the world's ugliest potato."

He feigned offense, folding his arms across his chest, though the dimples in his cheeks betrayed his amusement. "Clearly, you're incapable of recognizing true genius."

She rolled her eyes but smiled warmly. "Sure. I'll take your word for it, Potato Picasso."

He laughed at that, genuine and unguarded, the corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly. It was a rare, unguarded moment, and it made him seem oddly human—one that made Aoi’s heart beat a frustrating faster.

Rolling her eyes, she flipped the page, revealing the sketch she'd actually been working on—a detailed charcoal portrait. "Look. Akemi," she said quietly.

Satoru's expression darkened immediately as he took in the drawing. "Planning on cursing another drawing mid-flight?" he asked sarcastically, eyeing it warily. "Bold move, art girl. Just what we need—a nice, cursed doodle to bring our friend back for round two."

Aoi nudged him playfully. "Relax. I thought your amazing Six Eyes could detect curses? You tell me—is this one dangerous?"

He stared at her a moment, blue eyes narrowing as if actually considering her words, before smirking.

"Well?" she asked, her voice a little smaller than she intended.

He held her gaze for a moment, longer than she expected, and Aoi could feel the heat creep up her cheeks under his scrutiny. Finally, he let out a short laugh, breaking the moment.

"Nah," he said lightly. "Just painfully average art."

She elbowed him harder this time, colliding with his Infinity. "Says the guy who drew a mutant potato and called it a masterpiece."

His laughter filled the quiet cabin again, infectious, pulling her along with it. The banter felt natural, easy. For once, they seemed less like strained companions and more like friends on a silly adventure, free from the weight of curses and danger.

Satoru gave a dramatic sigh, folding his hands behind his head and stretching out in his seat like he owned the whole plane. He might as well, given the way he seemed to command space.

Taking advantage of the light mood, Aoi leaned forward, she put on her best innocent expression, her voice mock-sweet. "Hey, since we're in first class, shouldn't we celebrate? Champagne, perhaps?"

Satoru snorted softly, looking at her as though she'd suggested they jump from the plane without parachutes. He didn’t even dignify her question with a full response, only giving her a side-eye that practically screamed absolutely not.

"Oh come on!" she pleaded, putting on a dramatic show of disappointment. "Just one sip? To celebrate?"

"First off," he raised a finger, mock-serious, "alcohol is awful. Second, you're underage. Third—no way am I going to jail, giving a minor alcohol, just because you want to play fancy."

"Killjoy." Aoi gave him her best puppy-dog eyes, leaning a little closer. "It’s not like anyone would know."

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Not a chance, art girl." He tilted his head, looking at her with a bemused smile. "Tell you what. When we land in Aomori, I'll buy you whatever overpriced meal you want. Sashimi, mochi, even a mountain of tempura. But absolutely no champagne."

Aoi brightened immediately. "Promise? And you'll actually chill out, stop worrying about cursed energy every five seconds and stop glaring at everyone like they're hiding curses?"

He leaned back, eyes closed, a playful grin on his face as if he actually intended to take her advice. "Maybe. If you're very lucky."

Aoi’s grin widened as she looked at him, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction.Here was Satoru Gojo—the strongest sorcerer, the one with unshakable confidence, the one who could obliterate curses without blinking—looking almost human, relaxed in a way she'd rarely seen before, his dimples faintly visible as his lips curved, making him look a touch younger, almost boyish.

A side of Satoru Gojo she wanted to know better.

Even if he did draw ugly potatoes.

It was nice.

After a minute, he opened one eye, noticing her staring. "What?" he asked, eyebrow arched in mock suspicion.

She shrugged, looking away quickly, fighting back another smile. "Nothing."

✎✘✘✘■■■■■■■

Aoi’s mind wandered back to their flight to Aomori, a memory that now felt like a distant dream. She remembered the rare sound of Satoru’s laughter, the way his features had softened, his dimples appearing like secrets slipping through the cracks. For a moment, it had felt like they’d found balance—like maybe, amidst the chaos, they could just be. It was strange how that tiny promise of peace had wrapped around her, easing the tension that had been coiled in her chest since they first left Tokyo.

But that peace had dissolved faster than mist, and now, weeks later, it haunted her. A reminder of how quickly things could crumble back into cold reality.

"Come on, Satoru, just this once?" Aoi’s voice broke through the silence, more desperate than she intended. She jogged a few steps to catch up with him, November’s chill biting her cheeks. Her hands were clasped together in a silent plea, eyes searching his face for any sign of softness. There was none. "The new Harry Potter movie just came out. I’ve waited forever to see it. Come on, think of it as a break. We deserve one. Please?"

He didn’t slow down. His pace remained steady, the tension returning like an old friend, creasing his brow beneath the strands of white hair that fell haphazardly against his forehead. Without his usual sunglasses, his blue yes—clear, calculating, endlessly watchful—flicked down to her briefly before he spoke. "Sure, art girl," he said, his tone laced with sarcasm. "We’ll go to your little movie. Right after we find that damn painting of Remorse." He shot her a sideways glance, lips curling into a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Oh wait, we haven’t, have we? So, no movie."

Aoi sighed, her breath forming small clouds in the air. The warmth of those carefree moments on the plane now felt like an illusion, a cruel trick played by time. She tugged her scarf tighter and muttered under her breath, "You’re such a pain."

She wasn’t sure if he heard her, but she doubted he’d care.

As they moved through the streets, the reality of their search pressed down on her. Their days in Aomori had stretched out endlessly, the excitement of the mission fading into a dull, gnawing frustration. When they’d first arrived, the last warmth of October clung to the trees, gold and crimson leaves painting the streets. Back then, Satoru had been patient. He’d even indulged in a few detours—lounging in cafés, teasing her over her choice of sugary pastries, leaning in close just to steal a bite when she wasn’t looking.

It had almost felt like a magical vacation. Almost.

He’d hovered as she sketched, throwing out ridiculous comments to make her laugh. "Paint me like one of your French girls," he’d joked, draping himself dramatically over a park bench. Another time, he’d leaned close over her shoulder to inspect her work, smirking. "If you’re gonna curse another painting," he’d said, smirking, "at least make it look as good as me. It’d be a step up."

Aoi had laughed back then. Really laughed. It had been easy. Natural. But that version of Satoru felt far away now. His patience had worn thin, and now he watched her with a gaze that felt like a mixture of disappointment and disbelief, like a teacher who had tried everything and was beginning to accept that his student might be a lost cause.

And it stung more than she wanted to admit.

But what good was arguing? The longer they stayed in Aomori, the more futile it felt. The cursed painting had vanished after being sold to a local hiking group. From there, it had seemingly vanished, with no one able to give them a solid lead on its location.  They’d chased dead ends. Art galleries. Hiking associations. Even the local police. But Aoi’s bond with her cursed art—the bond that was supposed to guide her—had been useless.

"You’ve got a knack for this, art girl," he had said at the start, so casually confident. But it wasn’t that simple. Now, his silence spoke louder. Weeks later, neither his Six Eyes nor her instincts had uncovered anything.

And then, there was the money. 

"Out of money." 

Satoru had been muttering about expenses, grumbling about their dwindling funds like someone who’d just checked their wallet and found it empty. Almost convincing. Almost. Until that morning, when Aoi caught him writing a check—an amount with too many zeroes to ignore.

"So," she began, tilting her head to glance up at him. "That check. What was that about? Who are you paying that much to?"

Her curiosity had been gnawing at her all day.

Satoru let out a low sigh, adjusting the strap of the shopping bag he carried—another batch of art supplies he’d grudgingly agreed to haul for her. He slid into his usual lecturing tone, and Aoi knew that meant one of two things: either he was about to explain something important, or he just wanted to feel superior for a minute. Or at least, he liked to think he was.

"Alright, listen up, art girl," he said, voice light but edged with patience. "The most valuable currency in our world isn’t money. It’s information. And right now? We’re desperate for it. Because—no offense—" he shot her a look, "your connection to these paintings is about as useful as a broken compass."

Aoi’s scowl was instant. "Okay, but how does writing a massive check solve anything?"

Satoru sighed like he couldn’t believe he had to explain. "The check is for information. And I know exactly who to ask." His eyes gleamed, something unreadable flickering there. "Lucky for us, they’re passing through Aomori."

Her curiosity sparked, cutting through her annoyance. "Wait," she said, eyes widening, practically bouncing on her heels. "Another sorcerer? Seriously? I’m going to meet another jujutsu sorcerer? What are they like? What can they—"

He cut her off with a sharp look, hand raising slightly. His humor faded, replaced by something colder. "Whoever we’re meeting isn’t a friend. And they’re not someone you can trust. You don’t know how to deal with people like this. I do." His eyes pinned her in place, sharp and unwavering. He leaned in, trying to make her promise something by sheer force of will. "So promise me. Keep your mouth shut. Let me do the talking. Just nod and listen. Got it?"

Her shoulders sank, her nose scrunched, gaining a smirk from him. So much for excitement. "Fine," she muttered with a dramatic pout. "But if I’m just supposed to sit there, why am I even coming? I can just wait outside."

Satoru shot her a look that made it clear that wasn’t an option. "No. You stay where I can see you."

There was something in his tone that didn’t leave room for argument. Something that tightened the knot of tension in her stomach.

"Alright, alright," ahe let out a defeated sigh, her breath forming another small puff in the air. "I’ll behave."

He studied her for a long second, as if trying to gauge whether she meant it, then nodded, his posture relaxing—just a little. "Good." He tilted his head, motioning toward a nearby café glowing with warm light. "Come on. Let’s get this over with."

She adjusted her scarf again, pulling it tighter, and followed him toward the café. The thought of meeting another sorcerer both thrilled and terrified her, and the butterflies in her stomach wouldn’t stop.

The bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside. Heat wrapped around her, chasing away the chill that had sunk into her bones. Here, the air was thick with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, warm pastries, and the subtle hum of conversation that filled every corner of the small space. For a brief moment, Aoi let herself relax, her gaze sweeping over the neatly arranged tables, the golden light glinting off glass display cases filled with delicate cakes and baked goods.

But then she caught Satoru’s expression.

To anyone else, he might’ve looked casual. Calm. Like he owned the place, with that trademark arrogance hanging around him like a well-worn cloak. But Aoi had spent enough time with him to notice. His posture, usually loose and lazy, had straightened ever so slightly. His grin had a sharper edge, and his bright blue eyes held an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. 

She swallowed hard. Who the hell were they meeting?

Her eyes scanned the room, stopping when they landed on a woman who didn’t belong. She sat by the window, her pale-blue, almost silver, hair cascading down her face in a single thick braid covering her features, a teacup balanced delicately in her fingers. She looked elegant. Detached. Like a queen holding court.

The other patrons seemed oblivious, but to Aoi, the woman might as well have been surrounded by an invisible force field. The woman’s entire presence seemed to demand attention, despite her relaxed demeanor.

Her gut instinct told her immediately. This was the contact. It had to be.

Satoru walked ahead with that usual effortless confidence, his long strides making it look easy. Aoi scrambled to catch up, her nerves buzzing like static under her skin. If Satoru was tense, it wasn’t a good sign. And if he was on edge, she probably should be too.

He approached the table with his trademark casual arrogance, the kind that made it seem like the world revolved around him. The woman sitting there barely glanced up, but when she did, her eyes—sharp and assessing—flicked over Aoi like she was an object to be appraised.

"Mei Mei," Satoru drawled, as if her name was the punchline to an inside joke.

"Ah," Mei Mei’s lips curved into a feline smile. Her gaze slid back to Aoi, studying her from behind the braid with a gaze that felt like it could peel away layers of skin. "So the rumors are true," she said smoothly like the surface of an undisturbed lake.. "You’re really parading around with a little pet these days, Satoru. How charming."

Aoi bristled, her cheeks flushing. Pet? Seriously? She opened her mouth, the perfect retort on the tip of her tongue, but Satoru shot her a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass. Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.

"What can I say?" Satoru said with a lazy shrug, dropping into the seat across from Mei Mei. "Even I need a hobby." His glance at Aoi wasn’t subtle—it was a silent order. Sit. Stay. Be quiet.

Aoi obeyed, biting back her annoyance as she slid into the seat beside him trying desperately to appear composed. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She clamped her mouth shut, silently congratulating herself for not blurting out something stupid. She repeated his warning in her head like a mantra: Don’t speak. Don’t react. Just listen.

Her mind raced. Mei Mei. She filed the name away, knowing she’d probably never forget it now, her nails digging into her palms beneath the table. The last thing she wanted was to screw this up and make things more complicated.

Mei Mei’s smile sharpened. "The great Satoru Gojo, reduced to a glorified babysitter yet again." She let the words hang, the implication heavy. "Though I do hope this one lasts longer than your last charge."

The temperature seemed to drop. Aoi didn’t know what the hell that meant, but the shadow that crossed Satoru’s face told her enough. His smile faltered, his jaw tightening for just a second before the mask snapped back into place—bright, cocky, but not quite reaching his eyes.

When he finally replied, his voic was smooth but carried a hint of forced exasperation. "She’s a work in progress," he said, leaning back. "Still figuring things out. Mostly clueless."

The words hit harder than they should have. Clueless. Was that really how he saw her? Aoi’s jaw clenched. She wanted to snap back, to prove she wasn’t some helpless tagalong, but Satoru’s look pinned her down. Not. One. Word. She choked down her indignation.

Mei Mei’s eyes glinted, thoroughly entertained, a barely-there chuckle escaping her lips. "What an amusing dynamic you two have," she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "I see you haven’t changed, Satoru."

He ignored her, pulling out the check he’d prepared earlier. He slid it across the table, with a look of irritation that was almost comical, if the situation hadn’t been so tense. "Here," he said flatly. "Your payment. Don’t spend it all in one place, parasite."

Mei Mei picked up the check delicately, her fingers tracing the numbers with obvious delight. "Ah, Satoru," she purred, her voice dangerously soft. "Always so generous when you’re desperate." Her smile was slow, satisfied.

With theatrical flair, she reached into her bag and retrieved a sealed envelope, placing it on the table with a teasing tap of her fingers. "Here’s for your first request," she said. "Wasn’t easy. Almost made me ask for extra."

Satoru’s gaze flicked to the envelope, but he didn’t touch it. He and Mei Mei locked eyes, some silent exchange passing between them, sharp and tense. Aoi felt like she’d wandered into a conversation spoken in a language she couldn’t understand. She hated how small it made her feel. Insignificant.

What was in there that Satoru didn’t want to discuss openly? Or was it something he didn’t want her to know about? The idea rankled, but she bit her tongue, determined to keep her promise. 

Mei Mei’s eyes slid back to her, and Aoi forced herself not to squirm. The woman’s gaze was heavy, dragging over her like claws under skin. Mei Mei smiled like she could see straight through her. Knew exactly how uncomfortable Aoi was.

And she enjoyed it.

Aoi focused on keeping her face blank, her fingers clenching tight in her lap. Don’t react. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

If Satoru and this woman were old acquaintances, friends even, if she could believe it, why had Satoru warned her so harshly about this meeting? Was Mei Mei a friend or a foe? She couldn’t decide.

Then, the tension broke—if only for a second—when the waiter arrived, setting down two steaming mugs of hot milk. A brief moment of relief, warm and comforting.

It didn’t last.

Mei Mei’s laughter was light, melodic, and razor-sharp. "Matching drinks?" she mused, her eyes twinkling with mock delight. "How adorable."

Satoru didn’t even flinch. He shrugged, the gesture so casual it bordered on insolence, taking a lazy sip. "Cold weather," he said, his tone casual. "Gotta keep the little pet warm."

Aoi’s face burned. She gripped her mug tighter, swallowing back her frustration and the urge to lash out. She knew he was playing along with Mei Mei’s twisted sense of humor, deflecting. But it still stung.

Then Satoru leaned forward, his expression shifting as he turned his attention to the real reason they were there. "Let’s cut to it. Any cursed activity nearby? Missing people, strange incidents? Anything worth my time?"

Mei Mei took her time, sipping her tea, savoring the tension. Her amusement never wavered, but her eyes darkened slightly. "Oh, how intriguing," she murmured, dragging out every syllable. "Why so interested? Not like you to be this direct. Surely you could tell me a bit more about what you’re after."

Satoru’s smile didn’t move, but his jaw ticked. "I’ve already paid," he shot back, his tone deceptively light. "Just answer the question."

Mei Mei’s fingers tapped thoughtfully against her cup. She held the silence long enough for Aoi to feel it pressing against her ribs. Finally, she leaned in, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Not in Aomori itself," she said. "But if you’re willing to travel… Mount Osore. A couple hours away. Things have been interesting lately."

The name sent a shiver down Aoi’s spine. She didn’t know why, but it sounded heavy. Like a place where bad things happened.

Satoru’s gaze sharpened, his easy humor vanishing. "Interesting?" he repeated. "Interesting how?"

Mei Mei smiled, slow and knowing. "Several people—hikers, locals—have vanished. And a couple of first-grade sorcerers sent to investigate?" She tilted her head, voice soft and dangerous. "Let’s just say they didn’t come back." Her gaze flicked to Satoru, her words like silk laced with poison. "The higher-ups are keeping it quiet. You know how it is. This whole situation is classified. They’re not about to let just anyone know there’s a mountain up here that devours people."

Satoru’s grin didn’t falter, but Aoi saw the twitch of his fingers. His smile was a weapon now, wielded to mask his irritation. "How thoughtful," he said, voice smooth. "Keeping me in the dark. I’m sure it’s for my own good."

Mei Mei tilted her head, her tone sweetly mocking. "Don’t take it personally. Some find you… abrasive. And reckless," she cooed, the false sympathy grating on Aoi’s nerves. "You really didn’t know? Looks like they don’t trust you with their little secrets."

The barb hit home. Aoi braced for his reaction. But Satoru just laughed, low and sharp. "Or maybe," he countered, his voice as smooth and cutting as polished glass, "they’re just tired of me cleaning up their messes. Can’t say I blame them."

Mei Mei’s laugh was genuine, light but edged. Aoi sat frozen, heart pounding, acutely aware of how insignificant she was in this world of monsters and manipulation. Yet, this was it. This had to be connected to the painting. She shot a quick glance at Satoru, and though he kept his gaze on Mei Mei, Aoi could see the spark of something like triumph.

Finally, a lead.

The hope that sparked in her chest made her reckless. She reached for her mug—and in her excitement, tipped it. Hot milk splashed onto her thighs, the sting sharp and immediate. A small pained yelp escaped her lips, and she winced, her face heating with embarrassment.

But it wasn’t just her pain. Satoru flinched, his hand tightening around his mug.

Oh no.

Their cursed bond—of course, he’d felt it too.

"Sorry!" she blurted, reaching out, her voice a frantic whisper. "The bond, did it hurt—"

His reaction was immediate. Satoru’s hand clamped over her mouth, fast and firm. His blue eyes locked on her in barely restrained frustration, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might snap. The grip was strong, his fingers pressing against her lips, his message clear. Shut up, don't make a scene.

Aoi froze, stunned. But the defiance came quick. Her glare met his, her eyes narrowing, frowning. What the hell? Is this necessary?

His gaze didn’t waver, and beneath the anger, she caught it—a warning. Don’t.

Across the table, Mei Mei’s eyes sparkled with delight. She watched the whole exchange like it was entertainment, her laughter soft and cruel. "How delightful," she drawled. "You really do have your hands full, don’t you, Satoru?"

"I told you," Satoru didn’t release her, his forced smile barely holding. "Completely inexperienced," he said, voice dry and clipped.

Mei Mei’s grin widened, her gaze flicking to Aoi with obvious amusement. "Inexperienced," she echoed, her tone light and mocking. "Indeed."

✎✘✘✘■■■■■■■

The drive to Mount Osore had been long and suffocatingly quiet. Aoi sat curled in the passenger seat, her cheek pressed to the cold window. The early morning fog clung to the Aomori countryside like a ghost refusing to let go, blurring trees and fields into gray smudges. Every so often, the car hit a bump in the road, jolting her out of her half-sleep, dragging her back to present.

Satoru hadn’t said much. He kept his eyes on the road, his sunglasses a wall she couldn’t see through. The tension from yesterday still lingered like smoke between them, tan invisible wall that Aoi wasn’t quite sure how to dismantle. She wanted to say something, anything, but words felt heavy, useless.

When Mount Osore finally loomed into view, it looked like something torn from a nightmare—dark, heavy, ancient. The sulfur stench hit them first, thick and choking, the air tasting like rotten eggs. The land itself looked poisoned, stained in shades of gray and yellow. Fissures split the ground, hissing steam into the cold air, while bubbling pools of sulfuric water whispered danger.

Stone statues of Jizo lined the path, their faces worn and somber, watching over the dead. Small piles of stones were stacked carefully at their feet—silent prayers for lost souls. The shrines were old, their wooden beams weathered by time and wind, yet they stood defiant, like survivors of a forgotten war. Tattered prayer flags fluttered weakly in the breeze, a flash of color in an otherwise dead world.

"We're here," Satoru said as he parked the car, almost too casual, considering they were about to trek into what was likely a death trap

Aoi stepped out, bracing against the biting wind, pulling her scarf tighter. The cold cut through her layers, sharp and merciless. She adjusted the straps of her backpack, trying to shake off the oppressive feeling that clung to her skin. But it was like the mountain itself pressed down on her. The atmosphere felt heavy, almost alive, and it gnawed at her nerves as they began their trek up the rugged, barren trails.

Their trek started easy, along a path worn by tourists and pilgrims. But soon they veered off, following a trail that only Satoru could see. The shrines disappeared behind them, swallowed by the barren expanse, and the sense of isolation deepened. The hours dragged. The air grew colder, the ground rougher. Volcanic rocks turned the path treacherous, each step an effort.

Aoi’s legs burned, her breath ragged. Satoru, of course, walked like they were strolling through a park, annoyingly unfazed by the climb. She hated how easy he made it look.

The silence snapped.

"Are you seriously still mad about yesterday?" she burst out, her voice sharp and edged with exhaustion. Her breath came in shallow puffs, and she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead despite the biting November chill. "I already apologized, okay? I didn’t mean to slip up."

It stung. The distance between them. The way things felt heavier, colder. She missed their banter, the way his teasing could ease the weight of even the darkest moments. She hated how distant he felt now—it made her feel small and foolish, even if she knew he wasn’t truly that angry. Not at her, at least.

Satoru didn’t even slow down. "You should hope Mei Mei doesn’t put two and two together," he said, his voice low and cutting. "Because if she does, that little slip-up might come back to bite us. Hard."

Aoi winced, biting her lip. She still didn’t fully understand the implications, but she hated the idea that she’d made things worse. "I really am sorry," she whispered, her voice small against the mountain's wind. "I wasn’t thinking—"

"Yeah, well," Satoru shot back, his words sharp as knives, "thinking's kind of a requirement in this line of work."

The words hit harder than they should’ve, leaving her chest tight. She clenched her fists, but bit back the urge to snap. It wouldn’t help.

"Wait," she said suddenly, a spark of mischief breaking through her frustration. "Is this about the hot milk? Oh, gods, did you get burned on your..." Her voice trailed off, face coloring as she searched for a nickname, eyes darting away. "...your little sorcerer?"

Satoru stopped dead, his head snapping toward her with a look that was half exasperated, half incredulous as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. "What? No!" he retorted. "I did not burn my…" He paused, eyes narrowing as if processing her choice of words. "What did you just call it?"

Aoi smirked, a small crack in the tension. "You know, your—"

"Don’t," he cut in, eyes narrowing, though his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. The exasperation in his tone couldn’t hide the faintest hint of humor "Don’t ever call it that again. What is wrong with you?"

She couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out. It was stupid, but it felt good—normal.

Satoru ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. "If Mei Mei sells that information, we’re in real trouble."

The humor drained, her smile faltered, the brief moment of relief slipping through her fingers.  "How bad?"

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The silence stretched again until Aoi broke it. "What does ‘first-grade sorcerer’ even mean?" she asked, if only to distract herself from her sore legs and because deep down she was curious, about this world she had stumbled into.

Satoru gave her a sidelong glance, and despite everything, his mouth quirked in that familiar smirk. "Jujutsu sorcerers are ranked by strength," he explained, the lecture coming easily to him. "Fourth grade’s the weakest. Then third, second, first. Special grade’s for the anomalies, monsters who don’t fit the system." He grinned, full of easy arrogance. "Like me. The strongest. Remember?"

Aoi rolled her eyes but felt a reluctant smile tug at her lips. "Right. The great Satoru Gojo. How many special grades are there, anyway?"

His smile faltered, and his answer came quieter. "Not enough."

His non-answer hung between them, and she frowned, sensing there was more he wasn’t telling her, but she let it go. "And me?" she asked, already suspecting the answer.

Satoru snorted, the sound echoing off the rocks around them. "You?" He gave her a look. "You don’t even rank, art girl," he said with a grin. "Just a civilian with a bad habit of painting curses into existence."

Aoi huffed, her pride bruised but her legs too tired to argue. Instead, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Her exhaustion was starting to make her legs feel like lead. The trail had grown narrower, winding precariously along the mountainside. She stumbled, catching herself just in time, and cursed under her breath.

The path had all but vanished, and they were now scrambling over jagged rocks and patches of slick, sulfur-stained soil. The statues of Jizo lining the trail watched silently, their worn faces expressionless yet somehow full of sorrow. The sulfuric air stung her lungs, and she fought the urge to cover her nose, knowing it wouldn’t make a difference.

She needed another distraction. "What did Mei Mei mean when she said you’re not popular with the higher-ups?"

Satoru’s jaw tightened. "The higher-ups are the top of the Jujutsu Society. A bunch of old men clinging to tradition." he said, the disdain dripping from his words. "Corrupt. Anyone who threatens their control, they hate. And I?" His grin was wicked, almost proud. "I’m their worst nightmare."

Aoi blinked, not surprised. "So you’re a rebel," she said, and somehow, it fit him perfectly she had to admit.

He looked at her then, his grin softening, but he said nothing. Just pressed on.

She stumbled again, nearly twisting her ankle on a loose rock. "I’m exhausted," she groaned. "I wasn’t exactly made for cursed mountain treks in sneakers."

"Then be useful," he shot back. "See if you can sense anything. You’re supposed to have a connection to these paintings, remember?"

She glared at him, frustration bubbling over. "Aren’t you the one with the fancy eyes? Shouldn’t you be doing the sensing?"

He stopped so abruptly she nearly walked into him. His expression was eerily calm, but there was something in his eyes—a sharpness, a seriousness that she wasn’t used to. "I am," he said softly and unnervingly controlled. "And guess what? We’ve been surrounded by cursed energy for a while now."

Aoi froze. "What?" Her heart thudded hard in her chest. "And you’re just now telling me?"

Satoru didn’t break stride, hands in his pockets, as if they weren’t walking straight into death. "Relax," he said over his shoulder, his voice maddeningly calm. "We’re not in danger. Yet."

Panic surged. "What do you mean, yet? Where’s the curse? The painting?"

He shrugged unbothered. "Dunno. But we crossed into a border a while ago. We’re inside the curse’s domain."

Aoi’s blood turned cold. "Domain?" she echoed. "What does that mean?"

He turned to her, and even in the gloom of Mount Osore, his grin shone, bright and maddening. "A domain’s like… a trap. The ultimate weapon of a Jujutsu sorcerer. A death zone." His grin widened, maddening. "But hey, don’t worry. You’ve got me. You’re perfectly safe."

She stared at him, her heart pounding, the realization hitting like a punch to the gut. She looked around wildly, suddenly hyper-aware of the desolate, oppressive landscape surrounding them.  They’d been walking for hours. Surrounded. Hunted. In a place designed to kill intruders.

And Satoru, damn him, had known the entire time.

Her voice cracked, a nervous smile growing on her lips. "...You’re kidding."

Satoru just chuckled, as if this were all some grand adventure. "Nope. Welcome to Mount Osore."

The terrain had morphed into a nightmare—jagged rocks, sulfur-stained soil, and a mist so thick it clung to their skin like damp cloth. The sharp stench of sulfur burned Aoi’s throat and nose, making every breath feel like swallowing smoke. She tugged her scarf higher, hoping it might block some of the fumes, but it was a poor defense.

Satoru walked just ahead, his white hair ruffled by sharp gusts of wind. His sunglasses were pushed up onto his head, holding his disheveled hair away from eyes, scanning every shadow as if waiting for the mountain to bare its teeth. He looked calm, but Aoi knew better.

Aoi, on the other hand, was struggling. She couldn’t help but curse under her breath, wondering for the hundredth time how she’d ended up in this nightmare.

"Watch your step," he murmured, glancing back briefly, as he guided her around a jagged rock.

Aoi stumbled again, cursing under her breath. The ground was slick, unpredictable, and her sneakers kept slipping. But every time she faltered, his hand was there—steady, firm, annoying. Because it wasn’t fair how he could make her feel safe and at the same time irritated beyond belief

They pressed on, the silence broken only by the crunch of gravel and the low hiss of steam escaping from unseen cracks. Satoru’s back was a constant, a lifeline in the gray void. She kept her eyes on it, let it pull her forward.

Satoru’s voice broke the stillness, low and steady. "Domain expansions," he began, slipping into that teacher tone that was half-annoying, half-reassuring. "It’s the strongest form of a cursed technique. The user creates a space where they control everything. The rules, the environment. It’s their world. And if you’re caught inside?" He gave a small shrug. "You’re at their mercy."

Aoi swallowed. "So it’s like being trapped in someone’s nightmare?" she said, trying to piece together the gravity of his words.

"Exactly," he said, his mouth tilting into a humorless smile. "It’s a guarantee. A domain expansion decides battles. Unless the other sorcerer has a domain of their own, they’re usually finished. It’s one reason why the outcome of a fight can be predicted so quickly once a domain is used. When two domains clash against each other—usually that determines the outcome of a battle.  And whoever’s domain is stronger? They win. Most of the time."

A shiver traced her spine, and she stumbled again, her foot catching on loose stone. His hand shot out, catching her by the waist and pulling her upright. "Careful," he said, a flicker of amusement threading through his voice. "You’re gonna fall off the mountain at this rate."

"I’m trying," she muttered annoyed, cheeks burning as she stepped away, but his hand lingered a second longer than necessary.

The mist thickened until the world shrank to just a few feet around them. The ground felt unstable, the path uncertain. Aoi couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched.

"So… this domain we’re in," she started, more to distract herself than anything, "what does it do?"

Satoru didn’t stop, but his voice dropped lower. "If it was lethal, we’d know by now." He gestured to a treacherous, rock-strewn section of the path ahead, signaling her to avoid it. "It wouldn’t be subtle. So, no. This one probably isn’t designed to try to kill us outright. But that doesn’t mean it’s safe."

"Then how is it dangerous?" she asked, stepping carefully.

"Non-lethal domains are like puzzles," he said. "If you don’t figure out the rules, you don’t get out. And since we don’t know what kind of curse this is…" He gave her a sidelong look. "It’s anyone’s guess."

Aoi bit her lip. "Can’t you just… do your own domain thing? Wipe this one out?" she asked, hoping for a reassuring answer.

"Of course I could." He gave a low chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "But my domain? That would risk pulling in anyone who’s still alive nearby. Not a smart move." He nodded toward a bubbling pool, guiding her around it with a light touch at her back. "Besides, it’s not that bad yet."

"Not that bad yet," she echoed under her breath, eyeing the mist as if it might reach out and pull her under.

As he spoke, he guided her around a bubbling pool of sulfurous water, his hand at her shoulder, directing her. She bit her lip, trying to ignore how it was irritatingly reassuring.

"You say that like it’s reassuring," she said, stepping over a crack in the ground.

He shrugged. "If I said it’s terrible, you’d panic. I’m doing you a favor."

She opened her mouth to reply, but something ahead stopped her cold. A shape loomed in the mist—dark, massive, wrong. As they drew closer, it became clearer, and Aoi’s breath caught in her throat. An airplane. Or what was left of one. Its body lay broken and half-buried in the earth, flames licking around the wreckage, casting an eerie glow in the fog. But the fire was cold, flickering like ghost-light.

"Is that… an airplane?" she whispered.

Satoru stepped beside her, his blue eyes narrowing. "Looks like it."

Beside the wreckage, a man knelt, his body trembling. His hands clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp. "It never changes," he muttered seemingly oblivious to the world around him., the words dissolving into hysterical laughter. "No matter how many times… it never changes."

Aoi’s stomach twisted. She wanted to look away, but her eyes were drawn to another figure—a woman in a tattered wedding dress, standing by a makeshift altar. Her face was streaked with tears, her hands wrapped around a jagged piece of metal. She screamed as she slammed it down on the altar, again and again.

"Why won’t it break?!" Her voice tore through the mist, raw and desperate. "Why won’t it—"

Her sobs echoed in the fog, blending with the man’s laughter, creating a twisted, haunting symphony. Aoi flinched. The sound was unbearable.

Satoru’s grip on her shoulder tightened. His steps were faster now, urgent. The calm mask he wore cracked, letting something harder, sharper, show beneath.

"Satoru…" Aoi’s voice trembled. "Shouldn’t we—shouldn’t we help them?"

He didn’t look at her. "No," he said, voice flat. "No stop. We can’t help them."

She glanced back, her eyes lingering on the broken souls trapped in their endless torment. "But—"

"We find the curse first," he cut in sharply. "Then we can help. Not before."

The certainty in his voice made her falter. She hated it—hated walking away from the broken man, from the woman screaming at the altar. But Satoru didn’t slow. His hand stayed firm, guiding her forward.

They pressed on, deeper into the fog. More shapes appeared. A crushed bicycle beneath a blood-stained car. A bathtub filled with murky water. Rows of school desks stood in a row, as though awaiting students who would never return. A dog’s collar and bowl lay on the ground, abandoned, next to a small, chewed-up ball. Each sight more wrong than the last, like they were walking through a graveyard of regrets.

And then, from somewhere deep in the fog, a voice. A woman’s cry, sharp and desperate. "Help me! Please!"

Aoi felt her resolve waver. She turned, but Satoru’s grip tightened on her shoulder. "Don’t stop," he said, low and commanding. "We keep going."

Her eyes widened, searching his. She didn’t like it, didn’t want to leave these people to suffer. "But—"

"Keep. Going." His tone brooked no argument.

She swallowed, torn between her heart and his orders. But in the end, she obeyed. She hated it, but she obeyed, her legs trembling but still moving forward. What is this place? she wondered, her mind reeling.

The mountain felt alive, pulsing with grief. Every shadow whispered regret. And all she could do was cling to the one person who could lead her through it.

The fog thickened, swallowing everything in sight. Shapes flickered like ghosts—twisted metal, broken houses, warped remnants of forgotten lives. Aoi’s heart hammered in her chest as she forced her gaze forward, refusing to let the nightmares pull her under. Every glance revealed something worse, something more wrong, like walking through a graveyard of regrets, as if they’d stepped into the collective nightmares of a thousand tortured souls.

Figures appeared and disappeared like phantoms in the mist. Some were crouched, their faces twisted in agony, while others seemed frozen in mid-motion, their mouths wide in soundless screams.

Beside her, Satoru moved with calm that both reassured and unsettled her. No cocky grin, no sharp quip. Just that razor-focused intensity, the kind that meant danger. His pace adjusted to match hers, his steps shifting just slightly closer when the shadows moved too close. 

A sudden jolt ran through Aoi, a magnetic pull deep in her chest that thrummed with a strange, resonant energy. A sharp pull, like a thread snapping tight. She froze, breath caught in her throat as she turned to Satoru.

"Satoru," she whispered, her voice sharp with urgency. "I can feel it. The painting. It’s close. Really close."

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of satisfaction breaking through his stoic mask. "Finally," he muttered, the word heavy with anticipation. "Lead the way, art girl."

Aoi took a hesitant step forward, that invisible pull guiding her like a compass. Her pulse quickened, nerves sparking under her skin. She was so focused that the sudden crash of movement in the fog made her jolt. Two figures burst through the mist, colliding in a tangle of limbs and desperate shouts. One chased the other, rage and panic twisting their faces, but within seconds, they vanished again into the gray.

Aoi’s breath hitched, fear clawing up her spine—then Satoru’s arm shot out, yanking her back against him. She could feel his steady breath brush against her hair. They stood frozen, eyes locked in mutual acknowledgment of the madness surrounding them.

When he let go, the warmth of his arm lingered, like a phantom comfort.

"Come on," he whispered, his voice low and rough. And they pressed forward, his presence now glued to her side, the protective barrier she hadn’t realized she needed until that moment.

A hazy outline took shape through the mist—an altar, surrounded by rows of Jizo statues. Their weathered faces stared in solemn silence, as though bearing witness to every sorrow this mountain swallowed. Behind them, stark against the bleak backdrop, stood a white canvas tent.

Too clean. Too untouched. Wrong.

"It’s here," Aoi said, the conviction in her voice surprising even her. She stepped toward the tent, but Satoru’s hand snapped out, gripping her arm.

"Wait," he said, his eyes scanning the scene.

Two men stood near the tent, locked in heated argument. Their voices cracked through the stillness.

"You don’t understand!" one shouted, his face twisted with frustration.

"You’re the one who doesn’t get it!" the other snapped back, his voice tight with rage. He turned sharply and disappeared into the mist, leaving the first man standing alone, sagging with exhaustion.

The remaining man seemed to sag, shoulders dropping as he rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture one of exhaustion and defeat. He turned toward them, blinking like he was surprised they hadn’t been there all along. He smiled—soft, tired, but unsettling in its normalcy.

"Tourists?" he asked with a weak chuckle. "Not many people come up this far. Just the stubborn hikers."

Satoru gave Aoi a glance, a silent message passing between them. The man wasn’t a threat. Not yet.

Aoi’s heart slowed its frantic pace just enough for her to speak. "Shouldn’t you… go after your friend?" Aoi asked, gesturing toward the fog where the other man had disappeared. "It’s dangerous out here."

The man’s smile faltered, something distant flickering in his eyes. "Wouldn’t matter," he said, voice hollow in resignation. "Me and my best friend always end up back here. Doesn’t matter how far we walk. He’ll be back. We’ll try again. Same as always."

Aoi’s stomach twisted. The words made no sense, but they sank into her like stones.

Satoru’s jaw ticked. "Best friends, huh? Real pain in the ass," he muttered, almost too low to hear, a shadow of recognition flitting across his face.

The man’s eyes shifted to the tent. "You here for the Itako?" he asked. "Everyone comes hoping to see her."

"The Itako?" Aoi echoed, frowning. The word stirred something—a half-remembered story about blind priestesses who could speak to the dead. "I thought they were just legends."

The man’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Oh, they’re real. She’ll be back soon. Always is."

Satoru leaned down, his breath brushing her ear as he whispered, "The Itako can go to hell. That’s probably the cursed thing pulling the strings here. I’m going in to get that painting—"

A sharp, hollow sound cut him off.

Applause.

Loud, sudden, and out of place, it echoed through the mist like gunfire. It shouldn’t have been there. It didn’t belong. It sounded mechanical, mocking, and cold. The sound clawed at Aoi’s skin, burrowing into her bones. It reverberated off the jagged rocks and twisted shadows, echoing unnaturally as if the mountain itself were joining in. 

It felt like an accusation.

The man in front of them stiffened, eyes widening in recognition and a kind of resigned terror. But it was Satoru’s reaction that made Aoi’s blood run cold. For a heartbeat, his mask cracked. The confidence, the sarcasm—it crumbled. His breath hitched, and a shadow crossed his face. Not fear. Not exactly. Something jagged and wounded. His breath caught, a barely perceptible hitch that made Aoi’s heart squeeze painfully.

Aoi’s chest squeezed painfully.

Satoru turned, his movement mechanical. His eyes, stripped of humor, swept over the surreal scene before them.

Figures emerged from the mist. Dozens of them. Hundreds. They stood in perfect rows, dressed in white robes, their faces pale and blank turned toward them. Hands clapped in unison, slow and rhythmic, the sound thick and relentless. Mocking. Celebrating. Accusing.

The applause grew louder, deafening. It echoed off the rocks, vibrating in her skull. It felt endless, inescapable. It felt like judgment.

Satoru’s body was rigid, fists clenched so tight they trembledas if fighting the urge to lash out or crumble—she couldn’t tell which. And that terrified her.

In an attempt to ground him, without thinking, she reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. The contact was small, but it was enough. His head snapped down, blue eyes locking on hers. For a breathless second, he looked like he wasn’t sure who—or where—he was.

Then, like a switch flipping, his mask snapped back into place, regaining control so quickly that Aoi almost wondered if she’d imagined the moment of vulnerability. She wanted to ask, to understand, but there was no time, no space for questions here. They were still surrounded by the ominous crowd, the applause refusing to die, echoing through the fog like a macabre, endless taunt.

"We’re taking the painting and leaving," he said, voice low and sharp, every word cutting like glass.

He grabbed her arm—no gentleness, no asking—dragging her forward. Aoi stumbled, breath ragged, but she didn’t argue. Not now. Not with the way he moved, like the world was crumbling beneath his feet, desperate to reach the cursed painting, to put an end to this twisted nightmare as quickly as possible.

He didn’t look at the figures. Didn’t acknowledge the crowd that clapped and clapped and clapped.

But Aoi glanced back. The mist churned with faceless shapes, white-clad figures clapping in slow, mechanical unison. Cold. Empty. And when she turned back, her stomach dropped. Satoru had stopped cold. His eyes weren’t on her. They were locked on something ahead, and his entire body had gone rigid.

A white sheet.

It lay draped over a shape unmistakably human. Two feet, clad in worn brown moccasins, stuck out from under the edge. Dark patches of blood soaked through the fabric, marking the outline of a head. Small. Frail. A young girl, maybe. Whoever it was, it turned Satoru to stone.

His grip on her arm tightened enough to sting and Aoi winced. Pain lanced through her skin and across their cursed bond, but if Satoru felt it, he didn’t show it or didn't care.

"Satoru…" she murmured, her voice cracking. But he didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath pale skin. His eyes were distant, haunted. And it scared her.

"Please, focus," she said, urgency knotting in her chest. She had to reach him, to break through whatever hold this place had on him.  "You said it yourself—we can’t stop. We have to keep moving. We can’t help anyone unless we find the curse."

But Satoru stood still, gaze pinned to the body beneath the sheet, his grip stil painfully firm on her arm. When he finally spoke, his voice was sharp and bitter. "Oh, that’s rich. This curse really pulled out all the stops this time, didn’t it?" He laughed—a hollow, humorless sound that made her stomach twist.

His fingers dropped from her arm, running through his hair in a jerky, frustrated motion. There was something cold in his eyes, something Aoi didn’t recognize. And for the first time, Satoru frightened her.

Before she could speak, a voice drifted from behind the sheet. Low, calm, familiar in a way that felt wrong.

"Satoru."

One word. Heavy. Affectionate. Detached.

"So, the honored one still hesitates?"

She turned slowly, and there—standing opposite the covered body—stood a tall man. Long dark hair, calm eyes, and a serene smile that made her stomach twist. She didn’t know him. Didn’t have to.

Because when Satoru turned, his face drained of color, and that told her everything she needed to know.

"Suguru," he murmured, like the name itself hurt to say.

Tension rippled through Satoru’s body. His stance tightened, muscles drawn taut like a bowstring ready to snap. The man tilted his head, that unsettling smile never wavering.

"The strongest, standing here. And still, you hesitate." His voice was soft, smooth. Almost kind. Almost. "I guess even gods have weaknesses."

Satoru’s hand slackened at Aoi’s side, his focus locked entirely on the figure before him. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

The man took a step closer, eyes glinting. "Isn’t it tiring?" he asked softly. "Carrying the weight of saving a world that doesn’t deserve you? Being the one everyone expects to save the world, even as you stand surrounded by the ruins you couldn’t save?"

A tremor passed through Satoru’s body. His hand lifted slightly, fingers twitching in a gesture Aoi had learned to fear. She knew that move. She’d seen it just before he unleashed the kind of power that tore curses apart, that shattered landscapes.

"Nine Ropes," he said, voice low, each word a death sentence. "Polarized Light."

Cursed energy thickened the air, charged and heavy. A violet glow sparked at his fingertip. A move that would obliterate anything in its path.

Aoi’s heart stopped. This wasn’t a curse. This wasn’t a mindless monster. This was a man. A man standing calmly, not even flinching as Satoru readied to strike. And behind them, scattered in the mist, were more people. Trapped. Helpless.

They would be caught in it too. This was bad—worse than anything before.

He would kill them all.

The last time she’d seen him like this—so poised, so close to unleashing something catastrophic—had been against curses. Things that didn’t resemble people. Things that didn’t stand there smirking, watching him fall apart from the inside out.

The same Satoru who cracked jokes, who teased her, who cared for her in a thousand subtle ways. He wouldn’t—no, he couldn’t. He didn’t kill people like this, not without reason, and certainly not like a man on the edge of madness.

"Oh no," Aoi breathed, panic burning in her chest as her eyes darted between Satoru and the dark-haired man unfazed by the deadly energy gathering at Satoru’s hand. "No, don’t. There are people behind us in the mist!"

But he didn’t seem to hear her. This wasn’t Satoru. His gaze was locked, his breath sharp and unsteady. He wasn’t seeing the people in the mist, wasn’t seeing her. He wasn’t thinking. He was ready to destroy everything, and she didn’t know how to reach him.

"Satoru!" she shouted, voice sharp as a whip. Still, nothing. His hands trembled, violet light burning brighter.

Aoi swallowed hard, heart hammering. "This isn’t real. None of this is real! You told me, remember? You said it yourself—it’s just the curse. It’s tricking you!"

Still, no response. His jaw clenched, and his gaze didn’t waver. It was as if he couldn’t see her, couldn’t hear her, caught up in a storm of his own making. The man—Suguru—watched with a slow, knowing smile. Calm. Waiting.

And then—

"Crow and Declaration."

The glow deepened, pulsing like a heartbeat. Aoi felt her heart drop. He was really going to do it. She had to stop him, had to reach him before he did something irreversible.

Without thinking, but not without fear, she stepped between them. Right into his line of fire.

"Don’t," she said, her voice trembling. Her hands shaked, but she stood tall. The voice in the back of her mind, the one that whispered that she was insane for standing between him and his target. Knew it could kill her. But she didn’t care. "There are people here. You’ll kill them."

Silence. Heavy. Crushing.

Satoru’s eyes snapped down to her. His hand didn’t drop. The light didn’t fade. But there—just for a moment—was hesitation. The absurdity of it all struck her—she was standing between the strongest sorcerer and she was terrified, not for herself, but for what would become of him if he followed through. Terrified that he wouldn’t stop.

That he’d burn her down too. 

The applause surged again, louder, sharper, as if mocking them all.

He wouldn’t... would he?

Aoi swallowed, forcing herself to hold his gaze. She could feel her heart pounding, could hear the blood roaring in her ears, but she didn’t back down. "Please," she whispered. "Don’t."

He blinked, as if seeing her for the first time. His hand trembled. 

But then, the glow at his fingertips glowed stronger again, his gaze snapping back to the man standing behind Aoi.

And in that heartbeat, she realized that she wasn’t sure if he’d stop.

Chapter Text

✎✘✘✘■■■■■■■

REMORSE

-Satoru-

Satoru stood frozen, the thunderous applause hammering against his senses like relentless waves. Everything blurred around him—the white-clad figures, the eerie clapping, the cold fog—all dragging him back to a place and a memory he’d buried deep.

He’d heard this sound before.

It was too loud, too real.

That day. The day the world decided he was The Strongest.

A title he pretended to wear with pride but secretly regretted, a scar from when he'd failed the only test that mattered: the friend he hadn't saved, the tragedy he couldn't prevent.

His vision swam, flickering between the twisted illusion in front of him and the memory that clawed at his mind: Riko, covered by that stark white sheet stained red at her head, just like now.

His grip on Aoi’s arm tightened unconsciously, fingers digging into her skin hard enough to bruise. She gasped, barely above a whisper. He knew he was hurting her—felt it through their cursed bond. But right now? He couldn’t bring himself to care.

For a fleeting, paralyzing instant, the lines between past and present blurred, and he could almost believe he was back there. His mind had narrowed to a singular point, and Aoi? Aoi wasn’t in it.

Then a voice pierced through his haze, soft, familiar, impossible.

"Satoru."

The name rolled off that smooth, calm voice like a taunt, laden with mock affection. He knew who it was before he even looked. But he looked anyway.

He felt his stomach twist, his pulse stutter, as the figure emerged. Dark hair. Calm eyes. A knowing, infuriating smile he’d once trusted with his life.

"Suguru."

The traitor. The best friend. Of course. Of course the curse chose him, crafted his face from memories and regret.

He’d spent three miserable years replaying the moment he'd let Suguru walk away, frozen by his own hesitation and a stubborn belief that maybe things weren't so broken. But they were. Three years spent questioning every what-ifs. 

What if he’d stopped him? What if he’d tried harder? What if he’d said the right thing? Could he have changed it? Would Suguru still have walked away? Would he still have left him?

"The strongest, standing here, " Suguru mused, tilting his head just slightly, like he was considering him. "And still, you hesitate. I guess even gods have weaknesses."

The words hit like a slap.

Satoru forgot it was an illusion, just bcause it was Suguru, so familiar and yet so utterly different. Not the real one, but real enough. He knew it. He knew it was a mistake, but the words dripped from his lips before he could stop them.

"You really had to go this far, huh?" he spat, bitterness coating his tone, edged with a kind of broken sarcasm that bordered on hysteria.

Somewhere, Aoi spoke. Urgent, insistent. Calling to him. But she may as well have been a mile away.

Suguru’s expression remained unchanged. "Isn’t it tiring?" he asked softly. "Carrying the weight of saving a world that doesn’t deserve you? Being the one everyone expects to save the world, even as you stand surrounded by the ruins you couldn’t save?"

Satoru felt his control slipping. His fingers twitched, purple cursed energy crackled to life. His vision sharpened, locked onto the man before him, the man he should have stopped, the man he had let walk away when he still had the chance.

The mocking applause surged behind him, the rhythmic clap, clap, clap that echoed like a judgment.

Suguru smiled. That infuriating, knowing smile.

And something inside Satoru snapped. End him. End the memory. End the curse that had haunted him for three goddamn years. He didn’t care if it was a trap—some mistakes, after all, needed to be corrected.

"Nine Ropes," the words came out in a harsh whisper, each syllable feeding into the cursed energy pooling at his fingertips. "Polarized Light."

And then—

Aoi stepped between them.

"Don't." Her voice finally broke through jolting him like a slap.

He hadn’t even noticed her move, but there she was. Between him and Suguru. A human shield made of trembling hands and a voice that barely held steady.

But she was real.

So painfully, grounding-ly real, enough for doubt to seep in.

Her voice wavered but didn’t break. "This isn’t real. None of this is real! You told me, remember? You said it yourself—it’s just the curse." 

Aoi. Damn it, why her? She stared at him, eyes wide like she knew he wouldn’t do it. It twisted something painfully inside him. Of all the people, why had it been her who anchored him here, who saw through him when he least wanted it?

It pissed him off.

She was in the way. She was jeopardizing everything.

One blast, and Suguru's specter would vanish. So would half the mountain, and Aoi along with it. Burned away like everything else. But she'd forgive him, wouldn't she? She had to. Or maybe she wouldn’t. But the chaos in his chest told him it didn’t matter. He could mourn later.

He could almost rationalize it—this was necessary. If she chose to stand there, it was her her choice, not his.

But that bitter twisting feeling in his chest told him that the rationalization was bullshit. He struggled to shove those thoughts aside, but they lingered. 

"Crow and Declaration." His fingers, crackling with cursed energy, trembled. The cursed energy sparkled brighter in his hand, casting shadows over her face. Just fire, the thought slithered back.

And yet, something held him back. Her eyes were still on him—wide, terrified. Not for herself. That fear softened his anger and sharpened his shame, as the cursed bond tugged at him like a cord wrapped around his wrist.

He should have felt gratitude for it, but instead, he felt anger—anger that she was here, stopping him, forcing him to watch Suguru walk away.

Again.

"Move," he repeated, his tone almost came out as a whisper. He wasn’t sure if he was warning her or himself. "Don’t make me—"

"There are people behind us. You’ll… you’ll kill them too," her voice wavered but held steady.

People. Oh. Right. He was supposed to care about them. He was supposed to think. His fingers twitched again, the cursed energy flaring for just a second longer.

He could still do it. If she didn’t move, he’d—

He’d what?

He met her gaze, searching for any sign that she might relent, might step aside and let him finish this once and for all. She didn’t budge. She wasn't going to move. She was betting everything on him, standing there like an immovable wall—daring to hope he'd stop.

Her stupid, stubborn face, looking at him with that ridiculous amount of trust. Trust he hadn't earned. Trust he desperately wished he didn’t care about but couldn’t bear to betray.

And for some reason—some infuriating, inexplicable reason—that was worse. It also made him hesitate.

"Don't," she whispered.

And that was it.

That single word unraveled everything, forcing him to stare into the reckless, twisted impulse that had almost consumed him.

What the hell am I doing?

The realization hit him so hard it nearly made him sick.

He couldn’t do it. Of all the people in the world—of all the people he could so easily let burn—why the hell was it her standing there there, terrified, hurt, wide eyes shimmering with unshed tears that accused him without a word?

It was a look he never wanted to see on her again, especially not because of him. Damn him—he had been this close to proving her wrong.

His hand trembled, cursed energy sparking dimly as it bled away. Against his will, he let his arm fall.

The tense silence stretched until it hurt. His entire body felt like it had just been punched from the inside out. He forced a smirk to his lips, but it felt brittle, hollow. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into the skin like he could scratch away the weight pressing on him.

"Don’t be so dramatic, art girl," he muttered, eyes flicking anywhere but at her. "I wasn’t really gonna do it."

Even to his own ears, it sounded like the worst lie he’d ever told.

Aoi didn’t buy it for a second. Her gaze narrowed, sharp and furious as she wiped at her damp cheeks with a trembling hand. The relief was there, but it came tangled in anger.

"The hell you weren’t!" she snapped, voice raw. "You stupid, arrogant idiot, I really thought you were about to blast me—and half the damn mountain—into dust!"

The words hit harder than they should have. They carved into him, deeper than any curse. She blinked fast, and the tension in her body loosened just enough for the tears to slip free. Silent, accusing.

Satoru, who could crush anything with a flick of his wrist, who could level entire landscapes without breaking a sweat—

Felt small. And damn it all, why did it have to be her?

She was right. And the realization tasted like ash.

Satoru exhaled, slow and careful, like the air might burn his throat. The sulfurous tang of fear and adrenaline still lingered, but at least it wasn’t suffocating.

He glanced over her shoulder, scanning the mist, looking for any lingering trace of Suguru’s smirk, Riko’s lifeless form, or the ghostly figures that had surrounded him. But there was nothing. Just cold, empty silence.

The phantoms were gone. The damage wasn’t.

When he looked back at Aoi, she stood a few steps away, wiping her face with shaking fingers. She still looked pissed—tired, but pissed as hell—her irritation softened by something he couldn’t quite place.

Relief, maybe. Or something messier.

She had that look—the one that made him both grateful and exasperated, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to yell at him or pass out. The sight stirred something stupid and unfamiliar in him.

He blamed the cursed bond.

Without thinking, he stepped forward, closer. Before she could react, is fingers found her cheeks and pinched them, firm enough to earn a startled yelp. Her hazel eyes snapped wide, eyebrows pulling together first in confusion, then pure indignation.

"What the hell?!" she slapped his hands away, glaring like he’d just kicked her favorite paintbrush into a gutter, but he didn't let go. "Are you serious right now?!"

Satoru barely held back a chuckle. Good. That was the reaction he wanted. The slight tremor in her lip, the fire in her glare. It was familiar. Real. The weight of the moment settled a little lighter on his shoulders.

He held her gaze a second longer than necessary, the cursed bond humming between them, making him feel the same sting on his cheeks, grounding him in a way that irritated as much as it comforted.

With a scoff, he let go, smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. "What? You looked like you needed a reality check." He said, injecting just enough arrogance into his tone to mask the gratitude he couldn’t bring himself to voice.

As if he hadn’t just been on the verge of obliterating everything five minutes ago.

Her glare could have burned him alive. "If you’re so desperate to feel pain, let me do the pinching next time." She was still wiping at her face, trying to pretend she wasn’t crying two minutes ago, but the way her voice wobbled at the edges ruined the effect. "You masochist," she grumbled under her breath.

Satoru chuckled, low and rough, though it felt more like exhaling leftover panic than amusement. "Nah," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "It’s just more fun this way."

The moment hung between them, a fragile truce in the midst of chaos. And in that small space, Satoru felt  a touch of gratitude. She didn't realize how close he’d come to losing himself. And maybe that was for the best.

Before he could lose himself in thoughts he didn’t want to entertain, sound broke the quiet—a shuffle of feet, a long, tired sigh.

His focus snapped toward the sound, his mind instinctively shifting from the tangled storm of his own thoughts to the reality unfolding before him.

The man from earlier still stood near the tent, watching with resignation that bordered on indifference. That was a look Satoru had seen before. The kind of expression worn by people who had faced defeat so many times that even hope felt like an intrusion.

Then the silence shattered as another voice—wild and desperate—cut through the fog. The old man’s friend stumbled out of the swirling mist, his eyes burning with frantic, almost feverish intensity.

Satoru already knew what was coming next.

"You don’t understand!"

"No, you don’t understand!"

Their argument, like a needle stuck in a groove, resumed instantly—familiar lines of anger and frustration spilling out, unchanged and unchanging, like an old record stuck on replay that grated on Satoru’s nerves

The fight started again, like a broken record skipping back to the same argument over and over. The words were identical, the frustration unchanged and unchanging. The friend spun on his heel and bolted into the mist—just like before. His form blurred, swallowed up like he was never really there to begin with.

Aoi tensed beside Satoru. "That’s the second time," she whispered.

Satoru narrowed his eyes, the gears in his mind clicking and whirring with increasing speed. The repeated argument, the desperate reappearances—this wasn’t just coincidence. His thoughts began to coalesce, shaping into an understanding of this insidious place.

He turned back to the old man, voice laced with sarcasm, masking the way his mind worked to piece it all together. "So how long have you been at this, huh?"

The man didn’t answer immediately. His fingers twitched at his sides. His expression was hollow, like a man staring at something too painful to remember. After a long pause, he whispered, "I don’t know anymore. I lost count after fifty attempts."

Aoi inhaled sharply beside him.

Satoru didn’t react, but his mind clicked the final pieces together.

Fifty attempts. Fifty cycles of futility and remorse. This domain wasn’t just a trap—it was a prison. A self-sustaining loop. A feeding ground.

It lured people in with their deepest regrets, dangled the illusion of one more chance to fix what was broken, then watched them fail again and again—each failure feeding the curse that controlled this place, enslaving them in a loop of their own making.

A perfect ecosystem. Simple. Efficient.

Brutal.

 The people it captured were the very pillars that kept it standing, feeding it day after day with their grief and futile attempts to change the past.

Satoru’s gaze flickered to the flickering outlines of the figures in the mist—souls drained to the point of transparency, barely more than memories now. If the man’s words were true, they had been trapped here for far longer than the flow of time would suggest. Time stretched and twisted in a domain, moments outside passed at a snail’s pace while an eternity could be lived within its confines.

They weren’t just captives.

They were already dead in every way that mattered. Nothing more than hollow shells. Even if they broke free, even if they shattered this cursed place they were beyond saving, already reduced to spiritual husks.

Aoi swallowed beside him.

Satoru debated telling her, watching her out of the corner of his eye. If he explained it, if he told her the old man was probably just a leftover fragment of someone long since consumed—

Yeah. No.

She’d panic, lose her mind, if she knew they were surrounded by the dead, victims of an endless, macabre feast. And he wasn’t in the mood to deal with her losing her mind on top of everything else.

Better to soften the blow before she realized it herself.

His lips pressed into a thin line. It wasn’t power that freed him from this domain, but acceptance. The acknowledgment that some battles couldn’t be won, some mistakes couldn’t be erased. And he hated that.

Aoi had forced his hand, stepping between him and Suguru’s specter, dragging him back to reality when he hadn’t wanted to come back, forced him to watch without intervening.

She had stopped him.

And that was what pissed him off the most. Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, had almost been taken down by a cheap trick, reduced to a mess of exposed nerve endings by a a hollow imitation of Suguru.

His own domain shattered minds in an instant. One slip, one moment of weakness, and there was no undoing the damage. He knew the cost of getting caught in something like this.

"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath, his lips curling in self-directed scorn. He’d been this close to becoming just another ghost screaming into the fog.

"Listen," he said, voice dropping, losing the sarcasm for something sharper, deadlier. "You need to stop."

The old man looked at him, hollow and worn.

"Whatever you’re trying to fix? It’s already over. Let it go, or you’ll stay here, in this godforsaken loop, until you forget why you even started." His eyes narrowed, the sarcasm softening for a brief moment. "Your call."

The old man’s eyes flickered.

Satoru didn’t wait to see which side won.

Instead, his gaze shifted—to Aoi, standing a few steps away, staring at the tent with an intensity that set his nerves on edge. Damn her. He owned her now. Not that he’d let her know. He wasn’t about to start that conversation, not now, not ever. 

Before he could say more, the man’s friend emerged from the fog again, like a specter caught in an endless loop.

"You don’t understand!"

"No, you don’t understand!"

The argument restarted—desperate, the same words cycling through like a broken record. But this time, as the friend stormed off, Satoru caught a detail he hadn’t noticed before.

A painting. Clutched tightly under the man’s arm.

It wasn’t the painting—he could tell immediately. Just another fragment of regret, another desperate attempt to hold onto something long gone. The real one was still inside the tent, waiting for them.

Everything clicked.

This domain, the cursed painting, the two men trapped in their never-ending guilt—it all made sense now. They had dragged it here, unwilling to let go, feeding the domain with their failure.

Satoru placed a firm hand on Aoi’s shoulder, grounding her. His gaze met hers, steady, sharp. "We’re getting that painting. Stay close."

For once, she didn’t argue.

They moved forward, the air around them thickening, pressing against them like the domain itself was resisting. And standing at the entrance of the tent, as if she had always been there, was an old woman.

Eyes as white as the mist. Hair falling in thin, ghostly strands around her wrinkled  face.

A knowing smile, as unsettling as it was familiar.

The Itako.

Satoru stepped in front of Aoi, blocking her from view, eyes narrowing as he assessed the old woman. His mind worked fast, his Six Eyes analyzed the twisted strands of cursed energy clinging to her like parasites.

He scoffed, resentment curling in his chest. Itakos—a pathetic excuse of sorcerers—frauds who used their weak cursed energy to fool the grieving, convincing them they could speak to the dead. Deluded women who mistook curses for ghosts and paraded their ignorance like wisdom.

Charlatans perpetuating their own myths to profit from those willing to believe.

But this one… this one was different. She was possessed.

She had invited the curse in, mistaking it for a divine connection, an achievement of true communion with the dead. Let it seep into her, twisting her into something more than human, less than whole. A willing host, a vessel fused so completely with the curse that there was no separating them anymore. The curse was weak—pathetically so by his standards—but it was clever.

Stupid woman. The dead didn’t linger as ghosts. Only curses did.

How foolish, how blind. It was almost laughable—almost. He tilted his head, watching her with detached amusement, even as his temples throbbed from the pressure of her presence.

He straightened, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. "You really bought into your own bullshit, huh?" His voice was soft, laced with disdain. "Stupid old bat."

The Itako’s smile didn’t waver—a small, knowing smile like she saw through him despite the obvious contradiction. Satoru’s fingers twitched with the urge to end this now. But he exhaled slowly, dragging the irritation out with his breath.

He resisted the urge to rub his forehead, focusing on the task at hand. "Step aside, granny," he said, voice clipped. "Let me take that painting, and we won’t have to make a mess of this. Though, either way, I am exorcising you, so let’s keep this brief."

The old woman chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. "You are free to go, boy," she murmured, her voice like old wood creaking in the wind. "The rules are clear. Struggle against them, and you remain trapped. Only those who accept may leave."

Satoru rolled his eyes. "Oh great, now we’re doing riddles. Fantastic."

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. "Your regrets cannot be erased. You know this."

His smirk sharpened. "Yeah, yeah, I got the lecture already. ‘Let go or be trapped forever,’ blah blah blah." He turned to Aoi, slipping into lecture mode effortlessly, like they weren’t in the middle of a haunted mountain dealing with a possessed old woman. "You listening, art girl? It's a cheap trick. By explaining their technique, they strengthen it—kind of a binding vow. This one traded brute force for a stronger grip on the mind."

Satoru turned back to the Itako, smile laced with mockery. "In other words, just another parasite feeding on regret. Is the only way it can survive. How original."

Aoi nodded, face pale but listening, even if her gaze kept moving quickly toward one point at the edge of the mist before returning to him, as if seeing something scarier than the curse before them, or something only she could see.

The Itako’s sightless eyes shimmered with an unsettling, almost mocking amusement, her smile widening to reveal a strange satisfaction.

Satoru didn’t linger on the thought. Just art girl being scared and over dramatic as always. Just another day with her.

He didn't waste another second. He exchanged a glance with her, who narrowed her eyes before giving a brisk nod. Together, they stepped into the tent. Inside, the air felt wrong.

Heavy. Damp. Drenched in a musty blend of damp wood and age-old incense. Thin shafts of pale light pierced through the cracks in the canvas, casting restless shadows that flickered across the space like restless spirits.

And there, sitting on a battered wooden easel, was the painting, surrounded by faded trinkets, bowls of dried herbs, and remnants of past rituals.

Its surface moved. Not physically, but through his Six Eyes, Satoru could see the cursed energy shifting in swirls of worn gold, beige, and deep, inky shadows.

It thrummed, almost alive.

Satoru moved first, his coat rustling softly as he approached the easel. He reached out, fingers brushing the surface lightly.

A slow, sharp exhale left his lips. "Gotcha."

He lifted it from the easel, grip firm, the weight of it heavier than it should have been. The moment it left the easel, the atmosphere in the tent shuddered, like the domain itself had sensed a change.

The tension in his shoulders eased—just slightly. Good. He turned back to the tired mess that was Aoi, the sight of her always stealing a smirk on his face. Now they just had to walk out of this place and let the domain collapse on itself.

Simple.

Or at least, it should have been.

Outside, the cold air slapped against their faces as they stepped away from the tent. The sulfurous mist curled around them, thick and waiting as if holding its breath.

Satoru handed the painting to Aoi, fully expecting the connection between her and the cursed object to snap the spell woven around it. But something gnawed at the back of his mind, refusing to let him fully relax.

"Go on," he said. "Do your thing."

She took it, fingers curling around the frame. Her hazel eyes, still shimmering with residual fear, met Satoru’s. The wind tugged at her hair, whipping loose strands across her face as she braced herself for the familiar surge of cursed energy to dissipate.

The cursed energy wrapped around it should have snapped, should have dissolved the moment she touched it.

But it didn’t.

Instead, the energy clung stubbornly undisturbed, pulsing against her fingers.

Satoru’s smirk faded. His brows furrowed, Six Eyes flaring to life as he scanned the painting. The threads of energy remained, unmoved. Why?

The silence between them thickened, Aoi's gaze darting up to meet Satoru’s, searching for answers in his unreadable expression.

"Why isn’t it working?" she whispered, more to herself than to him, her fingers tightening on the canvas until her knuckles turned white.

Satoru exhaled, a frown pulled at his lips. "That’s what I’d like to know."

She bit her lip, glancing at the painting, defeated.

"Doesn’t matter," he said quickly, stepping closer to her, ready to guide her out of the domain and help her release whatever stubborn hold her cursed energy had on the painting. "We’ll figure it out once we’re off this damn mountain."

But Aoi’s head suddenly snapped again toward that distant edge of the mist, eyes widened, pupils blown with a mix of disbelief and horror, breath stuttering in her throat. She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking past him.

Something was wrong.

Satoru’s instincts flared. He reached out, voice sharp. "Aoi—what is it?"

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink.

The cursed energy around her and the painting trembled, rippling in erratic waves. The bond between them ached—a dull, nagging pull that sent alarms ringing in his head.

And then it hit him. The words the Itako had spoken. He clenched his jaw, eyes flicking to the old woman whose twisted smile seemed to widen at his understanding.

"Only those who accept may leave."

Damn it. He had passed. He had faced his trial, confronted his own ghosts, and walked away. But Aoi? Sure, she’d been there, his anchor, but not the one judged. She hadn’t yet fulfilled her own part.

And now it was her turn.

His irritation spiked, mixed with foreign, unwelcome emotion he couldn’t afford. His instincts screamed at him to do something, attacking the possessed Itako, rip the domain apart,  tear through the threads of cursed energy until nothing was left standing. The Itako, already a shadow of her former self, would be nothing more than collateral, and the mountain would echo with the raw surge of his power.

But—

He hesitated.

If her mind was trapped—if she was still inside her trial—and he shattered the domain now…

Would she come back? The damage could be irreversible. He had seen it before. Sorcerers torn from domains before their minds had resolved their trials. Some never came back whole. He couldn’t afford that risk.

Aoi’s eyes remained locked on something only she could see. A memory. A ghost. Whatever it was, it had its claws in her deep. Her breath was shallow, her body tense.

Satoru reached out, gripping her shoulder—not hard, but firm enough to ground her. The tremor in her body told him everything. 

"Oi," his voice was steady, edged with urgency. "Don’t look. Focus here."

He shook her slightly, enough to snap her out of it, but her attention wavered only for a heartbeat before locking onto whatever vision gripped her. He bit back a curse.

Then, the painting slipped from her hands, the frame hitting the ground with a dull thud.

A sharp sting echoed through their bond. She didn’t react. Did she even feel it?

Her breathing grew uneven, fingers twitching at her sides like she was trying to grasp something that wasn’t there. Her hazel eyes—usually sharp, always watching—were distant, vacant. That expression—it was the same haunted look he’d seen on countless others caught in cursed domains that preyed on their memories and guilt.

Satoru swore under his breath, shaking her shoulder a little harder. "Art girl, snap out of it."

But then his eyes followed hers into the swirling mist and he saw it. A car. The headlights barely cut through the mist, casting weak beams over the uneven ground. Inside, he could just make out the silhouettes of three people. Two in the front, one in the back. A family? Her family?

Whatever haunted her, whatever she carried, was playing out before them. The car moved absurdly smoothly, absurdly out of place in this barren, cursed landscape,  tires rolling over cursed terrain as if it were still on some long-forgotten road.

"Aoi," he said, trying to keep his tone steady, calm. "This isn’t real. It’s a trick, you told me that, remember? Now, believe it. Let it go."

He had seen what this place did—how it made you feel like you could fix the past. Like if you just tried hard enough, you could change what had already been set in stone.

Aoi shifted forward, barely a step, but it was enough to show her mind was already slipping away, following the memory wherever it led. He couldn’t really blame her; he hadn’t exactly handled his own vision with grace. 

Aoi's eyes were glued to the car, and then—almost as if in response to her silent desperation—the vehicle swerved violently, its path veering dangerously to the side, the shapes inside jerked, a flurry of movement.

Satoru didn’t hesitate. With a quick step, he closed the distance between them, his arms moving to yank her back in place before she could move any closer to the vision. One arm wrapped around her, lifting her off the ground just enough to stop her momentum, while his other hand came up, covering her eyes. Her hands flew up in reflex, pushing against him.

"Don’t look," he ordered, voice low, firm. He felt her body tense under his touch, felt the tremble that ran through her, the resistance immediate.

"Let me go," She jerked in his grasp, hands flying up to push him away, but he held fast. 

"Yeah, not happening." Her nails dug into his arm, but he didn’t budge. She was strong—stronger than most. He’d known that since the moment he’d met her, that underneath the childish smile and the stubborn determination was a strong resilience, even in the face of danger that should have broken her. He just had to convince her of that. He leaned in slightly, voice steady. "It’s not real. You know it’s not real."

A choked sound escaped her lips. "I know that," she hissed, but there was no conviction behind it.

Satoru sighed, cheek nearly brushing against the side of her head as he tightened his grip. "This place feeds on regret," he murmured, his tone softer now. "The second you try to change what happened, you’re stuck. Forever. Just like the rest of them."

He flicked his gaze toward the mist—toward the lost souls who had tried, failed, and been consumed by their own futile regrets. Her grip on his arm tightened, her body tensing, but he could feel the faintest hint of understanding creeping in. That was good. She was still with him, listening.

"Don’t move. Don’t react. And for the love of everything cursed, don’t start thinking you can fix it," he continued, voice dropping lower. "It’s done. Let it be."

His hand remained over her eyes, shielding her from the unfolding nightmare, keeping her in place firmly enough so that she could not move forward. He felt her muscles tense against him. The battle in her head played out in the way her breath wavered, the way her fingers curled and uncurled.

Then, the crash.

A violent skid, metal shrieking, the sickening crunch of glass and steel.

Aoi flinched in his arms.

Satoru didn’t look away. He watched as one of the figures was thrown from the wreckage, hitting the ground in a motionless heap. Blood bloomed arterial rivulets, staining the ground beneath it like ink spreading through water.

His jaw clenched.

He felt Aoi’s tears soaking into his palm. The impulse to say something tugged at him, but he held back. There was nothing to say. Then—

A small figure stumbled from the wreck. A child.

She was battered, bloodied, but she stood, holding herself together. Barely. Messy brown hair, big hazel eyes, too wide, too knowing. The little hands trembling, the tear-streaked face, the stubborn determination in those familiar eyes, filled with a mix of fear and defiance.

Satoru exhaled slowly through his nose. Of course.

Aoi—the real Aoi—began to slump, the tension seeping away as if accepting defeat, her body going eerily still. But she didn’t try to break free. Didn’t fight as her past self, alone and afraid, faced something far too traumatic, far too soon, in a world that offered her no comfort, no understanding.

"I was six," she whispered unexpectedly.

He let her talk.

"I didn’t understand back then," she continued, voice small, fragile. "I thought they were monsters. Real monsters. No one else saw them, but I did."

A beat of silence, his hold on her remained firm. After a moment, he asked. "You mean the curses?"

Aoi nodded, a slight motion that pressed the crown of her head deeper into his chest. Her hands clung to the sleeve of his coat, knuckles pale from the force of her grip. "I saw it," she murmured. "One of those… things. Right in the middle of the road. I thought if we kept going, we’d... hit it."

"You tried to stop the car." he said, not as a question, but as a statement.

Her body shivered, and Satoru felt the faintest sting of her pain echoing back at him through their connection. He wasn’t sure if the pain was from her memory or his grip, but he kept his arms firm around her all the same.

He felt the weight of the years of pretending not to see, not to feel, compressed into a single moment. He could picture it clearly: the small child, wide-eyed and terrified, acting on nothing but instinct to save her family from something only she could see.

Aoi swallowed. "I panicked. I screamed. I jumped forward from my seat, grabbed my dad’s arm—I just wanted him to stop. But—" Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath. "My parents panicked, my dad-he… he lost control, and then…"

He didn’t need her to finish the sentence.

So that was why. Why she pretended not to see. Why she’d always chosen to ignore the curses even when they were right in front of her. Ignoring curses wasn’t just fear—it was guilt and survival. The walls she built, the stubborn defiance in her eyes, all made more sense now. She’d constructed her entire life around this singular conviction that her sight was a curse in itself: that by denying what she saw, she could protect herself and everyone else from the consequences.

A desperate attempt to make sure she never caused something like that again.

He let out a quiet breath. "So that’s it, huh?" His voice softer, almost thoughtful. "You figured if you didn’t acknowledge them, they wouldn’t hurt anyone."

Aoi gave the barest nod, her fingers still gripping his sleeve. "If I don’t see them… they can’t hurt me. They can’t hurt anyone."

The world around them shifted. The car, the blood, the child—everything dissolved into mist, fading like a bad dream. The weight pressing down on them lifted. The trial was over. She had passed—without trying to change what was unchangeable. She’d escaped the loop.

Satoru loosened his hold, letting her feet touch the ground again.

Aoi wavered slightly, but she steadied herself, wiping at her flushed cheeks in quick, agitated motions. Her face was flushed, eyes still red. Good. Embarrassment was better than despair. It meant she was coming back to herself. 

Her gaze met his.

Defensive. Daring him to say anything. A small spark of the fire that defined her.

He took it as a sign to return to their usual dynamic, leaning in with that cocky smirk she loved to hate. "So," he drawled, crossing his arms as he looked her up and down, "are we done making me look like the emotionally stable one? Or should I be ready to catch you again?» His voice was all mock concern, but the relief beneath it was real.

Aoi's lips twitched. "I’m fine," she muttered, rolling her eyes like his concern was such an inconvenience. "Stop hovering like a mother hen."

His brows shot up in exaggerated shock. "Hovering? Me?" He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. "Just being thorough. Checking for signs of trauma. Shaking hands? Racing heart? Sudden urge to paint ‘Satoru Gojo: Hero of the Day’ in your sketchbook?"

She let out a noise that was part sigh, part laugh, shoulders finally losing some of their tension. It wasn’t the full-bodied laughter he wanted, but it was something. "If I ever paint you as a hero," she said, crossing her arms, "it’ll be abstract."

Satoru leaned in just enough to be annoying. "You sure? You don’t wanna sob into my coat a little more? Really embrace the moment?"

She smacked his arm—weak, but still satisfying. "You wish I’d cry over you."

He gasped dramatically, shoving his hands into his pockets like she’d wounded his pride. "Wow. Rude. And here I thought we were having a moment."

Aoi smirked, looking up at him with that mix of defiance and mischief that always killed him a little. "Keep it up," she warned, "and I’ll remind you who almost obliterated half the mountain because he can’t handle a few bad memories. You should be thanking me."

Satoru’s smirk softened—just a little. "Don’t hold your breath, Fujikawa." He tilted his head dramatically. "The day you hear a ‘thank you’ from me is the day I grow modest."

His eyes caught hers, holding her gaze until the tension between them eased, only for Aoi to pull a face and stick her tongue out halfway, a small, silly gesture that made his heart flip in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

Damn her. And damn him. Then, before she could take it back, he messed up her hair, ruffling it with enough force to earn an indignant swat. "There," he muttered, voice low, almost begrudging. "Thank you, art girl."

Aoi blinked, caught off guard. Then, after a beat, she huffed, tilting her head slightly as a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "Thank you, overgrown scarecrow," she muttered.

He nodded, eyes lingering on her for a moment longer, memorizing the slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes and the way her lips curved just so.

Yeah. Damn her.

With that, he finally stepped back, letting the moment settle before his gaze dropped to the painting at their feet. Its edges were caked with soil, but it was otherwise unharmed. He bent down and picked it up, the canvas cool under his fingers, solid and real—a contrast to the twisted illusions they’d just escaped.

Straightening, he held it out to her, his expression unreadable.

His gaze flicked back to the Itako, still standing there, still smiling. For a moment, the Itako almost seemed… pleased. Not in a mocking way, but something softer—something that unsettled Satoru more than outright malice. Her sightless eyes remained distant, but her lips curled ever so slightly.

Of course. Of course, these curses had a strange fondness for Aoi. It was becoming a pattern, and he wasn't surprised anymore.

"You know," he mused, tilting his head, voice deceptively light, "you should be grateful it’s her handling this exorcism and not me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be standing there with that cozy little smirk, looking like some village grandma handing out sweets."

The Itako didn’t react, didn’t so much as flinch. If anything, her smile deepened.

Satoru narrowed his eyes. Creepy old hag.

Turning back to Aoi, he raised a brow, slipping effortlessly back into teasing. "So, ready to end this? Or are you finally in the mood?"

Aoi’s lips curved into a smile that almost reached her eyes, steadying herself before nodding. "Now I’m in the mood," she said, voice more resolute.

Her fingers brushed against the canvas, and as soon as they did, the cursed energy surged back into her, the missing fragment of her soul snapping into place.

Then—

The domain, like a whisper before a storm, unraveled.

The domain shattered with a sound like breaking glass, sharp and almost melodic. The suffocating weight of the illusion lifted, peeling away to reveal the stark, raw reality of Mount Osore.

No more oppressive fog. No eerie whispers. Just the cracked earth beneath their feet, the hiss of steam vents spitting thin streams of vapor into the frigid air. In the distance, the metallic sheen of the lake shimmered, disturbed only by the occasional ripple, as if unsettled by their presence. Stone outcroppings, deep reds and ochres, framed the landscape like ancient sentinels, watching, waiting.

Satoru exhaled, then flicked his wrist. Blue surged outward, sweeping through the last wisps of lingering fog, tearing it apart in a final, forceful gust. The clearing air brought clarity—but it also sent their hair into absolute chaos.

He let out a breath, rolling his shoulders. Finally. Then he turned—and laughed. Aoi’s hair was a disaster. Brown strands stuck up in every direction, making her look like she’d been attacked by the wind.

"Well," he drawled, grinning and gesturing to her wild hair. "Looks like someone’s the scarecrow now."

Aoi’s eyes widened. Immediately, she reached up, fingers tangling in her hair, expression horrified. She shifted her weight, legs still shaking as if the ground beneath her feet might give way at any moment. "You’re one to talk!" she snapped, cheeks still flushed from earlier. "Maybe check a mirror. Where are your sunglasses, huh?" she retorted, the smallest flicker of a grin sneaking onto her face.

His smirk dropped.

He touched his head reflexively. It was unkempt, wind-whipped, and distinctly lacking the usual accessory that marked his aloof persona.

No sunglasses.

"…What." His jaw clenched for a moment before his eyes darted around the rocky ground, searching futilely. He sighed, rolling his eyes as he released a sound that was halfway between a groan and a laugh. "Perfect. Losing my sunglasses is exactly how I wanted to end this nightmare of a day."

Aoi’s laugh broke through the tension—a real one, small but unguarded. But as she glanced around, her amusement faded, something cold creeping into her chest.

 The grotesque relics that had littered the ground had vanished, and with them, any sign of the phantoms they’d encountered. And there, among the rocks and steaming vents—

Bones. Human bones.

Small piles of them, scattered where the Itako’s tent had once stood.

Satoru watched as the shift in Aoi’s demeanor went from strained relief to outright panic. Her eyes darted from one pile of bones to another, taking in the skeletal remains scattered around like grotesque markers of forgotten lives.

She swallowed hard, eyes wide and searching for answers in his expression. "Where… where did everyone go?" she whispered, gripping the painting like a lifeline, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the dead. "The man, his friend, the crying bride, the Itako…?"

Satoru’s expression darkened. "Ah," he muttered. "Right. I didn’t exactly mention this earlier, did I? They were already gone. The people we saw, the voices—they were remnants, projections the curse used to feed. They had been devoured a long time ago."

Aoi turned to him, eyes wide, fear creeping into her voice. "We were talking to the dead?" She melted into a nervous laught.

Satoru hesitated, then exhaled, running a hand through his messy hair. "Welcome to Mount Osore," he said dryly, the words half-sincere, half-bitten with sardonic humor. He glanced around at the now eerily silent mountain, its bleak beauty returned to its natural state. "If I’d known it was just echoes and bones, I’d have blasted the place from the start."

The mountain loomed around them, silent and empty. The lake rippled, the steam vents hissed—but no voices, no figures, nothing. Just wind and ash and bones. It felt surreal, like a fever dream breaking in the cold light of dawn.

Aoi swallowed hard, her fingers twitching as she pulled her scarf closer. "So," she started, "we were talking to… ghosts? Real ghosts?"

The word sounded ridiculous coming from her, but her voice betrayed the fear underneath.

Satoru barely held back a laugh. This fearless girl—who would walk through curses without a second glance—was spooked by the idea of ghosts?

"No, not ghosts," he said with mock patience, crouching to pick up the painting she had nearly dropped. "Ghosts don’t exist. Curses do. Big difference."

Aoi blinked, visibly not reassured. She exhaled shakily, scanning the area as if expecting a skeleton to rise and and point a bony finger at her to confirm her suspicions. "R-right. Curses. Sure," she muttered, clearly trying to convince herself.

Then, straightening her posture in that classic fake bravado way of hers, she fixed him with a sharp, no-nonsense glare. "Move it, Satoru." Her voice was firm, but a tremor betrayed her nerves. "We’re leaving. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I want food. And since I almost died today—twice—you’re buying me nokke-don."

She spun on her heel, marching down the rocky path a little too quickly. She stumbled, of course she did. Recovered. Kept going.

Satoru watched, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. "Almost died twice? Dramatic." Falling into step beside her as they began their descent down the rugged path, he matched her pace with effortless ease, hands in his pockets. "What’s the rush?" he mused. "You’re acting just like those horror movie characters who panic and trip while running from nothing. Adorable."

Aoi shot him a glare, eyes sparking with irritation. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she lifted her chin with that familiar look of stubborn pride. "Shut up and keep moving."

Her pace increased almost tripping over the uneven rocks, but not without a quick glance over her shoulder, muttering under her breath.

Satoru grinned. Ah. So she was still freaked out. He couldn’t resist pushing her buttons a bit more. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he let out a low, drawn-out wail that echoed into the silence, mimicking the moan of a ghost. The sound reverberated off the rocks, drawing out a note of eeriness that lingered in the air.

"Wooooo…"

Aoi flinched. Her cheeks, already flushed from the cold, darkened further. In one swift movement, she bent down, grabbed a small rock, and chucked it at him.

It missed by miles.

"Knock it off, idiot!" she barked, her voice cracking between genuine irritation and lingering fear.

Satoru dodged easily the half-hearted projectile, laughing. The playful retaliation, the sound of her shouting—it felt normal. t did wonders to lift the tension, the oppressive atmosphere of the mountain starting to fade as they descended.  Like they were back to themselves again. T

She turned away, taking the lead as they resumed their descent, her steps quicker now, as if she could outrun whatever ghosts haunted the mountain, muttering under her breath as she stormed ahead, clearly done with this entire experience.

But as they continued down, the wind carried a different kind of chill, one that spoke of old, forgotten stories and echoes too quiet to hear clearly. Then, like a cruel reminder, a faint voice floated up from behind them, sharp enough to break the fragile calm.

"You don’t understand!"

Both of them froze. The voice—faint, desperate—drifted up the path behind them.

"No, you don’t understand!"

A second voice.

Both of them stopped, turning in sync slowly, smirk vanished, eyes narrowing on the path behind them. The Itako’s shack was barely visible in the distance, cloaked in the mist that now seemed so ordinary compared to the supernatural fog they’d just escaped.

Aoi’s eyes darted around, her grip on the painting tightened. She swallowed, the sound almost audible in the sudden stillness and she glanced up at him, her face paler than before. "Ghosts don’t exist, right?" Her voice was quieter now, seeking reassurance.

Satoru’s gaze lingered on the path, scanning it with his Six Eyes. Nothing. No figures. No movement. Just mist. And yet—

That hadn’t felt like an illusion.

He wanted to respond that yes, ghosts didn't exist, with his usual smirk, a flippant joke, a dismissive shrug. But for the first time, he hesitated for just a moment, just long enough for doubt to creep in.

He glanced back one last time, at the tiny shack in the distance now swallowed by the evening mist. No movement, no figures, just the faint, eerie stillness of Mount Osore.  Then he looked down at her, at the way her fingers clenched the canvas, at the flicker of fear in her eyes.

He forced a grin, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Nope. Just curses. Ghosts aren’t real."

But he wasn’t as sure as he’d been before.

✎✘✘✘✘■■■■■■

Aoi’s bright eyes scanned the dimly lit cinema, mild frustration flickering across her face as she spotted a guy lounging comfortably in her seat. With her usual sunny disposition, she stepped forward, flashing an apologetic smile—the kind that could disarm most people.

"Excuse me, I think that’s my seat."

The guy barely spared her a glance, clearly unimpressed, before slouching even further into the chair, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh yeah? Doesn’t look like anyone’s name on it."

He clearly thought he could get away with it, that she was too soft to put up a real fight. Little did he know.

Satoru, standing just behind her, let out a long, exaggerated sigh. He shifted his weight, tipping his sunglasses down slightly to get a better look at the unfortunate soul who had just decided to make this his problem.

The guy caught sight of him.

Then he froze.

Satoru didn’t have to say a word. He didn’t do anything. He simply looked sown at him, his usually lazy expression replaced by something colder—like an apex predator deciding whether it was worth the effort to attack.

The color drained from the man’s face. "Uh, no problem," he blurted, scrambling upright so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. "I was just, uh… warming it up for you."

Aoi beamed. "Oh, thanks!" She slid into the seat without a second thought, blissfully unaware of the silent execution that had just taken place behind her. She settled in, adjusting her coat and glancing at the screen with anticipation.

Satoru plopped down beside her, balancing an oversized tub of popcorn and two drinks. He shifted slightly, attempting to distribute the weight, but the precarious snack situation was already a disaster in the making.

Aoi’s eyes sparkled as she looked over at him, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "See," she said, practically bouncing in her seat, "I knew I could count on you to come see the new Harry Potter movie with me."

Satoru rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. "Harry Potter is so overrated, art girl. I'm a Lord of the Rings kind of guy, you know." He sighed, feigning deep suffering, but there was a soft undertone that betrayed his fondness. "But, since I’m an incredibly generous and self-sacrificing person, fine. Just like when you insisted on nokke-don for dinner. You’re welcome, by the way."

Aoi giggled, a bright sound that filled the small space between them. Without warning she nudged his shoulder lightly with hers. "When you actually relax and stop thinking about curses for five minutes, you’re almost fun to be around. In fact," she added, flashing him a teasing grin, "you’re kind of the best."

He scoffed. "Yeah, yeah. Take it as my thank-you for stopping me from blowing up an entire mountain. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," she shot back, settling into her seat as the lights dimmed.

For a moment, the world around them faded into comfortable silence, the theater buzzing softly with hushed conversations and the rustling of snack bags. But Satoru’s mind drifted—as usual. As they waited for the trailers to start, he turned to Aoi, his mind piecing together a way to probe gently.

The weight of the envelope Mei Mei had handed him the day before gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, but Aoi herself was still the missing link. His curiosity won out.

"Hey," he said, voice casual but laced with an undertone she caught instantly. "That ridiculous introduction you gave me the first time we met—how did it go again?" 

Aoi blinked, tilting her head in confusion. "You mean the one I always use? Oh, that’s easy!" She straightened, clearing her throat theatrically before reciting it, "I’m Aoi. Aoi Fujikawa. Aoi like Hollyhock, not the color blue. Yeah, I know—nobody ever gets it right the first time. I’m 19 and a freshman at Tokyo University of the Arts. I really like mochi and hate coffee."

Satoru’s eyes narrowed with interest.

Hollyhock.

The syllables repeated in his mind, rolling around as he connected them to fragments of the information Mei Mei had sent. His expression didn’t change, but inwardly, gears were shifting.

"Hollyhock, huh?" He leaned in slightly, hclose enough that he could see every detail of her face—the small freckle just above her left eyebrow, the way her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks in the dim light. 

Aoi frowned. "Okay, why are you looking at me like that?"

He didn’t answer. He leaned in closer, eyes flicking over her skin like he was searching for something—something specific. He wasn’t even sure what.

Aoi’s cheeks flushed, the pink creeping up to her ears. "Lunatic," she hissed, leaning back as he leaned forward, her eyes darting away before snapping back to his, wide and confused. "What are you doing?"

"Checking," he murmured absently, studying her face, her neck, every patch of skin he could see.

"Checking what?" Her voice wavered slightly.

His eyes wandered up and met hers. For a split second, he was acutely aware of the space between them, or rather, the lack of it. He felt the strange thud of his heart—an anomaly that caught him off-guard.

What the hell, he thought. He wasn’t supposed to react like that.

"Uh," he cleared his throat, breaking the moment but still not backing away. His voice dropped, more serious than before. "Marks. Scars. Anything unusual."

Her eyes widened. "Marks?" She tried to sound annoyed, but her voice came out more breathless than intended, only deepening the flush on her cheeks.

His gaze shifted, more clinical now, moving down her arms. He let his Six Eyes scan her, looking for any flicker of abnormal energy, a signature, something that might explain what Mei Mei had alluded to, something he’d missed before. But nothing stood out.

"Huh. Strange. Anywhere on your body?" he pressed, almost clinically. "No unusual marks, no strange shapes?"

Her expression twisted with a mix of indignation and embarrassment. She folded her arms over her chest, glaring at him with narrowed eyes. "Oh my—are you some kind of pervert?!" No, I don’t have any strange marks, and if you could stop staring at me like you’re going to dissect me, that would be great."

He blinked. Then grinned. "Relax. It’s not that kind of check-up." His smirk widened, obviously enjoying the scandalized expression on her face. "Unless you want it to be."

"Absolutely not," she spluttered, crossing her arms.

He leaned back slightly, holding up his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes still sparkled with mischief. "Alright, alright, relax. Just curious. Hollyhock’s an interesting choice, that’s all."

She huffed, turning back toward the screen, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Weirdo."

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips as he feigned nonchalance. "What? Can’t I admire my partner in crime before the movie starts?"

The tension broke slightly as she rolled her eyes, a reluctant smile playing on her lips.

But his mind kept churning, the echoes of Hollyhock repeating over and over.

The lights in the theater dimmed, casting the room anticipatory darkness. The bright glare of the screen flickered to life, and the murmurs around them quieted into an eager hush. But before the film could fully captivate them, Satoru felt Aoi's elbow nudge against his as she reached for the bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on his lap.

Satoru moved the popcorn.

"Hey, share," she whispered, her voice laced with mock annoyance.

"Excuse me?" he whispered back. "This is my payment for surviving your emotional breakdown earlier." He shifted the tub slightly out of her reach with a smirk. 

Aoi narrowed her eyes and lunged—only for Satoru to gasp in mock betrayal as her fingers brushed his. "Oh no, we touched hands!" he whispered dramatically, yanking the bucket away. "Now we have no choice but to get married."

Aoi snatched a handful of popcorn out of his grip and shoved it into her mouth. "Oh, come on, you can’t handle a few missing kernels? Where’s the world’s strongest sorcerer when it comes to snacks?"

He scoffed, leaning in so close that their shoulders touched, a warmth radiating from where their arms met. "Oh, I’m right here, but clearly, the real battle is keeping my food from getting stolen."

He grabbed the bowl protectively, causing the popcorn to spill slightly over the sides, drawing out a soft giggle from Aoi.

"Shhh!" came a sharp voice from behind them before they could escalate their tug-of-war, a sharp.

Both of them froze. Then, slowly, they turned to each other—Aoi’s face slightly horrified, Satoru’s thrilled. Their shoulders shook with barely contained laughter.

As the opening credits rolled, she was already engrossed, eyes wide and glistening with excitement. Satoru tilted his head just enough to catch her profile illuminated by the light of the screen. He leaned in, voice low near her ear. "Hey," he murmured, "what’s our next stop after this? I need to know how to mentally prepare."

Aoi tore her eyes away from the screen for just a second, clearly annoyed by hid interruption. "I checked before dinner. Sendai next. The painting of Desire."

Satoru’s eyebrows lifted, an amused smirk curving his mouth. "Desire, huh? Sounds better than ghostly hallucinations, Itakos, and bone-chilling fog. But first—" He gestured vaguely at his head. "I need to buy some sunglasses. No way am I surviving six more cursed paintings without proper eye protection."

Her lips twitched, and she glanced at him sideways. "Oh yes, the great sorcerer and his delicate eyes."

Before he could get too comfortable, she reached for another handful of popcorn, but he was quicker this time, grabbing her wrist before she could make her escape. He dragged her hand toward his own mouth and ate the popcorn she’d grabbed, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face.

"Oi!" she whispered, voice a mix of shock and playful embarrassment.

He leaned back with a satisfied grin, releasing her wrist with a gentle pat. "Consider it karmic justice, art girl," he whispered back, popping another piece into his mouth with an air of nonchalance.

They settled into a comfortable silence as the movie played, the sound of dramatic music and spells weaving through the room. The bowl of popcorn made its way back and forth, shared silently and easily. 

Halfway through the film, a thought crossed his mind "Hey," he murmured, "you ever realize you’re basically Voldemort? Making ten cursed paintings, each tied to a fragment of your soul like they’re Horcruxes?" he said, voice tinged with mock seriousness. "You’re basically trying to take over the world, one cursed emotion at a time."

Aoi’s head snapped toward him, horrified and outraged. She jabbed him in the ribs, her whisper a fierce hiss. "Never. Ever. Compare me to that noseless monstrosity again."

He chuckled, feigning innocence as he rubbed the spot where she’d jabbed him. "I dunno, it’s not that much of a stretch."

She threw another piece of popcorn at his face.

He caught it in his mouth.

Their shoulders remained pressed together as they settled in, until she huffed.

"Unbelievable. I’m risking life and limb collecting these paintings, and you compare me to Voldemort. Typical." She narrowed her eyes, but her lips quirked up at the edges. "You’re the worst.»

"Yeah," he shrugged, smirking as he tossed another kernel into his mouth. "But you love it."

Chapter Text

✎✘✘✘✘■■■■■■

DESIRE

-Aoi-

"This is bullshit! Un-freaking-believable!"

Aoi’s voice sliced through the quiet December air, bouncing off the narrow Sendai alley like a ricocheting bullet. The cold bit at her exposed skin, turning her nose and cheeks a bright pink, but the chill only added fuel to the fire already burning in her chest. She practically ripped the glossy auction booklet in half, her knuckles white from how tightly she clenched it.

They had been in Sendai for more than three exhausting weeks, each day a relentless cycle of hopes raised and dashed, following the trail of an art critic—Tsukishima Daigo—the last known buyer of her cursed painting of Desire. But every lead they uncovered had turned into a dead end, slipping out of reach just as they thought they’d finally found something. Aoi had sensed the presence of the painting several times, the tug of their bond flaring to life, only for it to vanish again without a trace.  It was as if the painting itself refused to be found, slipping through their fingers at the last moment.

Frustrating didn’t even begin to cover it. She was certain Satoru was just as irritated as she was, though he had give up caring too much about their ridicolous mission.

And now, after weeks of combing every gallery in Sendai, they’d stumbled upon the tiniest glimmer of progress. Satoru had turned on his charm, chatting up to a luxury art gallery hostess, while Aoi’s attention had been split between frustration and exhaustion.

The hostess, with wide, enamored eyes, had given them more than they’d hoped for: an invitation to an exclusive art auction and her phone number scribbled on the back with a heart. Aoi had snatched the booklet the moment he’d stepped outside, barely glancing at him as she flipped through it. 

The stupid little pamphlet, all sleek design and pretentious phrasing about "rare and exclusive masterpieces," had done nothing but fuel her fury. Weeks of frustration boiled over as she reread the listing, hoping the words would miraculously change. But no. The page mocked her in bold, printed permanence.

Her painting. Desire. It was right there, nestled between a European oil painting and a Heian-period sculpture, but under a false name, with a starting bid twenty times what it had originally been sold for.

A charity auction.

She had poured herself into that piece—literally, if one considered the whole cursed fragment of her soul thing. She’d wanted it to mean something, to help someone. Not to be flipped like a damn stock by some snobby art critic with too much money and no sense of integrity.

A fresh wave of fury surged up her spine, heating her cheeks even as the wind nipped at them. "This is a scam," she spat, pacing in tight, angry circles. "A complete scam! Who the hell do they think they are?!"

Her vintage skirt swished around her legs, catching on her sneakers with every frustrated step. The cold air didn’t even register anymore. Neither did the passing pedestrians, who were wisely ignoring the fuming girl having a breakdown in the middle of an alley.

"My painting—my work—sold under some ridiculous pseudonym for an outrageous price! This isn’t just about curses anymore, this is about dignity! My artistic identity!"

She raised her eyes, the hazel depths hard with determination and wounded pride. She wanted to scream, to tear down the walls of the gallery and demand answers.

"Art girl," came the lazy drawl from behind her, "you’re gonna tear that thing in half."

She barely heard him, still gripping the crumpled pamphlet like it owed her money.

Satoru leaned against the stone wall of the gallery, looking every bit as relaxed as if they weren’t currently on a three-week-long, dead-end scavenger hunt. He was dressed in his usual couldn't-care-less fashion—black tracksuit, white t-shirt peeking from underneath, dark scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck. His sunglasses perched low on his nose, just enough for his blue eyes to peek over the top, full of uncontained amusement.

The wind caught his white hair, messing it up further, but he made no move to fix it. He was infuriatingly untouched by the cold, standing there like this whole trip had been some elaborate cosmic joke at his expense. It was, actually, and he had give up caring about appearence.

Aoi’s chest tightened at the sight of him, an unfamiliar ache that she was getting used to but still didn’t understand.

Satoru took a leisurely bite from the Kikufuku mochi in his hand, chewing with all the urgency of a man with no pressing concerns.

She scowled. Stop staring, she scolded herself. It wasn’t the first time she caught herself doing that lately. It was maddening. 

"Kikufuku. Want one?" He held up a small paper bag, as if offering her a solution to all her problems. "They’re famous here in Sendai. Might help take the edge off—"

"I don’t need—" She started, but before she could even finish, in her frustation, she stormed over and yanked the mochi straight from his fingers, so fiercely that he almost dropped it.

She took an angry bite.

Satoru blinked. "Uh?"

The teasing note in his voice made her chew angrier. The sweet, chewy texture filled her mouth, red bean filling oozing slightly at the edges. The filling oozed slightly, sticking to the corner of her lip, but she didn’t care, too busy glaring at him.

Satoru tilted his head, studying her like some rare, unhinged creature. Then his lips twitched, eyes lighting up in pure mischief. He looked far too pleased with himself. "Angry and hungry, huh?" His smirk widened. "You’re welcome, by the way. I was hoping you’d say no so I could enjoy it myself. But hey, help yourself."

The slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes hinted at his amusement, and Aoi wanted nothing more than to wipe that look off his face. She wanted him to understand, to see that this was more than just another task, more than a cursed painting—it was her.

Her frustration only deepened when she felt the familiar tug of a dull ache that gnawed at her lower abdomen.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed, sensing it too, and he groaned.

"You could try being useful for once instead of standing there like you’re on vacation." she muttered, resisting the urge to throw the remaining half at his stupid, perfect, smug face.

He chuckled, taking a slow, deliberate bite of his second mochi. "Why should I stress? You’re doing plenty of fuming for the both of us." He leaned in slightly, the teasing lilt in his voice making her jaw clench. "Not that I don’t love seeing you in a state of fury, but maybe ease up on the sweets. Thanks to this lovely little bond of ours, I’ve been feeling your little stomachache all morning."

Aoi froze mid-bite.

"Ugh—" Satoru groaned dramatically, rubbing his stomach. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She blinked, eyes narrowing enough to make a lesser man take a step back. "It’s not a stomachache," she muttered through gritted teeth, her words muffled by mochi.

One of Satoru’s pale brows arched, intrigued. "No?" He tilted his head, eyeing her suspiciously. The wind tugged at his scarf, flicking the ends around like dark ribbons. "Then what exactly am I feeling? Because unless I missed something, it’s not my pain, and I’d really like to know why I’m dealing with whatever this is today." He winced dramatically, his expression still annoyingly smug. "Hell, why does it hurt so much?"

Aoi hesitated. Her gaze flickered to the side, embarrassment creeping up her neck. "They’re cramps," she muttered, her voice barely louder than the rush of cars passing on the street. "Period cramps." 

Silence.

Satoru’s expression went completely blank, like his brain had just crashed.

hen, slowly, his eyes widened in realization. "Cramps." he repeated, as if the word itself were foreign. He glanced at her, then down at his own stomach, realization dawning with a strange mix of horror and disbelief. 

A pause.

"Wait—cramps?! You’re telling me that I—Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, a man in every conceivable way—am experiencing period cramps right now?!" His voice jumped a full octave, and Aoi snorted, unable to help it.

The wind gusted, white strands of his hair brushing his forehead as he stared at her in unfiltered horror. "You’re kidding," he breathed, placing a hand on his stomach like it personally betrayed him. "This is sick and twisted."

Aoi crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her breath coming out in frustrated puffs of steam. "Can you stop making this about you for once?" The pamphlet crumpled further in her hand, the edges fraying. Despite her anger and exhaustion, couldn’t suppress the small huff of laughter that escaped her. She ran a hand through her tousled brown hair, as she tilted her head. "They’re not even that bad right now. They can be a lot worse."

Satoru looked down at himself, then at her, then back at himself. "Worse? You mean it gets worse than this?" His voice pitched higher, breaking with the sheer indignation of it all. He pointed an accusatory finger at her, his expression a mixture of genuine distress and over-the-top disbelief. "Is there nothing you can do to, I don’t know, make it stop? Turn it off? Why do I have to suffer through your—ugh—your period cramps?"

She sighed dramatically, tossing the rest of the mochi back at him. He caught it easily, still looking at her like she’d just informed him of his imminent death. "Satoru Gojo," she said, leaning closer so that he could hear the exasperation in every syllable. Wisely, he took a small step back. "Women can’t just ‘turn off’ their periods, what kind of broken fantasy do you live in?! It’s called biology."

Satoru’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. He made a strangled sound, pressing his fingers to his temples as he processed her words. "How are you not on the floor in agony?" He held a hand to his stomach, as if trying to physically will the cramps away. "I’m in pain! This is—this is inhumane! I didn’t sign up for this when I got cursed-bound to you!"

Aoi rolled her eyes. "Cry me a river."

He made a helpless gesture toward his stomach, wincing as another cramp flared up. "How do you deal with this and still function—oh wait…" The silence that followed was almost comical, broken only by the cold wind whistling around them and the rustle of leaves skittering across the sidewalk. His stunned expression shifted, brows drawing together as he muttered, "This explains why you’re all so emotional over this little art sca—"

A mistake.

Her eyes flashed dangerously.

Before she knew it, she had stepped into his space, jabbing a finger into his chest with enough force that he actually took half a step back. "Don’t you dare call this a ‘little art scam.’ This is my work. My painting. And it’s being tossed around like some cheap collectible by people who don’t even understand what it means!" Her voice sharpened in frustration. "How would you feel if someone took something that was part of you and twisted it into something it wasn’t? This is about more than just curses or cramps, so don’t—"

Her voice caught, something too vulnerable slipping through. She bit her lip, cursing herself.

Satoru had been smirking before, but now it softened into something else. She wasn’t sure what she expected—maybe another flippant remark, maybe an exaggerated sigh—but he just… looked at her. Really looked at her. Like he was actually listening.

His hands lifted in mock surrender, but his voice—when it came—was quieter. "Alright, alright, art girl," he murmured. "No need to unleash the fury of the cramps on me. I might be the strongest sorcerer, but I will admit—this? This is hell."

Aoi scoffed. "It’s barely day one."

His entire face fell. "Day one?!"

She almost laughed. Almost.

Then—because he never knew when to quit—he stepped closer, backing her up against the cold stone wall of the gallery. One hand came up, pressing lazily against the wall beside her head.

"Is it really that important?" he asked, voice low, eyes searching hers.

Aoi’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nodded. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city hummed distantly around them, the winter air sharp, their breath visible between them. 

She could see the gears turning in his head. Satoru’s eyes lingered on hers, and for once, it seemed he wasn’t treating this like a joke. Then, just as quickly as the moment came, his expression shifted. A slow, confident grin curled at his lips.

"Alright," he said, easy, assured. "We’re getting it back."

Before she could react, he stepped in—too close, effortlessly stealing her space, pressing one hand to the wall beside her head, caging her in.

The sudden proximity made her heart race, a thrum that echoed in her ears. 

"We’ll show them what happens when they mess with an artist and her sorcerer," he said, a confident grin spreading across his face, his tone both playful and serious.

Aoi swallowed, her chest doing an unwelcomed flip. She wanted to roll her eyes, to scoff at his dramatic phrasing—but then he moved, so casually, so deliberately, and before she could even process what was happening, he leaned in and—

She barely had time to process what he was doing before he tilted his head down, his breath warm against her cheek, his lips brushing dangerously close to her fingers and took a bite of the Kikufuku mochi still in her hand.

Aoi froze.

The audacity.

Her brain short-circuited. For a moment, all she could do was stare at him, eyes wide, lips parted, as the actual strongest sorcerer alive had the nerve to steal a bite of her snack while practically cornering her against a wall.

The slow, teasing smile that followed was the final straw, like he’d planned this, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Off!" she gasped, yanking her hand back like she’d been burned. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to protect her snack or her dignity at this point.

His grin was pure, unfiltered mischief. "What? Sharing is caring, art girl." 

The way he said it, with that lazy drawl, made her want to either hit him or pull him closer—she wasn’t sure which, and the uncertainty terrified her.

"That was not sharing—that was theft!"

He ignored her, licking his lips, actually tasting the damn thing. "Mm. Not bad. Sweet, but a little bitter. Like you."

Her entire face burned.

"You absolute menace—"

"Relax," he drawled, stuffing his hands into his pockets, careless. "We’re in this together, aren’t we?" he said, as if he was the victim here. "If I have to suffer through your cursed cramps, you could at least let me take a bite of your kikufuku."

She stared at him, dumbfounded. It’s just… it’s just Satoru, she told herself, trying to calm the erratic thudding of her heart. Just him being an ass. She wanted to blame it on the cold. Or the cramps. Or literally anything else.

But the way he was still looking at her—like she was the most interesting thing in the world—made it really hard to breathe.

The worst part?

Despite all his whining, despite his dramatics, despite the absolute disaster that was their cursed bond—he hadn’t once let her carry the heavy lifting in their search for the painting. Hadn’t once complained about the legwork. Hadn’t once acted like this was just her problem to solve.

Satoru grinned, rocking back on his heels. "What? No comeback? That’s rare. I must’ve really gotten to you, huh?"

Aoi's breath came in shallow puffs as she stuffed the rest of the Kikufuku into her mouth aggressively, willing her pulse to calm the hell down. "You are impossible."

He shrugged. "And yet, you still haven’t ditched me."

She made a strangled sound, chewing angrily. A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "Lucky you."

Satoru stilled for half a second. Then, his usual smirk returned—almost genuine.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Lucky me."

✎✘✘✘✘■■■■■■

"Damn him," Aoi muttered under her breath, doing her best to ignore the lingering heat on her cheeks.

She glanced up at Satoru, who strolled beside her like he didn’t have a care in the world, hands stuffed in his tracksuit pockets, his signature smirk practically permanent on his stupidly smug face. He looked completely unbothered—meanwhile, her mind was a tangled mess.

Was he always like this? Or had something shifted?

She shook off the thought, focusing instead on the rhythmic crunch of their steps over the frost-dusted pavement as they made their way toward the venue for the evening's auction. Sendai bustled around them, the scent of roasted chestnuts mixing with the crisp bite of approaching snow. Streetlights cast a warm golden glow, stretching their shadows along the sidewalk.

It had been months now, months of chasing cursed paintings across Japan, and yet it was only now that she found herself examining him with a different lens. Satoru had always been impossibly… well, Satoru. Confident, insufferable, relentless. There was nothing gentle about him; he took up space, filled it with his towering height, that sharp tongue, and an energy that demanded her attention even when she tried her best to ignore it. So... why did he feel different to her now?

She risked a glance at him, trying to be subtle about it.

He wasn’t walking ahead of her. Not anymore.

There had been a time when Satoru had always kept several steps in front, moving at his pace, expecting everyone else to catch up. But at some point—without her noticing—he had started matching her stride instead. He lingered when she slowed, waited when she got distracted.

She clenched her fists. Nope. Not thinking about it. Definitely not thinking about it. 

She shut down that line of thought, shaking her head slightly. Too late. He caught her looking.

And smirked. She scowled in response, snapping her gaze forward, but she could feel the weight of his amusement settling over her like an itch. He hadn’t changed. Not at all.

She was the problem. A very annoying problem that needed immediate fixing.

Too caught up in her own spiral, she didn’t see the small boy until it was too late. She collided with him—hard. The kid yelped, stumbling back as his taiyaki slipped from his hands, landing on the pavement with a tragic, squelching plop.

Aoi gasped. "Oh no! I’m so sorry!" She dropped to her knees immediately, heart twisting at the look on his face.

Wide eyes flickered between her and the fallen treat, with a look of utter devastation before he pasted a forced bright, brave smile onto his face. The boy blinked up at her, his eyes round and slightly glassy, a sunny smile just barely covering up his disappointment.

"I’m okay, miss!" the boy chirped, but his gaze drifted to the taiyaki’s sad, squashed remains. 

He couldn’t have been older than seven or eight. His hair was short, spiky, and pink—like someone had run cotton candy through static electricity. His cheeks were still rounded with childhood, but his expression was surprisingly composed, like he was used to brushing off misfortune.

The crushed taiyaki stared up at them, a sadly flattened fish-shaped pastry on the dirty pavement.

Aoi’s heart clenched.

"Are you sure? I didn’t mean to—" she asked, helping him to his feet.

He nodded bravely, but his little shoulders sagged as he stole another glance at his fallen snack. It was the kind of heartbreak only a kid could experience—a mix of tragic loss and the determination not to cry in front of an audience.

Just the sight of it tugged at her heartstrings, and she looked up, hoping for backup from Satoru. He was watching them with an amused expression, looking neither sorry nor particularly concerned. She didn’t even need to say the words; the exasperation in her expression was enough.

"Go buy him another taiyaki," she demanded, pointing at the mess on the ground for emphasis.

Satoru, who had been leaning against a wall, watching the whole thing like it was the most entertaining part of his evening, let out a long, suffering sigh. "You really have a thing for cursed kids, don’t you?"

Her stomach dropped. "Cursed?" Her pulse stuttered, memories of the kid from the Joy painting flashing in her mind. She turned back to the boy in a panic, her breath catching in her throat. "Wait—he’s cursed?"

His low chuckle sent a wave of irritation through her. "Relax, I’m joking." His lips quirked. "Just a normal kid. But give him a few years—"

"Satoru," she hissed.

"Alright, alright," he drawled, pushing off the wall with exaggerated laziness. "I’ll go get the damn taiyaki."

The boy blinked up at Satoru as he walked off, eyes filled with equal parts wariness and confusion.

Aoi ruffled his spiky pink hair, offering a reassuring smile. "Don’t mind him. He pretends to be scary, but deep down? He’s not as bad as he acts."

The boy squinted at Satoru’s retreating back, considering, then offered her a tiny grin. "If you say so, miss…"

Moments later, Satoru returned, holding a fresh, steaming taiyaki. He handed it over with a casual, "Here you go, brat. Courtesy of the ‘miss’ over there." Then, turning to Aoi with a look that said, See? Happy now? Then, he added, "And just so you know, this is coming out of my pocket."

The boy’s face lit up with delight as he clutched the warm pastry. He looked up at Aoi, beaming, and he bowed several times, his small voice chirping. "Thank you, miss!" Then he turned to Satoru with an innocent grin. "And thank you, old man!"

Satoru froze.

Aoi bit her lip so hard she almost choked on her own amusement.

"Old?" Satoru's eyebrow twotched, as he stared at the kid in horror, looking as if the words physically wounded him. "Who—who are you calling old?"

The boy blinked, completely unbothered. "You have white hair just like my grandpa, so..." he said matter-of-factly, his expression suggesting this logic was unassailable.

Aoi lost it.

Before Satoru could gather himself enough to launch into an actual argument with a seven-year-old, a voice called from across the street. "Yuuji!"

The boy—now identified as Yuuji—perked up. He shot them both one last series of rapid-fire bows, waving his taiyaki like a victory flag. "Thank you, miss! Thank you, old man!"

Then he ran off to join the older man, presumably his grandfather. 

Satoru stood there, stunned, watching as the kid disappeared into the crowd.

Aoi lifted her hand in a small wave, a smile tugging at her lips. The older man, presumably Yuuji’s grandfather, greeted the boy with a kind smile and steered him away.

Beside her, Satoru crossed his arms, muttering something under his breath about ungrateful kids. She couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, elbowing him in the ribs lightly. "Great with kids, aren’t you?"

Satoru scoffed. He turned to her, leaning down until his face was mere inches from hers, his gaze playful but with a glint of mischief. "Unlike you, oh-mother-of-cursed-children-Aoi." He paused, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint. "For the record, I have two kids and they love me."

She blinked. "Wait—two kids?" Her stomach flipped. The idea of Satoru—this Satoru—having kids was somehow the most ridiculous and terrifying thing she’d ever heard. "You… you’re serious?"

His lips twitched like he was barely holding back laughter. "Absolutely. They’re mine. I gave birth to both of them myself."

Her brain scrambled for a coherent thought as his proximity made it impossible to think straight. He was definitely doing this on purpose, wasn’t he? Of course he knew, the infuriating man, and worse, she was reacting just how he wanted.

He held her gaze, dragging out the tension. Aoi snapped.

She stood there, stammering, before reaching up and planting her hand on his face, pushing him away with a little more force than necessary. "Back off!"

He stumbled back, but his laughter rang out loud and clear, echoing through the winter air. "Alright, alright," he muttered between chuckles, rubbing his nose where her hand had pressed against him. "Feisty today, huh? Come on, we have an auction to crash."

Aoi lingered for a moment, watching Satoru’s back as he walked ahead, his white hair catching the glow of the city lights. There was something almost unreal about how he made himself at home in every corner of the world.

And then it hit her.

When had he stopped using Infinity?

She hadn’t even noticed at first. But now, thinking back, it had been weeks. No more invisible barriers, no more casual flickers of rejection when she shoved him or got too close. He used to keep his distance instinctively, never letting anyone within arm’s reach unless he chose to.

But somewhere along the way, he’d stopped.

Somehow, that was scarier than anything else.

She exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away before it could sink its teeth in too deep. With a small, almost annoyed smile ghosting across her lips, she picked up her pace and followed after him.

The streets around them shifted as they entered an upscale district, where cobblestones gave way to smooth marble sidewalks and storefronts gleamed under the soft glow of golden lighting. Everything here whispered wealth—exclusive boutiques, sleek luxury cars, and pedestrians who looked like they belonged in glossy fashion spreads.

Satoru’s posture changed slightly as they walked. His usual lazy swagger was still there, but his gaze sharpened, sweeping over their surroundings with practiced ease.

Aoi hesitated. "What is it? Do you see something? Are we in danger?"

Satoru turned just enough to smirk at her from behind his sunglasses. "No," he drawled. "I’m just... thinking."

That was rare.

Her brows drew together in confusion. "Thinking about what?"

His gaze flicked over the glittering window displays before landing on her. He looked her up and down in a slow, considering way, his smirk twitching at the corners like he was holding back a laugh.

"Art girl," he started, in that infuriatingly patient tone that made her want to punch him, "do you have any idea how an auction for disgustingly rich people works?"

She blinked, a hint of indignation creeping into her. "What? Of course, I do. My paintings were sold at a charity auction, remember?"

Satoru sighed, long-suffering. "Yes. But do you know how an auction for disgustingly rich people works?" He stressed the words like they carried some divine, unknowable truth.

Aoi scowled. "You mean like you, Mr. Disgustingly Rich?"

His smirk stretched wider as if to say, exactly, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let the silence hang between them until she groaned, reluctantly admitting, "Okay, no. I don’t."

"Didn’t think so." His voice was pure amusement. "If you did, you wouldn’t be showing up dressed for a casual stroll in the park. Like this, they won’t even let you near the entrance."

Her face burned. She looked down at herself—her vintage-style skirt swayed as she walked, her scarf tucked neatly around her neck, her coat warm but unremarkable. She wasn’t badly dressed, just... unprepared for the kind of event he was talking about.

"You’re the one in a tracksuit," she shot back, gesturing at his black athletic wear. "How is that any better?"

Satoru gave a slow, lazy shrug, completely unbothered. "Difference is, I have a plan."

He nodded toward an extravagant store just ahead. Its gold-lettered sign read La Belle Époque, glistening under the winter lights like a promise of exclusivity. The display windows showcased shimmering gowns, sharp-cut suits, and accessories so expensive they looked like they belonged behind museum glass.

Aoi’s steps faltered as they reached the entrance. "Oh no. No way. I am not walking in there."

The sheer intimidation radiating from the boutique was enough to make her second-hand self-doubt flare up. The soft lighting, the faint scent of luxury perfume in the air, the way the salespeople inside practically glided instead of walked—it was a different world.

The soft, melodic chime of the doorbell was the only sound as Satoru held it open, looking at her with one eyebrow raised in silent impatience. "What are you waiting for?"

Aoi crossed her arms. "I can’t afford anything in there," she murmured, eyes darting to the luxurious displays inside. She could already feel the judgmental gazes of the staff waiting to greet them.

His grin turned downright devious. "And when has that ever stopped you before?" he asked, half-laughing. "You’ve been treating me like a human ATM since this whole circus started, haven’t you?"

She glared. "You make it sound like I enjoy it."

Satoru smirked. "Don't you?"

Aoi bit the inside of her cheek, hesitating. He had a point. He made it sound so easy. Like money meant nothing. Maybe to him, it really didn’t. "So this is my chance to play dress-up, flaunt diamonds, and sip champagne?" she muttered.

"Exactly," he grinned. "Now, are you coming in, or do you want to try sneaking in as the auction’s decorative wallflower?"

That was all the push she needed.

With a resigned sigh, she stepped inside, the warmth of the boutique wrapping around her like a soft embrace. The air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and polished wood, the lighting bathed everything in gold, making the gowns glow like liquid moonlight and the jewelry sparkle like captured constellations.

Satoru followed, muttering under his breath, "Finally."

The boutique was the kind of place where every detail was meticulously curated. Gowns in deep, rich hues hung like artwork, their fabrics catching the light with every movement. Shoes with impossible heels rested on velvet pedestals, flanked by glass cases filled with jewelry that probably cost more than her entire apartment.

Satoru drifted off toward the men’s section, flipping through shirts with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Meanwhile, Aoi hovered near the dresses, running her fingers along expensive silks and beaded embellishments, feeling like an outsider pretending to belong.

Each one was more elaborate than the last—long evening gowns in deep shades of emerald and burgundy, cocktail dresses adorned with crystals, even one or two sleek pantsuits that looked like they belonged on a red carpet. She felt like a kid in a candy store, equal parts excitement and intimidation thrumming through her veins.

The sales associates glanced her way with polite smiles, but Aoi felt their silent judgment. Their expressions betrayed a hint of curiosity—she didn’t exactly look like their usual clientele.

She tried on a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses, catching a glimpse of herself in a nearby mirror. For a moment, she almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

Then, before she could decide where to start, Satoru reappeared beside her.

"Having fun?" His voice startled her, and she whipped around to see him looking down at her, already with a crisp, white shirt and tailored black slacks that somehow made him look both effortlessly relaxed and meticulously put-together.

He raised an eyebrow as he watched her, clearly entertained. "Are you planning on leaving your fingerprints on everything, or do you actually know how to shop?" he teased, nodding toward the shop assistants who were now watching her with suspicion.

Aoi’s face heated. "I’ve never been in a place like this before," she said, a hint of defiance in her tone as she continued touching the delicate fabrics.

He sighed, looking somewhere between amused and tired. "The auction starts in an hour. Can you pick something, or do I need to call for backup?"

"It’s easy for you," she shot back. "You’re a guy. Throw on a shirt and pants, and you look ready for a magazine cover. I need... more." She gestured helplessly at the racks of dresses.

Satoru gave an exaggerated shrug, his smirk widening. "Right. So what you’re saying is, you have no idea what you’re doing."

He let out a breath, as if resigning himself to what he was about to do. He took a step back, glancing around before his gaze settled on a nearby sales associate. With a smirk and a knowing look, he raised his hand, catching her attention.

The associate, a tall woman with impeccably styled hair, walked over with a practiced smile, her gaze shifting between Aoi and Satoru. Her eyes lingered on him, the faintest hint of intrigue sparking in her expression. Of course, Aoi thought, rolling her eyes. Typical.

"Could you," he began, his voice dripping with mock politeness, "help my friend here find something that helps her look less like my kid sister and more like the young lady she’s supposed to be?"

Aoi froze. Then, slowly, turned to glare at him. "You. Are. So. Dead." she hissed under her breath.

The sales associate, completely oblivious to the murderous intent radiating from her, perked up. "Of course, sir! We have an excellent selection." She turned to Aoi, her smile as polished as her demeanor. "Just this way, miss."

Aoi barely had time to protest before she was whisked away into the fitting rooms, arms suddenly full of luxurious fabrics and expensive lace, trying not to feel like a complete impostor. Over her shoulder, she swore she saw Satoru smirking like a lunatic—positively thrilled at the idea of making her try on half the store.

"You just wait," she grumbled as she disappeared behind the curtain. "If you laugh at anything, I’m shoving you into a chandelier."

Satoru called back, "Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be nothing but supportive!"

Liar.

Aoi sighed, running a hand through her hair as the first gown was slipped into her arms.

This is going to be excruciating.

The sales assistant barely gave her time to breathe before diving into her mission, a gleam of determination in her expertly made-up eyes. Gown after gown landed in Aoi’s arms, each more intricate, more absurdly elegant and opulent than the last.

"Alright, miss,. Let's get you started," the assistant said with a knowing smile. "Your friend outside looks like he’s ready to play fashion critic."

"Oh, don’t mind him," Aoi muttered, rolling her eyes. "He thinks he’s the king of everything, including fashion."

Satoru’s voice cut through the boutique, obnoxiously loud. "You just have to wow me, Aoi. No pressure. Now hurry up—some of us have an auction to crash."

Aoi scowled, but there was no real heat behind it. She grabbed the first dress and disappeared into the fitting room, knowing full well that he was going to be impossible to deal with.

The first gown was a sleek red number with a high slit, the kind of thing a femme fatale would wear in an action movie. It wasn’t bad, exactly, but it didn’t feel like her. She stepped out anyway, smoothing the fabric with her hands.

Satoru’s eyebrows rose as his gaze swept over her. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he shook his head folding his arms as if he were a fashion judge. "Nope. Too Bond villain. We’re aiming for ‘heiress,’ not ‘dangerous spy out for revenge.’"

Aoi twirled just to annoy him. "Good thing I don’t care what you think."

Laughing, she ducked back inside, ignoring Satoru’s amused chuckle from the other side of the curtain, already bracing herself for more of his nonsense.

The next dress was metallic silver, hugging every inch of her body a little too tightly. Aoi grimaced the moment she saw herself in the mirror, but still, she stepped out.

Satoru tilted his head, lips twitching. "Huh. Interesting choice." There was a pause. "You look like you’re about to board a spaceship and declare war on Earth."

Aoi gawked at him, half-laughing, half-offended,  as the sales assistant stifled a laugh. "I swear to god, I will throw this dress at you."

The assistant, trying very hard to remain professional, bit her lip to keep from laughing, their playful dynamic filling the room with an energy that made her job a little more entertaining. It didn’t help that Satoru looked way too pleased with himself.

And so the torment continued.

One dress after another, and with each reveal, Satoru delivered his critiques with increasing enthusiasm:

"All you’re missing is a crown and a talking animal sidekick."

"Are we at a auction or starring in an opera? Too much drama."

"Did you steal that from a Victorian ghost? Because it looks haunted."

"Nope. You look like a very expensive floral arrangement."

She tried on a deep emerald gown next—gorgeous fit, lovely silhouette—except for the unfortunate feathered collar. Satoru took one look and snickered.

"You look like you’re about to take flight," he said.

By that point, she was in stitches, doubling over in the mirror as the assistant—who had fully given up on pretending not to be entertained—sighed in amused exasperation.

"You two are like an old married couple," she said offhandedly, as she adjusted the next gown on its hanger.

Aoi felt her cheeks heat up before she could stop it.

Satoru, of course, seized the moment immediately. "Old married couple, huh?" He shot Aoi a slow grin. "Guess that makes me the handsome husband, then."

She rolled her eyes. "If you’re the husband, I’m definitely the rich widow who outlives you."

Satoru clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch. Alright, fine. I’ll leave everything to you in my will. Just promise me you'll stop terrorizing the sales assistant with that feather collar."

Aoi stuck her tongue out at him before disappearing back into the fitting room, enjoying the ridiculousness of it all.

Infuriating man.

Then, finally, the assistant pulled out something different.

"Try this one," she said, handing Aoi a deep midnight blue dress.

It wasn’t as flashy as the others. No gaudy embellishments or dramatic flourishes. Just soft, flowing fabric that shimmered faintly in the light, with an asymmetrical hem that draped elegantly down her legs. The back dipped low, just enough to be elegant, but not too revealing.

Aoi slipped into it, the cool silk settling against her skin like it belonged there.

The assistant gathered Aoi’s hair into a loose twist leaving her neck fully exposed, and slid a pair of heels onto her feet—modest ones, because, as she put it, "anything taller and you will fall on your face."

"This one," she said, stepping back with a small, satisfied smile, as if she’d been waiting for this moment all along. "Now, let’s leave your friend out there speechless."

Aoi huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "Unlikely. He never shuts up."

She stepped out of the fitting room, smoothing the fabric with her hands, and glanced up at Satoru with a hint of uncertainty.

Silence.

Satoru had been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking about two seconds away from falling asleep out of sheer boredom. But the moment he saw her, his posture straightened—not much, but enough to be noticeable. His smirk flickered, not quite vanishing, but faltering just enough to betray him.

Aoi raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Then, as if catching himself, he crossed the distance between them with that easy, self-assured swagger of his. But his movements were just a little too deliberate, his usual over-the-top commentary conspicuously absent.

"Well?" she prompted, keeping her voice light, though her heart was thudding just a bit too hard in her chest for reasons she stubbornly attributed to the cursed bond and the ever-present cramps.

Satoru tilted his head, taking his time looking her over, too caught up to fully commit to the role. "Not bad," he said at last, voice dropping into that infuriatingly slow drawl, the corners of his mouth lifting. "I suppose blue is your color after all."

Aoi scoffed. "I knew you were gonna say something stupid."

His eyes lingered just a fraction longer than they should have, tracing the line of the dress from her shoulders down to the hem and back up.

She turned, about to retreat to the fitting room before she lost the upper hand in this exchange, but then he moved.

Swift, effortless—he stepped into her space, circling her in a slow half-turn, like a cat sizing up something new. Aoi went still, watching him warily from the corner of her eye.

"What now?" she muttered, her voice coming out a little weaker than she wanted.

Satoru hummed, as if debating whether or not to answer. Then, as if something had clicked in his mind, he leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he zeroed in on the base of her neck, just where her hairline began.

"Ah," he murmured.

Aoi stiffened. "What ah?"

Instead of answering, he reached out, and before she could ask what the hell he was doing, his fingers brushed against the nape of her neck.

She bit her lower lip as a jolt shot down her spine.

His touch was barely there—just the pad of his fingertip tracing something just under her hairline, featherlight but deliberate.

His expression wasn’t playful anymore—at least, not entirely. It was something else.

Thoughtful. Focused. Maybe even a little unnerved.

He tilted his head to get a better look. His thumb brushed once more over the spot, like he was confirming a suspicion. Then, almost to himself, he muttered, "So it is really there."

Aoi’s brain stalled. "What—?" 

She barely managed the word before warmth crawled up her neck and onto her face. His fingers were still there, tracing over her skin with an infuriating slowness.

She had no idea what he was talking about. But that wasn’t her biggest problem right now.

Her biggest problem was him.

Too close.

His head dipped slightly, silver-white hair falling just enough to frame his face. He was studying her, too focused, completely unaware of what his proximity was doing to her nervous system.

Then, like some cosmic mistake, he decided to open his cursed mouth. "Huh. Your skin gets all red when you’re flustered."

Damn him. That did it.

Aoi reacted instinctively—spinning on her heel, hand slapping over the spot he’d touched, nearly knocking into him in the process. She herself face-to-face with him, mere inches away.

As if finally realizing how little distance was left between them, his gaze flickered to hers, and for a split second, he froze too, eyes widening momentarily as he looked down at her with his hand half-lifted.

For one drawn-out second, neither of them moved.

Then, she snapped automatically, stepping back so fast she nearly tripped on the hem of her dress.

Satoru, because he was the worst, caught her wrist before she could stumble, his expression back into a lazy smirk, like he hadn’t just been standing so close she could count the flecks of lighter blue in his irises. "Relax," he said, voice casual—but a little too casual. "I was just confirming something."

Oh, she was going to strangle him.

Aoi yanked her hand free, her face burning, still feeling the ghost of his touch against her skin. "Confirming what?"

"Wouldn’t you like to know?" He just smirked. "So, are you sure it’s Aoi like Hollyhock and not Aoi like Blue?"

She felt a strange flutter in her chest, the words striking her in a way she couldn’t quite explain. She forced a laugh, brushing off the odd feeling. "Of course I’m sure. Do you think I don’t know my own name?"

"I know. But I think the world might disagree with you tonight," he said with that infuriatingly cocky grin and a tone almost begrudgingly sincere

Taking a step back, she crossed her arms over her chest, trying very hard to ignore the way her pulse was still uneven. "So… this one, then?"

Satoru gave her another slow once-over before he nodded, clicking his tongue. "Yeah. You’ll do." He turned to the assistant with a playful command, as if he hadn’t just been a total menace.

She rolled her eyes. "Wow, thanks. So flattering."

The assistant, who had definitely been enjoying the show, smiled knowingly. "You’re going to turn heads," she said warmly.

Aoi turned to the mirror, glancing at her reflection. And for once, she didn’t feel awkward, or like a girl playing dress-up in someone else’s life. She looked… good.

She let out a small, incredulous laugh and did a quick playful twirl, letting the fabric catch the light. "So," she teased, grinning, "do I get my glass of champagne now, or what?"

Satoru rolled his eyes, but his smirk had softened just slightly. "Not a chance, princess," he said, reaching for his wallet. "We’re already late."

✎✘✘✘✘■■■■■■

The entrance to the auction hall loomed before them—polished marble columns, cascading chandeliers refracting the light into cold, pristine beauty. Aoi and Satoru had made it just in time, breath still evening out as they took in the sight of elegantly dressed guests drifting through the grand doorway, a river of silk and sequins and quiet opulence. The air was thick with hushed conversations, punctuated by the crisp click of designer heels against polished floors.

Aoi’s pulse quickened. Not just because of the sheer extravagance of the place, but because of the guards stationed discreetly along the periphery—armed, sharp eyes, stiff postures, the kind of presence that suggested this was not the sort of event where mistakes were tolerated.

Beside her, Satoru exuded his usual effortless confidence, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the top button undone, black tailored trousers that fit entirely too well, and his sunglasses now clipped lazily to his collar. He extended his arm to her with an exaggerated flourish, his smirk playful but his eyes still scanning the room, as if assessing something unseen.

"Better stay close, princess," he murmured, the warning masked by a playful smile. "Try not to get us kicked out before we even make a bid."

Aoi rolled her eyes but slipped her arm through his without a second thought. "Did you sense something?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

Satoru’s gaze flicked over the crowd, his posture relaxed but his attention pointed. "Nah," he said after a pause, though there was a flicker of something in his expression. Then, as if snapping out of it, he glanced at her with a smirk, his expression softened when he noted the slight tension in her face. "Just making sure we fit in."

She scoffed. "Fit in? You’re literally wearing a shirt that probably costs more than my university tuition."

"Exactly," he said, the grin widening. "That’s why we fit in."

Aoi had no chance to argue further as they reached the security checkpoint. Satoru handed over their invitation with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, the guards taking a long, assessing look before nodding them through. The second they stepped inside, they exhaled in sync, their bodies unconsciously relaxing.

"Anything?" Satoru murmured, so softly it was almost lost in the ambient hum of conversation.

Aoi shook her head. "Not yet."

The auction hall was a masterpiece of excess. Chandeliers hung like constellations above them, scattering light across pristine marble floors. Velvet seats faced a stage adorned with deep crimson curtains, spotlights poised to illuminate whatever expensive object was next on the block. Along the walls, glass cases displayed rare artifacts, glittering jewelry, and paintings framed in absurdly ornate gold. The air was rich with the scent of expensive perfume, and the unmistakable arrogance of old money.

Aoi swallowed, trying to suppress the creeping sense of not belonging.

She tugged slightly at the hem of her dress, gaze darting over the guests. Their conversations were effortless, their laughter quiet and controlled. Everything about them exuded wealth—not the kind that showed off, but the kind that didn’t need to. She felt the discomfort creep up her spine.

Of course, Satoru noticed. He always noticed.

Leaning down, his voice tickling the shell of her ear as he whispered, "What’s wrong? Feeling like a little fish in a big pond?" He paused, wincing imperceptibly. "Ugh... cramp check."

She scoffed, lifting her chin defiantly. "Not even a little. I was just worried I might be making you look bad in front of your fellow rich snobs."

Satoru chuckled, and she could practically hear the smug grin on his face. "Embarrassed? Please. If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s these clowns who think wearing more diamonds makes them interesting."

She huffed a laugh despite herself. Okay, fair point.

At the registration desk, a well dressed attendant greeted them with a smooth, rehearsed smile. Satoru handed over the invitation, retrieving a stack of documents that made his expression sour immediately.

"Paperwork," he muttered, scribbling down details with an irritated sigh. "Doesn’t matter if it’s Jujutsu society or the mundane one, there’s always a damn form for something."

Aoi, glancing over his shoulder as he scribbled down his details with a muttered curse, caught sight of something that made her pause.

"Wait," she said, blinking. "Satoru… your birthday’s tomorrow?"

He didn’t look up, his pen scratching across the paper. "Yeah, so?"

"So?" Her brows shot up, indignant. "Why didn’t you tell me? That’s kinda important, isn’t it?"

Satoru let out an exaggerated sigh, handing the finished paperwork back to the attendant. "Not really."

She frowned. "Why not?"

He didn’t answer that. 

Aoi crossed her arms. "Well, tomorrow, we’re doing whatever you want. Anything you say."

That got his attention. He turned to her slowly, an amused glint in his eyes. "Anything I say?"

She frowned at his tone. "Yes, anything—wait. No. Not anything anything. I meant, like, normal-people activities."

His smirk was positively gleeful. "Ah, so you are aware that we always do whatever you want. I was starting to think you were as dense as concrete, but hey, maybe there’s hope for you yet."

She opened her mouth to argue, but Satoru winced suddenly, hand pressing lightly against his stomach. "Ugh. Again."

Aoi pursed her lips, torn between sympathy and a barely-restrained grin. "Oh, are my cramps bothering you that much? I did warn you."

He straightened, waving her off with a dramatic flourish. "It’s just… annoying. Makes it hard to focus." He shot her a glare, though it lacked real bite. "Seriously, why am I stuck feeling the joys of being you?"

"Consider it character development."

Satoru groaned. "This is not the character arc I wanted."

At that moment, the attendant handed him a numbered paddle, marking their registration as complete. Aoi immediately made a grab for it, but Satoru sidestepped effortlessly, lifting it just out of reach.

"Not a chance," he said smoothly, moving the paddle just out of her reach. "You think I’m letting you blow my money on a bidding war?"

"Oh, come on," she huffed, trying again. He dodged her easily. "When am I ever going to get the chance to raise one of these at a fancy auction?" She pouted, shooting him her best pleading look.

"Hopefully never, if I can help it," he replied, grin widening. "When your painting comes up, I’m handling it."

Aoi sighed dramatically but let it go, though not without a tiny pout. As they moved toward their seats, she took in the sheer extravagance of the space—the velvet cushions, the screens previewing the upcoming items, the quiet anticipation in the air.

Large screens flanked the stage, displaying previews of the items up for auction. Aoi's eyes widened with childlike excitement as she took it all in, a giggle escaping her lips.

"This place is insane," she whispered, craning her neck to look at the chandeliers.

Her gaze landed on a passing waiter carrying a tray of champagne. Without thinking, she straightened, adopting an exaggeratedly posh air as she moved toward him.

Satoru groaned, following her with exasperation. "Oh no. Here we go. Do I need to remind you to stay put like a kid at a theme park?"

Aoi glanced at him over her shoulder, eyes dancing with mischief. "Relax, Dad. I’m just getting a drink."

Satoru sighed, following her anyway. "Yeah. I have a feeling we are already in trouble," he muttered, catching up just as she reached a server carrying a tray of delicate champagne flutes. His voice dropped into something half-mocking, half-serious. "You do remember that you’re not old enough to drink, right?"

Aoi arched a brow. "And I’m technically not old enough to be at this auction, yet here I am. You already broke the law to bring me here—what’s one sip of this overpriced bubbles?"

Before he could respond, she snatched a flute off the tray, lifting it with exaggerated elegance. "Merci, monsieur," she purred to the confused server, her French accent horribly overdone.

Satoru’s lips twitched. "You’re ridiculous."

She barely heard him as she took a sip—only to immediately grimace. The champagne was dry. And bitter. Definitely not what she’d imagined.

Satoru, ever the opportunist, caught her reaction immediately. "Oh no, don’t tell me," he drawled, his smirk deepening. "Did our sophisticated lady of the arts expect something sweet?"

Aoi scowled at him, forcing herself to take another sip out of sheer stubbornness. "It’s fine," she said, voice strained.

"Right," he said, unconvinced. "Juice for the baby, then?"

She was about to launch a retort when someone bumped into her, the liquid in her glass sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

"My sincerest apologies, miss," the man said smoothly.

Aoi turned, blinking in mild surprise as she took in the sight of a sharply dressed middle-aged gentleman—polished suit, neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair, and the kind of air that suggested he was used to commanding rooms. His gaze swept over her with a touch too much assessment, and his hand came up to lightly steady her shoulder.

"It’s fine," she said automatically, though something about the interaction made her uneasy.

Satoru was beside her in an instant. Not just near her, but right there, an arm casually slinging around her shoulders in a way that felt likes a warning, but executed with enough ease to appear nonchalant.

"All good here," he said, voice light but edged with something that sent a clear message. "She can be a bit clumsy."

The two men locked eyes, something passing between them. Then, after a fraction too long, the older man nodded and stepped back, casting One last glance on Aoi. Satoru didn’t wait for a response, guiding her away with a firm but casual hand on her back.

When they reached their seats, he leaned in, voice pissed. "What did we agree on about not drawing attention?"

Aoi huffed, taking a sip of her drink to avoid answering—only to once again regret it. She scrunched her nose at the taste, shoving the glass toward him. "Here, since you’re so responsible, why don’t you drink it?"

Satoru snorted. "Pass. Alcohol is messes with your senses."

Aoi widened her eyes in mock horror. "Oh, of course! The strongest sorcerer is also a lightweight."

He rolled his eyes. "Sure, let’s go with that."

She stuck her tongue out at him but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped, as he scanned the room. She leaned closer to Satoru, whispering, "Do you see anything? With your Six Eyes, I mean. Any trace of the painting?"

He shook his head, an uncharacteristic frown crossing his face. "Nothing." A pause. "Strange. There’s usually some residue of cursed energy in a place like this, especially with your painting involved. But here… nothing."

He winced again, rubbing his temple. The tension in his jaw betrayed just how much he hated her cramps.

Aoi’s playful demeanor faltered, concern seeping through. "You okay?"

He shot her a look that tried for annoyed but missed.

Before Aoi could push further, her attention was pulled to the stage as the auctioneer stepped forward, impeccably dressed, his voice carrying with ease.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am Tsukishima Daigo, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to tonight’s exclusive auction."

A shiver ran down Aoi’s spine. She recognized him as the same man who had bumped into her moments ago.

Tsukishima Daigo.

Her grip on her glass tightened. That was the exact name listed as the buyer of her painting.

She shot Satoru a quick glance. He was no longer lounging in his seat like he owned the place. His posture had stiffened—still composed, but watchful. His usual lazy smirk was gone, replaced with something far focused.

Without a second thought, she downed the rest of the champagne in her glass, her limbs just a little too light, her thoughts just a little too loose.

As if on cue, Satoru suddenly exhaled sharply through his nose.

The auction progressed as if on a stage, Tsukishima orchestrating the bids with theatrical precision, Tsukishima’s voice guiding the flow of outrageous bids on equally outrageous items: vases with gold inlay, ancient sculptures rumored to be blessed by forgotten deities, tapestries that once hung in castles. The audience, a collection of the elite, shifted and gestured with calculated grace, raising paddles and exchanging sidelong glances.

Aoi, wrapped in her midnight blue evening gown, sat beside Satoru, her fingers fidgeting with the silky fabric of her dress as the tension mounted, the low back leaving her neck and shoulders exposed to the cool, artificial air.

Then, finally, it appeared.

Desire.

Her painting. Her work. Her soul poured onto canvas. The deep reds pulsed under the lights, vivid and alive. It looked almost feverish here, out of place among the soulless luxury surrounding it, dissected and paraded under false pretenses.

And then—

"Our next item," Tsukishima announced smoothly, spewing nonsense. "an abstract masterpiece by an acclaimed international artist, evoking a sea of vibrant poppies blooming under the sun."

Aoi’s head snapped up so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.

"Poppies?" she muttered, barely hearing herself over the pounding in her ears. She didn’t even like poppies.

Satoru turned his head, gaze flicking to her in amusement. "Poppies?"

The heat of the champagne and her rising indignation mixed into something dangerously combustible. "It’s not poppies! It’s—" she cut herself off, biting down on her frustration.

It was being reduced to decoration. A marketable lie. Desire wasn’t about flowers or some sun-drenched fantasy. It was raw, unfiltered emotion. And now it was being sold off to the highest bidder under a cheap story.

The base price flashed on the screen.

450,000 yen.

Aoi nearly choked. It had originally sold at a charity auction for a fraction of that.

The anger surged through her, hot and reckless. She reached for the bidding paddle still clutched in Satoru’s hand, unsure if she was about to bid or throw it at Tsukishima’s smug face.

The second their skin touched, her fury hiccupped—caught in the crossfire of the lingering heat of champagne clouding her thoughts.

She turned, about to snap at him, but stopped short.

He wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was fixed on the painting, sharp and calculating.

"What?" she whispered, leaning closer to him.

His grip on her wrist tightened slightly. "Something’s wrong," he murmured. "It’s still cursed. The fragment of your soul is there, but…"

Aoi’s rage faltered. She refocused, studying the painting more closely. It felt wrong. Usually, her works carried a hum of energy—a presence. But now… it felt muted. Contained. Then, her eyes landed on something barely visible at the frame’s edge.

A thin strip of paper, attached to the edge of the canvas, nearly camouflaged by the frame.

"What is that?" she whispered.

Satoru’s jaw tensed. "There are two talismans on it. Same kind we used to seal Hate back at Jujutsu High. That’s not amateur work."

The auction continued. Offers climbed higher. Aoi barely heard them.

"What does that mean?" she asked, voice tight.

Satoru didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked around to the corners of the room and to the subtle shifts in the air. Then—

"It means we’re dealing with either a high-level sorcerer or—"

His words cut off. His entire posture shifted, every muscle coiling tight. Aoi followed his gaze.

Tsukishima Daigo.

The man knew. He had accepted a bid with an almost knowing smile, fingers tightening on his gavel.

Satoru’s brow twitched, and he was on his feet before Aoi could react, dragging her up with him.

"What?" she demanded, trying to keep up, as he pulled her toward the exit, his grip unyielding. "Or what, Satoru? Is it a trap?"

"Yes. For you," he said without looking back. "We’ll come back with a plan B, but right now, I need to get you out of here."

Aoi’s pulse quickened as she stumbled along, the opulent room spun slightly—too much champagne, too much everything.

She barely registered the murmurs and glances thrown their way as Satoru guided them through the maze of velvet chairs and glistening marble.

Just as they reached the edge of the room, a voice sliced through the air, silencing everything else.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats. The auction is far from over."

Tsukishima’s voice sliced through the room, calm and deliberate, like the slow snap of a trap closing.

Aoi stiffened, the hair on the back of her neck rising as she glanced over her shoulder. His smile was polite, his posture relaxed. But his eyes? His eyes said checkmate.

Beside her, Satoru went still. She couldn’t see his face, but she felt the shift in him—the sharp crackle of awareness in the air. A challenge had been issued.

At the podium, Tsukishima drummed his fingers idly against the auction gavel, his smirk widening, like he’d been expecting this all along.

Aoi’s skin prickled.

Then—without warning—the world tilted.

A breathless yelp barely escaped Aoi’s lips before she was suddenly, completely off the ground. Satoru's hand landed on her back, cursed energy snapping into place. One second she was standing, the next she was weightless, slung effortlessly over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

She barely had time to gasp before instinct took over, her arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling briefly in the fine strands of his hair.

Aoi would have smacked him if her brain wasn’t short-circuiting.

“What the hell—” Her words cut off as the air rushed past her.

No ceremony. No warning. Just the broad expanse of Satoru’s shoulder digging into her stomach and the iron-clad grip of his technique securing her in place, completely balanced against his shoulder.

“Satoru!” she shrieked, half choking as she flailed uselessly, her legs kicking weakly in protest. “Put me down, you absolute—”

“No time,” he cut in, voice almost bored, but his movements were anything but.

A sudden explosion of force sent Aoi clinging tighter, squeezing her eyes shut and burying her face in the crook of his neck, as they shot forward straight through the nearest wall.

Marble shattered, stone and dust exploding outward as Satoru blasted through the wall like it was paper. The impact rattled through Aoi’s bones, her ears ringing with the splintering crack of destruction and the distant, panicked screams of the guests behind them in the hall.

Satoru landed smoothly in the grand hall beyond, barely jostling her as he straightened, not a single stumble as he adjusted his grip, one arm shifting under her thighs as if she weighed nothing, steadying them mid-motion like gravity itself was optional for him. Despite the chaos, despite the fact that she should have been screaming, but Aoi barely noticed—her head was spinning, her body buzzing from the lingering heat of adrenaline.

Too much.

Way too much.

She could feel his heartbeat, steady and unbothered beneath her fingertips. His cursed energy thrummed against her own, wrapping around her like a static charge.

Aoi tightened her hold, pressing her cheek to the side of his neck as the world settled around them, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as she struggled to catch her breath

Blame the champagne. Blame the cursed bond. Blame literally anything but him.

"Put me down," she managed, though the breathless quality of her voice did not help her case.

"Later," he said, voice maddeningly smooth, barely even winded as he strode toward the exit. "If I let go now, you’d trip over your own dress and break your nose."

She wanted to argue, but honestly? Yeah. That was a very real possibility.

Then—

A second explosion erupted behind them, the floor trembling beneath Satoru’s feet. The grand chandeliers above swung wildly, their fractured beams of light scattering across the swirling debris like something out of a fever dream.

Panic spread through the hall.

Guards shouted orders, guests scrambled for the exits, their expensive heels clicking frantically against the marble. 

"What… what’s going on?" she began, her voice trembling with both fear and the pounding in her chest.

But before she could say more, she felt It. Her lungs seized. It was the same pain from that night. The night Satoru had destroyed the painting of Hate.

Her body locked up, a choked gasp slipping past her lips.

Satoru felt it too. His entire body went rigid, his grip instinctively tightening around her.  His head snapped down toward her, eyes narrowing as he registered the pain rippling through their cursed bond.

“The painting—” she wheezed.

“I know,” he said, tone clipped, already moving again, weaving effortlessly through the panicked crowd, barely sparing a glance at the mess left in their wake.

Aoi’s body ached from the cursed bond, her ribs constricting like something was trying to pull her backward. She clenched her fingers into his shirt, breath shallow.  The towering glass doors were just ahead, the light beyond casting warped reflections against the floor. Their escape was within reach.

She exhaled, tension easing ever so slightly.

Then—

Satoru stopped. Dead stop.

His entire body tensed, his arms locking around her with a split-second hesitation that made Aoi’s stomach drop.

“Ah, shit.”

Just that. A low, frustrated shit.

Aoi blinked, still catching her breath. "Shit?" she echoed, voice weak. "What kind of shit?"

He ignored her, eyes fixed ahead. She followed his gaze to see what had stopped him: a barrier. Shimmering, translucent, rippling with cursed energy—it had descended across the entrance like an unbreakable veil.

Satoru let out a slow breath through his nose, shifting her weight to one arm while reaching out with the other. His fingers pressed against the barrier, the energy wavered.

Then, just as easily, his hand passed through.

He exhaled sharply, as though confirming something he already suspected. Then, sharper this time—he cursed under his breath, casting a sidelook at her.

“Try it,” he said.

Aoi barely had time to register his tone—rough, frustrated—before he adjusted his grip, lowering her just enough for her to reach out.

The moment her fingers brushed the barrier, a force slammed into her, repelling her instantly. Aoi yelped as she was thrown back into Satoru’s hold, his grip catching her before she could stumble.

Her head snapped toward him, panic creeping into her voice. “What does that mean?”

Satoru’s jaw ticked. “It means this curtain is meant to trap you.” His voice was flat, deadly calm. “Not anyone else. Just you.”

Aoi’s stomach twisted. “Tsukishima,” she whispered. The name felt like poison on her tongue.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. They had walked straight into a trap. “So… he’s a sorcerer?” she asked, scanning the chaos around them, heart hammering.

Satoru scoffed, shifting her higher onto his shoulder. “Worse. A curse user.” His grip on her tightened. "And one who clearly planned for this.”

The pain came in waves—sharp, unrelenting. Aoi gasped against Satoru’s shoulder, her whole body tightening as something twisted inside her, as if unseen hands were reaching into her chest and pulling.

She barely noticed when he adjusted his grip, palm pressing firmly against the bare skin of her thigh, securing her in place as though she were nothing more than an afterthought. One touch, and his cursed technique ensured she stayed stuck to him, no risk of slipping away.

Her once-neat updo had unraveled, dark strands of hair falling messily around her flushed face. Normally, she would have been humiliated—flung over his shoulder like a misbehaving brat—but between the pain and the slight haze from the champagne still lingering in her system, embarrassment was a distant concern.

"Stay still," he muttered, as he turned back toward the shimmering barrier blocking their escape, lifting his free hand.

Aoi swallowed hard,  biting back the groan that bubbled in her throat. She recognized the way his fingers curled, the subtle shift in his stance—he was about to obliterate it, flashy and over-the-top as always

For a brief moment, she let herself believe in his arrogance. Because Satoru Gojo never failed. He was the kind of person who made the impossible look effortless, and even now, even with the pain hammering through her skull, she wanted to believe he’d get them out of this.

Then, a voice cut through the space behind them, laced with a false civility.

"Are you sure you want to  tear down that curtain, Mr. Gojo? By all means, go ahead."

Aoi stiffened.

That voice.

Smooth. Measured. The sound of a man who knew he had the upper hand.

She craned her neck despite the sharp flare of pain, just enough to see him standing a few feet away. He was dragging her painting across the polished marble floor like discarded trash. The thick canvas scraped against the ground, leaving behind dark red streaks—deep, wet-looking, as if it was her own blood smearing across the floor.

The sound sent a shiver down her spine, and with each movement, the ache in her chest pulled, sharp and deep. Her breath hitched.

Satoru pivoted smoothly, barely adjusting his balance as he turned to face the auctioneer, keeping her secured.

Aoi felt the moment his focus locked in.

Satoru’s expression barely shifted, but she knew him well enough by now to recognize the change. His smirk was still there, sharp as a blade, but his eyes—those impossibly bright eyes—were locked onto Tsukishima with a deadly focus.

Tsukishima smiled, slow and deliberate, as he lifted the painting for them to see.

A thick iron nail was hammered through its center.

Wrapped around it, paper talismans pulsed with cursed energy, inked in deep, blood-red script. Aoi's breath caught. The exact moment she had felt that stabbing pain before—it must have been when he drove that nail in.

"I take it you know what happens if you destroy that curtain, don’t you?" Tsukishima tapped the nail lightly with the small auction gavel in his hand.

The moment it made contact—agony. An excruciating pulse shot through her body, settling in the pit of her stomach and coiling there like a living thing.

She barely registered the small sound that escaped her throat before she clenched her teeth to hold back anything else. "Stop," she gasped, her fingers tightening against his shirt, eyes flickering between him and Tsukishima. "Satoru—what happens if you—"

His response was a bitter, humorless chuckle. "Let’s just say it wouldn’t end well for you, princess."

Tsukishima's smirk widened. Another lazy tap against the nail sent a fresh wave of agony rolling through her chest. Her vision blurred at the edges, teeth clenched as she struggled to breathe through it. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood.

Satoru didn’t react—not outwardly, but Aoi felt it. The slightest shift in the way he held her. The way his fingers flexed against her skin, like his entire body had to fight against the urge to break something.

Tsukishima tilted his head, watching her reaction with mild curiosity. "Surely the great sorcerer isn’t going to be brought to his knees by a painting," he mused. Then his gaze landed on Aoi, amusement laced with disdain. "Or is it the artist?"

The tension in the room was thick, suffocating. 

Satoru laughed. Aoi knew that laugh. The slow, amused chuckle that meant he was already picking apart every detail, calculating all the ways he was about to ruin someone’s life.

"Oh, this is rich," he mused, tilting his head, as if genuinely entertained. "A commissioned barrier. A seal strong enough to contain a special-grade artifact. I’m guessing that gavel isn’t just for dramatic effect?"

Tsukishima’s fingers flexed ever so slightly around the handle. The first crack in his composure.

Satoru grinned. "Did someone give that to you, or did you actually figure out how to harness cursed energy all by yourself?" His tone was light, teasing. "Because I don’t know a damn thing about you, and frankly, I don’t care. But I am very good at reading people." He took a step forward, the firm grip on Aoi’s thigh a silent reassurance that he wasn’t letting go. "And you? You give me ‘pawn pretending to be a king’ energy."

He took a half step forward, unfazed. "That gavel, for instance—let me guess. Infused with a curse, right? Born from the painting itself." His lips twisted into a smirk, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, voice turning conversational as if discussing the weather "So tell me—who’s the real player here?" 

Tsukishima’s face remained impassive, but there was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes as he raised the painting like a shield. He tapped the nail once, a deliberate motion that sent another wave of agony crashing into Aoi’s chest. She gasped, vision blurring as she clenched her teeth against the pain.

"You sure are not afraid of a worthless painting, Mr. Gojo." His smirk widened when Aoi stiffened in Satoru’s hold, heat rushing to her face.

Before she could stop herself, she kicked her legs, trying to wriggle free from Satoru’s grasp to give Tsukishima a piece of her mind. "Worthless?" she spat, her voice trembling. "And you call yourself an art critic? You… you pretentious fraud! ‘Poppies blooming under the sun,’ seriously?!" The anger spilled over in a rush, fueled by the sharp, stinging pain in her chest. "You wouldn’t know real art if it hit you in the—»"

Aoi could see the moment Tsukishima’s patience thinned, seemingly tired of her voice.

He slammed the gavel down against the nail, hard, and pain exploded through her body.

She gasped, vision going white. Her entire frame locked up, breath choking in her throat as fresh tears slipped down her cheeks as she doubled over, clutching desperately at Satoru’s shirt.

Satoru tensed beneath her. Just for a second, his control wavered.

Tsukishima saw it. And pounced.

"You could always leave," he mused, rolling the painting between his fingers. "No one would blame you. After all, you’re not really trapped here, are you? Just her." His smirk deepened. "Unless, of course, you can’t leave her."

Aoi’s breath hitched. He knows.

Tsukishima knew about their connection. About how whatever happened to her reflected on Satoru.

This wasn’t a trap for her.

It was leverage against him, a noose tightening around his neck.

Satoru didn’t react—his smirk stayed in place, his confidence unwavering. His grip on her tightened, his cursed energy flared, sharp and electric, buzzing against her skin like a live wire.

"You’re really hiding behind a painting, huh?" His voice was still light, still casual—but now it was cold. He adjusted Aoi, his hand lifting, glowing with ominous, crackling energy. "Cowardice with a touch of flair—let me guess, your benefactor taught you that trick?"

A flicker of irritation crossed Tsukishima’s face. He lifted the hammer again, ready to strike. Satoru exhaled. Low. Controlled. Then—

"Hey," he murmured, his voice pitched so only she could hear. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her temple. "Hold on tight. And I mean tight, yeah?"

Aoi barely processed the words through the haze of pain, but her body obeyed before her mind caught up.

She tightened her grip around his neck, arms locking firm. Her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, ankles hooking behind his back. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. Instinct had taken over as she pressed her face into the curve of his neck, trying to block out the dizzying sensation of the cursed energy still pulsing through the air.

Satoru made a small noise—part amused, part strangled. His hand pressed against her back, keeping her in place like a human-shaped accessory. "I said hold on, not choke me out."

It struck her, even in the chaos. Ridiculous. This was ridiculous.

Here she was, wrapped around Satoru Gojo like some kind of deranged koala, in a half-ruined evening gown, in the middle of a battlefield.

Then, in a blur of motion—he moved.

The world around them twisted, a streak of blue and white cutting through the fractured remains of the auction hall. Aoi barely registered the speed, too caught up in holding her grip. The wind roared in her ears as Satoru snapped behind Tsukishima, his hand already glowing with the telltale energy of Blue—a gravitational force ready to tear.

Tsukishima’s eyes widened. He reacted just in time, yanking the painting in front of himself like a shield.

Satoru stopped. Hesitated. For the briefest second, his movement faltered, the cursed energy in his palm wavering—because if he struck now, he could risk damaging the painting.

And Tsukishima did the one thing Satoru had been expecting.

The gavel arced up, the cursed weapon met the energy in Satoru’s palm in a shattering boom. The shockwave shattered what was left of the auction hall’s fragile elegance. Glass cases exploded, chandeliers trembled, velvet chairs flew like discarded matchsticks. The force sent them both skidding apart, but Satoru twisted mid-air, absorbing the brunt of the impact before landing with a crouched ease.

Aoi clung, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs, the taste of dust and static thick in her mouth. He could have ended this in seconds, if it weren’t for her. If it weren’t for the painting.

"You’re being too careful," she muttered against his neck, her voice tight with pain. "Forget the painting, just wreck him,—"

"Oh, so now you’re telling me how to fight?" he shot back, his smirk forced, "If you’d like to swap places, princess, be my guest."

"You know what I mean—"

"Shh." He cut her off, effortlessly dodging another swing of the gavel, his body tilting just enough for the attack to graze past. "I’m working."

His working was absurd—casual side-steps, lazy dodges that made it look like he wasn’t even trying, as if Tsukishima’s attacks were more of a mild inconvenience than a threat. He couldn’t fight the way he wanted to. Not when the painting was in play.

She gritted her teeth through the pain, as Satoru moved, shifting them again, closing the distance between them and Tsukishima.

The ringing in her ears was deafening, but the world slowed just enough for her to see.

They had an opening.

She loosened her grip, just slightly, stretching her arm out toward the gavel in Tsukishima’s grasp.

Her fingers brushed the cold wood.

Almost—

Tsukishima slammed the gavel down, striking the cursed nail driven into the painting’s canvas. A terrible ripping sound tore through the air.

Aoi’s vision whited out, the pain that followed blinding, eviscerating, searing through her chest. A scream built in her throat but came out as a choked, soundless gasp. Tears blurred her vision before she even realized she was crying.

Satoru’s body shuddered beneath her. His grip faltered—not much, just a fraction of a second, but Aoi felt it. The cursed bond pulsed in mockery. His breath hitched, his muscles locked in response to the pain that wasn’t even his.

And Tsukishima saw it. He saw Gojo Satoru hesitate.

Just for a moment. But a moment was enough

He shouldn’t have hesitated. Not Satoru. Not him. Aoi’s mind reeled, guilt twisting alongside the pain.

Damn this cursed bond.

Tsukishima’s voice cut through the static in her skull, smooth, mocking.

"Now," he mused, fingers curling possessively around the ruined painting. "Let’s make this democratic, shall we?"

His tone dipped, something dark curling at the edges of his words. He held the painting like he held her. Like he was in control of the very thing that bound her existence to this moment.

The room collapsed.

"Domain Expansion," he murmured, his voice chillingly soft, "Auction Hall of the Profiteer."

✎✘✘✘✘■■■■■■

Aoi blinked, struggling to adjust to the darkness around them. Her breath came in shallow pulls, the last remnants of pain still echoing in her limbs. Somewhere in the distance, an almost mechanical voice droned on, listing off a set of rules with eerie, detached precision:

Rule number 1: Within the auction hall, all participants’ cursed energy is converted into currency to be spent at the auction.
Rule number 2: All individuals within the domain must follow the rules and participate in the auction.
Rule number 3: Anything within the domain can be auctioned by the participants.
Rule number 4: The auction ends when a participant runs out of funds. Everything they have won at the auction must be returned.
Rule number 5: The auctioneer’s judgment is final.

The voice faded into silence, heavy and suffocating. Aoi pressed a hand to the cold, polished floor, pushing herself upright. Her head spun, her vision still swimming as the room came into focus.

It wasn’t grand, like the auction hall they had just been in. This space was smaller, more intimate, but no less unnerving. Rich wooden panels lined the walls, and deep velvet drapes swallowed most of the light, giving the chandeliers above an odd, flickering quality. Shadows stretched in unnatural ways, like they were watching.

She turned, catching sight of Satoru beside her, arms crossed, a smirk plastered on his face. He looked relaxed—too relaxed—but Aoi had learned by now that was just how he masked tension. His eyes, though? His eyes were sharp. Focused.

He tilted his head down at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Come on, princess. No time for beauty sleep—seems like we’ve got a game to play."

Aoi swallowed the dry lump in her throat and pushed to her feet.

Across the room, Tsukishima was already seated, gavel resting lightly in his hand. He wasn’t watching Satoru. He was watching her.

"Things tend to get… more complicated when there’s someone to worry about, don’t they, Mr. Gojo?" His gaze drifted pointedly toward Aoi, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

Aoi stiffened.

Not exactly subtle, was he?

Her fault. Not really, but still. That damn bond. She was an inconvenience Satoru couldn’t just ignore, a vulnerability.

Her gaze flicked to the towering black mannequin beside them. Its unnervingly tall frame was clad in an impeccably tailored suit, its face hidden behind a smooth white mask. A top hat perched neatly atop its head, and in one gloved hand, it held an oversized auctioneer’s hammer that looked more like a weapon than a tool.

It didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. But Aoi still felt like it was watching.

"What…?" she whispered, stomach twisting. The pain was gone, but the memory of it clung to her, raw and fresh.

What happened? She remembered the searing pain, but then… nothing. 

Satoru stood at ease beside her, arms still folded, but she could feel the current of energy coiling around him like a live wire. His smirk deepened, but his voice carried a familiar sharpness, the kind that usually meant he was about to throw himself into something just to prove a point. 

"Come on, art girl," he drawled. "Let’s show our lovely host just how much fun we can have with his little setup."

Tsukishima gave a slow, measured bow as though the gesture were a formality. "Now that the artist has recovered, we can begin. I assume you understand the rules?"

Satoru waved a lazy hand. "Yeah, yeah. Cursed energy equals money, last man standing wins, and you get to feel important for a few minutes. Sounds straightforward."

His gaze flicked to Aoi, mischief glinting behind his lenses. "Hey, look at that. You did get to be part of an auction after all. Special edition, just for you. And lucky you—you’ve even got more money than you bargained for."

Aoi blinked. "What do you mean?"

His grin widened as he nodded toward the floating panels above their heads, stark white digits glowing against the dark:

Tsukishima Daigo: ¥250 million
Aoi Fujikawa: ¥420 million
Satoru Gojo: ¥25.5 billion

Aoi’s jaw dropped. "Twenty-five billion?" She turned to Satoru, utterly incredulous. "That’s your cursed energy value?"

Twenty-five point five billion. That was practically the GDP of a small nation.

He let out a low whistle, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Looks like all those years walking around with cursed energy I didn’t even know how to spend finally paid off."

She barely heard him. "And why do I have more than Tsukishima?"

Satoru gave a one-shouldered shrug, as if it was obvious. "Probably because of all the cursed energy you’ve been carrying around without even knowing." He shot Tsukishima a look, smug and cutting. "Either way, sucks to be you, huh? Looks like your own game’s rigged against you."

Tsukishima’s face betrayed nothing, but Aoi caught the subtle twitch in his jaw. Still, he only inclined his head, as if conceding the point with a kind of grudging respect.

Meanwhile, the mannequin—the auctioneer—stood unmoving, an eerie statue looming in the dim light.

Then—

It lifted its hammer. A cold, mechanical voice rang out, flat and absolute.

"The auction shall now begin."

Chapter Text

✎✘✘✘✘■■■■■■

DESIRE

-Satoru-

Satoru’s fingers traced the familiar path along the fabric of his shirt sleeves, rolling them up with the practiced nonchalance of someone who had perfected the art of appearing unbothered in the most dire of circumstances.

Overhead, the mechanical voice droned on, listing the rules of the auction with the same dull monotony one might use to describe stock market trends instead of a glorified hostage situation.

He barely listened. He already got the gist of it.

This whole thing was a joke—an elaborate, tragic comedy. He exhaled slowly, tamping down the irritation bubbling under his usual bravado. He’d been dragged into cursed nonsense before. The problem was, this time, he had let it happen.

So where had he screwed up? Where had he lost control?

Let’s see...

His mind ran through the possibilities, detached, analytical. He smirked, more out of habit. Maybe it was the cursed bond. That cursed tether linking him to Aoi, feeding her cramps pain directly into his nervous system like some twisted Bluetooth connection. Maybe his body was just reacting to sympathy cramps like a melodramatic idiot. Gojo Satoru, taken down by secondhand suffering.

Yeah, no. Even he wasn’t that ridiculous.

Or maybe—maybe—he’d just miscalculated. Arrogance. He could blame that. That was a nice, clean answer. 

But deep down, he knew better.

It wasn’t some grand strategic failure. It was simpler. More damning. He was losing because, for the first time in—well, a long time—he’d let feelings get in the way.

He had fought special-grade curses, sorcerer assassins, eldritch horrors that had no business existing, and yet here he was, trapped in a cursed auction house like some rookie because he had gotten too pissed off to think straight.

The second he had hammered a nail into her painting, twisted it in deep, the moment Aoi had gasped—no, choked on the pain— as she tried to hold back the worst of it, her fingers locking desperately around his shirt—

He had seen red.

The pain from their bond hadn't even registered anymore. He had wanted to rip Tsukishima’s arm off and feed it to him piece by piece.

For once, he hadn’t been thinking like the strongest sorcerer alive—he’d been thinking like some dumb idiot who’d let his guard down because he was mad.

That was all it took. 

He had hesitated. One second of anger. That was all Tsukishima needed.

Rookie mistake.

And all because Tsukishima had dared to make her scream.

Annoying. Not her. Just the whole concept of it. He could handle getting hurt. It never really hapened but that was fine. That was expected in his line of work. But watching someone else take damage while he stood there, unable to interfere? Bullshit.

Satoru sucked in a slow breath, flexing his fingers. Get it together. 

Here they were, trapped in this twisted auction hall domain by a man he could crush with a flick of his wrist if only the rules allowed it. Worse, Aoi was here with him, and he couldn't afford to lose control anymore. A low throb of anger pulsed behind his eyes, but he pushed it down.

Fine. He got caught slipping. So what? He just had to fix it.

No time for sulking.

His eyes flicked around the domain. Everything about it oozed self-importance. Rich, dark wood paneling. Velvet drapes. Gilded frames hanging ominously empty, like they were waiting to take something. The chandelier overhead dripped light that didn’t illuminate so much as oppress.

Great. A haunted Sotheby’s.

Satoru crossed his arms, tapping a slow rhythm on his forearm. Not a problem. Just annoying.

His gaze settled on the thing standing at the center of it all—the auctioneer shikigami. A grotesque, elongated parody of civility .A towering man in a crisp, immaculate suit. It loomed, faceless, save for the unsettlingly pristine top hat perched atop its too-long body. And in its oversized, clawed hand—an auctioneer’s hammer, polished to a sick gleam.

"The auction ends when a participant runs out of funds."

Right. This ridiculous charade would continue until someone was bled dry. His eyes flicked up to the floating currency panel, glowing with cold, unfeeling numbers. What would happen when someone’s funds hit zero?

A nasty suspicion formed in his mind. He refocused on the hammer, drawing the connection between the rules and what was probably about to happen.

Oh. Yeah. That’s not good.

Beside him, Aoi stood stiffly, eyes locked on Tsukishima. Her once-tidy hair had long since come undone, falling in messy strands around her face. She was still breathing hard, but she was upright. That was a small victory in itself.

She had been in agony minutes ago, yet here she was, glaring down the man responsible with the kind of defiant fury that made his fingers twitch with the urge to finish this already.

He didn’t like people who got hurt and just kept going like it was normal. He didn’t like how familiar it was.

As if sensing his gaze, she turned to him, hazel eyes locking onto his.

"Satoru," she whispered, leaning closer, making frantic little gestures with her hands. "Can’t you just—you know—blast us out of here with one of your big flashy moves?"

The desperation in her voice would have hit harder if she didn’t immediately follow it with a glare, like this whole thing was somehow his fault.

Cute.

He arched an eyebrow, lazy smirk sliding back into place. "No cursed energy in this place, princess. No cursed techniques." He pointed at the currency panel above.

Aoi stared at the currency panel, then back at him, then at the shikigami, her expression darkening. "You mean to tell me you’re useless in here?"

"Wow." He clutched his chest, as if physically wounded. "That was uncalled for. I am an absolute delight in any situation." Then, with a nonchalant shrug, he added, "But hey, you could always try bribing the shikigami. Maybe it’s open to negotiations."

Her expression twisted from worry to irritation in real time, a small spark of her usual spirit breaking through. Then she shoved him—actually shoved him, the audacity—hard enough to make him shift his footing. "Not funny."

"There it is," he barely shifted, but the fact that she tried had him grinning. "That’s the spirit."

Good. If she was annoyed, she was thinking straight. And thinking was exactly what they needed right now.

Now he just needed to figure out how to bankrupt Tsukishima before things got worse.

The question was how. How did one make someone run out of money in an auction, anyway? 

Satoru’s attention snapped back to Tsukishima, who sat on the opposite end of the room with all the practiced poise of a man who believed he had already won. The older sorcerer’s posture was immaculate, his suit untouched by the strain of battle, gray hair combed back with the precision of a man attending a board meeting rather than an arcane duel.

Too much control, Satoru thought, noting the subtle lift of his chin as the shikigami announced the rules.

Arrogant or strategic? A toss-up.

Either way, Satoru wasn’t buying the act. 

There was a trick buried in the rules, something subtle, something they hadn’t triggered yet. This wasn’t just about bidding. There had to be another layer.

The glowing numbers of the panel flashed, cold and unfeeling:

Tsukishima Daigo: ¥250 million
Aoi Fujikawa: ¥420 million
Satoru Gojo: ¥25.5 billion

The obscene amount next to his name would have been laughable if not for the circumstances. He had the funds—well, theoretically, anyway. Enough to buy this entire hall if he needed.

Aoi squinted at the numbers, then at him, then at Tsukishima again. "This can’t be that simple," she muttered.

"Nope," he said.

The shikigami had explained the rules; likely, they were binding. That explained why Tsukishima hadn’t taken them out immediately. But if there were conditions, would they function like a regular auction? 

There was a loophole here. Something subtle. Something they hadn’t triggered yet.

Satoru flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders. Relax. He needed to test the limits. Needed information.

"Alright, let’s get a better feel for this." He cleared his throat, adopting the most insufferable tone he could manage. "Oi, Tsukishima!" He flashed a cocky grin, waving lazily toward the empty chair behind the older man. "Let’s start small. I’ll put in the first bid. How about we auction off that chair behind you?"

Aoi made a strangled noise. "Are you serious? You’re actually playing along?"

She looked deeply betrayed, like he’d just confessed he didn’t like contemporary art. Which, to be fair, was true.

He flicked her a sideways glance, one brow arched. Trust me. Or don’t. But stay close. Out loud, he grinned. "Only way out, princess. Might as well make it interesting." He rocked back on his heels. "Just a little auction. Could even be fun."

Tsukishima’s mouth barely twitched. The ghost of amusement flickered behind his glasses, but his posture didn’t shift. The shikigami, however, moved. It jerked slightly, processing the request, before nodding in an oddly stiff motion.

"Request accepted. Auction initiated by Satoru Gojo: Item – Chair. Starting bid: ¥1 million."

Aoi audibly gasped. "You can’t be serious."

The starting price flashed across the panel: ¥1 million.

Tsukishima’s lips curled into a practiced, faint smile as he inclined his head, the picture of composure. "¥1.5 million," he said smoothly, like he was ordering tea.

Satoru’s grin sharpened. Oh, he was willing to play, step into the circus of this absurdity. That meant there was something deeper going on here.

This was the moment to find out.

"Alright, princess," he said, turning to Aoi, voice laced with amusement. "Your turn. Let’s see what you got."

Her eyes widened. "What? What about you?"

"I’m out," he said breezily, far too pleased with himself "I’ll let you take it from here."

Aoi spun on him, aghast. "And what the hell am I supposed to do?"

Satoru shrugged. "Bid higher. That’s how auctions work, you make a higher offer"

She inhaled sharply, visibly restraining the urge to strangle him. Then, with absolute reluctance, she turned to the shikigami, as if it might suddenly sprout a mouth and bite her. "¥2 million."

The shikigami creaked, as if awakening from dormancy. The weight of its faceless attention fell over them, judging, analyzing.

"Auction won by Tsukishima Daigo."

The floating panel above shifted, the numbers spinning wildly as the updated totals settled into place.

Tsukishima Daigo: ¥252 million
Aoi Fujikawa: ¥418 million
Satoru Gojo: ¥12.75 billion

Silence.

Satoru clicked his tongue, looking at his funds. "Well, that’s inconvenient."

So, skipping a bid means losing half your funds. Noted. Annoying, but manageable. He could adapt. The real problem? Why had Aoi’s higher bid been ignored? And why had Tsukishima gained money instead of losing it?

Aoi spun toward him, eyes blazing. "What just happened?!"

Satoru exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Still figuring that out."

Across the room, Tsukishima’s smirk widened, teeth glinting like a shark that had just scented blood. "See, Mr. Gojo? I did warn you—your arrogance would be your undoing."

Satoru’s eyes narrowed, as a metallic chain coiled around the chair, each link sparking with an unnatural, pulsating glow. The final piece of the chain locked into place, emitting a resounding clang that seemed to echo through the chamber. The seal flared to life, stark and ominous against the dim backdrop:

“Sold - Tsukishima Daigo.”

A slow, unpleasant realization settled in his gut. Ownership here isn’t just symbolic. It’s a Binding Vow.

Whatever was claimed here was real, binding even outside of this cursed domain.

Great. That wasn’t a test he was eager to run.

Tsukishima lounged in his seat, fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest, posture radiating unearned superiority. He looked entirely too comfortable, like a man who knew he’d already won.

Satoru hated that look.

With a performative sigh, he tilted his head, letting a lazy smirk curve his lips. "So, the whole thing’s a sham," he drawled, voice dripping with exaggerated boredom. "A rigged game. Perfect for someone who plays at sophistication while flipping charity auction finds for profit. What’s next, Tsukishima? Scamming orphans?"

Aoi blinked at him, then turned back to Tsukishima. Even now, with the fight-or-flight adrenaline roaring through her system, she was trying to piece things together. "Wait, so—what does that mean? Why did my offer just… transfer to him?!"

Satoru didn’t take his eyes off Tsukishima as he answered, voice flat. "Because you lost, Art Girl. Simple as that." He tapped his temple. "The real question is why you lost. Your bid was higher. By normal rules, you should’ve won. Which means…" He exhaled. "This isn’t a normal auction."

Before Aoi could snap back, Tsukishima’s voice cut through the air, polished, smug.

"A rigged game? Oh no, Mr. Gojo." He leaned forward, measured, smug. "This is the most honest auction you’ll ever find." His smirk grew, slow and condescending. "Perhaps, deep down, you and your charming artist don’t actually value these items as much as you pretend."

Satoru’s smirk faltered—just for a fraction of a second.

Value?

The word hung in the air, unsettling in a way he didn’t like.

Could the bids be weighted by perceived value rather than money? Was this entire game about who wanted it more?

The room seemed to shift imperceptibly. The possibilities were maddening, and whatever the answer, they had already been outmaneuvered once. One thing was certain: opting out of the bids wasn’t a viable strategy.

Aoi stepped forward, eyes sparking like embers. "Value? You’re seriously lecturing us about value?" She clenched her fists, taking an instinctive step closer, voice dripping with contempt. "You—who treats art like trash and scams charities out of their money—want to talk about what’s truly worth something?" Then she grinned, sharp and delightedly vicious. "Alright then. Let’s put your principles to the test. Let’s auction off your fancy trousers, you fraud. Let’s see how confident you are when you’re standing there in your boxers."

Satoru groaned, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. Of course she went there. Aoi never did anything by halves. Between wanting to throttle her and admiring her audacity, he wasn’t quite sure where he stood. 

"Aoi," he muttered, barely suppressing laughter. "Why?"

The shikigami stirred. Its joints creaked like an ancient machine coming to life, its massive, clawed hands lifting the auctioneer’s hammer.

"Request accepted. Auction initiated by Aoi Fujikawa: Item – Tsukishima Daigo’s trousers. Starting bid: ¥100 million."

Satoru’s eyebrows shot up. "One hundred million?" He cast a sidelong glance at Aoi. "Are those things made of platinum?"

Aoi, who looked far too satisfied, hummed. "Maybe he’s hiding a secret cursed technique. ‘Superiority Complex Fabric Reinforcement’ or something."

Tsukishima’s professional mask barely cracked, but there was a flicker of something in his dark eyes. Annoyance. "¥150 million," he said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs as if this were beneath him.

Aoi’s expression twisted into something between disgust and determination. Her voice came out clear, though strained. "¥200 million."

Satoru’s grin widened as he tapped his fingers against his arm, watching the scene unfold.

The mechanics of this domain were becoming clearer in small, infuriating increments. If he intervened now, he risked funneling more of their resources to Tsukishima. No. Better to watch and learn.

"Pass," he said, letting his voice go bored, just to mess with him.

The shikigami paused, considering. Then, its gavel struck the podium, the sound final and foreboding. "Auction won by Tsukishima Daigo."

Satoru’s jaw tightened, though outwardly he remained composed. Aoi’s higher bid had been ignored. Again.

His eyes flickered to the panel, which updated with a cruel finality:

Tsukishima Daigo: ¥452 million
Aoi Fujikawa: ¥218 million
Satoru Gojo: ¥6.37 billion

Yup. This was getting real annoying. Satoru’s fingers twitched, eyes darting to Aoi. Damn. She was bleeding funds fast.

Another chain of ownership coiled around Tsukishima’s legs, glowing with that insufferable sigil, declaring victory:

“Sold – Tsukishima Daigo.”

The bastard smiled, thin and professional, but this time, there was something genuine in the glint of his eyes. "Oh, Miss Fujikawa," he said smoothly, mock civility dripping from every syllable. "It appears you didn’t truly value the sight of me embarrassed. Pity."

Satoru’s fingers tapped against his arm in agitation, but he kept his face impassive, his mind racing for a solution. The setup here was increasingly clear: this wasn’t just about monetary value but some twisted measure of worth or intention.

And Tsukishima was winning.

The man adjusted his sleeves with the slow, deliberate ease of someone about to drop a bombshell, as he looked between them.

"Since we’re all so invested, allow me to elevate the stakes." His gaze locked on Aoi, each syllable of his next words slicing through the silence. "I propose an auction for... the cursed technique of the artist."

Aoi inhaled sharply. Her head snapped toward Satoru, eyes wide, silently asking, Can he really do that?

Satoru’s smirk didn’t slip, but inside, gears turned at a frantic pace. Rule number 3: Anything within the domain can be auctioned by the participants.

Not just material items, then. It was literal. He forced a grin, though his mind was running through every possibility, every way to maneuver out of this. Sure, losing a cursed technique wasn’t the end of the world—Aoi could survive without it. They’d figure something out. But the principle of it?

That was troublesom.

The shikigami’s silence was agonizing, each second stretching into an eternity before it finally spoke. "Request accepted. Auction initiated by Tsukishima Daigo: Item – Aoi Fujikawa's cursed technique. Starting bid: 400 million yen."

Tsukishima’s voice followed seamlessly. "¥400.5 million."

Aoi’s face drained of color. She was in no position to match even the minimum bid.

Satoru’s jaw tightened. Bailing meant draining their resources even further. Playing meant walking straight into Tsukishima’s game. But fine—if they wanted to play, he’d play big.

"¥1 billion," he announced, his tone calm but hard-edged.

"Pass." Aoi’s shoulders fell slightly, a shadow of defeat creeping over her face as she looked down, voice barely a whisper.

The room seemed to hold its breath, the shikigami stilled as if considering this new variable. Then, with a shuddering nod, it brought down the gavel. "Auction won by Tsukishima Daigo."

The numbers on the panel spun like the taunting hands of a clock, each turn biting into Satoru’s patience. When they stopped, the figures loomed in bright, unforgiving light:

Tsukishima Daigo: ¥1.42 billion
Aoi Fujikawa: ¥109 million
Satoru Gojo: ¥5.37 billion

Satoru felt the faintest tick of frustration at his temple. It wasn’t panic—panic was pointless, a surefire way to start making stupid mistakes. But something was gnawing at him, like an itch just out of reach.

No matter how high their bids, Tsukishima kept winning, and Aoi’s funds dwindled with every round. Why? Why?

A sharp pulse of cursed energy filled the air as another chain slithered into existence, weaving itself around Aoi like a viper coiling around prey. It latched onto her back with an ominous snap.

"Sold - Tsukishima Daigo."

Aoi’s breath hitched. Her body went rigid, her fingers twitching like she wanted to physically rip the thing off her skin, and Satoru felt the weight of that chain settle over them both.

This wasn’t just about money anymore, if it ever had been. He held onto his facade of calm, but his fingers tightened slightly, and his jaw clenched imperceptibly.

Her voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Satoru, what does this mean? What’s going to happen now?" 

The way she said his name—tightly, cautiously, just a little afraid—sent something cold through his spine.

I don’t know. That was the honest answer. He had ideas, theories forming at breakneck speed, but none he liked. Did Tsukishima own her technique now? Could he control it? Could he use it? Could he strip it from her entirely?

And if he could create special-grade cursed objects like she did...

His jaw clenched, but his expression remained casual. "It means he just wasted a billion yen on a talent he’ll never be able to use," he said, deliberately light. "Sucks for him."

Aoi let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but the tension didn’t ease.

And, because of course he couldn’t just let them breathe for one damn second, Tsukishima leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming idly against the armrest. "Well," he mused, all smug condescension, "since we’re all having so much fun, why stop now?" His gaze landed squarely on Satoru. "I propose an auction for the Six Eyes of Satoru Gojo."

The words slammed into him, heavier than they had any right to be.

For just a fraction of a second, Satoru’s body tensed—barely noticeable, gone before it could register. But it was enough.

He’s really going for that?

Not money. Not cursed tools. Not some insignificant trinket. He was coming straight for the core of his identity as a sorcerer.

Satoru had several responses to that. All of them involved violence.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, tilting his head in mock contemplation. "I refuse to auction the Six Eyes."

The shikigami’s mechanical body clicked and whirred, processing the denial. It clicked once, twice. Click. Click. Then—

"Rule number 5: The auctioneer’s judgment is final. Request for auction accepted. Item: Six Eyes. Starting bid: ¥1 billion."

A muscle in Satoru’s jaw twitched.

Tsukishima’s smirk widened, his voice dripping with fake politeness. "¥1.4 billion."

Satoru’s mind kicked into high gear.

The chains. The smug confidence. The eerie consistency of Tsukishima’s wins. It all pointed to one thing. This wasn’t about currency at all. It was about something deeper.

Value.

The cursed painting of Desire. It made sense. How much did someone want something? How much did someone believe they had the right to own something? If this cursed domain was measuring that—

Then there’s no way I can lose this.

The Six Eyes weren’t just important to him. They were him. His life. His legacy. His burden.

How could anyone else possibly place higher value on them than he did?

He took a slow breath, pushing aside the flicker of uncertainty that threatened to take hold. "¥2 billion," he said, voice steady, eyes locked onto Tsukishima.

Aoi made a choked sound beside him, unable to participate with her dwindling funds. "Satoru, are you sure—" Her eyes darted between Satoru and Tsukishima, worry etched into her features.

"Relax, princess." He shot her his usual cocky grin, but it felt hollow even to him. "What’s the worst that could happen? Lose the very thing that makes me, me? Pfft. No big deal."

She did not look reassured, her gaze searching his face as though trying to see past the mask he was so carefully holding in place.

The shikigami’s joints groaned, like the weight of this particular decision was heavier than any before it. Across the room, Tsukishima sat perfectly still, eyes glinting like he already knew the outcome.

And then it came, the verdict that Satoru both expected and dreaded.

"Auction awarded to Tsukishima Daigo."

The words hit Satoru like a punch. His fingers twitched at his side as he took a slow, measured breath. The once-mocking smirk now felt like an uncomfortable mask, stretching thin against the reality that settled, cold and invasive, in his mind.

For a moment, he just stood there. Processing.

Did I just lose the Six Eyes? My Six Eyes?

In a cursed auction?

The updated numbers glared down from above:

Tsukishima Daigo: ¥3.42 billion

Aoi Fujikawa: ¥54.5 million

Satoru Gojo: ¥3.37 billion

The Six Eyes—irreplaceable, invaluable, the keystone of the Gojo lineage—sold off like a trinket in this twisted marketplace. It was absurd. It was laughable. It was so insanely impossible that his brain outright rejected it.

We can still get it back, he reminded himself. It’s just another inconvenience.

But that damned voice in the back of his mind whispered otherwise.

A new chain materialized, glowing with undeniable finality, coiling around him before searing a sigil into his skin.

He couldn’t see the words glowing on the metal links, but he didn’t need to. Sold – Tsukishima Daigo. It was a mockery of ownership that stung more than he’d ever admit.

A hollow silence filled his ears, like static. His fingers twitched. His own voice echoed back at him:

No big deal.

Well. Shit.

The sudden explosion of rage next to him was the only thing that snapped him out of it.

"You absolute bastard!" Aoi launched into a full-blown verbal assault, stepping forward so fast Satoru had to grab her shoulder before she did something drastic. "You slimy, backstabbing, swindling excuse for a human being! You are literally the worst! I hope your overpriced suit shrinks in the wash! I hope your car gets keyed by a pack of rabid crows! I hope your stupid auction house collapses with you inside it!"

Tsukishima merely raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes as he watched her with that insufferable smirk that accentuated the slight crinkles around his eyes.

Satoru almost laughed at her fury, though he felt the weight of the situation pressing down. But then he saw it—through the shifting chains around his head, his gaze found Aoi as she slumped on the floor, arms limp at her sides. Not moving. Not speaking. The fire that burned in her eyes seconds ago—gone. The Aoi who could spit defiance with every breath, who fought with teeth bared and fists clenched, wasn’t there.

She had given up.

And that? That was wrong.

Tsukishima took notice. His eyes flicked between them before he took a slow step forward, lips curling with quiet satisfaction. "Look at her, Mr. Gojo," he murmured, voice smooth, almost sympathetic. "Your arrogance has cost her dearly. You're not just shackled by your own blindness—you drag others down with you."

Satoru’s fingers tapped against his forearm, the only outward sign of his annoyance, his mind flickering between irritation and disbelief. Ah. So that’s what this is about? Some twisted inferiority complex?

Tsukishima continued, gaining momentum, his voice taking on that condescending, self-righteous tone Satoru had heard a hundred times before. "You men born into power, into privilege—you don’t understand desire. You’ve never needed something so badly that it clawed at your insides. You don’t ache for it. Not like I do."

Satoru inhaled slowly. This guy seriously thinks he’s the protagonist, huh?

"Power came to you easily." Tsukishima’s voice turned sharp, self-important. "You think you value your strength, but you don’t. To you, it’s nothing. Just a tool. Something that’s always been there. Effortless. Unearned. Maybe, deep down, you resent your  gifts." 

Satoru barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

"You’re numb. You’re utterly incapable of valuing anything or anyone," his tone turned mocking, a sneer hidden in his words. "But I was born with nothing. Everything I have, I fought for. I took it. That hunger—real hunger—is my power. And that’s why you’re losing, Mr. Gojo. Because when you bid, there’s no true value behind it. No real want."

Satoru was quiet for a moment. Then he blinked. Really? A cheap supervillain monologue? The dramatics were so cliché, he half-expected Tsukishima to end with a villainous laugh and a slow clap.

He’d been called arrogant, aloof, and detached, but no one had ever bothered turning it into a full-blown sermon. He might’ve even applauded—if they weren’t currently locked in a high-stakes death game. He couldn’t deny there was a kernel of truth in the old man’s words, but no, no time to indulge a power-hungry egomaniac, especially not when the life of someone else—a very stubborn, maddening someone—was tangled up in this game.

"Wow." He tilted his head, lips twitching. "That was a lot of words just to say ‘I’m jealous and have a complex about it.’"

Tsukishima’s expression twitched, but before he could speak, a sound broke the tension—sharp, incredulous laughter.

Satoru turned just in time to see Aoi pushing herself up. Her hands, limp only moments before, pressed firmly against the floor as she dragged herself upright. Even through the chains wrapped around her, the exhaustion in her limbs, he could see it.

The spark wasn’t gone.

And her face—oh, her face.

She scoffed. "So that’s it? That’s the whole core of your bullshit?" It wasn’t just defiance. It was the voice of someone who had hit rock bottom and found fire waiting for them there. "This auction isn’t about money. It’s about who wants something the most, right? Fine." She pushed up onto one knee, then another, her breath sharp, steady. "There’s one thing I want. No—one thing I desire more than anything right now."

Satoru straightened slightly. "Aoi—"

She didn’t even glance at him. Her shaking finger pointed straight at Tsukishima, voice like steel. "I want that damn gavel. The one infused with my curse, born from my painting. The one that should be mine by right." Her breath hitched, then, with absolute conviction, "And I want it so badly I’d crack your smug face open with it if I could."

Satoru’s lips parted. Then, to his absolute horror—he felt himself grin. Atta girl. Reckless, defiant, utterly insane and probably a little drunk on that glass of champagne. It was sheer madness, the kind that usually made his life hell, but in that moment, it was exactly what they needed.

He half-lifted a hand, intent on stepping in as something inside him, cold and logical, urged him to stop her. To calculate, to find the correct move. But something else—something much louder—told him to sit back and watch.

"Aoi," he tried again, "you're nearly out of funds. Let me handle this. I need to work out the logic here—"

"Screw logic, Satoru!" she snapped, finally whipping around to face him, eyes blazing with an intensity that made him pause. "How can you just stand there and let him talk trash down to you like that? This is about desire, right? Then I desire that gavel more than anything. More than air. More than dignity. I want to see that grin wiped off his face, even if it costs me everything."

The shikigami shifted, its massive form creaking, gears clicking in slow, deliberate movement. Its voice, mechanical and soulless, boomed: "Hidden rule: the auction is won by the person who desires the item up for bid the most."

Aoi’s eyes flashed. Then she turned back to Tsukishima, her expression sharp, her voice cold. "I’m opening an auction for Tsukishima’s gavel. Starting price: ¥40 million."

Satoru saw it, the moment Tsukishima flinched.

Oh, this is priceless. The bastard had been untouchable until now—smug, composed, certain. But now? Now there was doubt in his eyes. Beautiful.

The shikigami processed the request, gears grinding. Then, at last, it spoke: "Request accepted. Auction initiated by Aoi Fujikawa: Item – cursed gavel. Starting price: ¥40 million."

Aoi’s grin turned feral. "¥50 million," she declared, the force of her voice daring anyone to challenge her claim.

Satoru exhaled sharply. Well, shit. That shikigami actually listened to her.

He rubbed his jaw, amusement bubbling under his skin. Here she was, resolute, standing in the face of impossible odds, bidding on a cursed gavel as if it were the Holy Grail. He should stop this. He should tell her to be careful. But—

No. Screw it. It was perfect.

His grin turned razor-sharp, tilting his head as if considering the price of a trivial trinket. "¥70 million."

Tsukishima’s confidence wavered, a hint of frustration creasing his brow. "¥80 million."

The shikigami paused, processing the bids, and the room seemed to hold its breath. Satoru felt a strange thrill he hadn’t felt in a long time. For once, he was forced to rely on more than his power alone, to gamble on the raw force of will between him and Aoi.

And somehow? It felt amazing.

His grin widened, daring the universe to play along.

After what felt like an eternity, the shikigami’s voice echoed through the hall:

"Auction awarded to Aoi Fujikawa."

The room seemed to freeze for a heartbeat, the echo of the announcement sinking in and the weight of the chains around his eyes didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

The panel above them flickered as it recalibrated, its numbers spinning before finally settling:

Tsukishima Daigo: ¥3.2 billion
Aoi Fujikawa: ¥204.5 million
Satoru Gojo: ¥3.3 billion

Now we’re talking, Satoru thought.

Tsukishima froze. His mask cracked. His fingers twitched, grasping at something that wasn’t there—because the gavel, his gavel, was no longer in his hand.

It had vanished.

And when it reappeared, it was clutched tightly in Aoi’s grip, wrapped in glowing chains, marked in burning letters:

“Sold - Aoi Fujikawa.”

Satoru’s smirk widened as he caught the look of disbelief on Tsukishima’s face as his mask cracked. His lips curled, but the slight tremor in his shoulders, the darting gaze—

Oh. He’s losing it.

Realization hit him like a curse gone rogue: he’d been outmaneuvered by the two people he had assumed he had absolute control over.

Mr. Composure, the untouchable strategist, had finally cracked. And the one to do it? Aoi Fujikawa—reckless, maddening, brilliant Aoi. 

Tsukishima’s fingers twitched, the telltale spasm of someone watching their well-laid plans crumble. Satoru took a moment to savor the sight. The slight crease in Tsukishima’s brow, the way his eyes flitted between Aoi and the shikigami, scrambling for an escape. 

He almost pitied him—almost. But any shred of sympathy was swallowed by the sheer absurdity of what had just happened. And Aoi? She stood there, wild-eyed, gripping that gavel like a damn war trophy.

He braced himself. Whatever chaos she was about to unleash, it was going to be big, but letting her take the reins had worked so far—against all odds.

Then she spoke, her voice light, scornful—playful. "You know, for someone who loves lecturing about desire, you really don’t understand Satoru at all." She tilted her head, letting the amusement curl at her lips. "Yeah, sure, he’s the most arrogant, insufferable, and downright unbearable person I’ve ever met. He thinks the world revolves around him, and he wouldn’t recognize humility if it punched him in the face."

Satoru’s brows shot up. Oh, really? Now was the time to roast him? He bit back a sigh. Thanks, Aoi. I've never felt so loved.

He couldn’t decide if he wanted to burst out laughing or feel offended. Maybe a bit of both.  He fought the urge to roll his eyes and settled for a sardonic grin, feeling the weight of her words dig under his skin.

She gestured toward Tsukishima, the gavel in her hand now an accusatory finger. "But saying he doesn’t value anything?" Aoi pressed on, her voice gaining strength. "That he doesn’t care about anyone?" She scoffed. "You couldn’t be more wrong. He’s infuriatingly protective. He throws himself in front of curses and lunatics like you without a second thought. He acts like it’s nothing—like it’s expected. But it’s not. He’s not some untouchable god—he’s an idiot who carries the weight of the world and pretends it’s nothing."

Satoru blinked.

Oh. That was—unexpected.

Tsukishima’s face twitched, his carefully constructed mask beginning to crumble as Aoi pressed on. "So don’t you dare talk to us about value. You have no idea who you’re dealing with."

Satoru blinked as the corners of his mouth tightened into what might have been a smile if he weren’t so disoriented. Oh, lovely. Now she was exposing his soft underbelly for the world—or at least Tsukishima—to see.

Was he touched? Maybe.

Annoyed? Absolutely.

He cast Aoi a glance, torn between strangling her and thanking her for throwing his own reality in his face and for her horrible choice of words. Yet, beneath the absurdity, there it was—the odd flip in his chest that he hadn’t asked and that he shoved down before it took root. Get a grip, Gojo. Now’s not the time to start feeling things.

"You know," he murmured, leaning slightly toward her, voice low and laced with sarcasm, "I’m still debating if I should thank you or throttle you later, art girl. Great delivery, questionable timing."

She flashed him a grin, unfazed by the chaos around them. It was a look that made him almost—almost—forget the danger.

Then her eyes shifted back to the floating numbers above them, and just like that, something changed.

His instincts screamed at him—Warning. Incoming Aoi-level recklessness.

And sure enough, she turned to the shikigami, her voice steady, bold, and utterly terrifying.

"I’d like to auction Aoi Fujikawa. Myself. My life, my whole existence, everything I am."

Satoru jerked toward her so fast the chains clinked. "What—"

She didn’t even look at him. "Starting bid: ¥3.2 billion."

He felt the beginnings of panic prickling at the edge of his composure—a feeling he was not accustomed to. No. Absolutely not. This was recklessness taken to a deadly extreme. Even for her.

For a brief, almost imperceptible moment, Tsukishima’s mask faltered. A flicker of doubt. But Satoru had no time to savor it, because the shikigami hesitated—just a breath—before its voice boomed through the chamber.

"Request accepted. Auction item: Aoi Fujikawa. Starting bid: ¥3.2 billion."

Satoru clenched his fists, fighting to maintain composure. Three-point-three billion. She had no way of bidding, no way to participate in an auction for herself.

Finally, finally, she turned to him. And she smirked. Oh, she was thriving in this. The sheer audacity of this woman.

"Looks like I’m a little short on cash," she mused, tapping her chin as if this wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever had. "Guess I can’t even bid on myself."

Satoru’s eye twitched. "Oh, you think you’re funny, huh?"

Aoi’s grin stretched wider. "A little." Her head tilted, gaze sharp as a blade.

The gleam in her eyes was a direct challenge, daring him to do something—anything—to get them out of this impossible mess. Of course she’d pick now to provoke him. Perfect timing, really.

His brain kicked into overdrive, cataloging possibilities, outcomes, and a million ways this could go wrong, the the urge to throw her over his shoulder and somehow bolt, growing stronger by the second. 

What was she thinking? No—scratch that—he knew exactly what she was thinking. She’d thought this through about as much as she usually did: barely at all, running headfirst into chaos with the conviction she’d figure it out later.

Across the room, Tsukishima’s sneer stretched into something vicious, his gaze bouncing between them with predatory glee. Regaining his composure, he let out a slow breath. His smirk returned, cruel and gloating. "¥3.2 billion."

Great. The old man was gloating. Satoru barely heard it. His pulse was hammering in his skull. If Tsukishima won—if he won—Aoi would be bound to him. And by extension—so would Satoru. 

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

And if the rules of this cursed auction held any weight beyond this domain, the consequences of Tsukishima’s victory would be catastrophic.

The bastard was betting on his need to control. On his desire to claim power that wasn’t his. And, for all his smug arrogance, he was right about one thing: Satoru had never truly wanted for anything in his life. Not in the way others did.

The logic was clear, infuriatingly so: whoever valued her more for their own reasons, would win.

Could he win this auction? Could he want her enough to beat Tsukishima at his own game? Yes, she was his unlikely companion, pulled into his orbit by a cursed bond and a string of impossible events. 

But that’s all it was.

Or, at least, he told himself, though the lie rang hollow even in his own mind. Every fiber of his being rejected the idea of losing her to that smug bastard.

His gaze locked onto Aoi’s through the chains—she couldn’t see his eyes, but she didn’t need to. What the hell are you doing? You’re gambling your life just to prove a point?

He could feel her looking back at him, urging him to act, to play along in her little game.

This. This right here. This is how she gets him. She drags him into her chaos, kicking and screaming, until suddenly he’s the one doing reckless, impossible things.

Damn. Do I value her? Do I even care enough?

...Wait.

Against all logic. Against all reason. Against every carefully placed wall he had spent his entire life building—

Of course he did. God, why did he care?

Damn her for making him realize things at the worst possible moment.

His answer came in the form of every reckless, inexplicable thing he’d done since meeting her. "All in." Satoru let himself smirk just a little. The words left his lips before he could second-guess them. "¥3.3 billion. There. Now take me down to zero if you can, old man."

He glanced at Aoi, silently daring her to question his move, though he knew she’d never see his eyes through the chains. Her lips parted slightly in surprise, before settling into a pleased, slightly smug grin. Her expression said it all: took you long enough.

The shikigami processed the bid, the tension in the air unbearable.

Satoru couldn’t even begin to predict the outcome, and that in itself was maddening. This was it. This was the moment everything balanced on a knife’s edge. Aoi watched him, her gaze calm, like she was placing all her trust in him without a shred of doubt.

This is ridiculous, he thought, but he couldn’t stop the slight upturn of his lips. This woman was chaos incarnate, and somehow, impossibly, he’d decided he couldn’t let that chaos fall into anyone else’s hands.

"This had better work, art girl," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. 

Finally, the verdict broke the silence. "Auction awarded to Satoru Gojo."

For a heartbeat, the silence was absolute.

Then Aoi erupted into a cheer. "Ha! Take that, you smug bastard!" she shouted, pointing the gavel at Tsukishima, who now looked stricken, his confident facade finally shattered.

Satoru released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, a laugh escaping despite himself. They’d done it. They’d actually pulled it off. Oh, so it worked. Of course, it worked. He had no choice but to exude confidence, even if his mind had been in a thousand places at once just moments before.

But damn if it hadn’t paid off.

Around Aoi’s waist, luminous chains appeared, etched clearly with the words “Sold – Satoru Gojo.”

Aoi’s whoop of triumph shattered the fragile silence, her voice bright and wild, bouncing off the high walls of the cursed domain. She practically danced in place, the gavel in her grip wielded like a trophy, laughing with a sort of breathless madness he found contagious, sparking a grin that Satoru couldn’t smother even if he’d tried.

Across the room, Tsukishima collapsed slowly to his knees, his confidence gone, replaced by stunned disbelief. The sting of defeat painted his features with an almost pitiable starkness. And there it was—panic. Satoru watched it with a detached satisfaction.

The auction panel flickered, updating their totals one last time:

Tsukishima Daigo: ¥0
Aoi Fujikawa: ¥102.25 million
Satoru Gojo: ¥6.6 billion

Then came the cold, impartial voice of the shikigami: "Rule number four: the auction ends when a participant runs out of funds. All possessions acquired during the auction by the losing participant must be returned."

The declaration seemed to suck the air out of the room. The shimmering chains that bore “Sold – Tsukishima Daigo” began to dissolve one by one. The sensation of the chains loosening and falling from his head was almost liberating.

Satoru stretched his neck, savoring the relief. The sheer madness of Aoi's gamble still pulsed in his veins. He took a long, victorious breath, unable to completely hide the smirk tugging at his lips. We got out of this ridiculous mess, he thought, shooting a sideways glance at Aoi, who was still gripping her newfound gavel with a gleeful, almost manic smile.

A laugh bubbled from her, breathless and tinged with a madness that only those who’d just survived the impossible could share, hefting her gavel proudly. "So, it’s over," she said, the disbelief still lacing her voice. She looked worn, dust and sweat smudged across her face, but her eyes held that familiar spark. "I can’t believe you literally bought me. You realize how problematic that sounds?"

He crossed his arms, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as he assumed a mockingly casual stance. "Oh, very. But honestly, I’m more worried about the fact that you’re now armed. Not sure which is scarier—you or Tsukishima." He nodded toward the gavel in her hand, eyebrow raised. "Especially considering how you wield it."

She laughed again, wild and light, and the sound settled warmly inside his chest.

Their banter ended abruptly as Tsukishima crumbled further, looking lost and bewildered. He stared blankly into space, muttering quietly as his world fell apart around him.

Satoru watched him with a detached curiosity, as one might observe a wounded animal. The old man’s lips moved, forming muttered denials that dripped with a hollow sort of desperation, each word a futile attempt to piece together what had gone wrong, why his calculated, sure-win strategy had crumbled.

Pathetic, Satoru walked over slowly, his movements relaxed yet purposeful. He didn’t rush—no, he wanted the man to see it coming. Oh, the old man know what's coming. He know all too well. He glanced back just enough to ensure Aoi followed, her steps lighter but unwavering. Who gets the first strike? Decisions, decisions. But first, there were more pressing matters.

He crouched down, giving the defeated man a pointedly unimpressed look. "Well, now that your little empire’s in ruins, how about you tell us something useful? Who exactly put you up to this?" His tone was deceptively light, almost conversational. "Who helped a nobody like you become a sorcerer, craft a cursed auction hammer, and all the rest?"

Tsukishima’s lips twitched weakly, the remnants of his dignity crumbling like dry paper. His gaze flickered towards the shikigami, still towering behind them with its grotesquely oversized gavel in hand. Its joints creaked ominously, a sound that resonated like a death knell. Tsukishima’s eyes darkened with the realization that his demise was imminent.

"Doesn’t matter anymore," he whispered bitterly. "She only wanted the Six Eyes. The rest… the rest was supposed to be mine. If I’d stopped when I had it—no, I desired too much. I reached too far, and that was my downfall."

She? Satoru leaned closer, voice sharpening. "Who’s ‘she’? I’m gonna need more than that."

Details. He needed details.

Tsukishima looked up vaguely, eyes distant. "Never knew her name. Short dark hair, a scar running across her forehead. Cold eyes. Terrifying disturbing woman, really."

Before Satoru could press further, the shikigami’s massive frame shuddered and shifted. The heavy hammer it wielded rose, casting a long, dark shadow over Tsukishima. The defeated sorcerer didn’t flinch; his eyes were empty, resigned.

"Ah, figured as much," Satoru muttered with a touch of dark humor. So, no poetic justice from us. Too bad. He felt Aoi’s presence shift beside him, her body tensing as she realized what was about to happen.

He stood, reaching for Aoi’s arm and pulling her back, a motion swift enough to jolt her from her daze.

"Satoru—wait, what's happening?" She stumbled, glancing past his shoulder, confusion rapidly giving way to horror.

She glanced over his shoulder, confusion turning to horror as the shikigami’s shadow fell over Tsukishima. He sat unmoving, a strange, almost serene acceptance washing over his defeated form.

He shook his head calmly, guiding her firmly backward. "Trust me, you don’t want front row seats for this... mess," he said, the last word laced with dark humor, sparing her a sideways glance that softened the edge of his warning. "Maybe don’t look? Unless you want a permanent nightmare in HD."

Satoru watched the realization dawn on her face, her gaze flicking between him, the shikigami, and Tsukishima, whose shoulders had slumped in acceptance of his fate.

Her eyes widened in realization as the shikigami's shadow grew larger. "We—we should stop it—"

"Stop it? Nah," he tilted his head, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "Weren’t you just begging for someone to wipe that smug look off his face? Consider your wish granted."

Behind them, the hammer slammed down with a heavy, nauseating crunch. Aoi immediately buried her face in her hands, flinching at the horrible sound of bone and flesh splintering that filled the room, mingled with a wet, visceral splatter.. Satoru didn’t turn, simply observing her reaction with faint amusement.

Poetic justice at its finest. Taken out by your own domain.

Moments later, the entire domain shattered around them like breaking glass, leaving them back in the real world—in the wrecked conference hall. The sudden quiet felt strange, the aftermath of their chaos visible in overturned furniture and broken marble.

Emergency lights flashed outside, but no one else remained inside the ruined hall. The civilians who had been present before their frenzied escape must have scattered, the authorities now scrambling in response to the destruction.

Satoru glanced briefly at the mess that was once Tsukishima, quickly deciding it wasn't worth looking at any longer. A tangled heap of flesh and crimson stained the marble floor. Not exactly a dignified ending, but fitting, he supposed. He looked away, satisfied enough that it was finally over.

Finally, he allowed himself to breathe properly, releasing tension he hadn’t realized he'd been holding onto. Nearby, the painting lay intact, the cursed nail still piercing its canvas. He exhaled softly, letting himself relax for the first time since they'd entered this twisted nightmare.

Aoi, still facing away, her hands gripping the gavel and covering her eyes, spoke hesitantly. "Is... is it safe to look yet?"

Quickly stepping into her line of sight to shield her from the grisly scene, Satoru slipped back into his usual casual bravado. "Not exactly," he teased, voice light. "But feel free to admire me instead. Much nicer view."

She peeked through her fingers carefully, scanning his face, then the destroyed hall behind him. Relief flickered across her features for a split second before panic took over. She lunged forward, grabbing his face with both hands in a graceless rush, pulling him down to her level, squishing his cheeks in the process.

"Your eyes! Are they still there?" Her voice rose in panic, her fingers pressing harder than necessary as her gaze darted around his face.

Caught somewhere between amusement and irritation, he blinked, momentarily lost in her wide, worried eyes. He rolled his eyes dramatically, exaggerating his patience, though he secretly appreciated the absurdity of the moment. But really—this was her first reaction?

"I dunno," he deadpanned with voice muffled by her grip, gently tugging at her wrists without any real force. "Maybe squeeze my face a little harder, just to be sure?"

"Hold still!" she snapped, pulling him even closer, her thumbs carefully brushing around his eyes over the spot where the chains had once been. A breath of relief passed over her, but she didn’t let go, her gaze holding his for a moment too long. Realizing herself suddenly, Aoi yanked her hands away as if she'd been burned, cheeks flushing a faint shade of pink. "Okay. They seem fine."

Satoru straightened, rubbing his now sore face dramatically, arching an eyebrow. "Careful. I know my face is nice, but this is excessive even for you."

She rolled her eyes, pointedly ignoring him. "You're impossible."

Ignoring her comment, he casually stepped over to the painting, lifting it carefully to avoid triggering the cursed bond again, mindful not to cause Aoi any more pain. His fingers brushed over the rough canvas, the nail gleaming ominously. 

He turned, holding it out toward her with a faint smirk. "All yours. Work your magic."

She took it, catching the glint of encouragement in his eyes, determination replacing embarrassment as she concentrated. He saw it clearly with the Six Eyes—the cursed energy dissolve, returning her fragmented soul back to its rightful place.

Her eyes softened, a small smile playing at her lips.

Satoru exhaled quietly. Good. One more down. Another victory, another step closer to untangling the chaos that had bound them together. Yet something still nagged at him—the question burning quietly in the back of his mind, the memory of her reckless self-auction replaying in his head,  completely trusting he would somehow come through. How did she know? 

"Art girl," he said, the name slipping out more softly than intended. 

She looked up, curiosity in her tired eyes. "Hmm?"

He hesitated, then asked. "How did you know?"

She blinked slowly. "Know what?"

Satoru shifted uncomfortably. "Earlier, I mean. How did you know I’d win that last auction? You took a pretty big gamble."

Her expression shifted from exhaustion to mild surprise, and then to something teasing. She tilted her head playfully. "Wasn’t it obvious?"

What? Obvious? Satoru’s mouth twitched, the faintest hint of unease creeping up his spine. "Enlighten me."

Stepping closer, she tilted her head as if explaining something incredibly obvious. "Our cursed bond, genius. If something had happened to me, you'd have been dragged down too. I figured you'd value your own survival enough to truly value me."

He stared, processing. 

Oh. Right. The cursed bond. Simple logic, nothing more. That made perfect sense. That had to be it, he told himself firmly, squashing down the other thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind. The irrational, messy reasons he’d rather not confront.

It was just the cursed bond. Obviously.

So why did it feel so unsatisfying?

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He must have fallen silent too long because Aoi raised an eyebrow. "What?" she asked suspiciously. "What were you thinking?"

"Nothing," he answered far too quickly, turning abruptly away to stare intently at an extremely boring piece of cracked marble. "Exactly that. Just that."

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

They sat outside the ruined convention center, wrapped in thin, itchy blankets provided by the city's emergency responders. Their attempt to look like mere "victims of circumstance" would have been more convincing if it weren’t for the fact that they caused half the chaos inside. 

Flashing red-and-blue lights swept across the pavement, throwing shadows on cracked concrete and scattered debris. Police radios buzzed occasionally, mixing with distant sirens in a surreal aftermath melody. It was the perfect, surreal backdrop for the aftermath of their latest escapade—a spectacle that would surely make the headlines by morning.  All in all, a standard evening for Satoru Gojo.

He stretched out his legs casually, reclining as though he hadn't just single-handedly demolished half a building. His expression was deceptively relaxed, the corners of his mouth tilted in that familiar smirk, but his mind raced, cataloging every detail, every lingering spark of cursed energy. The administrators at Jujutsu HQ were probably rolling their eyes, readying a list of fines and reprimands that he would ignore with the same nonchalance as always. Reckless use of power, property damage, public disruption—the usual accusations that never seemed to deter him.

Beside him, Aoi sat huddled with her knees tucked up against her chest, looking smaller and crankier than usual. Her hair was a tangled mess, and there was a long tear running down the side of her dress, exposing an alarming amount of leg. At some point—probably in the chaos—she had lost her shoes, leaving her barefoot and utterly miserable-looking, more like a disgruntled child than an art student who had just survived a life-threatening, cursed auction. Still, she seemed to tired to care.

Satoru glanced briefly at the dark red smear staining the edge of her torn dress. Was that Tsukishima’s blood? He squinted, realizing that, yes, it was. Maybe best to keep that tidbit quiet for now; she’d freak out, and he didn’t have the energy to deal with her dramatics.

A cold breeze drifted by. Her fingers tightened around the gavel, and her shoulders tensed against the chill. "I'm cold. I'm tired. I'm hungry," she muttered, glaring accusingly at the ground. "And my feet hurt. This sucks."

He chuckled softly. "You're barefoot because…?"

She shot him a deadly glare. "Because some reckless idiot dragged me through an exploding auction house." She groaned, burying her face back into her knees. "I want to go home."

"You're welcome." An amused chuckle escaped, as he brushed a piece of debris from her hair with an offhanded flick. The gesture was met with a muffled, tired groan and a glare from under her lashes. "Hang tight. The cavalry’s coming," he said, the teasing lilt in his voice softening the command. "You know the rule—make a mess, stay to clean it up."

Aoi lifted her head, her eyes sparkling with irritation. "I hate that stupid rule."

"We have to keep up appearances. Responsible sorcerers and all that," he replied with mock seriousness before adding, his eyes twinkling with mischief, "Besides, consider it revenge for you almost selling yourself back there."

She tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Hmm. Doesn’t ring a bell." Her gaze landed back on the cursed gavel clutching it protectively, as if worried he might confiscate it.

"C’mon," he teased, reaching out a hand. "Let me see the deadly weapon."

She narrowed her eyes, wary. "Why?"

"Relax. Just a quick inspection." He smirked. "Promise I'll give it back."

Aoi looked at him, brows furrowing as though he’d asked her to hand over a treasured family heirloom. But after a moment, she passed it over, clearly reluctant, eyeing him like he was about to ruin something precious.

Satoru tested the weight in his palm, feeling its special-grade cursed infused in it humming silently. Interesting. He poured a tiny spark of his own cursed energy into it. Nothing happened. The gavel remained inert, as if mocking his efforts.

"Huh," he muttered, trying again with slightly more force. Still, the gavel remained stubbornly inert. Apparently, the effect of that strange auction made it so only Aoi could use it. Go figure.

Now he had a gavel that refused him and a girl who, by some arcane rule, he had ‘won.’ What did that even mean?

"What?" Aoi asked, suddenly anxious. "Did you break it?"

He laughed, handing it back. "Congratulations—you've got yourself an exclusive cursed weapon. Only responds to your angry vibes. Infuse some cursed energy into it," he said, smirking as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Aoi’s nose scrunched up. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that?"

Typical. Satoru rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at his lips. "Think angry thoughts, focus on the feeling, you know, concentrate, feel the energy, and—oh, who am I kidding. Just… forget it."

But Aoi was nothing if not stubborn. She scowled, focusing intensely on the gavel as her face turned pink with effort.

Satoru snorted, watching her with a mix of amusement and relief. Honestly, it was probably for the best. The world definitely is not ready for Aoi Fujikawa with a cursed gavel, he thought, oddly relieved.

Her eyes darted to the gavel in her hands, and she lifted it slightly as if testing its weight. "This thing’s not so bad. Kind of fits me, don’t you think?"

He laughed, a rare, genuine sound. "That’s what I’m afraid of."

Aoi crossed her arms, grumbling. "Stupid cursed object," she muttered before she suddenly brightened, as if struck by an idea. Her eyes brightened as she fumbled for her phone, pulling it out triumphantly. "Oh, we need to document this. Shoko deserves photographic proof that we survived."

"Alright, but only because I want her to see how ridiculous you look," he teased, leaning in closer to her, his face only inches from hers.

She nudged him lightly but couldn't hide the small grin that crept onto her lips. They shifted into frame of Aoi's phone inner camera, covered in dust and debris, clothes torn and singed, hair wild. She adjusted the angle, making sure the background included the cracked walls of the conference center, the emergency vehicles, and, most importantly, their own disheveled states. 

Aoi held up the gavel like it was some prized artifact, smirking at the camera. Satoru, ever the showman, his smirk wide and unapologetic, threw up two fingers in a peace sign next to her head.

"Say something stupid," she instructed.

"Something stupid," he echoed immediately.

Click.

She snapped the photo, and both of them crowded over the screen. Aoi burst into uncontrollable giggles. The sound was unrestrained and full, lighting up her tired face.

"We look like we survived a demolition derby," she said, wiping at her eyes.

"Correction: we won a demolition derby," Satoru replied, snatching the phone from her hands. He quickly tapped out a caption beneath the photo: Another day, another disaster. Jealous, Shoko?

Shoko’s reply was immediate, an eye-rolling emoji followed by, You two idiots need adult supervision.

They sat there for a moment, sharing the ridiculousness of the situation, before Aoi’s laughter tapered off into a sigh. She rested her head back on her knees, looking sideways at him. "Anyway, tomorrow’s your birthday, remember? What’s the plan?"

"The plan?" he echoed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, sure. Between not dying and playing deadly games of ‘guess who desires what,’ I had plenty of time to plan a party."

Aoi nudged him again impatiently, her shoulder bumping against his. "Don’t dodge the question."

Satoru sighed dramatically but allowed the teasing to fade from his voice for once. "Fine. Honestly? Food, relaxation, and maybe—and this is a very big maybe—a whole day without dealing with cursed objects. Just a normal, boring day. Weird enough for you?"

She blinked, eyes softening with genuine warmth. A small, sincere smile played at her lips. "No," she admitted softly. "It sounds perfect."

Perfect, he echoed silently. The word echoed oddly in his head, and he realized he actually meant it, how much he was actually looking forward to the idea. The idea of a quiet day—just the two of them, no chaos, no drama—felt strangely appealing. Too appealing, in fact. How had she managed to make him consider a day without the noise, without chaos, and actually want it?

"Wow," Satoru recovered quickly, smirking lightly, "look at you practically glowing. Careful, or I might think you like spending time with me."

Aoi rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. "Don’t flatter yourself. I'm just happy to finally have a break."

He laughed, nudging her back. "Okay, okay. Tomorrow just food, maybe some mindless TV. You, me, and the laziest day in history where we pretend the world isn’t a complete mess."

Her grin grew wider, and she nodded, a bit of color returning to her cheeks. "Promise?"

"Alright, alright," he relented, unable to hide the softening of his voice. "It's a promise." He looked away quickly, escaping her gaze. "Don’t get your hopes up," he muttered, though he couldn’t stop the faint smile forming on his own lips. "Knowing us, it'll probably end in disaster anyway."

A tiny smirk pulled at her lips, but before she could tease him further, her attention suddenly shifted downward, and she went rigid. She went in full panic mode as she noticed the blood staining the hem of her torn dress. "Wait, wait, wait—is that blood? Oh god, that’s blood! That’s Tsukishima’s blood!"

She jumped to her feet so suddenly that the thin blanket fell away, revealing more of the embarrassing rip in her dress. She frantically rubbed at the stain, making disgusted noises under her breath. "Ew, ew, ew, why didn’t you tell me?"

Satoru watched her calmly, clearly entertained. "Wow, never seen you move that fast. Where do you think you’re going?"

"Bathroom. Now." She shot him a furious glare, already stumbling toward the building again on bare feet. "I’m just—ugh, gross, gross, gross!"

He raised a hand lazily, making no move to follow. "Sure, princess. Try not to slip."

She shot him one last indignant glare before marching off in the direction of the restrooms inside the conference hall, blanket abandoned and muttering to herself the whole way.

As he watched her go, he couldn’t help but smirk, shaking his head at her dramatics. Always so animated, even after all that. Despite himself, he found her quirks endearing—the way she’d make a fuss about the smallest things, how she wore her heart on her sleeve. He wondered idly when exactly he'd let himself become so attached.

Was that terrifying? Absolutely. Did he care? Less and less, it seemed.

He sighed and rested his head back against the cold steps, closing his eyes for a moment. Tomorrow. The idea of a quiet day—Just them. No battles, no tension, just a day to pretend that maybe, just maybe, things could be simple. It sounded stupidly perfect. He found himself holding onto that thought, the idea of Aoi laughing at something trivial, the way her nose scrunched when she was genuinely happy.

It was almost ridiculous how much he was looking forward to it.

Tomorrow, Sendai and cursed auctions be damned, they’d have their day.

His quiet musings were soon interrupted by approaching footsteps. He opened one eye lazily, taking in the familiar dark suit and the clipboard held by the young man standing stiffly in front of him—a cleanup crew assistant, by the looks of him.

"Gojo-san," the assistant gave a stiff, professional nod. "We’ll be handling the cleanup and police reports now, as per standard procedure—"

Satoru waved dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Standard protocol, I know. Just keep it out of the headlines, alright? I’m already getting enough grief from the higher-ups, I’d rather not have them breathing down my neck again.."

"Understood," the man replied stiffly, before walking off to join the rest of the team.

Finally alone again, Satoru exhaled, relieved. Soon, they'd be out of here. Just him, Aoi, and that blissfully curse-free day.

His phone suddenly buzzed, startling him out of his relaxation. Glancing at the screen, he smirked when he saw Aoi's name pop up. He answered with exaggerated sarcasm. "What, can’t find the toilet paper? Need a rescue already?"

Her annoyed voice crackled through the speaker immediately. "Very funny, but the cleanup team’s looking for you. They says he’s been trying to reach you."

Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced down, rolling his eyes at the name on the screen. Aoi.

Satoru’s blood instantly ran cold, his smirk freezing on his lips. His eyes darted toward the assistant who had just spoken to him—still standing in front of him, clipboard still in hand.

"Huh," he said sharply, standing quickly, suddenly on full alert. "What are you talking about? I just spoke to—"

Too late.

Suddenly, every sense he had screamed at him, all too late. He’d let his guard down, grown too comfortable. Why had he let her out of his sight, even for a second? 

He shot up, eyes darting to the building where Aoi had disappeared, voice tight. "Aoi, listen to me. Get out of there. Right now. Don’t talk to anyone, just—"

Static crackled sharply in his ear, and the call disconnected.

Before he could even process what had happened, a cold, searing sensation erupted in his side, like someone had plunged a blade deep into his body, making him stagger slightly. He doubled over, one hand clutching his side as a sharp, numbing pain radiated outward.

Except there was no wound—no blood.

This pain wasn’t his.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

-Aoi-

The morning sun slipped through the blinds, casting pale streaks across cracked cream walls. Aoi lay stretched out on a narrow bed, feeling as though the mattress intended to swallow her whole. A faded quilt bunched around her waist, barely fending off the morning chill. The quilt that covered her was a faded patchwork of dull greens and browns, bunched at her waist and doing little to ward off the chill that seeped into her bones. The only sound was the occasional rustle of leaves from outside and the low hum of distant conversation that filtered in through the open window.

Shoko sat cross-legged perched on the edge of a nearby chair, her white coat open over a graphic tee reading "Trust Me, I’m Almost a Doctor." The silver glint of her ear cuff caught the light as she worked, adding to her composed, almost regal air. Her hair hung around her face as she inspected the scar on Aoi's side—a fresh, tender line trailing from ribs to hip. She pressed lightly, though her fingers felt annoyingly clinical rather than comforting, eyes narrowed in an almost predatory focus.

A smirk tugged at Shoko’s lips as she hummed an offbeat, playful tune under her breath. It might have been comforting if it weren’t for the detached, almost gleeful way she conducted her inspection, as if she were studying a rare specimen rather than checking on a friend.

Aoi winced as Shoko hit a particularly sore spot. "You know you look like a psychopath right now, right?" Her voice was hoarse, tinged with a fatigue that had settled deep in her bones days ago.

"Can't help it," Shoko replied without looking up, the slight upturn of her lips making her look even more sardonic. "Pure occupational hazard," she said, tilting her head as if to examine her work from a new angle. "Be thankful—my exams are coming up, and you're literally the most exciting thing I've seen in weeks."

Aoi rolled her eyes, already familiar with Shoko's casual bluntness. Ever since waking up in this cramped little guest room days earlier, these examinations had become routine, and whatever healing Shoko had performed—some technique she’d half-heartedly explained in medical terms that had gone straight over Aoi’s head—had left her completely drained. The hazy memories of the cursed auction still lingered in the back of her mind.

Shoko continued her poking, lifting the edge of Aoi's oversized hoodie and casually tugging down the waistband of her sweatpants with a casualness that might have seemed friendly if not for the clinical focus in her eyes.

"Whose hoodie is this anyway?" Aoi asked suddenly, noticing how the sleeves engulfed her hands. She squinted suspiciously at the fabric, suspecting the answer. "It’s definitely not mine."

Shoko didn't even glance up, as if the answer was self-evident. "Satoru’s."

Aoi froze. Right. Satoru. The idiot. That explained why she felt practically lost inside it—the hoodie slipped down one shoulder and wrapped her in softness, carrying a faint scent she reluctantly recognized. She tugged the fabric closer, annoyed at the warmth spreading across her cheeks. Hopefully the sweatpants were hers—or at least Shoko’s—because any other possibility was too mortifying to consider.

"And the pants?" Aoi asked nervously.

Shoko just smirked, changing the subject entirely. "So, Reverse Cursed Technique—" she began, deftly ignoring the question. "Amazing stuff. But it knocks you flat, especially the first time."

Aoi sighed, glancing around the room—shabby desk, old wardrobe, and a faint scent of aged wood that looked like it had seen better days two decades ago. Shoko had mentioned it was a guest dorm at Jujutsu High, and at least it was bigger than her university shoebox where even turning around without hitting a wall was an achievement. Sunlight filtered through the air, highlighting the lazy dance of dust particles.

It was bright out. Daytime.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand. Five missed calls, all from Granny. Guilt tugged at her. Her grandmother was probably worrying herself sick by now. At least someone cared. Unlike—

"Hey, Shoko," she blurted, immediately regretting how pathetic she sounded, her voice tinged with something that felt too close to longing, "where’s Satoru?" She’d meant to sound casual, but Shoko’s raised eyebrow told her she'd failed spectacularly.

"Oh, him? Pretending to be busy," Shoko said, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled lazily upward as she shrugged. "Reports, missions, brooding, the usual joys of being Satoru Gojo."

Aoi huffed, crossing her arms, the movement only made her more aware of the heaviness in her limbs. "Right. So busy he can't spare a minute to say hi."

Shoko’s lips twisted into a knowing smirk, as she lit another cigarette with practiced ease, taking a long drag before exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. The casualness of it was almost insulting—seriously, what kind of doctor smoked right next to a patient? "Oh, he’s definitely busy. On a real mission."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Aoi narrowed her eyes, feeling like she was missing an inside joke.

"Nothing," Shoko shrugged, her grin annoyingly cryptic. "Forget it."

Aoi slumped back against the pillow, frustration knotting in her chest. One whole week of lying there healing, and not even a text from him. She tried not to admit it bothered her—except it did, deeply. Why was he avoiding her now, when she felt this vulnerable?

"You know," she said softly, staring down at her fingers as she fiddled nervously with the too-long sleeves of Satoru’s hoodie, "I think he's mad at me. Or just... avoiding me. Like I messed something up, and now he doesn't even want to deal with me."

"Mad at you?" Shoko nearly choked on her cigarette, snorting laughter, exhaling smoke through her nose like a dragon. "That's cute. Think harder."

Her knowing eyes lingered for a moment, then before Aoi could argue, Shoko flicked her forehead sharply, the sting pulling a small yelp from her. 

"Ow!" Aoi glared, more irritated than hurt. "What was that for?"

"You sure there’s nothing important you’re forgetting?" Shoko leaned in, eyes intense. "Some useful detail about your aggressor?" 

Aoi frowned, rubbing her forehead as her mind struggled to put the pieces together. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to focus. "Okay," she muttered to herself, forcing her thoughts to retrace the moments that had led her here.

"Let me rewind a bit…"

"Aoi, listen carefully. Get out of there right now. Don’t talk to anyone, just—"

Silence.

Aoi stared blankly at her phone. The call had cut abruptly, Satoru’s voice replaced by a static emptiness. His words echoed ominously in her head, leaving a chill in her chest. Standing alone in the brightly lit hallway, she felt more exposed than ever. The harsh lights buzzed softly overhead, the smell of bleach and disinfectant sharp in her nostrils, making her feel trapped and uneasy.

She glanced nervously behind her. The man who approached her as she stepped out of the bathroom had seemed ordinary enough—the kind she saw everywhere—just part of the usual protocol.

She’d given him a brief nod, barely thinking, turning slightly to call Satoru and let him know, but now...

Why had Satoru sounded so panicked? No, wrong question. She trusted him enough to know that if he was worried, she definitely should be too. Her fingers tightened around the phone as she tried to recall his instructions.

"Miss?"

Aoi spun around, defensive. The tall, professional-looking man still stood there with a polite smile, his expression neutral but practiced—almost too smooth. Something felt off. Really off. Her heart gave a small lurch, anxiety crawling up her spine. She felt her pulse quicken, mind racing as she replayed Satoru’s urgency.

"He… he didn't pick up his phone," she lied, heart pounding loudly in her ears, the chill of awareness creeping through her limbs. "Maybe we can go outside looking for him—"

"We can wait here," he said, still smiling. But his voice sent a chill down her spine, making her whole body tense with unease.

Aoi forced herself to breathe slowly. She took a small step back, gripping the cursed gavel tightly behind her back. How did Satoru explain it again? Focus and channel cursed energy—easier said than done when fear was making her brain short-circuit. Come on, she thought, heart hammering. Focus. Just summon it somehow. 

Fabric rustled gently—the man was moving closer, forward. Instinct roared to life, drowning out rational thought. Aoi spun out from behind her back the cursed gavel, instinctively, swinging it with every ounce of fear-fueled strength she could muster toward the man now far too close to her.

It struck hard with the man’s temple, connecting with a sickening crack. The man’s eyes widened in shock, a rivulet of blood bursting from the wound at his temple. He staggered, a guttural sound escaping him as his body jerked to one side. The thump of his body hitting the floor resonated through the small space, harsh and final.

Aoi’s breath came in short, ragged bursts, her chest heaving as her mind tried to catch up with what had just happened.

"Oh my god."

She stared down at the man sprawled on the tiles, blood pooling rapidly beneath his head. The panic set in, a wave so powerful it made her vision blur. Had... had she killed him? She hadn’t meant to—she just—

Before she could fully process what she’d done, a sharp, searing pain ripped through her side, snatching her breath away. The adrenaline that had carried her this far faltered, swept away by the icy tendrils of agony spreading from her abdomen.

She staggered, stunned, looking down in disbelief. A thick, crude blade buried deep in her side. The handle protruded from her abdomen, crimson rapidly staining her dress. Her fingers brushed the hilt shakily, pulling away coated in warm, sticky wetness.

Blood. Too much blood.

The crimson warmth began to seep through the thin fabric of her dress, soaking it, darkening the material until it clung to her skin like a second, suffocating layer.

A shiver wracked her body, uncontrollable tremors radiating outward as the pain flared, jagged and all-consuming. The room seemed to shift and blur, the edges wavering as her strength gave out.

Her knees gave out, and she sank onto the cold floor, agony flaring through her body. Her vision swam, dark spots blooming like ink in water, threatening to pull her under. She tried desperately to hold on, the phone slipping from her trembling fingers and clattering to the floor.

Aoi looked down, watching in detached horror as the blood pooled beneath her too fast, too fast, warm and viscous, spreading across the cold, sterile tiles, the sight making bile rise in her throat.

Stay awake, she begged herself weakly.

The room spun, tilting on an axis that didn’t make sense, sounds muffled, fading into nothingness. The last thing she saw was the fallen man’s blank stare—mocking, accusing. Her own heartbeat echoed faintly, drifting further away.

She didn’t feel the moment she collapsed entirely, only the impact of her head hitting hard the cold tile, the jolt dulled by the overwhelming throb from her wound. Her eyes, half-lidded and unfocused, caught sight of the expanding pool of blood—her blood—mirroring the fluorescent light in its dark surface.

Then, finally, silence.

"Nope."

Aoi blinked at the ceiling, still groggy and utterly frustrated. She had no clue who that guy was—he’d barely said hello before trying to kill her. Not exactly ideal for polite conversation.

Shoko exhaled a puff of smoke with the casual cynicism of someone who’s seen too much. "Figures."

Aoi scowled lightly, pushing herself up onto her elbows trying to at least sit upright. She tried shifting into a cross-legged position, imagining herself graceful, but in reality, she felt more like a noodle that’d been boiled too long.

Shoko eyed her with a half-smile, shaking her head. "Easy there, hero. I’m not hauling your sorry ass upright again if you collapse. My back’s precious, you know."

"Relax, grandma," Aoi muttered, rolling her eyes as Shoko leaned forward, absentmindedly fixing Aoi’s hair like a big sister—if big sisters were also slightly cynical. It was strangely comforting, despite the med student's cynical manner. Shoko wasn't exactly the nurturing type, but somehow she'd ended up as Aoi's unofficial caretaker, and neither of them had bothered to question it.

Shoko," she asked after a pause, her voice hesitant, "about that guy… Did I… did I actually kill him?"

Shoko took her sweet time answering, enjoying the suspense far too much. Eventually, she settled for the most ambiguous answer possible, "Sort of."

"Sort of?" Aoi sputtered. "Do you and Satoru rehearse these cryptic responses together, or—ah—you know what? Never mind." She sighed, flopping backward onto the bed again, guilt gnawing at her despite Shoko’s casual attitude. "I was just trying to defend myself, you know? Not actually—"

"Oh trust me," Shoko interrupted firmly, sensing where this was going. "Honestly, you did him a favor. If you'd missed, Satoru would’ve pulverized him into a paste."

Aoi couldn’t help the grim chuckle that escaped. Yeah, she could definitely picture Satoru losing it, all manic intensity that would seize him when someone crossed a line. The thought felt strangely comforting—if a bit disturbing.

Shoko snorted softly, smoke curling lazily from her mouth "You should’ve seen him at the hospital. He didn’t probably sleep for two whole days. I got to Sendai and found him prowling the hospital corridors like some overgrown guard dog. The nurses were terrified. It's a miracle you even got an IV without him mauling someone."

Aoi laughed unexpectedly. She could picture it—Satoru, tall and imposing, glaring daggers at helpless medical staff. He’d probably scared them half to death. Overprotective idiot. It was ridiculous, and yet, it made her chest feel oddly tight.

"He’s such an idiot," she murmured fondly, trying—and failing—to hide her smile. 

Shoko’s eyes sparkled knowingly. "See? You two are exhausting," she drawled, exhaling smoke through her nose. "Still, I’m impressed. You did well for yourself. Even with my stellar care, I wasn’t betting on you bouncing back so fast. Losing that much blood and already feeling well enough to complain about Satoru? You’re tougher than you look."

Her smile faltered a bit, her fingers fidgeting restlessly with the quilt. "If he was that worried, why’s he avoiding me now?" she muttered quietly, mostly to herself. "Seriously, what's his problem?"

Shoko raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Who knows? Probably moping dramatically like the tortured protagonist he thinks he is, convincing himself this is all somehow his fault." She leaned closer conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. "Honestly, someone needs to smack some sense into him."

Aoi’s frustration boiled over, determination flaring bright in her eyes. "You know what? Forget this. I’m not gonna lie around like some corpse. I need fresh air, a walk—and I swear to God, Shoko, I need to see that smug jerk's face so I can yell at him properly."

The doctor gave her an appraising look, then shrugged carelessly. "Go for it, but—" she paused dramatically, grabbing a massive textbook from the bedside table and dropping it unceremoniously onto Aoi’s lap, "take this with you."

Aoi stared at the thick book titled Fundamentals of Medical Techniques, bewildered. "Am I supposed to learn how to stitch myself up next time?"

"Nah," Shoko waved dismissively, snatching the cigarette from between her lips and gesturing with it like a pointer. "I've got an exam in an hour. You're officially my phone-a-friend. No way am I flunking and spending extra years in med school—I have plans.  I'd trust Satoru, but the last time he gave me answers, I nearly failed because he thought it would be funny."

Aoi rolled her eyes, lips quirking into a grin. "Of course he would. Don't worry, I’m way more reliable."

Shoko smirked again, affectionately ruffling Aoi’s hair, before turning toward the door. "Good. Now go get your lover, tiger. And don’t trip on your way out; I’d hate to have to drag your unconscious body back in here again."

Aoi choked, her face instantly turning scarlet. "He's not my—"

Shoko interrupted, leaning casually against the doorway, turning back with a teasing smile that bordered on wicked. "Oh, by the way, adorable photo the other day. Your first couple selfie?"

Aoi’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air as Shoko’s grin grew wicked. Without thinking, she grabbed the massive textbook and hurled it toward the door, but Shoko sidestepped easily, laughing like someone who’d expected it.

"Nice aim," Shoko taunted, disappearing down the hall. Her voice floated back, amused yet weary, like a final nail in the coffin. "Idiots, both of you, it's painful to watch."

The door swung shut, leaving Aoi scowling fiercely at empty air. "Stupid," she muttered irritably, unsure if she meant Shoko, Satoru, or herself.

Yet even as she huffed indignantly, she couldn’t stop the tiny, helpless smile tugging at her lips.

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

Tokyo Jujutsu High, she decided, wasn't a school—it was a maze. Or maybe a haunted shrine someone had tried and failed to remodel into a school centuries ago. Stone pathways crisscrossed through ancient courtyards, flanked by towering trees that whispered secrets whenever the wind rustled their branches. Each corridor seemed more ancient and cryptic than the last, lined with wooden beams that creaked under their own weight, and paper doors that trembled with every breeze.

The place was spiritual, almost sacred, with an edge of the unsettling.

"This place is ridiculous," Aoi muttered to herself, pulling Satoru’s oversized hoodie tighter against the chill December wind. The fabric still smelled like him—fresh laundry and something annoyingly comforting. "Focus," she scolded herself, shaking off the distraction. This wasn’t about sniffing his clothes.

She had no idea where she was headed. Aoi had hoped to run into literally anyone helpful, but the halls seemed abandoned. Well, except for one particularly mean-looking crow that squawked aggressively from a window. Every step she took made her curse the layout of the school. Where were the students? The teachers? What did they even teach here, anyway? The idea of teenagers running through these hallowed halls and discussing cursed techniques during lunch was bizarre to her.

Eventually, she stumbled upon a hallway she vaguely remembered and heard a voice, deep and familiar, drifting through a partially open door. Wasn’t that the same voice from that night, when Satoru had carried her there the first time? The headmaster, right? Yaga? 

Before Aoi could second-guess herself, she nudged the door open just enough to peek inside. The room stilled as if sensing her intrusion. Glimpses of conversation met her ears.

"...heading to Shizuoka next...infested by high-grade curses... top-secret...," someone was saying.

Shizuoka? What about her hometown? Before she could hear more, a pair of tired, irritated eyes met hers through the doorway. Headmaster Yaga. Fantastic.

The man looked perpetually tired, as though he’d just survived a marathon of bureaucratic battles. The expression he wore now, however, spoke of barely restrained exasperation.

Sitting opposite him another man with a dishelved brown coat, grumpy like he'd rather be anywhere else and a katana at his side. His gaze landed on her with an expressione that screemed he was already done with her. And she hadn't even open her mouth yet.

With them sood an assistant, one of those ubiquitous types with a folder so thick it defied reason.

"Fujikawa," Yaga sighed heavily, massaging the bridge of his nose. "I specifically made clear that you were his problem, not mine," he emphasized, making it crystal clear who he meant. "Could you perhaps not wander the halls like a lost soul interrupting lessons and meetings?"

Leaning on the door for a moment longer, she huffed out a breath. Lessons. As if she’d seen a single student roaming these halls

"Sorry," Aoi mumbled awkwardly, already retreating. "I was just...uh...a lost soul."

She closed the door quickly, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. "Great," she muttered, stalking off down the hallway, "thanks a lot, Satoru. If you won’t find me, I'll hunt you down myself."

She took a calming breath and closed her eyes, trying to focus on their strange, cursed bond. Inhale. Exhale. Come on, she willed herself. Find him. The ache in her side pulsed, breaking her concentration for a moment, but she pushed through the pain. 

It took a moment, but soon she felt a faint tug, like an invisible thread guiding her along. Following the sensation, she wound through corridors, up and down stairs, until she finally stopped right in front of...the room next door to her own.

"You have got to be kidding," she growled. "He was here the whole time?"

Furious, she banged her fist against the door, her knuckles stinging with the force of it. No more games. She was going to confront him, grab him by the shoulders, and shake him until he regretted ignoring her. Damn him for the silence. Damn him, and damn her for… what? Caring? Missing him? The thought was ridiculous, and yet, it stuck.

"Satoru, open up! I swear if you’ve been ignoring me—"

The door creaked open, and instead of Satoru’s annoying smirk, a massive black dog—no, more like a wolf, good lord— stared back at her with unsettling gold eyes. as it sniffed the air.

"Oh my god," she squeaked, stepping back hastily, her heart lurching with a sudden spike of fear.

"Oi, back up," a young, irritated voice commanded from inside.

The giant dog obediently shuffled aside to reveal a small boy, around seven or eight, with messy black hair and a scowl worthy of a grumpy pensioner. He sized her up with an expression that seemed more suited to an adult. Was that irritation? How could a kid look so perpetually done with life?

Aoi blinked, thrown off balance. "Um, hi," she began awkwardly, still eyeing the dog warily. "Is Satoru here?" Her voice faltered, and she felt absurd speaking to a child in a place like this. 

The boy crossed his arms, sizing her up. "What do you want?" His tone was flat, and he looked past her like she was an annoying fly buzzing too close.

She blinked, slightly taken aback by his rudeness. Fantastic—just what the world needed, a miniature version of Satoru. Trying again, she offered a friendly smile. "What are you doing here? Are you a sorcerer in training?"

His expression didn’t change. He just stared at her, unimpressed.

"Right. Not much of a talker, huh?" she sighed, switching tactics. Cautiously, she reached out toward the wolf, letting it sniff her fingers. It nudged her palm gently, and relief flooded her chest. "See? Not so scary after all."

Aoi’s lips twitched into a small smile as she scratched behind the dog’s ears.

The boy’s eyes flickered, a hint of surprise breaking through his bored facade. "Huh. He likes you," he admitted grudgingly, clearly annoyed by his pet’s betrayal. "That's weird. He doesn't even like him," he added, gesturing dismissively behind her.

"Him?" Aoi chuckled nervously, fingers brushing the fur behind the creature’s ears. "Who's—"

"The annoying guy who brought me and my sister here," he answered flatly.

Alarm bells immediately rang in Aoi’s head. She knelt down, gripping the boy's shoulders gently. "Wait—brought you here? Like kidnapped you? Are you trapped here? Are you here against your will? Who did—"

"Art girl?"

Aoi’s breath caught, fingers still resting on the kid’s small shoulders. That voice. That insufferable, too-casual voice. She turned slowly, almost hesitantly, like she already knew she’d regret making eye contact.

There stood Satoru Gojo, leaning casually behind her with a crumpled paper bag in hand and that infuriatingly charming smirk on his lips. His white hair was slightly tousled framing his face in a way that was, she had to admit, stupidly attractiv. A pair of sunglasses sat low on his nose, giving him that infuriating air of a guy who knew exactly how good he looked and enjoyed making other people suffer for it.

His smirk was in full form, daring and shameless, as if he’d walked in on her instead of the other way around. He looked... like he hadn’t lost a wink of sleep.

As if she hadn’t nearly bled out. As if he hadn’t ignored her for a week.

For a second, neither of them moved. Everything she’d rehearsed in her head over the past week slipped right out, leaving her tongue-tied. What was she supposed to say? Something about how he’d ignored her? About how he was a jerk for not checking on her?

Right. She was ready to call him out, demand answers, maybe even smack some sense into him. But now? Now she was just standing there like an idiot, staring. Why was she staring? Why was she blushing? Why was her heart racing?

Say something. Anything.

"Did you kidnap this child?" she blurted before she could stop herself, and she inwardly cringed at how ridiculous it sounded.

Nice, Aoi. Real smooth.

The boy shrugged off her hands with an annoyed huff. Satoru’s smirk deepened, and for a second, she swore his eyes twinkled behind the dark lenses. 

"Nah," he drawled, stepping toward her with that casual, cocky stride that made her want to trip him. "He’s my pride and joy. The miracle child I birthed myself. Painful labor, let me tell you."

Aoi rolled her eyes so hard she nearly gave herself a headache. "Right. And I assume the wolf is your second-born?"

"Don’t be ridiculous," he scoffed. "She was an easier delivery."

He sauntered forward, closing the distance between them with that infuriatingly casual stride, and handed the paper bag to the kid—Megumi, apparently—before ruffling his dark, messy hair. The large black dog beside the boy growled, a deep, resonant sound that made Aoi tense, but Satoru barely flinched.

Megumi shoved his hand away. "Stop being idiots, both of you," he muttered before before disappearing inside the room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the walls.

A beat of silence.

"Charming kid," Aoi said finally, glancing up at Satoru, trying to process what had just happened.

"Real bundle of joy," Satoru mused, clearly entertained. "He really takes after me."

Tilting her head, she crossed her arms over the oversized hoodie—his hoodie, which was now an embarrassing reminder of just how entangled they were. "Oh yeah? All charm, no patience? Definitely your clone."

He gave her a mock look of offense. "I’ll have you know that’s pure Montessori method right there. Raising them to be independent."

"Right. And if independent means emotionally detached and slightly terrifying, then I’d say you’re nailing it," she retorted, unable to stop herself from grinning.

Satoru chuckled, and it was warm, effortless. The kind of laugh that curled around her, made her forget—for just a second—why she was mad at him. She hated that. Hated how easy it was to fall into his orbit.

He reached up, almost like he was going to brush a stray hair from her face, but then—hesitated. Let his hand drop. The almost-touch lingered in the air between them, and something fluttered in Aoi’s chest before she ruthlessly stomped it down.

Right. The silent treatment. The worry. The fact that he’d avoided her like the plague.

She cleared her throat, forcing herself back to the reason she’d stormed down the hallway in the first place. "Anyway," she said, voice sharp, "just in case you forgot, I’m fine. You know, from that stab wound. The one where I almost bled out. The one where I nearly died. Just figured I’d mention it, in case you cared or something. Not that you showed it."

His smirk faltered for half a second. Barely noticeable. Then he exhaled, pressing a hand lightly against his own side, mirroring the spot where her wound had been.

"Oh, I know," he said quietly. "I felt it."

He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, as if that were enough explanation. She blinked, a bit thrown off by how sincere he sounded. He said it so simply, like it was obvious. Like it was enough.

It wasn't. She wasn’t letting him off that easily. "Wait, that’s it? You felt it? That’s your excuse for ignoring me for a week? Satoru, what the—"

Without warning, he turned on his heel and started walking down the corridor. Aoi let out a frustrated noise and hurried after him, his long strides forcing her to practically jog.

She shot him a sidelong glare, her irritation rising again. Why did he seem so… distant? His usual warmth and banter were there, sure, but there was something colder about him, like a barrier had fallen back into place between them. It felt like he was deliberately pushing her back to square one, slipping back into the role of the untouchable, invincible sorcerer she’d first met, the one who barely acknowledged her presence, and the realization stung more than she wanted to admit.

The audacity. The absolute nerve.

"Hey—wait, I’m not done yelling at you!" she snapped.

"Can’t hear you," he called back. "Too busy enjoying my peace and quiet."

"Oh, my god, you are the worst—"

Satoru suddenly stopped, and Aoi nearly crashed into his back. Before she could regain her balance, he turned, bending down just enough that their faces were level. Too close. Close enough that she could see the slight smirk at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes—barely visible behind his sunglasses—were locked onto hers, like he was waiting for something.

"Aren’t we supposed to be enjoying our boring day?" he murmured, voice dipping into something dangerously smooth. Then, he actually pouted like he was five. "Or did you forget our plan?"

Aoi froze.

Our day.

He said it like it was obvious. Like it was something they had claimed. Like it had belonged to them from the start.

Her heart flipped violently against her ribs. He knew. He knew what he was doing to her. The way his lips curved, the way he leaned in just slightly, the way his gaze lingered, the subtle shift in his smirk—it was all calculated, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to strangle him or—

She was already gone. And she hated it.

"O-our day?" she managed, her voice betraying her, the warmth in her cheeks spreading.

She stared, caught between the thrill of what he was saying and the absolute nerve of him springing this on her so casually. Satoru’s smirk deepened even more, and she could swear there was a hint of challenge in it.

She should say something, should yell at him, should—oh, no, she was smiling now, wasn’t she? Her cheeks burned, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling like an idiot.

This was bad. She was happy. Too happy.

"Y-yeah," she said, too quiet. "It… sounds perfect."

"Perfect," he echoed, satisfied.

The silence stretched between them, the world felt lighter, less complicated.

Then she remembered herself. She tugged at the hoodie again, regaining her composure. "Just—give me a second to change into something that isn’t your giant, ridiculous hoodie."

As she turned toward her room, his voice followed her, teasing, smug. "Better hurry, princess. And don’t forget—I want that hoodie back eventually."

She couldn’t stop the grin that broke free as she moved, her heart thudding against her ribs. She didn’t dare look back, but she felt his grin. The hallway seemed brighter, the cold less biting. Even if she’d never admit it, part of her wanted this day, this stupid, simple day, more than anything.

It was ridiculous. It was infuriating. It was perfect.

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

“𝘊𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢? 𝘌𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦.”

Aoi blinked at the message from Shoko, her mind immediately blanking. Why did Shoko even think she’d know this? The most medical experience she had was slapping a Band-Aid on a paper cut. She stared at the phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard while her brain scrambled for anything remotely useful.

Before she could type out some version of you're on your own, doctor lady, the phone disappeared from her grasp, swept up by Satoru with a swift motion.

"Hey!" she protested, making a half-hearted grab for it.

Too late. Satoru was already typing, his smirk lazy and self-satisfied. His fingers flew over the screen with the kind of confidence that only someone like him could have, and within seconds, he tossed the phone back to her. "All done. You’re welcome."

She glanced at the screen, reading the absurd response he’d sent:

“𝘙𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢? 𝘐𝘵’𝘴… 𝘶𝘩… 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬!”

Aoi squinted at the response. "Are you serious? Shoko’s going to kill me."

Shoko’s reply popped up instantly.

“𝘞𝘰𝘸. 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵. 𝘎𝘰𝘥𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥. 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩.”

Satoru leaned in closer, so close Aoi could see the fine glint of light catching in his pale lashes and the way his grin quirked slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if he knew the effect he had on people. On her. Damn it.

"This is our first official ‘boring day,’ remember?" he teased, his voice dropping into a mock-hurt drawl, as he cocked an eyebrow. "Are you really going to spend it glued to your phone helping Shoko cheat her way through med school? Trust me, the higher-ups will wrap her degree in gold if they have to. She’s their medical golden child."

Aoi groaned, running a hand down her face. She couldn't help but snicker at the image of Shoko accepting a degree with her signature unimpressed scowl. "She’s so going to make me regret this. Next check-up, she’ll ‘accidentally’ stab me with a needle in revenge."

Satoru sidestepped a low-hanging light installation with effortless ease, shoving his hands in the pockets of his gray sweater. "Relax. She’s too lazy to hold a grudge. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure she doesn’t swap out your organs for fun."

He said it breezily, but his eyes were already scanning their surroundings, subtly checking every corner as they strolled through the Tokyo Contemporary Art Museum. It was like watching a cat stalking through a jungle, all coiled tension beneath the casual exterior.

Aoi had seen it enough times to recognize the habit—no matter how relaxed he pretended to be, his awareness never wavered. It made her chest tighten, though she couldn’t place why. Maybe it was the way he masked it so effortlessly, slipping back into his usual grin the moment he caught her watching. It was almost like he was saying ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got this.’

She sighed, shaking off the chill that settled in her chest. They were here to forget all that, at least for today.  It was a strange thing, seeing him like this. Out of his sorcerer’s uniform, in casual clothes, in a normal place. Like he was just some guy, some annoying guy, dragging her through an exhibit like this was an everyday thing.

Except it wasn’t. Because this was Satoru. And nothing with him was normal. 

Aoi hugged herself against the slight December chill still lingering in the vast museum halls. "Are you sure this is safe? I mean, after everything—" she asked, her voice quieter, unsure if she wanted the answer.

"Ah, ah," he cut her off, waving a finger in her face. "Don't start. Not today. Today, we live by the rules: no cursed talk, no injuries, just this—" he gestured dramatically at the vast museum around them, "—and just us."

Just us.

Aoi’s stomach did a very stupid little flip, and she mentally cursed herself for reacting. He didn’t mean anything by it. Of course he didn’t.

And yet.

She relented with a slight nod, letting herself smile. "Fine. No work talk. But a museum for your belated birthday? Not exactly ‘boring’ if you ask me"

"Oh, believe me," Satoru sighed, throwing an arm over her shoulder like he had any right to be this comfortable with her. "Nothing is more boring than pretending to understand contemporary art." He nodded toward a massive canvas covered in what looked like aggressive, chaotic splatters of paint. "The real question is, are you enjoying it?" he added, and—damn it—he sounded genuinely curious.

Aoi took a moment, glancing around the museum. The high ceilings let in beams of pale winter sunlight, casting dramatic shadows across the polished floor. Sculptures twisted into impossible shapes. Paintings splashed emotion onto the walls. It wasn’t what she’d consider boring at all. She was enjoying it.

More than that—she was enjoying this.

She bit her lip before admitting, "Yeah. I am." The words had barely escaped her mouth when she caught herself, feeling like she’d admitted too much, too fast.

Satoru’s eyes were on her. "Good." A small, genuine laugh escaped him, and it sent an inexplicable warmth through her.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was still subtly scanning the area, still on edge in that way only she seemed to notice. His carefree act was just that—an act. And though he’d never say it, she knew he was doing it for her.

Because of Sendai.

Her chest tightened, though she wasn’t sure why.

He must’ve noticed her staring, because his smirk made a triumphant return. "What’s wrong, art girl? Finally realizing how good I look in natural lighting?"

"More like realizing how boring you are outside of work hours," she shot back, folding her arms.

His chuckle was warm, indulgent. "You wound me."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at her lips. "If I really wounded you, your platelets would panic and start knitting you back together."

"See? You did learn something." He grinned. "Come on, teach me something, art girl," he goaded. "What’s the deep meaning behind this one?" He nodded at a piece across the room—a large, minimalistic panel painted entirely black with a single, jagged red line cutting through it.

Aoi smirked, rolling her eyes at his mock-serious expression. "Oh, this? It’s an exploration of existential dread and the violence of suppressed emotion."

"Ah, right. And here I thought it was someone’s aggressive attempt to draw a pizza slice," he quipped, eyes sparkling with mischief.

She snorted, covering her mouth as she laughed. The sound drew a few disapproving glances, but she ignored them, glancing at him sideways. "You’re an idiot," she said, but her voice came out softer than intended.

"Maybe," he replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But watching you get all worked up about splatters of paint is the highlight of my day."

"Careful," she managed, tilting her chin up. "You almost sound sincere."

"Almost, huh? Guess I’ll have to try harder," he said, arms crossed but eyes alight with mischief.

She stole a glance at him as they moved through the next exhibit. Somehow he always managed to look effortlessly put together, even with his messy white hair and ridiculous sunglasses perched on his nose. She smirked, not entirely successful at hiding the warm blush that crept up her cheeks. Why does he always have to look so damn composed?

She’d tried today—really tried. She was wearing her favorite green jacket, the one with the sturdy stitching and slight vintage flair, paired with loose black pants that billowed just enough to make her look effortlessly cool. Or so she hoped. Her brown hair had behaved unusually well that morning, lying smooth rather than stubbornly poking out at odd angles like it usually did.

And yet here she was, cursing herself internally for even caring.

Why did I bother?

They moved through the rest of the exhibit, bickering lightheartedly. Satoru had a sarcastic remark for every abstract piece, and Aoi found herself lecturing him in mock-seriousness, arms flailing as she explained brushstrokes and techniques. He nodded along, eyes never leaving her, more entertained by her animated gestures than the actual art.

Every so often, he’d lean in with a mock-serious whisper, like, "That one’s definitely cursed, right?" or "Pretty sure this sculpture is just a glorified coat rack."

It was easy, so easy, to slip into this version of them—where he wasn’t the untouchable sorcerer, and she wasn’t the girl trying to make sense of her cursed existence.

A painting caught her eye—a stark, monochromatic landscape that reminded her of home. The fields of Shizuoka, quiet and endless. She tilted her head, taking in the details, admiring the play of light across its surface.

"You know," she mused, "back in Shizuoka, we didn’t have places like this. Tokyo has more culture in one block than my entire hometown."

Satoru looked at her, as if something had just clicked in his mind. Then, suddenly, he burst out laughing. "Shizuoka?" he repeated like it was the funniest thing in the world. "Of course. Why wouldn’t it be Shizuoka?"

She frowned. "What’s so funny?" she asked, crossing her arms and pretending to be annoyed, though his laugh was so contagious she felt a smile tugging at her own lips. "Are you having a breakdown? Because if you need me to sign the papers for your involuntary admission, just say the word. I’ll do it. Happily"

He straightened, still chuckling as he shook his head. "No, it’s just—everything is so… fitting. Almost poetic."

He leaned in before she could ask what he meant, and her breath hitched. He was close, too close, close enough that she could see the fine silver strands in his hair, the way his sunglasses barely hid the sharp blue of his eyes.

Then, out of nowhere, he reached up, slowly, fingers grazing back base of her neck with a touch so light it felt like a spark. "You know," he murmured, "you have a birthmark shaped like a triple hollyhock right here."

"What." Aoi’s brain short-circuited. Her mind was spinning, searching for words, but nothing came out except a confused, helpless, "Uh… no."

His fingers pressed a little more firmly against the spot, and she instinctively moved to touch it herself—only for their hands to brush. Her heart slammed against her ribs in a way that had nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with him.

Satoru’s smirk lingered, slow and knowing, like he felt the way she tensed. He leaned back just enough to let the moment settle. "Curious, don’t you think?" he mused.

Aoi yanked her hand back like it had burned, cheeks flaming. "What is it with you and hollyhocks today?!"

He grinned, finally stepping back, but not before his fingers trailed down her arm in a way that made her entire soul short-circuit. "Aoi, like hollyhock. Painter from Shizuoka with that little cursed technique of yours. It’s like the universe couldn’t resist putting it all together. Come on, whoever named you knew exactly what they were doing."

She gawked at him, struggling to form a coherent thought. "...Are you seriously making a conspiracy theory out of my name? Are you planning to tell me the answer, or do I have to drag it out of you?"

"Nah," he hummed. "Maybe you should crack open a history book. Might do you some good-" he said, turning on his heel and walking forward, the challenge lingering in his wake. "-princess."

She scowled, cheeks still burning. "Weirdo."

He flashed that obnoxious grin. "That’s weirdo who makes you smile, to you."

Aoi hated that she laughed. Hated it even more that she couldn’t stop smiling.

The cold winter air hit Aoi’s face as they stepped out of the museum, a light dusting of snow swirling around them like tiny, crystalline dancers. She inhaled deeply, letting the crispness settle in her lungs, and glanced up at the sky. The snowfall had picked up, fat flakes drifting lazily down, settling over the quiet cityscape.

Just as she was about to comment on the scene, her eyes landed on something far more important. "There," she said, nudging Satoru with her elbow. "I want cake."

He followed her gaze to a cozy little patisserie across the street. "Cake, huh?" He smirked. "Haven’t you had enough sugar today, art girl?"

She ignored him, already digging through her backpack for her small yellow umbrella. With a practiced flick, she popped it open, just in time to notice Satoru standing there, hands in his pockets, and a grin that screamed "unbothered."

"And where’s your umbrella, oh mighty sorcerer?" she asked, raising a brow.

"Umbrella?" He scoffed, like the very concept was beneath him. "Why would the strongest sorcerer of our time carry something so mundane? I’ll just activate Infinity. The snow won’t even touch me."

Aoi paused, picturing the scene—Satoru strolling through a crowded street, snow visibly stopping mid-air around him, creating an invisible force field like he was some kind of divine being.

She scoffed, tilting the umbrella just enough to cover herself and give him a side-eye. "So, you’re just gonna casually walk around like that? In broad daylight? With an invisible barrier? Snow bouncing off of you like you’re—what? The winter edition of Buddha?  Isn’t that, you know… against the rules? 'Don’t let the muggles see the magic,' or something like that."

Satoru hummed, pretending to consider it, before flashing her that mischievous grin that never promised anything good. "Hmm. You might have a point. That would be highly irresponsible of me."

"Obviously," she deadpanned.

"Guess I’ll just have to squeeze in under your umbrella." He sighed dramatically, then leaned forward, eyes crinkling with amusement.

"What? No! This is not an umbrella for two—" Before she could stop him, he reached up and tugged the handle down just enough to angle it over his head as well, stepping into her space with an infuriatingly pleased grin.

"C’mon, art girl," he teased, peering at her from under the umbrella. "We wouldn’t want the 'muggles' to see magic, would we? You’re the one who’s so concerned with rules and responsibility."

She scowled, tilting the umbrella to cover them both. "Fine. Just don’t complain if you get a little wet. Not my fault you’re built like a damn tree."

They started down the street, but walking together under a single umbrella turned into a full-blown battle for control. Every time Aoi held it at her height, Satoru leaned down and tilted it higher, sending snowflakes straight onto her shoulders. She’d yank it back down, and he’d duck dramatically to avoid getting his hair wet, making a show of suffering just to annoy her.

"You’re too tall for this," she muttered, trying to push the umbrella up so it covered both of them properly

"And you’re too short to hold it properly," he shot back, giving it a playful tug.

"I’m holding it just fine—it’s you messing it up!"

"Just tilt it to the left—your shoulder’s getting wet."

"You tilt it to the left! Your head is practically outside!"

They stumbled along like that, bickering and laughing, drawing a few curious glances from passersby. To anyone watching, they looked like a mismatched couple trying—and failing—to share something clearly not designed for two.

By the time they reached the patisserie, they were slightly damp and breathless from their ridiculous umbrella war. Warmth greeted them as they stepped inside, the scent of vanilla and sugar wrapping around them like a cozy embrace shaking off the cold.

Satoru sauntered up to the counter, casting her a knowing glance. "So, what’ll it be? The most disgustingly sugary thing on the menu, or are you gonna pretend to have refined taste?"

Aoi snorted, stepping beside him. "Cake. Extra cream. And…" She glanced at him, then grinned. "Let’s test our limits. Coffee. I bet you can’t handle the bitterness."

Satoru narrowed his eyes. "Oh? You think I can’t handle coffee? That’s a challenge, isn’t it?"

"It’s a fact."

"Two coffees, then," he declared. "Let’s see who survives."

They settled at a small table by the window, watching the snow continue to fall in thick, lazy swirls outside. When the coffee arrived, they exchanged competitive looks. Satoru lifted his cup first, winking. "Here goes nothing."

Aoi followed suit, taking tentative sips. The moment the bitter taste hit, their expressions simultaneously twisted into identical grimaces. wrinkling their noses and sticking their tongues out slightly. Aoi burst out laughing, wiping her mouth.

"Nope. I'm out." She set her cup down with a thud. "How does anyone drink this willingly?"

Satoru exhaled dramatically, shaking his head. "Awful. Absolutely awful." He grinned at her as he swiped a dollop of whipped cream from his cake with a finger, licking it off like he hadn’t just suffered a near-death experience. "Plan B?"

Aoi grinned, unable to stop the grin spreading across her face. "Plan B. Hot milk."

Satoru nodded quickly. "Yeah, hot milk sounds perfect."

Aoi chuckled, taking a bite of her cake to cleanse her palate, feeling a warm, happy glow settle over her. Sitting there with him, laughing about something as trivial as bad coffee, felt...perfectly right, even if they were just pretending it was boring.

The server returned moments later with two steaming glasses, and Aoi raised hers with a smirk. "To boring days and terrible coffee."

He clinked his glass with hers, his grin playful. "Couldn’t have said it better, art girl."

Aoi glanced at her phone as it buzzed, revealing a new message from Shoko. She opened it, only to be greeted with:

“𝘏𝘰𝘸’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨? 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘶𝘱. 𝘖𝘳 𝘥𝘰. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺.”

“𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.”

“𝘚𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯? 𝘛𝘳𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤.”

Aoi stared at the screen, mouth opening and closing in silent outrage. What does she even mean by that? Huffing, she tossed her phone into her bag and refocused on what actually mattered—the slice of cake in front of her. Perfectly layered sponge, cream, and strawberries. Finally, something that makes sense today.

She picked up her fork and took a bite, sighing in bliss as the sweetness melted on her tongue. Across from her, Satoru rested his chin on his hand, watching his own dessert like it had personally offended him. His sunglasses were pushed up into his white hair, leaving his sharp blue eyes completely exposed—and unfortunately, locked onto her with quiet amusement.

"Still," he said, gesturing lazily around the glass of hot milk. "Contemporary art, I mean. It’s just colors and weird shapes. What’s the point?"

Aoi smirked, taking another bite and letting out a soft chuckle. "You don’t have to get it, Satoru. You just have to pretend you do, like everyone else."

He snorted. "Oh, I get it. I just don’t see how existential dread in brushstrokes is supposed to be entertaining."

She shook her head with a laugh, flipping through the purikura photos sticking out of her bag. Each strip captured their chaos: her attempting a serious pose while he doodled a ridiculous mustache on her face, him flashing a smug peace sign while she mock-scowled, both of them doubled over in laughter in the last frame. Ridiculous. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips.

Satoru raised an eyebrow. "What’s the verdict? Trying to find a flaw in me? Good luck."

Aoi rolled her eyes, but her stomach did an annoying little flip. "No, I’m deciding which of these you didn’t ruin. Couldn’t let me look pretty for even one distorted, cartoonish moment?"

He leaned back with an air of triumph, his grin widened. "Oh, shut up. You know you’re pretty, mustache or not."

The casual confidence in his tone left her momentarily speechless. He was watching her reaction, that infuriatingly self-assured smirk tugging at his lips. She opened her mouth to fire back some sarcastic retort, but nothing came out. She bit her lip, trying to suppress the warmth that crept up her neck.

Damn him. What’s gotten into him today? she thought. First he disappears on her for a week, only to drag her to an art museum, the one place he knows she can’t resist, and now he’s saying... things like that.

She quickly shoved the photos back into her bag and pulled out her sketchbook, needing something to do. The pencil glided against the paper, grounding her as she worked through the flustered mess he’d turned her into.

 A few quiet moments passed, the pencil gliding as she focused on the shapes forming under her hand. But then, from the corner of her eye, she saw him watching her again. Chin propped on his hand, his lips curling in that familiar, infuriating way.

"What?" she muttered without looking up. "Is my creative process bothering you?"

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth tugging into a familiar smirk. "Not at all," he mused, voice softer than before. "It’s nice. Seeing you so focused on your little doodles." He reached down and lifted a bag from beneath the table, the one filled with art supplies she'd picked up earlier. "Even if it did cost me a small fortune."

Aoi smirked, rolling her eyes. "Oh, please. You’re secretly a big softie."

"Yeah, yeah," he drawled, leaning back. "Whatever keeps you happy. As always."

Her fingers stilled on the page. As always. She felt a small, traitorous smile tug at her lips, though she quickly hid it behind her sketchbook, even if she found herself glancing up at him over the top of her sketchbook, catching him as he looked away, like he hadn’t been watching her at all.

"You’re staring," she said, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably.

"So are you," he shot back, arching an eyebrow as he leaned forward.

She looked back down, her pencil moving absently across the page. This day... it had been easy. Comfortable in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. No cursed paintings, no running for her life, just... this. She could get used to this.

"This has been a perfectly boring day," she murmured, her pencil moving in steady strokes. "The best kind of boring."

Satoru’s smile widened, the mischievous glint in his eyes softening. "Perfectly boring. That’s exactly what I was going for."

She laughed softly, letting the warmth settle in her chest. But just as quickly, a twinge of pain pulled at her side. She sucked in a breath, pressing a hand to her hip, against the still-healing wound.

The discomfort was fleeting, but when she looked up, she found Satoru’s expression had shifted in an instant. It made her stomach twist.

"You alright?" His voice was quieter, more strained.

"Yeah, yeah," she waved it off, forcing a small laugh. "Just a bit sore still."

But he didn’t look convinced. His eyes flickered to the spot where he knew the wound was beneath her clothes. He leaned forward slightly, fingers tapping absently against his coffee cup, scanning her face with an intensity that made her heart pound for an entirely different reason. 

"You’ve got something on your face," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Aoi’s fingers paused mid-stroke as she blinked at him. "Huh?"

"Right there." He gestured vaguely at her cheek. "Charcoal or something."

She frowned, rubbing at her face. "Did I get it?"

Satoru let out an exaggerated sigh. "Not even close. Hold still."

Before she could protest, he reached across the table, thumb brushing her cheek in a firm but gentle swipe. His fingers lingered, his grip gentle but firm as he tilted her chin slightly to wipe away the smudge. 

Aoi’s breath caught, and her eyes dropped to his hand, helplessly trapped in the moment. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, slow, absentminded. For a second—just a second—he looked like he might say something. His lips parted slightly, his gaze flickering to hers, his thumb still resting just beneath her cheekbone, and she found herself leaning just a fraction closer.

And then, just as quickly, his hand dropped and his expression shifted, his tone taking on an edge she hadn’t heard before.

"You should stay in Tokyo."

Aoi blinked, the words hitting like a splash of cold water. "Stay in Tokyo?" The lightness of the moment shattered. "What do you mean?"

He forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, lacking its usual warmth. "Yeah. I’ll go after the rest of the paintings myself. It’s safer for you here. Jujutsu High, Yaga, Tengen’s barrier—they’d keep you safe. Plus, Megumi could use the company. And Shoko would have someone to harass who isn’t me—"

"No," she cut him off, sharper than she meant to.

Satoru stilled. His expression didn’t change, but something in the air between them did. She searched his face, looking for some hint of the Satoru who’d spent the day with her, laughing and teasing, but all she saw was a carefully crafted mask of indifference.

"No?" he tried, lighthearted on the surface, but his voice was just a little too careful. His blue eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, there was a note of pleading buried under the sarcasm "Pretty please?"

"No," she repeated, firmer this time.

Aoi felt the frustration creeping into her chest. He knew—he had to know—how important it was for her to see this through, to to fix what she’d put in motion. He’s really suggesting this?

The fact that he was even suggesting she stay behind made her blood boil. She knew why he was saying this. But how dare he? How dare he try to cut her out like this, after everything she’d been through?

For a second, he looked at her like he might actually argue. Like he wanted to. But then, just as quickly, something in him shut down. He leaned back, rolling his shoulders, forcing a smirk onto his face. "Okay. Fine."

Something about the way he said it stung.

"...Fine?" she echoed, searching his face for any clue as to what had just happened. "That’s it? You’re just—fine with it? Then why would you even suggest—"

He waved a hand, brushing her off. "It was worth a shot. I knew you’d say no anyway."

It was so casual, so dismissive—so unlike him. The Satoru sitting in front of her now was not the one who’d just spent the day bantering with her. And in his place was the untouchable, unreadable sorcerer again, walls locked back into place.

The realization stung.

"So we’re still leaving tomorrow?" she asked, voice quieter now, feeling the gap between them grow wider with each passing second.

He nodded, not meeting her gaze, an indifferent smile on his face that felt like a slap. "Yep," he said, taking a sip of his hot milk like they hadn’t just flipped the entire mood upside down. "Tomorrow. Just like usual."

The finality in his tone sent a chill down her spine. "Perfect." She forced a smile, hating the way her own words sounded hollow.

Satoru ran a hand through his hair, something flickering in his expression before he shut it down completely. Was it frustration? "Perfect,"he repeated, but it sounded like a lie  than an agreement, his voice as distant as his gaze.

Silence stretched between them.

Aoi sat there, staring at him like something vital was slipping through her fingers.

What just happened?

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

Aoi’s room at Tokyo Jujutsu High was a mess of unfinished plans and frustration. Half-packed clothes spilled from her worn backpack, sketchbooks lay open with pages curling at the edges, and the faint scent of charcoal and ink clung to the air like a memory she couldn’t shake. She moved with rigid intent, shoving items into her bag, her hands moving faster than her mind as if keeping busy could drown out the gnawing weight in her chest.

She pushed her sketchbook inside, followed by her essentials and her MP3 player. The cursed gavel lay on her desk, cold and solid beneath her fingers. A weapon that had once saved her life. She slipped it into her front pocket with a sharp exhale, pressing down the simmering anger in her gut. Check, check, check. She ran through the motions, but her mind kept circling back to him.

Yesterday had been perfect—until it wasn’t. The way Satoru had smiled at her, laughed with her, let himself be soft—only to pull that "stay here" crap. She’d known something was off, hadn’t she? That stupid, smug grin had been just a little too careful. And now, it was obvious. Something was wrong with him.

Her fingers trembled as she smoothed over the creases of the list she’d prepared—each marked with locations they had yet to visit. They needed to move forward; they needed to keep going, together. But something about the way he’d looked at her yesterday, the coldness that replaced his usual smirk, told her that “together” might no longer be part of the plan.

Why did he always have to make things so complicated? She rubbed a hand across her temple, willing herself to focus on the mission ahead. Doesn't matter. Once we're back on the road, I’ll get him to explain whatever that was about.

She pulled out the list of locations and spread it on the bed, tracing her finger over the scrawled names. If they followed a logical path the next destination would be—

The knock at the door was more of a formality than a request. She already knew who it was. When she swung the door open, there he stood—hands stuffed in his pockets, leaning lazily against the frame like he hadn’t a care in the world. But that smile—it was like a layer of ice spread over something he didn’t want her to see.

"Hey," he said, the casual lilt of his voice sending a confusing mix of relief and frustration through her. He nodded toward the room. "Can I come in?"

The question was pointless; he stepped inside without waiting for her answer, moving with that easy arrogance that somehow made the small room feel even smaller. He glanced around like he owned the place, taking in the half-zipped bag and the clutter she hadn’t managed to pack.

Aoi narrowed her eyes, arms crossing over her chest. “What’s with the manners all of a sudden?”

He chuckled, the sound light but lacking its usual warmth. “Thought I’d try it out for a change.”

Something in her bristled. He was doing it again—keeping things light, like he hadn’t just flipped everything on its head. She pushed past it, reaching for the list of locations they still had to check. Stay on task. Focus on the paintings.

“I was mapping out where we should go next,” she said, shoving the paper toward him. “If we move fast, we can—”

Before she could finish, he plucked it from her fingers, holding it above his head with a smirk so insufferable it made her want to throw something at him. “Right, about that…”

Aoi scowled, reaching for it. The uneasy feeling in her stomach twisted tighter. "What is wrong with you? Give that back."

He hummed, glancing at it like it was the most casual thing in the world. “I mean, do we really need a list? Thought I was the one with the great memory.”

“Satoru—”

Ignoring her, he turned on his heel and strolled toward the door, waving the paper just out of reach with that infuriatingly smug grin. “Come on, princess. Try to keep up,” he teased, breezing out of the room and into the hallway.

Aoi’s fists clenched as she grabbed her backpack and stomped after him. The pit in her stomach deepened with every step. Something was wrong. He was acting too easy, too nonchalant—and when Satoru went out of his way to be too easy, it meant something was about to go very wrong.

She stepped through the doorway—and slammed into something solid.

A faint, translucent barrier pulsed between her and the hallway.

No.

Her breath hitched as she pressed her palm against the invisible force keeping her inside.

One touch, two touches—no give. She was trapped.

Why? Why was there a barrier? And why was he on the other side of it?

Her heart sank as the realization hit her, panic bubbling up. This was Satoru’s work. It was the same cursed barrier technique she’d seen Satoru use countless times. Worse, it was the same type of barrier Tsukishima had used to trap her in Sendai.

A bitter taste rose in her mouth as she realized what it meant. She looked up to find Satoru on the other side, watching her with a resigned expression that felt like a slap in the face.

No.

No, he wouldn’t—

"Satoru," her voice was flat, eerily calm. "What are you doing?"

He had the audacity to shrug. “Precautionary measure.”

"Oh you did not just say precautionary measure." Aoi's hands curled into fists, her voice rising. "Are you trapping me here?!"

He sighed, a heavy, resigned sound, and gave her a look that made her blood boil—a mixture of pity and resolve, as if she were a caged animal he’d rather not confront."For the record, trying the window won’t work either. Thought I’d save you the trouble."

Her pulse roared in her ears. He's serious. She slammed her hands against the barrier, anger and disbelief crashing over her. "Let me out! This is insane—what the hell is wrong with you?!"

He tilted his head, smirk still in place, but there was no real amusement in his eyes. "Come on, don’t give me that look. Yaga will let you out once… well, when you’re less likely to burn something down."

The pieces began to fall into place, and the realization hit her like a punch to the gut. This was his plan all along, lull her into lowering her guard. He really was trying to keep her here, trying to lock her away while he went off to finish what they’d started.

"Damn you, Satoru!" She kicked the barrier, frustration boiling over.  It rippled but held firm. He didn’t even flinch. "You can’t just lock me up like this!"

Satoru sighed, tapping the paper against his palm. "Dramatic, as always. Look, you know how this works. Jujutsu High keeps you safe. I go out, do the dangerous stuff. You stay here, paint something nice, maybe don’t give Yaga an aneurysm or he'll regret not sedating you—"

"Don’t give Yaga an aneurysm?!" Aoi let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You arrogant, egotistical son of a— I don’t care about Yaga’s peace of mind!" Her hands trembled as she pressed against the barrier again, willing it to break. "I don’t want to relax! I want to come with you!"

Her voice cracked slightly, and she hated herself for it. The last thing she wanted was to give him the satisfaction of seeing her this angry, this desperate.

Satoru just waved the list at her lazily. "Yeah, see, that’s where we disagree. Do what princesses do best—stay in the tower."

"Let me out."

"Can’t do that."

"Satoru, let me out, or so help me—" Aoi didn’t think. She lifted a hand and smacked her own cheek, hard enough to feel the sting and hear the echo.

Satoru flinched.

His eyes darkened for a fraction of a second, jaw tensing as he felt the sting himself through their cursed bond. His voice dropped. "Really? Hurting yourself now?" The teasing edge was gone, something else slipping through—frustration, concern. "Don’t make this harder just because you’re pissed at me."

She glared at him, fury bubbling under the surface. "If you walk out of here, I swear I’ll set my ass on fire just so you can feel your own ass burn. See how well you sleep then."

Satoru let out a surprised laugh—genuine, startled—and shook his head. He tilted it back, still chuckling, tension momentarily breaking. "Now that’s my art girl," he said between chuckles, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "Go ahead. Be my guest. But you’re not coming."

Then, just like that, he turned. He waved a hand dismissively.

She watched, helpless, as he took a step away.

She slammed her palm against the barrier, the impact sending a dull ache up her arm. "Let me out! You don’t get to decide this for me!" Her fists slammed against the barrier, weaker this time. "I hate you! I hate you so much—"

But the words lacked conviction, and they both knew it.

He paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder, a shadow of seriousness flitting across his face before it was replaced by that damnable smirk. "No, you don’t. And we both know it. You can’t." He waved a hand. "I took care of that piece of your soul, remember? But feel free to try. Makes this easier."

Her breath caught. "Easier for who?" She felt her strength leave her as she pressed her forehead against the barrier, breath ragged, hands trembling. The weight of it crashed down on her all at once. "Yesterday was just to make me agree to this, wasn’t it? You set me up for this. Didn't work so here we are. Am I wrong?"

His expression didn’t change, but his silence said enough.

She exhaled sharply. "I should have seen it coming."

Satoru hesitated. Just a flicker of hesitation, barely noticeable—but it was there. And then, finally, he nodded. Just once. "It was a nice day, though, wasn’t it?"

The crack felt physical.

"Satoru, don’t you dare walk away!" She pounded her fists against the barrier, voice cracking under the weight of frustration and hurt. "I’ll never forgive you for this, you hear me?! I’ll—"

And then, without thinking, she pulled. "Stop!" 

The cursed bond between them snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Satoru jerked mid-step, muscles locking up, his breath stuttering. His body froze, tension rippling through him as if he’d hit an invisible wall. His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as he struggled against whatever force she’d just summoned.

And then, slowly, painstakingly, he turned to glare at her in a mix of irritation and frustration.

"You did not just do that again," he muttered, voice rougher than before.

Aoi was shaking, head dizzy from whatever instinctual pull she had just executed. Her breathing was ragged. 

Satoru pushed back, the veins in his neck straining, and sweat beaded on his brow. Finally, with a shudder and a gasp, he broke free, stumbling back a step. "Nice try," he warned, the playful edge gone from his voice.

He exhaled, the fight gone from him. A pause. Then, with a breath, he turned away for good. This time, she didn’t stop him.

His hand lifted in a casual wave as he walked down the corridor, that damn smirk back in place.

"See you around, art girl."

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

-Satoru-

Satoru leaned against the doorframe of the infirmary, arms crossed, his sunglasses reflecting the cold glare of the overhead fluorescents. His fingers tapped an idle rhythm against his bicep—outwardly relaxed, inwardly wired tight. He hated this. The walls, the waiting, the calculated distance he forced between himself and Aoi. He’d told himself a hundred times over that it was necessary to keep her alive. Hell, it was smart.

Better this than scraping her off the floor again, slick with blood and barely breathing.

Once was enough for a lifetime.

And yet, that nagging voice wouldn’t shut up—the one that suggested he wasn’t just keeping her safe. That maybe, just maybe, he was also protecting himself from the one person who could knock his arrogance down to size.

He scoffed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Satoru Gojo, overprotective idiot and occasional self-imposed martyr. What a headline. He could already hear the whispers if anyone cared enough to say them aloud. But that was the job, right? Always one step ahead, making the tough calls no one else had the spine—or the power—to make, even if it meant leaving someone behind.

His phone buzzed. Mei Mei. He glanced down at the screen, skimming her latest message, and his eyes narrowed as he typed out a response, each keystroke hard and deliberate, as if it could somehow convey the irritation simmering beneath the surface.

"𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰? 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦, 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶?"

“𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘯. 𝘐𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵, 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘨𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴.”

"𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘯-𝘸𝘪𝘯.”

"𝘙𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘶𝘹𝘶𝘳𝘺."

With a flick of his thumb, he sent the last message, sliding the phone back into his pocket with a huff. Mei Mei always had a way of grinding his nerves into dust, but this time—this time—she had really done it, almost getting him and Aoi killed.

Then—smack.

A sharp sting flared across his cheek. Satoru blinked. Another slap. And another.

"Damn, she’s committed," he muttered to himself, resisting the urge to laugh even as his cheek stung. This made—what?—half an hour of this nonsense? Didn’t her hand hurt yet? He sighed, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed as he resigned himself to enduring her pettiness. “She's cute when shes' homicidal.”

Not that he could blame her, really, he deserved it, he supposed. If that was what it took to get it out of her system, she could slap herself-and consequently him- silly. But, damn, he had expected her to give up long before now, he was sure she’d have bruises at this rate. He couldn’t decide if he admired or if he was mildly terrified by her stubbornness. Probably both.

Beside him, Yaga watched the display with a mix of exasperation and something that might have been pity. His arms were crossed, his brow furrowed in silent judgment.

“You’re really just going to let her keep that up?” he finally asked, his voice low and weighted with disbelief.

Satoru shrugged, nonchalant as ever, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “Eh, she’ll get tired eventually. Probably. Sweet girl, though, she actually threatened to set my—what was it?—ah, yes, my ass on fire. That’s love, right?” He gave a lazy gesture with one hand. “I’d stay clear until she’s done being a public menace. Maybe throw her some snacks through the curtain and run. Fast.”

Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose like a man whose patience had been stretched to its limit. “You do realize you’re leaving us with a problem, right? A problem with an attitude no one here signed up for?”

Satoru didn’t even glance at him. His attention had shifted, locked onto the figure lying motionless on the infirmary bed.

His hands itched just looking at him—this was the man.

The bastard looked peaceful. Too peaceful. Breathing steady, features smoothed over like he hadn’t put a blade through Aoi’s side, leaving her almost bleeding out to death. Satoru’s hands twitched at his sides.

If Aoi hadn’t beaten him to it, he would’ve snapped the guy in two. The memory of her, pale and bleeding, flashed before his eyes. He wasn’t the type to lose his temper. Not usually. But this? Rationality be damned; this was personal.

He looked perfectly healthy. Too healthy, for Satoru's liking. And utterly unconscious.

Yaga’s gaze flickered between Satoru and the body. “So, this was a trap from two sides?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Satoru said, waving a lazy hand. “Two players, two targets. Aoi was one. The Six Eyes, the other.” He nodded toward the unconscious man. “This guy was meant to deal with her, which means someone’s real interested in her technique… or her background. Probably got their intel from Mei Mei—of course, she’ll deny it with a grin and pocket the yen.”

He stepped closer, pulling off his sunglasses to let the clarity of his Six Eyes wash over the bastard on the bed. The blue glow in his gaze deepened as he scrutinized every thread of cursed energy.

Nothing.

An empty vessel. No cursed energy. No anything.

Yaga’s frown deepened. “So? Can we consider him dead?”

"Dead? Nah. Worse, maybe." Satoru let out a slow breath, tilting his head as if examining a particularly disappointing painting. “Technically, he’s alive.”

“Technically?” Yaga echoed.

“Yeah, well.” His lips twisted into a humorless smile. "The guy’s perfectly healthy, actually. His body’s intact—Shoko took her time piecing him back together so I could—"

"—interrogate him?" The principal interjected, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope," Satoru replied, popping the p with a touch of arrogance. "So I could make him regret even being born." he answered, his tone light but carrying a dangerous edge. "I don’t need questions answered to get the gist of what went down."

"If he's healty, then why isn’t he waking up?" Yaga pressed, gesturing toward the still figure.

Satoru traced the jagged lines he could see beneath the man’s skin with his gaze. The threads of damage weren’t physical, but they were there, faint and irreparable. “His soul? Shattered. Pieces so tiny they may as well not exist.”

Silence hung between them.

Yaga’s shoulders tensed. “Who did it?”

Satoru finally turned, raising an eyebrow with a smug grin.  “Take a wild guess.”

"Fujikawa." The principal snorted, exhaling sharply.

“Bingo.” Satoru snapped his fingers, grinning with pride despite the heavy air in the room.

Yaga muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. “Dammit, that girl.”

Satoru ignored him, his gaze drifting back to the man on the bed. “She didn’t even realize what she was doing. Desperation’s a hell of a teacher.” His tone softened, almost admiring, before he added with a wry chuckle. "If I asked her to replicate it, she’d probably just stare at me like I’d asked her to solve quantum mechanics. For now, anyway." He let the moment linger, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if yearning to finish what Aoi’s blow had started. “A clean hit, really. Beautiful in its way.” Then, with a smirk, “Too bad it came with a side of ‘oops.’”

The older man's lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze flickering toward the unconscious man. "Now we can’t question him. Brilliant."

Satoru shrugged. “Whatever intel he had in his head?”—he rapped his knuckles on the unconscious man’s forehead—“Gone. Dust in the wind.” his concluded, voice light but his gaze sharp.

A pause. Then— "Anyway, we’ve got answers. Just not from him. Whatever happened here," he gestured vaguely toward the body, "we’ve got a girl who just obliterated a soul without even knowing how. Someone out there wanted her dead. And they were willing to gamble on this idiot to do it.»

Yaga exhaled deeply. “This isn’t funny.”

Satoru stepped back, sliding his sunglasses on with a flick of his wrist, his smirk sharpening into something more dangerous. “Don’t worry, Yaga. I’ve got it handled.”

"Forgive me if I don’t find that reassuring," the older man muttered.

He let out a laugh—bright, hollow. “Good. You shouldn’t.” He tilted his head, grinning. “But here you are, helping me keep her locked away in the safest place I know. Far from prying eyes, higher-ups, other clans and their… let’s call them questionable intentions."

Yeah… but it’s not the only issue here, is it?  Satoru’s smirk didn’t falter.

Before Yaga could say more, a fresh surge of pain stung Satoru’s cheek—a particularly harsh slap this time—and this time, he let his head loll to the side.

Satoru closed his eyes, sighing. “She’s relentless.” he muttered under his breath. She was never going to let this go. Seriously, Aoi? You done yet, or are you aiming for a record?

Yaga raised an unimpressed brow. “She’s still at it?”

He shot him a sideways glance, smirking. “What can I say? She’s thorough. And let’s be real, I do deserve it, but damn—thirty minutes of slapping herself just to get back at me? If she put half this effort into controlling her cursed technique, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.” He sighed, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. 

"What’s tthat you're not telling us?" Yaga looked somewhere between exasperated and exhausted. "You don’t brood unless there’s a damn good reason."

For a moment, Satoru hesitated, his usual grin faltering before he exhaled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an envelope. He handed it over.

“Here. Knock yourself out.” His voice was dry, but there was an edge to it. “Mei Mei dug into Aoi’s cursed technique origins. ‘Purely for academic purposes,’ of course.” A grin stretched across his face, sly and knowing. “Not that it really mattered. She figured the whole thing out on her own, clever little witch.” He gestured lazily toward the unconscious man. “And now we’ve got this as the end result.”

Yaga’s expression darkened as he flipped through the documents. His eyes scanned the first page, his brows furrowing. "You’re kidding."

"Oh, I’m not," Satoru leaned in, blue eyes gleaming. “Let’s play a game. Guess Aoi’s hometown.”

The principal sighed like a man deeply regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. Still, he indulged his former student. “Shizuoka?”

Satoru clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the infirmary. “Ding, ding! Now, next question: what’s that girl got on the back of her neck?”

Yaga gave him a long, tired look. “A birthmark. Triple-hollyhock emblem.”

Satoru burst into laughter, bright and unrestrained, like a kid who had just pulled off the perfect prank. “Bingo again! I’m telling you, she’s a genuine princess! Well…” He tilted his head, his grin turning mischievous. “More like the princess of trolls with her attitude—no graces at all—”

The other man's eye twitched. “I swear to god, if you don’t focus—"

Satoru held up a finger. "Ah, ah, let me finish my theory. It’s a good one.” His grin grew sly. "‘Bastard princess’ actually fits better, our very own illegitimate shogun, considering, considering-"

Before Yaga could launch himself at him, the infirmary door creaked open. Shoko leaned against the frame, cigarette dangling from her lips, a thin curl of smoke drifting into the sterile air. Her expression was its usual deadpan, but her eyes held a familiar glint—Shoko’s version of enthusiasm.

“So,” she drawled, taking a slow drag, her tone dripping with sardonic amusement, “you really found yourself a lost princess of the Tokugawa clan, huh?”

Satoru placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Don’t act so surprised. I have a knack for finding buried treasure.”

Shoko snorted, stepping further into the room and taking another slow drag from her cigarette. “Thought the Tokugawas gave up on jujutsu decades ago. All politics, no cursed techniques left in their bloodline. Just boring old bureaucrats pushing papers.”

“They did,” Satoru agreed, his grin widening. “Right down to the last dull politician. But, you know how it is—some wild ancestor couldn’t keep it in his pants. Skip a few generations, add in a pinch of bad decision-making, and voilà—a forgotten cursed technique pops up in a girl who spends her days painting like she’s not tied to any of this. Complete with a birthmark meant for direct descendants.”

Yaga crossed his arms, listening with a mix of skepticism and resignation. He knew by now that Satoru wouldn’t let this go until he’d gotten every piece of the puzzle out in the open.

Shoko took another slow drag, exhaling through her nose. “Mitsuba Aoi. Triple-hollyhock emblem, huh?” She tilted her head, her lips quirking ever so slightly. “Cute. Sounds like a real fairytale. Except, you know, with way more blood.”

Satoru knew that look—the one Shoko gave him when he was talking too much, getting too excited, and being just a little too pleased with himself.

He didn’t stop. “And guess where the last shogun, Yoshinobu Tokugawa, ended up after the Meiji Restoration knocked him off his throne?”

Shoko arched a brow. “Shizuoka.”

“Bingo.” Satoru grinned. “The same Shizuoka our little shogun’s from. Funny how history circles back, huh? Old Yoshinobu spent his days painting—peaceful stuff. And apparently, fathering a few illegitimate kids while he was at it.” He shrugged. “Who knew, right? And now we’ve got a relic of a dead dynasty making its way into the present day through a girl with a paintbrush.”

“And you locked her up.” Shoko interjected, a knowing edge to her voice that made Satoru’s skin prickle. 

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

He leaned back, masking the tension in his own body by settling into his usual air of smug detachment. Beneath the smirk and arrogance, though, he could feel the reality of what he’d done lurking in the back of his mind like a shadow he couldn’t shake. “For her own good.”

Shoko exhaled another plume of smoke, her eyes narrowing. “For her own good,” she echoed, voice flat. “Right. That why you flinched just now?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. You think I feel guilty?”

“I think,” Shoko said, tapping ash from her cigarette, “you’re a master at self-sabotage.” Her gaze flicked to his face, reading every shift in his expression. “What’s eating you? Besides the obvious ‘I locked my cursed-bonded girl in a room and now she wants me dead’ situation.”

Before he could respond, Yaga, who had been growing increasingly impatient, shook the envelope Satoru had handed him. “This grand cursed technique of hers,” he said gruffly, “what exactly does it do? Because from what I’m reading here,” he waved the papers, “it sounds like a glorified leash.”

Satoru’s eyes flicked toward the unconscious man on the infirmary bed. “We thought we understood her technique. Breaking pieces of her soul, embedding them into objects, creating curses to protect herself. Simple defense mechanism, right? Messy, but functional.” His jaw tightened. “But this?” He gestured to the lifeless form on the bed. “This is a full-blown soul-binding command technique.”

Yaga’s brow furrowed. “Command?”

Shoko exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “Like, actual authority over a soul?”

“Think about it,” Satoru’s smirk wavered, replaced by something more serious. “It’s how the Tokugawa kept power for over two centuries,” he explained, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Their daimyo and vassals weren’t just bound politically—they were bound. Spiritually. You rebelled? Your soul shattered. Your lord died? You died with him. It wasn’t just politics keeping them in line. It was fear. Absolute control. No room for errors.”

His voice dropped, something almost bitter laced in his tone. “And Aoi? She tied herself  this guy just by being desperate enough to survive. Just like she did with me the first time. He tried to kille her and look what it cost him.”

Shoko let out a low whistle. “That’s a hell of a heritage to inherit.”

Satoru huffed a laugh,his voice taking on an almost manic edge, the enthusiasm of a man unraveling a puzzle he both hated and couldn’t resist. “Oh, it gets better.” His grin returned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She’s already tied a fragment of her soul to me—lucky me. That’s how she can freeze me in place when she’s pissed or send a slap my way through a barrier. Unrefined, but effective. She’s a walking relic of feudal oppression. Real charmer, isn’t she?”

The doctor gave him a dry look. “So, she’s a little shogun in disguise, and you’re the vassal she roped in. That must burn.”

He let out a laugh—light, careless, like this was nothing but a joke. “Adorable, actually—if you squint.” He tilted his head. “Royal blood and entitlement. Explains so much about her attitude.”

Yaga, however, wasn’t amused. “And what happens if she refines it?” he asked, voice grave. “What happens when the higher-ups find out?”

Satoru’s smirk finally slipped. Just a little. “That,” he admitted, “is the problem.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy, inevitable.

Shoko exhaled another puff of smoke. “You think they’d want to weaponize her?” she said flatly, the words carrying an undeniable truth.

“Exactly.” His voice was quiet now, stripped of its usual bravado. “Think about it. What if she figures out how to reconstruct souls? What if someone teaches her? What if the higher-ups realize they could use her to keep every sorcerer in line? Imagine it—little pieces of Aoi’s soul keeping every jujutsu sorcerer obedient. A permanent safety net for their jujutsu kingdom.” His jaw clenched. “Worse, what if they figure out that they can control me now through her? They’d love her.”

Yaga muttered something under his breath, looking more frustrated by the second.

“But,” Satoru hesitated, just for a moment. “ A soul isn’t infinite. She keeps ripping it apart, piece by piece, like some careless artist smearing paint across a canvas. How long before there’s nothing left?” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "And what happens when those fragments are destroyed? How much of her soul one can lose before the whole thing collapses? We had proof. I destroyed one painting, and she—"

He stopped, his jaw tightening as the memory surfaced. Pale, fragile, gasping for breath as if the life had been siphoned out of her.

Shoko didn’t answer right away. Instead, she flicked her cigarette ash into a tray. “You think she’s could break herself apart?”

A pause.

"Who knows," he added, his tone light but hollow, "she can’t control it yet, so it’s all just a theory, right? Nothing to lose sleep over. A fun little history lesson that doesn’t change a thing. Because whether she likes it or not, she’s still stuck in that room. Let her stew, scream, slap me through the barrier—whatever keeps her alive. She’ll thank me… eventually. Or not. Who cares?"

Shoko’s smirk widened, something sharp and knowing glinting in her eyes. “Wow,” she drawled. “You’re really committing to the whole ‘villain of her origin story’ angle, huh? Lock her up, piss her off, call it love—how tragically stupid.”

The jab landed. Harder than he wanted to admit.

His smirk faltered—barely, but enough for Shoko to notice.

He recovered quickly. “Come on, Shoko,” he shot back, voice edged with forced amusement. “You make it sound like I’m pining.” He gestured lazily toward the infirmary bed. “You see her almost-killer laying there, or is it just me? She’s safe here. It’s either this, or let her waltz out there where someone might use her, break her, or worse.” His voice lowered. “Someone had to make the call.”

Shoko took another slow drag, her deadpan gaze unwavering. “Oh, no. Not pining,” she said sweetly. “Just locking her up for ‘her own good,’ taking the brunt of her rage, letting her slap you through your cursed bond, playing the tragic hero while pretending it doesn’t tear you up inside. Definitely not pining.”

Satoru opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.

She arched a brow, daring him to argue, to deny it.

He didn’t. God, she was insufferable. A chain-smoking nightmare with a god complex, he thought bitterly. But damn it if she wasn’t right. He needed her here, at Tokyo Jujutsu High, far from whatever machinations were at play, until he could figure out who was after her and why.

He told himself it was the right thing to do. He just wasn’t sure if he believed it. He knew why he’d done it, why he’d locked her away, and it wasn’t just because of the elders or the cursed paintings. He’d seen people die before, plenty of times. He’d even laughed in the face of death. But she was the one thing he hadn’t planned for, hadn’t accounted for. And she was under his skin, in a way that made him reckless. Made him afraid. He’d done what needed to be done, hadn’t he? Letting her rage in her little prison was a thousand times better than the alternative. But damn if it doesn’t sting.

"You know she won’t thank you for this, right?" Her gaze softened, just a fraction, as she blew out another plume of smoke. "She’s creative, though," she said lightly, "with her insults, I mean. ‘Lock you in a box and toss it into the Pacific’ was a highlight. Oh, and something about hexing you so your Infinity spells out ‘IDIOT’ in neon letters. She’s got flair. I’ll give her that."

Satoru barked out a laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing for a split second. "That’s my art girl. I'd be worried if she sat in silence."

The words slipped out before he could stop them, almost fond. Too fond. He caught Shoko’s raised eyebrow and immediately regretted it. Get a grip, Gojo. He plastered his grin back on, but it felt like a Band-Aid over a crack in a dam.

Satoru huffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Thirty-four slaps,” he muttered. “She’s relentless.”

Shoko smirked. “And yet, you’re still standing here talking about her.”

He waved her off. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m a fool.”

She tilted her head. “A pathetic fool.”

“Charming fool,” Satoru corrected, flashing a grin. "Let her hate me. If she’s got the energy to be angry,  it means she’s not lying in a pool of her own blood. Isn’t that what matters?" He almost didn’t finish the sentence, knowing how ridiculous it sounded out loud.

The doctor rolled her eyes. “And when this inevitably blows up in your face—because it will—I’ll be there. Front row. Popcorn in hand.”

“Then I guess I better be ready to grovel.” Satoru shoved his hands into his pockets, smirk intact. "Or dodge. Probably dodge," he quipped, tilting his head as if considering.  “Alright, enough brooding. I’ve got cursed paintings to collect and mysterious assailants to track down. Any last words of wisdom for Tokyo’s most hated man?"

When he turned to leave, Yaga’s voice stopped him. "Where are you headed first?"

Satoru glanced back, his grin sharp but lazy. "Shizuoka." His voice took on a self-deprecating edge. "Fate’s got a sense of humor. Turns out the painting of ‘Fun’ decided to camp out there. You know, same place our little ‘shogun’ hails from. Bet it’ll be a blast."

Yaga sighed, exasperation lining his face. "And what do we do with your raging bastard princess while you’re gone?"

Satoru tossed a small, gleaming nail—the talisman holding Aoi’s barrier—to Shoko. She caught it with a raised eyebrow.

"Keep her company, will you? Maybe put a good word for me, convince her I’m not the villain she thinks I am. Or lie. I’m not picky—whatever works," he turned toward the door, throwing a lazy wave over his shoulder. 

Shoko smirked. "Keep her from escaping? Sure. But if she does, don’t expect me to stop her. Hell, I might even cheer her on."

"Noted." Satoru adjusted his sunglasses, the grin slipping from his face the moment the door clicked shut behind him, replaced by the faintest trace of something vulnerable. Resignation, maybe.

Regret. Or just exhaustion.

As he stepped out into the cold, his voice came out in a muttered chuckle. "Alright, Shizuoka. Let’s see how funny you really are."

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

Satoru sipped from his juice box, tilting his head back to let the snowflakes melt on his face. The chill bit pleasantly at his skin, a distraction from the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind. Almost the end of the absurd year. Snow had tucked Shizuoka under a soft, quiet blanket, hiding the rot beneath. But he could feel it—the curse energy humming under the surface like an undercurrent, staining the quiet streets.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out with a dramatic sigh to read the latest update from Shoko:

“𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘑𝘶𝘫𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘶 𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩. 𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸.”

Satoru snorted and slipped the phone away. "Still mad, huh? Cute."

Not that he expected anything else. Aoi was nothing if not persistent. He had, technically, locked her in a room. For her safety. For everyone’s safety, really. But mostly hers. She couldn’t protect herself, not yet. Not from the curses. Not from the elders or the people after her. Not even from herself.

Better that than seeing her sprawled out on a cold floor again, bleeding out and fading fast. His jaw clenched at the memory. He sucked on his juice box harder, the straw folding in on itself like even it was judging him. Great coping mechanism, Gojo. Very mature.

Kusakabe’s voice, muffled behind a scarf wrapped to his nose, grumbled on beside him. "I can't believe this is my life. I can’t believe I let Masamichi sweet-talk me. ‘Make a difference, shape the next generation,’ he said. What a joke. First, I’m wrangling a classroom of kids who don’t respect me, and now I’m out here risking my neck. For what, exactly?" He stomped down the sidewalk like the snow had personally insulted him. "Some glorified promotion mission in a godforsaken town. Curses popping up like mushrooms. I should’ve stayed in admin."

The man’s sharp features were twisted into a grimace, his brows furrowed so deeply that it looked as if they might fuse. His dark hair had a few errant strands sticking out, courtesy of days spent in battle with curses.

Satoru glanced over with a grin. "Oh, come on, lighten up. Snow, quaint streets, little shops, random first-grade curses popping up every five minutes—it’s practically festive. And look at the company," he added, gesturing to himself. "Me. What’s not to love?"

Before Kusakabe could reply with the string of insults clearly building behind his eyes, footsteps crunched behind them. Satoru spotted Nanami trailing behind them, his uniform's jacket dusted with snow, his blonde hair parted back, and his expression set to its default mode: perpetual disdain.

"Nanamin!" Satoru called out, lifting his sunglasses to wink. "There’s the real sunshine of the group. Don’t tell me that’s a frown I see, huh? Isn’t this your dream mission? A chance to prove yourself for that sweet, sweet grade-one promotion? You, Mr. Sunshine here—" he gestured to Kusakabe, "—and your favorite senpai strolling through a picturesque town? A real postcard moment."

Nanami’s face remained perfectly impassive, save for a slight twitch of annoyance, the lines of exhaustion around his eyes deepening. "Why are you even here, Gojo?" he asked flatly. "Kusakabe’s here to assess me, not you. Don’t you have literally anything else, to do? Cursed objects to collect or—God forbid—paperwork?"

"Hey, hey, rude." Satoru feigned offense. "You act like I’m not contributing to morale."

"You're sipping juice like you’re on a ski trip," Kusakabe snapped. "There’s something seriously wrong with this town— it's infested.! He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, glaring ahead. "We’ve exorcised how many grade-one curses this week? It’s not a promotion mission anymore. It’s a damn siege."

Satoru just smiled wider. "Ah yes, the Great Shizuoka Curse Bloom. Beautiful in its own tragic way. Watching how things escalate day by day—it’s like a case study." He stopped, turning to face them both with a mockingly serious expression. "Nanamin, Kusakabe," he said, raising his sunglasses just enough to reveal the glint of his blue eyes, "do you know what this is?" He gestured broadly to the snow-covered street, the dim glow of streetlights, the quiet hum of cursed energy in the distance.  "This, gentlemen, is camaraderie. Bonding. Shared trauma in picturesque Shizuoka. Besides, if I stepped in, Nanamin’s promotion dreams would go up in smoke. Can’t have that, can we?»

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet," Satoru countered, "you’d miss me if I vanished."

Their glares could’ve melted the snow. He didn’t mind. He kept walking, watching their footsteps press into the powder like soft imprints in an unraveling mystery.

It was true—the number of curses appearing in Shizuoka lately was... troublesom. He knew why it was happening.

The painting was here. “Fun.” That cursed artwork, hidden somewhere in Shizuoka, pulsing with residual fragments of Aoi’s soul. It was calling every damn curse in the area like a beacon. But he couldn’t tell them that. Not yet. Not with everything hanging in the balance.

No, it was far better to keep his mouth shut and watch them scramble.

Still, it had been entertaining at first to stumble upon Kusakabe and Nanami already embroiled in the chaos when he arrived. Their reactions had been priceless. Yet, after two weeks of their curse exorcisms and his fruitless search for the elusive painting, though, things had become… well, tiresome.

If Aoi were here, they’d have found it by now. She’d mutter something sarcastic about the snow, scold him for drinking too much juice, and roll her eyes when he grinned at her like a smug idiot.

He took another long sip to bury the thought. Pathetic. Shoko was right—he was pining.

For someone who wanted to end his life, no less.

How tragic, he chided himself, stop that.

And yet, his mind returned to her anyway. Every damn time.

The thought was immediately followed by a pang of irritation. He had to resolve the problem himself, preferably before Nanami and Kusakabe had to face anything that went above their skill set.

They turned down a narrow street near the edge of town. His eyes caught on a brightly-lit storefront, warm and inviting, with a sign that read—Traditional Mochi Delights.

And there it was. His mind returning to her. Every damn time. Aoi’s perpetually bratty expression softening as she bit into a mochi, caught off guard by joy. She’d tried to hide it, of course. But he’d seen it. His lips curled in a grin, uninvited.

"Oh?" He paused. "Is that... mochi?" His voice lit up like a kid spotting candy, as he zeroed in on the display. "Now we're talking."

Kusakabe groaned. "We’re not stopping for snacks, Gojo. Unlike you, we don’t have endless free time."

Nanami sighed deeply, the bridge of his nose pinched between two fingers. "Why Shizuoka? Why not Nagoya? Osaka? Literally anywhere else?"

Satoru’s grin turned wicked. "Maybe I just wanted to see how long you two could survive without me. Spoiler: you’re not doing great." He adjusted his sunglasses with a flourish. "If Aoi were here—" He stopped mid-sentence.

His grin slipped. Damn it. There it was again. That nagging thought, the one he kept pretending wasn’t there. She’s not here. That’s the point.

His eyes flicked across the street—movement. A playground, half-buried in snow. And something wrong hiding behind the trees. A curse. First-grade, by the look of it. Twisted limbs, too many teeth, hunched and hungry.

"Ah. Another one," he said casually, like pointing out a squirrel.

"Hm?" Kusakabe followed his gaze. "What now?"

Satoru took a lazy sip from his juice box. "Cursed spirit. Playground."

Nanami’s shoulders squared, his voice taut. "I see it."

"I suppose you two can handle it?" Satoru called over his shoulder, voice bright and unbothered. "Have fun. I’ll be inside sampling the mochi." He gave a lazy wave, tone so light it practically floated. "Don’t forget the veil—and no rookie mistakes. Wouldn’t want this to get embarrassing."

"You’re reminding me to cast a veil?" Kusakabe barked, his scarf slipping slightly as his frustration boiled over. "I’m a senior sorcerer, you overgrown brat, not your interns!"

"Of course not," Satoru called over his shoulder, already walking toward the bakery. "Interns get paid better."

The curse lunged. The veil dropped into place with a shimmer, cutting the world in two—battle on one side, mochi on the other.

Satoru chuckled but didn’t look back as he stepped closer to the shop window. He trusted them. Mostly. And if not, well… he’d be nearby sipping juice.

He pressed his face slightly too close to the bakery window, fogging up the glass as he admired the display. Rows of mochi sat like tiny edible sculptures: strawberry daifuku, red bean, matcha cream. His fingers tapped thoughtfully on the glass. 

"Well, well," he murmured to himself. Strawberry daifuku, red bean, matcha cream... Decisions, decisions. He tapped a finger idly against the glass, his grin widening. "Maybe I’ll bring some to the art girl," he mused aloud. "Peace offering… or bribe? Probably both."

He could already imagine her face—the flat stare, the deadpan glare, the inevitable box lobbed at his head. And then, after a long, theatrical sigh, she’d eat them anyway, just to spite him. But hey, a guy could dream. That mental image made his grin twitch into something unexpectedly soft.

Worth it, he decided.

Behind him, the veil trembled as another curse shrieked. Kusakabe shouted something impolite. Nanami’s usually immaculate uniform was askew, a trickle of blood running down his temple. Kusakabe barked something that sounded suspiciously like an insult directed at him.

Satoru slid his sunglasses down, amused. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed it. "Oh, Nanamin… you got hit? I’m never letting you live this down." He took another sip of his juice, unbothered. They’d handle it. Not his problem.

A voice called from the shop’s doorway. "Young man." He turned to see a small elderly woman framed in warm light, flour dusting her apron like snow. Hands on hips. Eyebrow arched. Sharp-eyed. "Are you coming in, or just planning to drool on my window all day? You're scaring away the other customers."

Satoru grinned. "Actually, I’m in the market for something specific. A peace offering for an extremely angry princess." He stepped inside, letting the warmth hit him like a blanket. "I need something that says: ‘Sorry I locked you in a room for your own good, please don’t incinerate me.’ Got anything like that?"

The old woman chuckled, waving him in. "Plenty. Come in, come in."

Mochi. Let’s see if mochi can save my ass. And maybe, just maybe, a small truce with the girl who was probably plotting his demise as he stood there.

He pretended not to notice as another shockwave rattled the glass display case, instead letting the cozy warmth of the bakery wrapping around him as if he were a connoisseur of sweets rather than the strongest sorcerer.

The shop smelled like sweet rice and nostalgia. Steam, red bean paste, and quiet comfort. Her movements behind the counter were practiced and graceful—like someone who’d spent decades perfecting both mochi and moral judgment. There was something familiar about her. Her laughter carried a hint of mischief, and her gaze felt... knowing.

"So," she said, sliding a tray of mochi into place, voice teasing, "this princess of yours. She must be something, if you’re hovering over my glass like your life depends on a snack decision."

Well, my life kinda does depend on it.  Satoru scratched the back of his neck. "Special might be pushing it. Try: infuriating. Stubborn. Reckless. Very creative with threats. And probably a few choice adjectives I shouldn’t repeat in polite company."

The woman laughed, bright and warm like sunlight through a window. "What’d you do?"

He leaned an elbow on the counter, his grin slipping into something more self-deprecating. "Nothing major. Just locked her in a metaphorical tower to keep her safe from metaphorical dragons." He waved a hand dramatically. "Classic knight-in-shining-armor stuff. She’s taking it... poorly."

"Poorly?" she echoed, amused, her eyes crinkling. "You mean she didn’t thank you for the unsolicited imprisonment?"

"Shocking, I know." He smirked. "I expected at least a fruit basket."

The woman’s laugh deepened. "What kind of knight locks up a princess? Aren’t knights supposed to slay the dragon, not lock up the princess?"

"Dragons these days are tougher than they look," he replied, then added, quieter, "And she’s not exactly the damsel type. More the ‘set-you-on-fire-while-escaping-through-the-window’ type."

Her laughter filled the space, and for a moment, it eased something in his chest. There was something about her laugh—a familiarity he couldn’t quite place, a thread of wisdom that made him feel like a kid caught in a lie. It was unsettling. It reminded him of... no. He shut the thought down before it could take shape.

Another tremor rattled the display. Satoru didn’t flinch. They’ll be fine. He kept his eyes on the woman, letting the veil outside do its job. "Any recommendations?" he asked, voice light again.

"She must be quite the firecracker, this princess of yours." She tapped her chin, surveying her mochi like a general choosing her best soldiers. "Matcha-filled. Always calm my granddaughter down when she got in one of her moods. Spirited girl, like your princess. Fiery temper, big heart. Scared me to death and made me proud in the same breath, but these—" she gestured to a tray of matcha-filled mochi, their pale green hue glistening under the soft light "—always do the trick."

Satoru paused, arching a brow as his grin returned. "Your granddaughter sounds intense. Got any advice for dealing with her kind?"

She leaned in, stage-whisper serious. "Run," she said, deadpan, her eyes twinkling with mock seriousness. "Run as fast as you can."

He snorted. "Noted. I’ll keep that in mind."

She began packing the mochi with slow, deliberate care. "My granddaughter… she hasn’t been home in a while," she said quietly, her voice tinged with melancholy. "She’s out chasing her dreams now. I raised her, you know, after her parents… well." She paused, her hands faltering just slightly before resuming. "I hope she’s doing well."

Her words struck a nerve he didn’t want to acknowledge. I hope she's doing well. His thoughts shifted again, unbidden, to Aoi—pacing inside that barrier, her fury practically vibrating through their bond.

She was safe, sure. But had he crossed a line? Had he done what was best for her—or just what was easiest for him?

"You're quiet now," the old woman said, giving him a look that was far too perceptive for comfort. "That’s not normal for someone who walked in grinning like a fox in a henhouse."

Satoru blinked, his smile twitching back into place. "Ah, you caught me. Just... thinking," he muttered.

"About her?" she asked, not unkindly.

"Who?" he said feigning innocence with a shrug. "I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about."

She laughed again, clearly not buying it. "I may be old, but I’ve seen that look before. Even the sunglasses don’t hide it."

Satoru groaned under his breath, adjusting his sunglasses as he leaned against the counter. "I don’t have a look."

Shoko’s sardonic and knowing voice echoed in his mind: You absolutely have a look, dumbass.

The old woman pushed the mochi box across the counter. "Take these. If she’s half as fiery as my girl, this should soften her up."

Before he could respond with something clever, a muffled boom shook the windows. Smoke curled beneath the veil outside. He didn’t flinch.

"Will your friends be alright?" the old woman asked calmly, her demeanor unshaken by the chaos outside.

He gave a lazy wave. "They’re fine. Nanami’s bleeding, which means Kusakabe’s probably yelling, but they’ll live. They’re pros—"

His words caught in his throa. Wait. The veil's pretty much still up.

His gaze flicked back to the woman, who continued packing the mochi with serene precision, her face betraying not even a flicker of concern. His Six Eyes instinctively scanned her. No cursed energy, nothing dangerous. Just flour-dusted calm and eyes that saw more than they should.

Probably someone who’d seen more than her fair share of curses in her lifetime.

Satoru tilted his head, studying her with narrowed eyes. Familiar. Too familiar.

"You’re sharper than you look, Granny Mochi," he said, his grin sliding back into place. "Looks like my colleagues just did you a public service. No more monsters lurking outside your cozy little bakery."

She smiled like she’d heard it all before. "Shizuoka wasn’t always like this," she said. "Used to be peaceful. I rarely saw those… things. No monsters, no screams and no people like you. Not for the past twenty years."

People like me? Satoru blinked. Oh, the granny sure knew more that she was letting on—

She gestured toward the playground across the street. Her voice softened with memory. "My granddaughter used to play there. Wild little thing. Brave, loud, always dragging other kids into trouble. It's empty now, overrun by those creatures." She set another box of mochi on the counter. "Here, for your friends. Are they here to cleanse the town?"

Satoru barked a laugh, accepting the package with a small bow. "They’re trying their best, but wow, this town’s got issues. Ever notice anything strange? You know, stranger than usual?"

The woman paused, her brow furrowing slightly. "I sometimes hear her out there late at night. Laughing. Running."

His grin faded, replaced by a focused intensity. "Her?"

The woman’s voice dropped. "It's like hearing my granddaughter again, but it's not her. A little girl but not human. Plays until morning like she owns the place. Once, I almost saw her. And she almost saw me." Her hands faltered briefly, a faint shiver running through her as she recalled the memory. "That was enough."

Satoru’s gaze drifted to the park across the street. His instincts hummed in recognition. If the woman’s story was true—and she seemed the type who didn’t exaggerate—then this little girl was no ordinary apparition. And if his hunch was right, she had everything to do with the cursed painting.

Bingo. The pieces slid into place in his mind like clockwork.

He straightened, the mochi bag swinging from his fingers. "Thanks for the intel, Granny. I think it’s time I went for a night walk and see if this little ‘girl’ feels like chatting. Who knows? Maybe I’ll pull off a holiday miracle for you."

She handed him another box, her gaze warm but laced with something more—concern, perhaps, or quiet wisdom. "This one’s for your friends. Tell them thanks for cleaning up, and to not get themselves killed like fools."

"You know, Granny, you should put up a sign: ‘World’s Most Insightful Mochi Saleswoman.’ You’d make a fortune." He let the bag swing lightly from his fingertips. "These better work their magic. If they don’t, I’m coming back for a refund."

He moved toward the door, but she called after him. 

"Be careful. I’d like the park safe again. For when my granddaughter comes home." She gave him a small wave, her expression serene. "And apologize to your princess. From the heart, not just the mouth."

"Apologies are hard," he said with a lazy grin. 

As he stepped out into the snow, her voice followed him one last time: "Humility looks good on you. Try wearing it more often."

Satoru paused for a beat, chuckling softly as he rubbed the back of his neck. Humility, huh? Easier said than done. "I’ll keep that in mind, Granny Mochi."

The cold hit him like a slap the moment he stepped outside, the cozy warmth of the bakery fading behind him. Snow fell steadily, soft and soundless, but the box of mochi in his hand felt heavier than it should have. It wasn’t the weight of sweets—it was the old woman’s voice still echoing in his head.

For when my granddaughter comes home.

He exhaled slowly, watching his breath bloom in the frosty air. A granddaughter who loved mochi. Spirited. A firecracker. Coincidence, surely. There had to be thousands of girls like that.

Right?

He exhaled, his breath puffing into the icy air as he glanced back through the shop window. Granny Mochi was still behind the counter, wiping it down with unhurried care. She looked up just then and caught his gaze, offering him a small smile—warm, knowing, impossible to ignore, the kind of smile that said, I see you.

He rolled his eyes skyward.

“Fantastic. Even sweet old grannys are in on the emotional ambush now,” he muttered, stuffing a hand into his coat pocket. “I’m not pining. I’m being responsible. Totally different.”

He started walking again, the snow crunching under his boots as he made his way toward the park. The veil still shimmered faintly in the air, but it was breaking down now—cursed energy thinning out as the fight wrapped up. He could already see Nanami and Kusakabe emerging from the dissolving boundary like disgruntled office workers at the end of a terrible shift, probably cursing his name as much as Aoi was.

That thought brought his grin back, sharp and irreverent. He took a step forward, then stopped, glancing down at the box of mochi in his hand. "Make peace with my princess, huh?" he muttered, mimicking the old woman’s gentle tone under his breath. 

As the snow fell heavier around him, he found himself hoping—just a little—that these ridiculous mochi might work some kind of magic. Or at least buy him enough time to figure out what the hell he was doing.

Ahead, the veil flickered and dissolved.

Kusakabe’s scarf was practically strangling him, his scowl as deep as a curse wound. “Another damn high-grade. This town’s cursed. Literally.” 

Nanami, ever composed, dabbed at the blood trickling down his temple with a handkerchief. His uniform was rumpled, stained, and he looked seconds away from throwing in the towel and calling for early retirement. He didn’t even bother glaring at Satoru—yet. 

Both of them looked like they’d had enough of Shizuoka to last a lifetime.

Satoru approached, the casual bounce in his colleague’s step clearly grating, the box of mochi swinging lightly from his fingers. “Look who made it out alive! I was starting to worry. Thought maybe I’d have to step in and save the day.”

Nanami’s glare could have flash-frozen the snow midair. “Gojo," he said, his tone clipped. "Where. Were. You?”

Kusakabe, who looked seconds away from snapping, threw his hands in the air. “You ditched us. Again. Were you seriously shopping for sweets while we were yet again risking our lives?”

"Relax, relax! I was socializing," Satoru gestured innocently toward the bakery window. Granny Mochi, right on cue, waved from behind the glass. He gave her a mock salute. “Lovely woman, Granny mochi. Top-tier banter, better company than you two grumps. She even gave me something for you guys… but now I’m rethinking it.” He held up the box with a sly grin. “Sharing feels overrated. Not unless you ask nicely.”

"Ask—ugh—" Kusakabe threw his hands up. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Flirting with a grandma during a curse fight. New low,” Nanami added flatly.

Satoru gasped, scandalized. “Excuse me. It was professional. I was gathering intel.”

“On mochi?”

“On life,” he teased, wagging a finger. "You just wouldn’t understand. Neither of you have a way with women. How could I possibly explain the complexities of my current… predicament?" he sighed theatrically, running a hand through his snow-dusted hair, his grin widened. "I got a little Shogun furious with me—justifiably, I suppose, but come on it was for her own good! How do you reason with someone like that? You don’t. You just… endure. A slap here, a slap there... can you imagine the stress I’m under?"

Nanami and Kusakabe exchanged a look, clearly done with his antics.

"We don’t know what you're talking about,» Nanami said, his tone clipped, "and frankly, we don’t care."

"You could at least pretend to sympathize," he continued, unfazed. "I’ve tried everything, you know, to make her see my point. It’s a tragic tale of unrequited—"

Both men groaned simultaneously.

"Gojo," Kusakabe interrupted, his voice tight with irritation, "I swear, if you don’t stop talking about your love life—"

"Fine, fine," Satoru admitted resigned. "But you’ll want to hear this. My delightful chat with my new best friend Granny Mochi, yielded something interesting." He leaned forward, hands in his pockets, his grin widening at their wary expressions. "Apparently, Granny Mochi can see curses. Imagine the grit it takes to live your whole life seeing those things and just… ignoring them. Serenity goals. Honestly, makes you wonder if she’s tougher than you two put together."

The insult rolled off their faces like water off a rock—mostly. Kusakabe muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse, but Satoru ignored it.

"A tough cookie, that one. Doesn’t even flinch. Kind of reminds me of—" Satoru stopped himself mid-thought, forcing down the comparison before it could fully form. "Turns out she’s been seeing something weird at night. A little girl—laughing, playing in the park like it’s recess, but... not human. Gave her the creeps.” He pointed lazily toward the park. "That doesn’t sound like your average first-grade curse, does it?"

Nanami straightened slightly, the fatigue momentarily pushed aside. “She saw it herself?”

Satoru nodded, his expression shifting just enough to be taken seriously. “Not just saw. Felt. And she’s not the type to spook easily. I think it’s the thing drawing in every stray curse like a magnet. More interesting than that weak excuse for a curse you just dealt with, anyway. No offense.” He rocked back on his heels. “So? Come with me tonight to check it out?”

“No,” Kusakabe snapped. “I’m done. I want out of this town.”

“I’m with him,” Nanami said, already turning toward the road. “I’m going back to headquarters.”

Satoru gasped again, clutching his chest. “Oh come on, It’s December 30th! Don’t you want to end the year with a bang? Nanamin!" He leaned closer to Nanami, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Think bout it imagine the instant promotion if it’s a special grade.”

“Imagine the funeral if it is,” Nanami replied dryly.

“I promise I won’t let you die,” Satoru said with mock solemnity, holding up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

They exchanged a look, clearly weighing their options—the universal language of tired coworkers who regretted every decision that led them to this exact moment. Finally, with a collective sigh of defeat, they relented.

“Fine,” Nanami muttered.

“This is the worst idea,” Kusakabe sighed.

Satoru clapped his hands together, his grin positively triumphant. “You guys are the best.”

They resumed walking, the three of them trudging through the snow like mismatched penguins. Satoru swung the mochi bag cheerfully as if they were out for a stroll instead of ghost-hunting.

“Oh, and Nanamin?” he said, reaching out to ruffle his colleague’s hair with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Don’t—” Nanami started, too late.

“Stellar work back there. Except for, y’know, getting hit. Pretty embarrassing.” He tsked in mock disappointment. “What would Yaga say?”

Nanami swatted his hand away. “Go to hell.”

“Love you too,” Satoru laughed, dodging just out of reach. "Relax, you’ll get that promotion. Probably. If I let you."

The snow fell harder, muffling the sounds of the city. They walked on in silence for a few more paces, the air thick with cold and cursed residue. Then, as Satoru looked down at the mochi in his hand, his grin wavered.

Just finish this. Find the painting. Then…

Then what? Some half-assed apology? Another argument? Another barrier? Another slap? He sighed, running a hand through his hair. It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. Why did she have to matter so much?

A treacherous thought crept in. Maybe he should bring her along next time. Keep her close. Keep her safe. After all, he was the strongest—nothing could touch her if she was with him. Right? Except it had touched her. In Sendai. A single second of distraction. The blood. Her body, crumpled and still.

He tightened his grip on the bag.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out with a tired groan, expecting Shoko to send another snide comment about his life choices. But the moment he read the message, he stopped walking.

The grin dropped.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 ‘𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯.’ 𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵. 𝘓𝘖𝘓. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦."

Satoru stared at the screen. Once. Twice. A third time.

“…What.”

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

The snow kept falling in slow, steady waves as Satoru walked briskly through the quiet streets of Shizuoka. Behind him, Kusakabe and Nanami followed like disgruntled shadows, both visibly exhausted. Kusakabe was muttering under his breath again—something about cursed hellholes and life choices—while Nanami kept his silence, every step radiating quiet disapproval.

"Something’s off with you," Kusakabe finally grumbled, breaking the silence. His voice cut through the crunch of snow like a blade. "Care to explain, or should we keep pretending your whole vibe hasn’t shifted in the last hours?"

Satoru didn’t break stride. He did, however, tilt his head slightly to flash that trademark smirk. "What vibe?" he asked breezily "Don’t be ridiculous, Kusakabe. I’m always this delightful."

"You’re pacing like a man with a deadline," Nanami observed, voice low and flat. "That’s not like you."

A deadline? Yeah, no kidding.

They weren’t wrong. The problem with being the strongest was that even the smallest crack in his demeanor was impossible to hide.

Satoru, of course, didn’t care. His hands were shoved deep in his coat pockets, his head tilted slightly upward as if he had all the time in the world, even though every step forward felt like treading deeper into a minefield.

She escaped.

Of course Aoi had escaped. Why had he thought she’d keep Aoi contained? He should have seen it coming. Hell, he had seen it coming.

That girl could slip out of a reinforced vault if it meant proving a point. She was stubborn to a fault, driven by anger, and, above all, resourceful—an infuriating combination on a good day. He shouldn’t be surprised. Wasn’t. If anything, he was impressed it had taken her this long. Still, the timing? Awful.

And now she was out there, alone, angry, and clueless. The kind of walking disaster that attracted all the wrong kinds of attention. It made his skin crawl to think of the curses she might attract. Or worse, the people who might notice her. The wrong people.

And Shoko? Oh, Shoko had been so helpful. He sighed, jaw tight, as her message echoed in his brain. She pulled off a wrestling move. What was I supposed to do? Tase her?

Yes, Shoko. That would’ve been nice. Why had he even bothered counting on Shoko to keep Aoi contained? He’d known better. He should’ve reinforced the barrier himself. Hell, he should’ve chained her to the floor—okay, no, that would’ve been too far.

Okay, no panic. He repeated the mantra like a lifeline. Panic wasn’t productive, so he shoved the thought aside. One thing at a time. Curse first. Then find Aoi before someone—or something—else found her. Then… Drag her back to Tokyo Jujutsu High. Probably get slapped again in the process.

He grimaced. Like she’d even let me get close to her after this stunt.

They reached the edge of the park. Snow blanketed the swing sets and jungle gym, muffling everything in a blanket of eerie quiet. Across the street, the bakery sat dark and silent, a window on the second floor cracked open. He could just make out Granny Mochi’s silhouette behind the curtain, watching.

Of course she was watching. He gave her a lazy wave, but his mind was elsewhere.

"This is a waste of time," Kusakabe muttered, glaring at the empty playground. "Not a damn thing out here, and you—" he jabbed a finger at Satoru, his frustration palpable, "—dragged us out here in the middle of the night for what? To humor some old lady’s ghost stories?»

Nanami crossed his arms, calmer but no less annoyed. "We’ve seen no sign of a curse."

"Patience, gentlemen," Satoru sighed theatrically, pulling his sunglasses off and letting his Six Eyes sharpen his vision. "You’re wound tighter than a cursed knot. Let me take a look"

To the naked eye, the park looked empty. But something was off. It was too still. Even the snowflakes seemed hesitant to land. His gaze flicked back toward the bakery window.

And that’s when he felt it.

A ripple of cursed energy. Subtle. Quiet. Creeping in from behind.

Dense. Strong—not quite on his level, but enough to demand respect. Stronger than anything Nanami or Kusakabe could handle alone. Special grade, without question. It had crept up on him, almost undetected—almost. He hadn’t felt anything this sly, this calculated, in months. Shizuoka wasn’t pulling any punches tonight.

His posture shifted just slightly. "Bingo," he murmured, the grin back, but tighter this time.

The temperature dropping further as the cursed presence closed in. He didn’t turn around, but the expressions on Kusakabe and Nanami’s faces told him everything he needed to know.

They had reacted instantly—sharp breaths, tensed shoulders. Kusakabe reached for his katana.

"Don’t," Satoru said quietly, raising a hand, to stop Kusakabe mid-draw. "Stay put."

Kusakabe froze, glaring at Satoru like he was insane. "Are you serious? That thing’s right behind you!"

"Exactly. And that’s where it’s going to stay." His tone was light, almost playful, though his focus was razor-sharp. "Relax. I’ve got this."

The other two froze, their eyes darting toward Satoru as beads of sweat formed despite the cold. Behind him, the cursed energy thickened, pressing against the air like a held breath. It wasn’t moving to strike—not yet. It was watching. Challenging him.

Satoru smirked, still not turning around, as he waved a hand dismissively. "So," he said, voice light but steady, "is it your fault Shizuoka’s gone to hell lately? I gotta say, I’m not impressed. But if you tell me where the little thing that spawned you is hiding, maybe we can skip the mess and keep the collateral damage to a minimum. Sound fair?"

The response came in the form of a soft giggle. High. Childlike. Wrong. The voice that followed was sweet, playful, and entirely too unsettling. "That’s boring," the voice sang. "Let’s play tag instead!"

Kusakabe’s jaw clenched. "Tell me I’m not hearing what I think I’m hearing."

Nanami said nothing, eyes fixed on the curse behind Satoru.

"Tag, huh?" Satoru said, smiling now, but his fingers twitched at his side. "Hate to break it to you, kid. No time for that. I’m on a tight schedule. Try again next century."

The cursed presence giggled again, closer, the voice grew petulant. "But I want to play!"

Satoru felt the spike of cursed energy behind him. In a blink, he moved—faster than most could follow, a blur of motion as he closed the gap between himself and the curse. He caught a glimpse of her—a child, barely tall enough to reach his waist, launching a pulse of Red straight at her. The blast shattered the air, throwing snow and dirt in a wide arc as Kusakabe and Nanami ducked for cover, their eyes scanning for any sign of the curse.

When the dust cleared, Satoru frowned. Not exorcised. She’s still here. His Six Eyes locked onto her form a short distance away, on the rusted remains of a slide. She was sitting on a rusted slide, legs swinging idly as if nothing had happened.

Completely unharmed, her face scrunched in a sulky pout way too familiar.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed as he took in her appearance. A little girl, or something wearing the shape of one. Short. Brown hair tied in messy pigtails. Mischievous hazel eyes. Bright summer kimono, her geta clacking softly against the metal as she tilted her face at him as if oblivious to the fact she’d just survived Red. A face Satoru recognized far too well.

Aoi.

No—not Aoi. But close. A cursed echo of her, frozen in childhood, with all her sass and mischief dialed up to eleven

His smirk faltered. You’ve got to be kidding me.

"That’s cheating," the curse pouted, voice still sweet but carrying an edge of annoyance. "No sneak attacks! That’s not how the game works!"

Kusakabe cursed under his breath, already shifting into a battle stance. "Gojo, what is that thing?" His fingers twitched near his katana, and Nanami’s grip on his weapon tightened.

"Nothing good," Satoru muttered. "Which is why you two should stay exactly where you are." He took a step forward, eyes locked on the creature that wasn’t Aoi—but somehow was. "Alright, little princess," he said, voice low. "Tell me—what are the rules of this game of yours? Enlighten me."

The curse beamed. "Oh! It’s easy!" she chirped, hopping off the slide with eerie grace.

She skipped toward them like she was playing hopscotch, completely unfazed by the three trained sorcerers, weapons drawn, watching her every move.

"Let’s play Witch Calls a Color! I’ll go first!" the curse said, the name of the game rolling off its tongue with childish glee.

Kusakabe’s katana unsheathed and Nanami’s weapon at the ready. They tensed immediately.

"She’s mocking us," Nanami muttered.

"Nope," Satoru said softly, "She’s dead serious."

He stayed rooted in place, his expression unreadable as he watched the curse come to a stop in the center of the playground. This one’s no joke. This wasn’t just any curse—it was dangerous. Smart, too. And apparently fast enough to avoid one of his attacks. Or maybe, there was something else at play.

The girl stopped in the center of the playground, spun in a circle, then clapped her hands. Her eyes locked on them with unnatural brightness, her voice sing-song.

"Witch calls… orange!"

Satoru let out a soft laugh. He couldn’t help it. The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on him. A curse demanding they play Witch calls a color? It was almost too much. "Really? A children’s game? I should warn you, I’m great at cheating."

She tilted her head, like she didn’t understand the word.

"Why are you laughing?" Kusakabe barked, clearly less amused than Satoru. "This isn’t funny, Gojo!"

Before Satoru could respond, moved—and oh, did it moved—agone in a flash of movement.

Kusakabe reacted just in time, his katana slicing through the air with the precision of his Batto Sword Drawing technique, meeting her attack head-on. Sparks flew as her weapon—a spiked bat almost comically oversized for her diminutive frame—came swinging out of nowhere.

The attack wasn’t just a playful slap.

"Where the hell did that come from?!" Kusakabe shouted, barely blocking as the spiked bat was swung with alarming force for a creature so small..

He stumbled back a few feet with a shallow slash across his shoulder, blood seeped into his coat, but the seasoned sorcerer held his ground. He scowled, clearly pissed but managing to stay on his feet.

"A spiked bat?" Satoru muttered, raising an eyebrow.

The curse giggled hopping back with a lightness that was almost disarming. "You’re slow, old man!" she teased, a child mocking a defeated opponent, balancing the massive weapon like it was made of air.

"Old man?!" Kusakabe seethed, eyes shooting to Gojo. "Do something! I’m not here to babysit your cursed problem!"

Satoru shrugged. "You're doing fine, it’s just a scratch. Besides, you’re the senior here, right?" He turned to Nanami. "Quick, Nanamin. Touch something orange."

Nanami didn’t even blink. "You cannot be serious."

"I’m always serious," he replied said, jerking his head toward the nearby playground equipment. "Now."

With visible reluctance, Nanami reached out and touched the rusted orange swing frame nearby.

The curse stopped mid-bounce, nose scrunching in disappointment. "Ugh! Boooring!" she huffed, as her cheeks puffed out in childish annoyance. "That’s no fun."

Satoru noted the shift. Interesting. So following the rules keeps you safe. That’s why she went for Kusakabe first—not playing along.

Her big hazel eyes flicked back to Satoru. There was recognition in that look—something sharp and unsettling.

She skipped toward him, and this time. The spiked bat came down in an arc aimed straight for his head, but Satoru didn’t move. The moment it crossed into his space, Infinity snapped to life, stopping the strike inches from his head.

The curse froze, her bat suspended mid-swing. Her eyes widened briefly before narrowing, her lips twisting into a pout. "Geeez! You’re cheating again!" she pouted, hopping back. "That’s no fair!" The curse huffed, stomping her foot in frustration. "That’s cheating!"

"Life’s not fair," he replied, adjusting his sunglasses. "Neither are curses."

Satoru’s gaze flicked toward Kusakabe and Nanami. Kusakabe was still in a defensive stance, blood dripping from his shoulder, while Nanami’s hand remained firmly on the swing. Neither of them looked remotely pleased. This wasn’t their fight—they weren’t equipped to deal with something this unpredictable. He needed to end it before it escalated further.

The curse pouted harder, then twirled in place. "Witch calls—"

"Nope," Satoru interrupted, blurring toward her again with a precise, vicious, blue-infused fist aimed at her skull, enough to level a building. But as his strike landed—or should have—she was gone.

He froze. She wasn’t just fast. This was something else entirely. She was gone, completely vanished from his line of sight. His Six Eyes scanned the playground. Her cursed energy flickered briefly, then vanished.

What the—?

Then—

"There you are."

There she was, standing just at the treeline, with her arms crossed, glaring at him with mock indignation. "You have to play fair!" she called. "If you don’t play, it's no fun!" 

Crouching, she placed her hands on her knees and tilted her head, her pout exaggerated. It was almost comical, if not for the suffocating aura of cursed energy rolling off her small frame.

Not speed—it’s her technique. Satoru’s mind clicked. You can’t interact with her unless you play by her rules. Clever. Annoying, but clever.

She clapped again, smiling with renewed delight. "You’re smart. I like you, mister. But ugh, those two—" she waved at Kusakabe and Nanami— "they’re boring. I don’t want to play with them." Her fingers began tracing idle patterns in the snow, her voice soft, almost wistful. "They're not like her. She was so much more fun."

Satoru tensed. "Her?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

The curse grinned wide. "Not telling~!" she sang as she stood and dusted off her kimono. "I’m done playing with you."

She’s going to run. Satoru’s breath hitched as understanding dawned. "Oh no, you don’t—" he muttered, calling Blue to his palm. The space around the trees warped, a gravitational force ripping forward in a deafening explosion, obliterating snow and wood.

Kusakabe and Nanami shielded themselves from the flying debris, coughing as the air cleared.

When the dust settled, the cursed child was gone, as casually as a child skipping out of class. Just like that. No cursed energy. No child. Just snow, silence, and scorched trees.

Damn. Satoru clicked his tongue, scanning the area with his Six Eyes. "Tch," he clicked his tongue, his irritation barely masked. He turned. Kusakabe was bleeding, glaring daggers. "This just got a whole lot more complicated,"

His gaze flicked briefly toward Granny Mochi’s shop. Her silhouette was still visible behind the curtain of her upstairs window, watching with an unsettling calm. He gave her a slight wave—part acknowledgment, part apology for the wrecked playground.

Around him, the aftermath of the battle was stark: scorched metal, splintered wood, and a playground reduced to rubble. He sighed. He’d owe the neighborhood an apology. Later.

"What the hell was that?!" Kusakabe snapped, finally lowering his katana.

Nanami didn’t say anything right away. When he did, it was quiet. "It wasn't just any curse. Not normal—not even for Shizuoka."

Satoru didn’t answer. Yeah. Welcome to the Aoi Fujikawa shitstorm, he thought grimly. His Six Eyes caught a faint trail of cursed residue, barely there—but enough. She didn’t vanish completely.

His lips twitched into a smirk, though it lacked humor. "I’ve got her trail."

"Gojo—" Nanami began, but he was gone.

Kusakabe’s protests and Nanami’s warnings barely registered. Blue bent the air as he vanished through the snowy streets, following the thread of cursed energy like a bloodhound.

Finally, he came to a stop, boots crunching into the snow as he took in the sight in front of him, his target looming before him. The snow-dusted grounds stretched in quiet defiance of the chaos that simmered beneath. You’ve got to be kidding me. 

There it was—Sunpu Castle.

Stoic. Snow-dusted. Radiating just the right amount of irony to make him want to punch a wall.

The snow-dusted grounds stretched in quiet defiance of the chaos that simmered beneath.

Satoru let out a breathless laugh, the sound dry as the winter air. "Of course," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Where else would a cursed Tokugawa-brat hide, if not in her great-great-ghost-grandpa’s backyard?"

The first blush of dawn spilled across Shizuoka, soft gold light bleeding into the pale blue sky. The streets were still quiet, wrapped in that early morning hush before reality woke up and started asking questions. And there he stood, hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets, staring at a historical landmark and debating the consequences of blowing it to hell.

Getting in wouldn’t be a problem. That was the easy part.

The problem was everything that came after. Fighting a special-grade curse inside a nationally protected site wasn’t exactly subtle. Add in the fact that tourists would start trickling in by mid-morning, and yeah… not ideal.

Disaster didn’t even begin to cover it—a cacophony of cursed energy, collateral damage, and maybe a couple of near-death experiences for anyone unlucky enough to wander too close. 

He could already hear the bureaucratic fallout: National Treasure Reduced to Rubble—Thanks, Gojo.

His lips pressed into a line. "Yeah, no. Not today." He tilted his head back toward the rising sun, sunglasses catching the light. "Talk about bad timing," he muttered.

Granny Mochi had said the curse only appeared after sunset. So, for now, he had some breathing room. A few hours, at least. Enough to clear the area, set up some safety nets, maybe dump the cleanup responsibility on someone else. And more importantly—find Aoi.

Wherever the hell she was.

Still out there. Unsupervised. Probably smug. Definitely pissed. And, worst of all, completely unaware—or indifferent—to the kind of trouble that could be on her tail.

Still out there, somewhere, oblivious—or worse, uncaring—about the massive target on her back. He could handle the curse; that wasn’t the problem. But leaving her out there, unprotected, with god-knows-who after her?

He exhaled sharply. "Why is it always me cleaning up her messes?"

The answer was obvious. Because no one else could.

Nanami and Kusakabe were solid, dependable, professional to a fault. But they weren’t him. They didn’t have Six Eyes. They didn’t have this stupid cursed bond that tied him so painfully to the center of it all. They didn’t have the emotional baggage of accidentally caring for the art student at the center of the disaster.

This curse wasn’t like the other curses they had met. All of them were part of her, but this one—this one—was too close to the original. A cursed doppleganger of Aoi, pulled from that damn painting and twisted into something too clever, too powerful, too her for comfort. A tantrum in cursed form, skipping through the night and beating people with a spiked bat.

Of course, this was what her cursed energy would spawn. He could almost hear her now, sassing him from behind her cursed barrier.

Satoru groaned under his breath. "Now I’m babysitting Aoi’s cursed inner child. Just my luck."

The thought made his stomach twist. He hated this—feeling stuck, out of sync, half a second too late in everything. He pulled out his phone as his brain clicked into overdrive, flicking through contacts with practiced irritation.

Time to mobilize. Clear the area. Save the town. Save the art girl. Again. No big deal, right? Just another day as the strongest.

He scrolled through his contacts, already mentally preparing for the bureaucracy and whining he’d have to endure from the higher-ups. Gojo-san, you’re such a loose cannon. Gojo-san, please respect historical landmarks. Gojo-san, stop traumatizing our underlings.

Yeah, yeah.

He hovered over Ijichi’s name, sighing dramatically before pressing call. Poor guy. Barely out of his internship, and already about to face the Satoru Gojo experience. "Alright, buddy," he muttered, tapping his foot as the line rang, "time to earn your paycheck."

Ijichi picked up on the second ring, frazzled as always. "Gojo-san? It’s—"

"Morning!" Satoru cut in cheerfully, way too awake for the hour. "So here’s the thing: I need Sunpu Castle shut down before sundown. Total lockdown. Make up whatever you want—construction, gas leak, alien landing—get creative."

"Wait, what? Sunpu Castle? Gojo-san, I can’t just—"

"And I’ll need a cleanup crew on standby. Might get messy."

"Messy? How messy are we talking?"

"The me kind," he said breezily, cutting him off again. "Anyway, you’re the best. Thanks!"

He hung up before Ijichi could spiral into full panic mode and tucked his phone back into his coat. Logistics, handled. Sort of.

Now for the awkward part.

His thoughts drifted toward the park—the cratered remains of it, anyway. Broken swings. Scorched slide. Snow stained with blackened curse residue. You’d never know kids once played there.

Granny Mochi had said this used to be her beloved granddaughter’s playground.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Yeah… I should probably go apologize. Nothing says ‘thank you for the mochi’ like accidentally destroying your sweet memories."

The castle could wait. Granny deserved an explanation. Maybe even a real apology. "And maybe," he added under his breath as he turned toward the bakery, "another box of those matcha ones. For the art girl. Not that she deserves them."

His boots crunched through the snow as he headed back down the street. He could already imagine the old woman’s face—arms crossed, that knowing look in her eyes, the same one Aoi wore whenever she caught him in a lie.

"Can’t wait to get scolded like a child. Perfect way to start the day," he muttered, rolling his shoulders.

Maybe if he was lucky, the mochi would soften the blow. Or at least give him something sweet to chew on while the universe continued to screw with him. A little sugar never hurt anyone, right? 

Now, if only dealing with the rest of the mess was that simple.

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

Satoru stood in the ruins of the playground, hands buried in his coat pockets as the sun crept higher into the winter sky. The scene around him looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic children’s book—slides crumpled like soda cans, a sandbox obliterated beyond recognition, and a single swing hanging limp in the snow, swaying in the wind like the last survivor of a war.

He tilted his head, squinting at the chaos with mild interest. "Huh. Could’ve been worse."

Across the way, Nanami and Kusakabe sat on a low brick wall, both looking like they wanted to murder him. Kusakabe’s shoulder was still streaked with dried blood, while Nanami’s normally pristine uniform had taken a visible beating.

The shared glare they sent Satoru’s way would have unnerved a lesser man.

"Come on!" Satoru called out brightly, waving like they’d just bumped into each other at a café. "What’s with the sour faces? You look like someone canceled your New Year’s plans. It’s not like you lost a game of Witch Calls a Color, right?" A pause. "Oh wait, you actually did."

Kusakabe gripped his katana like he was seconds away from throwing it at Satoru's face. "You ditched us, you absolute—!" he started, the rest drowned out by a frustrated growl.

Nanami didn’t bother speaking; his flat stare said it all.

"Ditched?" Satoru clutched his chest, wounded. "I was prioritizing. While you two were flailing around in a cursed playground," he gestured vaguely at the wreckage, "I found our little guest of honor. And you're alive, aren't you? So, you’re welcome."

Kusakabe didn’t look convinced. "Where is it?"

Satoru clapped his hands once, all enthusiasm. "Our little princess is holed up in Sunpu Castle. Right in the middle of town. Historic. Picturesque. Perfect for a special-grade curse to throw a tantrum. Now, the fun part: getting her out without turning the entire city into a national headline. Sounds like a blast, right?"

Kusakabe groaned. Nanami’s expression darkened. Kusakabe threw up his good arm in frustration. "Great. I’m sure the city’s residents will love waking up to you leveling a historical landmark."

"Oh, come on," Satoru said, exasperated. "Here's the good news. I have a plan."

"I’m scared to ask," Kusakabe muttered.

"Don’t be. It’s brilliant," Satoru’s grin widened. "The curse won’t move until sunset. I already called in a cleanup team to secure the perimeter. Something about urgent restoration work. Then, once the area’s clear, I’ll head in and finish the job before dinner. Easy."

"Easy." Nanami rubbed his temple. "And we’re supposed to... what? Sit back and watch the chaos unfold?"

"No, no. You’re supposed to learn," Satoru waggled a finger. "This is an invaluable lesson in how to conduct yourself as a responsible sorcerer. You know, avoiding public spectacles and all that jazz."

Nanami didn’t even try to hide his disdain. "Public spectacles like the ones you’re infamous for?"

"Nanamin, that’s low. I’m hurt." Satoru gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "How about you leave the sarcasm to me, yeah? You’ve got a whole city to help lock down. Don’t let me keep you."

Nanami and Kusakabe shared a look—half exhaustion, half despair—before rising to their feet. Kusakabe flexed his injured shoulder with a wince. "Fine," he grumbled, brushing past Satoru. "Let’s go see how your ‘brilliant plan’ falls apart."

"That’s the spirit!" Satoru called after them, leaning lazily against a lamppost as they walked away. He waved dramatically. "Don’t forget to smile for the camera when the press shows up!"

When they were gone, he let the grin slip. His hand went to his phone, thumb hovering. What could he even say? It had been two weeks since he’d locked Aoi up, and her last message had been... well, creative. A storm of insults, some truly inventive threats, and then—silence.

That silence, of course, was worse than anything. Aoi, quiet, was always more dangerous than Aoi yelling.

He typed quickly. Where the hell are you?

Simple. Direct. Heavy. The words stared back at him. He hit send before he could talk himself out of it and slid the phone back into his pocket. She’d be furious when she saw it, but that didn’t matter. He just needed to find her. 

Behind him, a door creaked open. Turning, he saw Granny Mochi stepping out of her shop. She didn’t say anything at first—just crossed her arms and stared him down like a teacher catching a student in the middle of something stupid.

"You know," she said, voice sharp and cutting through the cold air, "I had hoped you’d leave this place better than you found it. Instead, you’ve left it looking like a battlefield."

Satoru tilted his head, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips despite the sting of her words. Her presence had the effect of a slap on the wrist before you even did anything wrong. "Yeah, uh, the problem was bigger than expected."

Her lips twitched like she was trying not to laugh. She vanished inside for a moment, then returned with a steaming cup and handed it to him without ceremony.

He blinked down at the cup. "Am I being bribed into guilt?"

"You don’t need bribing. The guilt’s already doing its job," she said, eyes on the snow-covered playground across the street.

They stood side by side in silence, the tea warming his hands as snowflakes drifted lazily down around them. Granny Mochi sat quietly on a bench, watching the snow-covered playground as though seeing through its ruined state to what it once was.

He nodded vaguely at the carnage with one hand still stuffed in his pocket. "Don’t worry. We’ll have it fixed up before the fireworks."

"You’re lucky I’m too old to chase you with a broom," she muttered.

Satoru laughed softly, taking a sip of the tea. "I’d outrun you anyway."

Her eyes twinkled. "Don’t be so sure. I've always been pretty good at running."

They lapsed into silence again, watching the wind brush across the destroyed park like it was trying to erase the evidence.

"The fireworks," she said eventually, voice quieter now. "They always set them off behind the castle. You should take your princess to see them." Her eyes crinkled with warmth, her hands resting lightly in her lap. "My granddaughter used to love those fireworks. Sat on my laps and tried to catch the sparks with her hands."

Satoru blinked. "Fireworks, huh? Pretty sure she’d probably aim them at my head right now. But thanks for the tip."

"Oh, you young people always so dramatic," Granny Mochi replied, her tone laced with gentle humor. "Sometimes we make choices thinking they’re right," a heavy pause, as if she was talking to herself, "only to realize later we’ve done more harm than good."

Satoru gave a dry laugh. The strongest sorcerer alive, reduced to a sheepish grin by a grandmother who barely reached his chest. "Is this the part where you tell me to grow up?"

"No. This is the part where I tell you it’s not too late to fix it. Even if you’re a stubborn fool." She tilted her head, her sharp eyes glinting with something almost mischievous. "Unless you’re too afraid to try."

Her words sank deeper than he liked to admit. He shifted uncomfortably, the tea suddenly feeling heavier in his hands. There was something about Granny Mochi—her unyielding patience, her sly wisdom—like she had seen generations rise and fall and decided to remain unimpressed by them all. He couldn’t brush her off with a grin or a quip, no matter how hard he tried.

It was… humbling.  And, god help him, he kind of liked it.

"Afraid?" He let out a dry laugh. "Not a chance."

He hated to admit it, but Shoko had been right. He was struggling—pathetically so. And all this time, he’d been so focused on keeping Aoi safe that he hadn’t stopped to consider what it was doing to her.

You don’t get to decide this for me. And yet, he had. Over and over again. Because he was Satoru Gojo, the strongest, the one who always knew better. Right?

Except, now? He wasn’t so sure.

"You sure she’ll forgive me?" he asked before he could stop himself.

She looked at him with something that wasn’t quite a smile. "A girl that angry only stays that angry if she still cares."

He set the empty cup down carefully on the stoop. "You’re dangerous, you know that?"

"And you’re full of excuses. Just like my husband was," she said with a small smile. 

"Did your husband run around blowing up parks too?" he asked, trying for lightness.

Her eyes sparkled, but she didn’t answer right away. "He had his quirks. Knew how to handle a broom and a blade, if you catch my drift." She smiled faintly, lost in some distant memory. "Always thought he was invincible. Until he wasn’t." She stood, dusted off her apron, and waved him off like a mother sending a kid to school. "Go on. You’ve got work to do. And if you come back with your head still up your ass, I’ll find that broom."

Satoru rose, offering her a mock salute that earned him an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "Yes, ma’am."  

He turned and started down the street, the weight of the morning settling more comfortably on his shoulders. For once, he felt like he had a plan—or at least, the start of one. 

As he walked away, he glanced back over his shoulder. Granny Mochi was still there, watching him with that same knowing smile. Humiliating. Gratifying. And maybe exactly what he needed. Like maybe, just maybe, she was rooting for him. And for a moment, he saw it—that familiar quirk of the lips, the tilt of the head like she was holding back a cutting remark. The expression was so Aoi it hit him square in the chest.

He looked away quickly.

"Pathetic," he muttered. "Now I’m getting life lessons from a mochi-maker with a better poker face than the higher-ups."

He tried not to think much of it, his focus on the task ahead, until—

That feeling. The cursed bond.

A tug in his chest—soft, sudden, unmistakable, like a string pulled taut but unseen. 

He froze, spinning around so quickly that snow kicked up around his feet.

"...Art girl?" he called, his voice low, uncertain.

He stared hard, his Six Eyes scanning every window, every shadow. Nothing. Only the faint scent of sweet rice on the wind and Granny Mochi inside, kneading dough like the world hadn’t shifted beneath his feet.

He frowned, fingers twitching. For a second, he’d been sure. "Great. Now I’m imagining things." He exhaled, slow and tense, then turned back toward the castle. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders hunched.

Just a trick of the cursed bond, nothing more.

Then why did it feel like she was right behind him?

Chapter Text

FUN

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

-Aoi-

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Not that she was counting.

Aoi sat with her back against the shimmering barrier, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them like she was holding herself together. She glared at the ceiling as if it owed her money.

She felt like a zoo exhibit. Same room, same humming curse-barrier, same sense of slowly unraveling sanity. She could practically trace every crack in the wall with her eyes closed. She didn’t mark time by clocks anymore—just by how often she fantasized about throttling Satoru Gojo.

Outside the barrier, Shoko Ieiri leaned against the wall with a cigarette perched between her fingers. She hadn’t lit it, just twirled it around like it gave her something to do. Supposedly, she was here to drop off food. In reality, she was clearly here to poke the bear. Aoi suspected Shoko’s moral alignment wasn’t quite lawful good.

"Two weeks," Aoi muttered, glaring at the barrier. "Two weeks of solitary confinement. I'm practically rotting. Can you smell the despair? I can. It smells like instant noodles and betrayal."

"You’re being dramatic," Shoko exhaled through her nose a puff of smoke and shrugged. "Betrayal smells more like cold KFC."

"I swear," Aoi hissed, eyes burning holes through the barrier, "the second I’m out of here, I’m going to find that overgrown man-child and—"

"What? Punch him?" Shoko interjected, amused. "Pretty sure he’d let you. He probably thinks he deserves it."

"He’s lost it, Shoko. Completely. Who does this? Who locks someone up like a… like a princess in a tower?" Aoi growled gesturing wildly toward the barrier. "What, is this supposed to be for my own good? Because I’m not seeing the good part, Shoko. I’m not."

"You’ve got a bed, three meals a day, and me," Shoko said, unbothered as ever. "Could be worse."

Aoi slapped her palm against the barrier. It fizzled in protest under her touch, completely unimpressed. "I missed Christmas. Do you hear me? My grandma spent it alone. I was forced to tell her I was ‘too busy chasing my dreams.’ Do jujutsu sorcerers even have hearts, or do you trade those in for cursed tools?"

"Hey, wasn’t my idea," Shoko said casually. She blew on her unlit cigarette, like she was testing the air. "Satoru’s got the emotional intelligence of a rock, I’ll give you that. But he does have his reasons."

Aoi squeezed her knees tighter. Of course he had reasons. She wasn’t stupid—dense, maybe, but not stupid.

He thought he was keeping her safe. She knew that. She felt that, even if he’d never say it out loud. Satoru Gojo didn’t do words. He did sarcasm, smug grins, and incredibly frustrating decisions. But Sendai had changed something. She could tell, even if she didn’t know all the details. 

But locking her up? That still stung. He betrayed her trust. 

She hated him for it.

And yet...

She hated herself more for being unable to stay angry at him.

"I know he meant well," she mumbled burying her face against her knees. " I know he has his reasons. Doesn’t mean they’re good ones. He thinks he can just lock me up ‘for my own good.’ Like I’m some damsel who needs saving."

"To be fair," Shoko knelt beside the barrier, raising an eyebrow. "You did almost die, you know."

"I know." Aoi sat up, arms still wrapped around herself. "But maybe he could’ve—I don’t know—talked to me? Trusted me to make my own decisions? He just—he just decided, all on his own and locked the door like he was doing me a favor," she muttered, her voice muffled but tinged with reluctant understanding. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to be betrayed by someone you—"

"Someone you what?" Shoko asked, way too eager for Aoi's liking..

"Someone you trust." Aoi concluded.

"‘Trust,’ huh?" Shoko echoed dryly, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "Sure. Let’s call it that."

Aoi narrowed her eyes. "Don’t start."

"Start what? I’m just observing. Terrible communication skills. He’s got… what’s the word? Oh, yeah—issues. Big ones. He cares, but he’s got the emotional range of a teaspoon." She said with a shrug, taking another drag of her cigarette. "I mean, have you looked at him? He thinks locking you in a glowing prison cell is a love language. Honestly, for him?" She gestured vaguely toward the barrier. "This is probably the most romantic thing he’s ever done.

Aoi’s cheeks flushed. Her heart tripped over itself like a dumb puppy and faceplanted.

Romantic. That was not—no. No. She wasn’t going there. She was not swooning. She was angry. Righteously, indignantly angry. Definitely not imagining what he’d look like with his stupid face apologizing like a halfwit with flowers. Not while she was trapped in this damn cage, with Shoko as her only company and her heart tying itself into knots she didn’t have the energy to untangle. 

"So what you’re saying is: he’s an idiot. With feelings," she conclude trying and failing to sound cool about it.

"Bingo." Shoko grinned, taking another drag of her cigarette. "An idiot with feelings, a god complex, and a huge soft spot for you."

Aoi looked up sharply. "That’s not funny."

"Well, I am entertained." Shoko countered, her smirk widening. "But I do sympathize, really" 

Aoi groaned and flopped backward, staring at the ceiling again. "I hate him."

"No, you don’t." Came the easy reply from the doctor.

"Don’t you dare psychoanalyze me right now." Aoi ran her hands through her hair in exasperation.

"I’m just saying," Shoko replied, holding her hands up in mock surrender. "For someone who hates him, you sure talk about him a lot. You’re not subtle. Neither is he, for the records."

Aoi's hands fell to her sides as she muttered. "He’s arrogant. He’s bossy. And he’s not even here. If he cared, he’d be here explaining himself."

Shoko didn’t argue. She didn’t have to. Her silence was enough to make Aoi squirm.

Aoi’s voice dropped, her anger splintering into something messier and harder to define. "I want to hate him. I should be mad. But then I think about why he did it, and it makes me feel like..." She hesitated, hugging her knees tighter "Like I’m the idiot."

"You’re not an idiot," Shoko’s voice was teasing but not unkind. "Just dense. It’s cute. Painful to watch, but cute."

Aoi groaned again. "This is so stupid."

"No argument there." Shoko shrugged, her expression unreadable, but Aoi could feel her smirk through the barrier. That knowing, infuriating smirk that said, You’re in way over your head, buddy.

There was a beat of silence. Aoi pressed her palms to the barrier again, forehead resting against the cool surface. She didn’t want to cry. She wanted to break something. Or someone. Possibly Satoru.

But more than anything, she wanted to understand what the hell she was supposed to do with the mess of emotions swirling inside her.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The barrier hummed faintly between them, casting a soft blue glow over the room.

Aoi narrowed her eyes at Shoko. "Let me out."

Shoko smiled around her cigarette. "Nope. I’m Switzerland, remember? Completely neutral. You and Gojo can sort out your weird emotional hostage situation without me."

"Switzerland?" Aoi blinked, incredulous. "Shoko, I will strangle you. Slowly. With affection."

Then she paused, eyes narrowing. A terrible, wonderful idea bloomed in her brain.

Aoi clutched her stomach with a sudden gasp and doubled over dramatically like she’d been hit by a freight train. "Ugh—something’s wrong. It’s the bond. I can feel it. It’s Satoru! He’s hurt. My stomach—oh god—help—"

Shoko didn’t even flinch. She stared at her. Stone-faced. "Really."

"It’s getting worse!" Aoi groaned louder, clutching her abdomen like she was seconds from passing out. "Shoko, please! He could be dying, I—I can feel it. Ugh… the pain…Shoko, please—ow ow ow—definitely cursed-related!"

Shoko raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? What kind of pain? Sharp? Dull? Burning?"

"...All of them?" Aoi gasped, throwing in a faint moan for effect.

For a moment, Shoko hesitated. Her eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of doubt crossing her features. "Fine," Shoko sighed, standing up with exaggerated slowness. "If you drop dead in here, he’ll trow a tantrum and blame me. Let me check," she said, stepping through the barrier with all the urgency of someone humoring a child. 

Big mistake.

As soon as Shoko stepped through the barrier and knelt beside her, Aoi struck. In one smooth motion, she twisted,  locking her legs around Shoko’s waist in a judo hold she barely remembered learning and throwing her into a headlock so fast the doctor’s cigarette flew across the room.

"Ha!" Aoi whooped, now straddling Shoko’s back like a professional menace. "Gotcha. Now tell me where the talisman is!"

Shoko groaned beneath her, face smooshed against the floor. "You gremlin—you’re seriously attacking a medical professional? I swear to god, this is assault!"

"I prefer the term 'creative problem-solving.'" Aoi tightened her grip. "Come on, where is it? I know there’s a talisman keeping this barrier up. Satoru teached me in Sendai so hand it over!"

Shoko snorted, despite her position.  "Wow. He must be proud. You’ve been weaponized," she muttered, trying to wriggle free. "What kind of lunatic teaches someone how to break their own prison—oh. Right. Satoru."

She managed to flip them, slamming Aoi onto her back with a grunt—but Aoi clung like a very aggressive koala and scrambled back on top.

"So? Is it in your pocket? Your shirt? Your pants? Guess I’ll just have to check for myself!"  Aoi yelled, digging into Shoko’s jacket, fingers fumbling through every pocket  with zero shame. Shoko squirmed, laughing helplessly when Aoi brushed her ribs.

""Don’t you dare— hey! That tickles, you  little pervert! Hands out of my uniform!" she hissed, trying to grab at Aoi’s arms. "This is starting to feel illegal—no—this is illegal!"

"Call it what you want, I’m escaping," Aoi muttered, rummaging through Shoko’s uniform  and slipping dangerously close to inappropriate territory. "I’m not staying in this cursed cage just because Gojo thinks it’s romantic."

"Romantic?" Shoko wheezed. "Is that what we’re calling this now?"

Then Aoi’s fingers closed around something solid. She yanked it free and held it up triumphantly—a gleaming iron nail.

"Bingo," she declared.

Shoko sighed, like a woman who had just been mugged by a raccoon in a hoodie, letting her head thunk against the floor. "You and Satoru are made for each other, you know that? Unhinged."

Aoi froze for half a second at that. Her triumphant grin faltered—but only briefly. "Shut up." She shoved the thought away and stood up, talisman clutched tightly in her hand like a trophy.

She glanced down. Shoko was still on the floor, now casually lounging like she'd planned the whole thing. She rolled onto her back with a lazy groan, crossing her legs at the ankles and making no move to stop her. She didn’t look particularly upset—if anything, she seemed mildly amused as she fished her phone out of her pocket, thumbs already tapping at the screen.

"You’re not even gonna try to stop me?" She asked, narrowing her eyes.

Shoko didn’t look up. "Why bother?" 

"What are you doing?" Aoi eyed her warily.

"Texting Satoru. Letting him know you’re busting out," Shoko tapped something on her screen, her voice as casual as if they were discussing the weather.

Aoi scoffed. "Good. I hope it ruins his day."

She grabbed her jacket off the bedpost, threw it on, and swung her backpack over her shoulders. It settled into place like it had been waiting. . Her fingers brushed against the strap of the pack, feeling the solid shape of her supplies inside. She’d been ready for this moment for days.

Kneeling, she placed the nail on the floor. From her bag, she pulled out the cursed hammer, gripping it tight. She could feel the weight of it—literal and metaphorical. This was it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shoko roll a little further away, propping herself up on one elbow. "Hey," she called, her voice light but tinged with genuine fear. "Careful with that thing. I’d rather not end up with my soul split in half because you got dramatic."

"What are you talking about?" Aoi muttered, brushing her hair out of her face. She focused on the nail, gripping her hammer with both hands. If she broke it, the barrier should collapse. That’s what Satoru said. She tightened her grip on the hammer, trying to summon the cursed energy she knew was there.

"Alright, idiot," she muttered under her breath. "Let’s see if your dumb lessons actually stuck."

She raised the hammer and brought it down in one clean swing. The nail split in two with a metallic crack, and the glowing barrier around the room flickered—then vanished in a ripple of cursed energy.

Aoi sat back on her heels, wide-eyed. She blinked. Then grinned.

"It worked!" she shouted, standing up and puffing out her chest. "You know what? For all his nonsense, he actually taught me something useful. That’s gotta be a first."

"Good for you, star pupil," Shoko still on the floor, pushed herself up into a seated position, lighting another cigarette with zero urgency. "You’re really growing into your feral little reputation."

Aoi glanced toward the door, ready to leave, when the doctor called her back.

"Hey," Shoko added, more serious this time, "if anyone gives you trouble out there, use the hammer. Just like in Sendai. Got it?"

Aoi paused, surprised. There was a flicker of something in Shoko’s eyes—actual human concern, maybe. Or the closest thing to it Shoko Ieiri could express without spontaneously combusting.

 She tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Wow. Look at you. Almost caring. Guess you’re not dead inside after all."

Shoko rolled her eyes, the ghost of a smirk on her face. "Don’t push it."

She laughed softly. "Got it. Thanks, Shoko."

"Where are you headed, anyway?" Shoko blew out another plume of smoke, her expression unreadable. 

The question hung in the air for a moment. Aoi hesitated, gripping the straps of her backpack as she thought.  Aoi adjusted her bag. "My grandma’s. In Shizuoka." She adjusted the hammer in her hand, her voice firm. "I’ll figure out how to find Satoru from there."

"Shizuoka, huh?" Shoko let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. "Of course. Couldn’t pick a safer spot if you tried."

Aoi frowned. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts, little shogun." Shoko waved her off, her smirk widening. "Text me when you get there."

Aoi rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. She turned toward the door, swinging the hammer casually over one shoulder. "Little shogun, huh?" she mused, her tone playful. "Kinda suits me, don’t you think?"

Shoko blew out a lazy puff of smoke. "Oh, you have no idea."

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

The thing about Jujutsu High was that it really wasn't built to keep people in. 

Sure, there were cursed barriers, wards, talismans, and a general air of "don't mess with us" that kept most threats at bay—but internal security? Not exactly airtight. It wasn’t a prison. Not officially. No one ever expected the people inside to want out. But Aoi had been treated like a dangerous weapon for long enough, and she was done playing nice.

Aoi sprinted down the long, echoing hallway of Jujutsu High, eyes darting for signs of movement. Boots pounded against old wood, her breath clouded in the chill air of the hallway. Her jacket flared behind her, her backpack thumped against her spine, and her fingers gripped the hammer tight—maybe too tight. Her heart beat loud in her ears, but she couldn’t tell if it was panic or adrenaline. Both, maybe.

The air buzzed with cursed energy still lingering from the shattered barrier behind her. 

She’d done it. Somehow, against all odds, she had gotten out of the damned barrier. And now? It was just her and the corridor. Her path to freedom. Freedom and Shizuoka. Even if freedom smelled like old wood floors and slightly moldy tatami.

She’d planned her jailbreak for days—every step, every timing. Sure, she didn’t know all the ins and outs of the cursed barrier and the grounds around the school, but she knew how people worked. And she’d banked hard on the one universal truth of Jujutsu sorcerers:

They were tired.

"I knew it," she muttered to herself, dodging a crooked umbrella stand that had no business being in the middle of the hall. "Shoko was bluffing. Please. She wasn't even trying."

She turned another corner too fast, nearly wiping out on the slick floor.

"Oops. Sorry, tanuki," she muttered, dodging a shrine niche and its stone guardian with a quick bow mid-sprint. "You didn’t see me."

She didn’t expect to make it far. She really didn’t. But so far, so good.

Until—

"Going somewhere?”

Aoi’s feet skidded to a halt so fast it felt like her bones tried to exit her body. That voice. That exhausted, gravel-dragging voice that somehow carried more weight than a gunshot. Slowly, painfully, she turned around.

There he was—Principal Masamichi Yaga, standing at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He looked exactly how you'd expect a man to look when saddled with the burden of being Satoru Gojo’s former mentor, current crisis manager, and now reluctant babysitter.

"Fujikawa" he called, tone flat, calm, and terrifyingly quiet. He didn’t look angry. Not really. Just… done.

“Good evening?” she replied, feigning innocence with the enthusiasm of someone very much not innocent.

He didn’t move. “You’re supposed to be in protective confinement.” 

"Look, I’m not trying to cause trouble—well, okay, fine, I’m breaking out." She lifted her hands, gavel still clutched in one fist. "But in my defense, your school is a literal prison and I am an adult, technically you can't keep me here against my will."

He stared harder. "You realize Gojo made me swear—almost on an actual binding vow—I’d keep you here no matter what." 

"That sounds like a you problem," she said, then grimaced. “Sorry. That came out more rebellious than I meant. But I’m going to Shizuoka either way."

That, oddly, made him blink. His left eyebrow twitched. Hard. “Shizuoka,” he echoed flatly. "Why Shizuoka?"

She blinked. Why the reaction? "Look," she said, more gently now. "My grandmother’s there. She’s all alone and probably thinks I’ve died in some urban art accident. Just a few days. I’ll come back if it gets dangerous. I’ll even text updates. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I just want to go home. For a little while” She took a slow, careful step back. "Look, you don’t actually want to stop me, do you?"

He shook his head, but it wasn’t no. It was something more like—why me. "You really think I don’t want you gone, kid?" he said flatly. "But Shizuoka? Now I really do have to stop you." A beat. "Back to your room."

Yaga took a step forward. She took one back.

“Uh.” She took a step to the side. He mirrored it. Damn. “I don’t think I will, actually.” she admitted. They stared at each other for a moment too long, stalling.

"Because I’m running."

He narrowed his eyes just as she ducked under his outstretched arm and spun sideways, managing to squeeze past him by sheer surprise and desperation.

There was a beat of silence—and then a deep, put-upon groan as Yaga moved, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a curse on all white-haired sorcerers. He was fast—much faster than she’d hoped for someone his size. One second she was racing toward the stairs, the next he was there—blocking the path, arms out, not even out of breath.

His silhouette blocked the light behind him like some ancient monolith carved out of resignation and stress.

She came to a screeching halt. Her chest rose and fell. Her bangs stuck to her forehead. “You teleported," she gasped. “That’s cheating.”

Yaga stared. "Fujikawa. Last chance."

Aoi glanced down at her hammer, then back up at Yaga. Her arms were trembling. Fear, frustration, fury—all twisted together.

She had two options: obey and rot in that room another day… or fight and probably get thrown over his shoulder like a sack of cursed potatoes.

“I can’t stay here,” she said, more quietly now. She gripped her hammer instinctively, raising it like she actually knew what she was doing. "Don’t make me use this," she warned.

Yaga muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like I need a vacation and cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. "That’s not even imbued properly. You’ll break your wrist."

Her heart leapt. She exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

He looked mildly surprised. “So you give up?”

“No.” She swung the hammer.

To her credit, it wasn’t completely awful. The cursed energy flickered to life around the head of the weapon—clumsy, unrefined, but real. The force of her swing wasn’t enough to hurt him, obviously, but it did catch him off guard.

He stepped back, more surprised than threatened. Still, he eyed the gavel with something very close to actual fear. “Did Gojo actually teach you how to use that thing?”

Aoi lunged forward again, this time aiming for his feet—not to harm, just to distract. He sidestepped easily, but she was already sliding past him, shoulder-first through the gap he’d left. “Depends. Do you think screaming ‘feel the angry energy flow’ while tossing it at me counts as a lesson?”

Yaga grunted. He could’ve grabbed her. He didn’t. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

She reached the outer corridor,  half-running, half-falling into the next hallway. She didn’t look back, feet slamming against the wood, breath ragged with exhilaration. “I’m going, and you can’t stop me!” she called over her shoulder, barreling down the staircase.

Yaga opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed his temple. “I could,” he muttered, already turning after her. He raised a hand—and paused.

Looked at her.

Really looked, up and down—the girl with the oversized backpack, the frayed sleeves, the stubborn spark in her eyes that reminded him way too much of another idiot he’d once taught, the same one who had dumped this whole mess on his lap like a cursed gift with no return policy.

Then, he sighed deeply, long, so long it could count as a full sentence. He didn’t chase her. Not really. He followed, yes—but slowly, like someone who could say, well, I tried, when a certain annoying white-haired sorcerer inevitably came knocking at his door.

The exit was right there—right in front of her. She could almost taste it. She barreled down the stairs two at a time, her legs burning.

By the time she reached the outer hallway, Yaga’s voice echoed behind her.

“Catch.”

She turned, reflexes still tingling from the adrenaline. Something small and smooth arced through the air toward her. She caught it without thinking—a thin paper talisman, strung on red thread.

“What’s this?” she asked, blinking.

“If something happens to you,” Yaga said, leaning against the doorframe like the world’s most tired guardian, “I’ll know. And I’ll vanish to the furthest temple I can find to avoid hearing Gojo’s complaints, brooding and maybe dramatic monologue about how it’s all his fault.”

Aoi stared. A beat. “That’s oddly specific.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t raise his hands. Just watched her with the exhausted eyes of a man who had taught too many reckless boys and buried too many good ones. "You're not the first person Satoru dumped on me, but you might be the loudest." 

She opened her mouth.

“Don’t say it.”  Yaga said, cutting her off.

She grinned anyway. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

He pointed a finger at her, stern. “I don’t condone this. But I’m also not gonna tackle a nineteen-year-old art student down a flight of stairs. Now go before I change my mind.”

Aoi looked down at the talisman, thumb brushing over the seal. It was more than she’d expected. Her fingers tightened around it. She nodded. “I’ll be careful, I swear.” She stepped back, slipping the talisman into her pocket.

“Not likely,” he muttered. “But maybe you’ll surprise me. Now, out before I change my mind.”

She hesitated one last moment, looking up at him. And then, she did. She slipped through the final doorway, out into the world, the cold wind of the mountains brushing against her face like a long-forgotten freedom.

As she disappeared beyond the gate, Yaga turned slowly, cracked his neck, and muttered: “I’m taking the next damn week off.”

Then he pulled out his phone, typed one message—Your problem escaped. I tried. The words stared back at him for a moment too long, before he deleted the message and with great dignity turned off notifications for the rest of the day.

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

Morning in Shizuoka was soft and sleepy, brushed in pastel light and muffled by a fresh layer of snow. Aoi tugged her scarf higher, breath fogging in the chill, and trudged down the familiar street she hadn't seen in years. Her few belongings she’d been able to grab from Tokyo Jujutsu High were packed into her backpack, and her gloved fingers had long since lost their warmth.

But after traveling all evening and through the night—hopping between taxis, buses, and trains—she was finally here.

Finally home.

Free of that glowing prison Satoru called a “precaution.” Free to see her grandmother before the year ended.

December 31st. She exhaled a long breath into the pale dawn and turned the corner—only to stop short.

A curse blocked the sidewalk. Grotesque and twitching, it blinked at her like it was waiting for a reason to lunge.

She looked past it, perfectly blank. Don’t react. Keep walking like you can’t see it. Years of practice let her fake normalcy even when her stomach clenched. She pulled out her phone and stared at the screen like she was texting. Just a casual civilian. Nothing to see here.

Her screen lit up with a single notification. The name at the top made her stomach twist. Satoru.

"𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶?"

Aoi’s fingers tightened around her phone. Seriously? That was it? After locking her up for two weeks with no explanation or apology, his first message was that? No apology, no explanation—just peak Satoru.

The king of nerve.

She bristled, her thumb hovering over the keyboard as she fought the urge to unload all her anger. No... that wasn’t entirely true. She could sense it, even through the bluntness of his words—the undercurrent of worry beneath the sharp edges.

Her thumbs hovered. For a second, she almost wrote something heartfelt, something honest.

"𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

Her finger hovered over the send button. She frowned. No. Screw that. 

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Instead, she typed:

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘕𝘖𝘛? 𝘐𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘳!"

Send. Satisfaction: medium.

She shoved the phone in her coat pocket just as the curse shuffled off. Probably bored of being ignored.

With a relieved breath, she adjusted her scarf and continued walking. She turned the next corner—and stopped again.

A tired smile spread across her face. There it was. The familiar street of her childhood, the one she’d grown up in. And her grandmother’s mochi shop.

Traditional Mochi Delights.

The pastel shutters, the hanging sign, the warm glow from the windows—it hadn’t changed at all. Her heart squeezed. She took a shaky breath and stepped toward it, boots crunching in the snow.

But her gaze flicked across the street, to the park.

She blinked.

The playground was a mess. The slide looked like it had been hit by a wrecking ball. The swings were twisted into metal knots. The sandbox had been reduced to splinters. It looked less like a playground and more like a cursed battlefield.

“What the hell...?” she muttered.

She’d deal with that mystery later. Whatever had happened there, it wasn’t her problem right now.

But before she could linger, a strange sensation tugged at her chest.

That pull. That cursed bond. That sense of connection, like a thread pulling taut between them.

She could feel it—him.

Her breath caught. Her head snapped up, eyes scanning the street.

"...Satoru?" she whispered.

Nothing. The feeling vanished. Gone as fast as it came.

“Great. I’m losing it.” She scowled. "All thanks to that idiot who somehow managed to take up permanent residence in my thoughts."

Shaking her head, she pushed open the door to the mochi shop. She could see her grandmother’s familiar figure, her back to the door as she worked behind the counter, humming softly as she prepared the day’s treats. A warm chime greeted her, and the scent of sweet rice and roasted tea wrapped around her like a blanket.

A smile broke across Aoi’s face. "Granny! I’m home!" she called.

Her grandmother turned from the counter, blinking in surprise before her expression bloomed into a bright grin. "Well, well! Look who decided to show up after skipping Christmas! You little rascal."

She wiped her hands on her apron and crossed the room quickly, her arms open wide. Aoi ran into her arms without hesitation. Her grandmother hugged her tight, muttering something about skinny arms and stress, patting her back like she was trying to knock sense into her.

"I wanted to come, I swear," Aoi mumbled into her shoulder. "But a psychotic lunatic locked me in a barrier like a damn princess in a tower."

Her grandmother pulled back and raised an eyebrow. "Princess? You? Not the word I’d use for you, girl."

She pouted. "That’s not the part to question."

Her granny just snorted. "What’s with you young people these days? All of you muttering about towers and princesses..."

Aoi frowned. "Huh? What do you mean?"

Her grandmother waved her off with a knowing smile. "Nothing, nothing. You're here now, that's what matters."

As Aoi relaxed, her eyes wandered to the destroyed playground outside. Her brow furrowed at the sight. "Granny… what happened over there? It looks like Godzilla rolled through."

"Just an angry bear last night," her grandmother said, matter-of-fact. "Nothing to worry about."

"A bear?" Aoi blinked. "There aren’t any bears in Shizuoka"

"Bah, details." Her grandmother turned back to the counter. "Sometimes you’re too curious for your own good."

"Sometimes you’re weird, Granny." Aoi dropped her bag near a café table and slumped into a chair. She spotted two used teacups on the counter. "Did you just had company?" 

Her grandmother’s voice was nonchalant as she answered. "Just a young man. Bit of a show-off, but polite enough. You all have that same look, you know. Restless. Like you're chasing something and running from it at the same time."

Aoi blinked, but let it go, slumping more into the chair. She pulled out the talisman Principal Yaga gave her, turning it in her hand.

A beat of silence. Then, with the voice of someone utterly defeated by life: "Granny. Please tell me there’s still matcha mochi." She sighed, leaning against the table. "You know, my favorite. I really, really need them right now. My life’s been… insane."

Her grandmother tapped her chin, her eyes twinkling. "Hmm. Sorry girl. Sold the last one to that young man in distress "

Aoi's head hit the table with a thud. "Ugh. Unbelievable. What kind of monster buys the last of my matcha mochi?"

Her grandmother patted her shoulder. "What’s wrong? City life too rough? Or are you running from your dreams? Or... a boyfriend, maybe? Is that why you didn’t come home for Christmas?"

Aoi shot upright, scandalized. "Boyfriend? He’s not—He’s more like... like a walking security system with a God complex."

"Aha," her grandmother said, clearly unconvinced. "So there is someone."

Aoi groaned and buried her face again.

Before Aoi could get another word out, her grandmother slid a steaming cup of tea in front of her—along with a small plate of mochi. Not matcha, though.

"They’re strawberry," Aoi muttered, eyeing the plate like it had insulted her ancestors, her elbows propped up as she cradled her chin in her hands

Her grandmother smirked as she sat across from her. "Better than nothing. You looked like you were about to cry. I couldn’t have that on my conscience."

She rolled her eyes, taking a small bite anyway. Warm, soft, too sweet. Like comfort in sugar form.

"So," her grandmother said, resting her chin in her hand, "tell me about the boy who’s turned you into such a dramatic little puddle."

Aoi choked slightly on her mochi. "What?! I never said—"

"You didn’t have to, you've got that look." She tapped her own cheek knowingly. "The same one I had when I was your age. Messy hair, dark circles, wounded pride… definitely a boy involved."

Aoi hesitated, biting her lip. "I don't have a look."

Her grandmother just shrugged, unfazed.

She huffed and fiddled with the edge of her plate. She couldn’t exactly start explaining cursed spirits and jujutsu sorcerers and Satoru Gojo's personal brand of madness. But maybe she could give her grandmother the sanitized version.

"It’s not like that," she scowled, popping the mochi into her mouth and chewing slowly to avoid saying too much.

"Mmmhmm." Her grandmother just waited, patient and smug.

Finally, Aoi sighed, setting her cup back on the table. "I mean, he’s… complicated," she muttered. "Arrogant, smug, thinks he’s right about everything."

"Ah, here it comes," her grandmother smiled faintly, the kind of smile that said she already knew exactly where this was going. "Go on."

"But then he’ll do something nice. Not normal-nice. Subtly nice. Like he’s trying really hard not to look like he cares. But he does. I think." She paused, groaning into her hands. "God, listen to me. I sound like one of those women on daytime TV." She paused, searching for the right words. Her grip tightened on the mug. "We’ve been working together on something for months now, and for the most part, we’ve… gotten along. But recently, he…"

"He what?" her grandmother interjected, her eyebrow arching knowingly. "No cliffhangers."

Aoi leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling as if the words were written there. "He literally locked me in a room for two weeks. Said it was for my own safety. But it’s not fair. I didn’t ask for this."

She dropped her gaze to her grandmother’s face, expecting shock, outrage—something.

"Hmm. So he panicked," her grandmother agreed, with the kind of tone that meant she wasn’t actually all that surprised. "He cares about you. Men are just dumb like that. Especially the ones with hero complexes, like your grandfather."

"That’s not—!" Aoi spluttered nearly knocking over her tea. "He imprisoned your granddaughter! How is that your takeaway? "

Her grandmother hummed, stirring her tea slowly. "So, let me get this straight. He made a terrible decision, but his heart was in the right place?"

She hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. "...Maybe. Yes. But he didn’t ask. He just decided. Like he always does." 

"And now you’re mad because you feel betrayed... but also not as mad as you want to be, because deep down, you know he meant well." Her grandmother shrugged. "And maybe that’s what really scares you."

Aoi stared at her, stunned. That was... scarily accurate. She wanted to argue, to refute the claim, but… well, yeah. That sounded about right. "You are terrifying."

"I’ve had practice." The granny shrugged, taking another sip of tea. "Let me tell you, your grandfather once chased me halfway across Japan. Tied me up once, too—though that’s a story for another time. Anyway, same energy."

Aoi crossed her arms. "He makes everything so complicated. One minute he’s treating me like I’m some kind of liability, and the next… he’s looking at me like I’m the most important person in the world."

"So go talk to him." Her grandmother tilted her head, like that was the most obvious thing in the world. "I spoke to someone else earlier who could use the same advice. Must be something in the air. Everything’s complicated with you young people. All this drama, this locking-up nonsense—back in my day, if there was a problem, you talked it out. None of this running around or… whatever it is you’ve been doing," she grumbled, her gaze never leaving Aoi’s face. "The two of you need to sit down and have a proper conversation. You know, like adults."

Aoi frowned, rolling the words over in her mind. She didn’t want to admit it—not to herself, and definitely not to her grandmother—but there was a part of her that knew. Satoru wasn’t entirely wrong, and he wasn’t entirely indifferent.

If anything, the problem was that he cared too much, in the most infuriating way possible.

"And say what? 'Thanks for the traumatizing house arrest, let’s hang out sometime'?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was a note of genuine uncertainty underneath.

Her granny chuckled, reaching across the table to pat her hand. "Say what you need to say. And don’t let him off the hook, either. If he really is that infuriating, chances are he’s making a mess of things somewhere else while you sit here and sulk."

Aoi shoved another piece of mochi in her mouth to hide the way her cheeks warmed. The image of Satoru making a mess of things was far too easy to picture. She pictured him—messy hair, too-cool sunglasses, stupid confident grin—and wanted to scream and laugh and maybe punch a wall. Or him.

Her head hit the table with a soft thunk. "Why is this my life?"

Her grandmother stood to gather the dishes, humming as she rinsed them in the sink. "Because you inherited my taste in chaotic men. Just finish up and stop brooding."

"I’m not brooding," Aoi muttered.

"You’ve got your mother’s brooding face. Stormy and tragic."

She groaned. "Why are you so zen about all this? Did you miss the part where he literally locked me in a room like some deranged maniac?"

Her grandmother waved her off with a wet spoon. "Bah. You’re not that fragile, I raised you after all. Besides, what kind of sane girl escapes a tower and then immediately starts whining about how much she misses the guy who put her there?"

Aoi’s lips twitched.

Her grandmother’s gaze softened. "If he’s really worth all this headache, bring him next time. I want to meet the fool who’s got you this twisted up."

She frowned, her heart giving an unbidden, traitorous flutter. Was he worth it? The thought of him—his stupid smirk, the way his voice softened when he didn’t think she noticed—made her chest ache. She hated how much she missed it. She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at her lips.

Maybe her grandmother had a point.

Worth it.

Not that she’d admit it out loud.

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

Aoi glanced back toward her grandmother, who stood framed in the doorway, sipping her tea with that same sharp-eyed look that had managed to terrify her even as a child. "I’ll be back before dinner, granny," she said brightly, a smile tugging at her lips. "Just going to take a ride, clear my head. Maybe catch the sunset near Sunpu Castle Park. You know, reconnect with the city a bit."

Her grandmother raised a skeptical eyebrow, her sharp gaze cutting through Aoi’s cheerful tone. "Reconnect, eh? Sounds like an excuse for pedaling around aimlessly. Try not to get into trouble, girl."

Aoi rolled her eyes, grinning despite herself. "Me? Trouble? You’ve got the wrong girl." She slipped her painting supplies into the backpack along with the cursed hammer, the weight of which felt oddly comforting. "Oh, and... after dinner, maybe we can watch the fireworks together? Like when I was little?"

Her grandmother’s sharp expression softened into something warmer. "Oh, we could do that," she said with a wry smile. "Have you thought about your resolutions for the new year? 2011’s just around the corner, you know."

Aoi paused, considering her answer. Oh, I’ve thought about them, she thought, her mind already racing. Find Satoru Gojo. Drag his ridiculous ass out of wherever he’s hiding. And then— She hesitated. And then what? Out loud, she said, "They’re top secret, granny. You’ll have to wait and see."

Her grandmother waved her off, muttering something under her breath about stubborn children, but Aoi was already pedaling away, the sound of her laughter trailing behind her.

The town felt smaller than she remembered. Or maybe she’d just grown bigger—different. Her time in Tokyo, her run-ins with sorcerers, curses, and all the chaos in between, had changed her in ways she still wasn’t sure she understood. She’d come back to Shizuoka hoping for clarity, for something solid to ground her again. But even here, the questions followed her, weaving through her mind with every turn of the pedals.

Satoru.

The name came unbidden, slipping into her thoughts like it always did. She frowned, her grip on the handlebars tightening. Satoru, with his endless arrogance and maddening smirks. Satoru, who had locked her away like she was some fragile, breakable thing. Satoru, who always managed to look at her like he knew something she didn’t.

Why did he have to make everything so complicated?

Focus, she told herself. This isn’t about him. Not everything is about him.

But it was. What was she going to do when she found him? Confront him? Yell at him? Maybe. He deserved it. But beyond that?

What if he tries to lock me up again?  What if he still doesn’t understand? she thought, her brow furrowing. He doesn’t see that I don’t care about being safe. I care about—

Her breath hitched. What? What did she care about? Her heart skipped a beat, and she nearly wobbled on the bike. What if I do? What if he-

Her bike wobbled, and she almost lost her balance. He made her want to scream and throw things, preferably at his stupidly symmetrical face.

"God, Aoi, you’re pathetic," she muttered under her breath. "Get a grip."

The winter air bit at Aoi’s cheeks as she pedaled through the quiet streets of Shizuoka, her grandmother’s old bicycle squeaking in protest with every turn. Her scarf flapped behind her, tangled with the wind. Her backpack bounced gently against her back, heavy with her sketchpad, paints, and—nestled beneath them all—her cursed hammer. A ridiculous thing to carry on a casual ride, maybe, but hey. Shoko’s advice had been clear: If someone gives you trouble, hit them. Was it a joke? Probably not. Did Aoi take it seriously? Absolutely.

As she rounded a familiar corner, she saw it—Sunpu Castle, glowing softly in the late afternoon light, its stone silhouette painted gold by the setting sun. A familiar warmth stirred in her chest. This place had always been her favorite. The castle, the park, the quiet sense of stillness. A sanctuary where she could lose herself in her art and forget the world around her. She’d spent so many afternoons sketching under the shadow of its towers, dreaming of simpler, grander things.

She was just about to smile when—

"Oh, come on," she muttered.

The entrance was cordoned off with yellow tape. Uniformed assistants paced back and forth, stiff and serious. It looked less like a historical landmark and more like a crime scene.

"What the…?" She hopped off her bike, her boots crunching against the snow as she wheeled it closer. Her gaze scanned the crowd, narrowing as she caught sight of the assistants, their black uniforms stark against the snowy backdrop. Unmistakable. She’d spent enough time around sorcerers to know what those uniforms meant.

Assistants? Her heart sank. Something was happening here—something big. And if the assistants were involved, sorcerers weren’t far behind.

She spotted a young man that stood near the barrier, clutching a clipboard like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His glasses fogged slightly in the cold, his expression a perfect storm of exhaustion and stress. Bingo.

"Excuse me!" she called out with a friendly wave, putting on her best innocent face. "What’s going on? Why is the park closed?"

The man—who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—blinked at her, startled. "Uh—construction. Renovations. Structural stuff. Please stay back."

"Renovations?" Aoi echoed, raising an eyebrow. "On New Year’s Eve? Right before the fireworks?"

"Emergency renovations," he corrected quickly, hugging the clipboard tighter. "Immediate structural instability."

Aoi tilted her head. "Right. And those uniforms—you are assistants, right? You work with Jujutsu Sorcerers. Are they here to help with the, uh, renovations too?"

He paled. "I... I can’t confirm that."

"Mm-hmm." She squinted at his clipboard. "Come on. What’s really going on? I won’t tell anyone."

He blinked. Twice. "I—I’m not authorized to say."

"Okay," she said, deadpan. "Can I go inside?" She asked sweetly, batting her eyelashes.

"No."

"Just the outer park?"

"No?"

"Pretty please?"

"N—No! Miss, I’m serious, you really shouldn’t—"

She let out a dramatic sigh, tossing her hands up. "Fine, okay, relax! I’m going."

He looked seconds away from collapsing. "Thank you. I—I appreciate your cooperation."

Aoi turned, wheeling her bike along the perimeter, her thoughts a swirl of frustration. She’d come all this way to reconnect with her roots, maybe find some clarity, and now this? Typical.

She sighed dramatically, as the man turned away, muttering under his breath about people not respecting boundaries and she bit her tongue to stop herself from snapping back. Yeah, right. She wasn’t buying this story for a second. If assistants and sorcerers were there, something big was happening.

Her boots crunched over the snow as she circled the barricades around Sunpu Castle, breath curling in soft white clouds. The fading light cast everything in a golden-red glow, the kind that usually made her stop and pull out her sketchbook. But tonight, nothing felt still. Nothing felt right.

Her irritation simmered just below the surface.

The barricades were excessive, assistants swarming like headless chickens, none of them making sense. Clipboard Guy had been useless. Everyone was jittery. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t normal.

She stopped walking, leaning slightly on her bike as she stared at the castle. Its familiar stone walls rose high above the trees, tinged with the orange glow of the sunset. It had always felt unchanging, like it could withstand anything. And now? Now it was surrounded by tape, barriers, and stressed-out assistants who wouldn’t even let her near the park.

Ridiculous.

And then—she felt it.

A pull. Subtle, but steady. Like a thread yanked tight from somewhere deep inside her chest.

She froze, her hand tightening on the handlebars of her bike. Slowly, the sensation grew stronger, like a thread pulling taut.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she closed her eyes for a moment, trying to focus. That wasn’t Satoru’s cursed bond. This was something else—twisted and familiar. One of her paintings.

Her eyes snapped to the castle. Of course. One of them was inside.

Her pulse jumped. That explained the lockdown. But did they know? Did any of these assistants realize what they were dealing with?

The thought sent a chill down her spine, and it wasn’t just from the cold. Do they realize what one of her cursed painting could do? 

Probably not.

She scanned the crowd for someone who looked less like a panicked intern and more like someone in charge. Then she saw them.

Assistants, assistants... Where were the sorcerers? Someone had to be in charge of this operation. Her mind immediately went to him. He would know what to do, how to handle this. If anyone could deal with a cursed painting, it was him.

But he wasn’t here. A cold pang of uncertainty settled over her. Should she call him? What if he was too far away? What if, by the time he got here, it was already too late? She chewed on the inside of her cheek, her mind racing. No. She couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t wait.

If she could just get inside, if she could reach the painting— I could stop it, she thought desperately. I just need to touch it.

Her eyes scanned the bustling activity, searching for someone—anyone—who looked like they actually knew what they were doing. The assistants were clearly out of their depth.

Then she saw them.

Two men stood near the main gate like they were guarding the gates of hell itself—or more accurately, like they were stuck on a shift they hadn’t asked for and hated every second of it.

They didn’t look like the others.

One was tall, square-jawed, blond, his dark uniform perfectly pressed despite the snow dusting his shoulders. He held a weapon—a blunt blade of some sort—with casual ease, like he wasn’t expecting trouble but could end it in an instant if it came. He was speaking quietly to the other man, whose appearance was less polished but no less commanding, he had a rougher edge to his demeanor, his coat hanging open over a slightly disheveled uniform. He held a katana loosely at his side, and the air of someone who’d had all the joy drained from his soul sometime around 2003.

Jackpot.

Aoi wheeled her bike toward them, fixing a polite, sunny smile on her face.

These two were definitely sorcerers. The uniforms, the stance, the "I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe" attitude—they practically screamed it.

Neither of them gave off the vibe of being approachable—or functional, for that matter—but Aoi had a plan. If they’re here, they must know what’s going on. And if they don’t? Her fingers brushed the strap of her backpack. Then I’ll make them listen.

She plastered on her best smile, gripping the handlebars of her bicycle for support as she approached. The snow crunched under her boots, and the sunset painted everything in warm, golden light. The perfect backdrop for her charm offensive.

Time to charm her way through.

"Hi there!" Her voice was sweet, polite, almost sing-song. Start with charm. Always start with charm.

The man with the katana—Katana Guy, she decided—tilted his head just enough to give her a withering look before muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience. His expression practically screamed, Don’t.

The blond one didn’t even glance her way. Blondie, then. He let out a deep sigh, staring straight ahead like he was trying to will her out of existence.

"No." His voice was flat, the kind of tone that didn’t just say he wasn’t interested—it said he hadn’t been interested in anything for years.

"No?" Aoi blinked, feigning confusion. "No, what?"

"No," Blondie repeated, his tone deadpan. "Whatever you’re about to ask. No."

"No." Katana Guy confirmed, his voice equally lifeless.

She blinked, her smile slipping slightly. "I haven’t even asked yet."

"Doesn’t matter," Katana Guy said, waving a dismissive hand. "The answer’s no."

Blondie’s grip on his weapon tightened as if bracing himself. "No."

Aoi blinked. Once. Twice. Then she rolled her eyes, her smile slipping into something more pointed. "Wow, you two must be a hit at parties."

Okay. Plan A: be cute and reasonable? Crushed under the heel of their collective apathy.

But this was too important to back down now. If there was a cursed painting inside the castle, there were lives at stake. And if these two stubborn sorcerers didn’t want to talk, she’d make them.

Time for Plan B: mild annoyance

She straightened her shoulders, putting on her best air of authority. "Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but whatever it is, people’s lives could be in danger. I can help. All I need is to get close enough to—"

"No," Blondie interrupted again, cutting her off with the same monotone delivery.

"Can you even tell me why?" Aoi asked, her tone sharpening.

Katana Guy shot her a tired glare. His face screamed done with life. "No."

"So you’re just going to stand there and say no to everything? Is that it?"

"Yes," Blondie confirmed.

The swordsman groaned quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He muttered something under his breath about "civilians" and looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Okay, Aoi thought, gritting her teeth. Plan B is a bust. Time for Plan C: a little chaos.

She straightened her posture, placing her hands on her hips. "Okay, fine. If you’re going to be difficult, then who’s your superior? I’ll just speak to them directly."

Blondie groaned again, rubbing his temples as if she were giving him a migraine. Katana Guy’s eyebrow twitched in a way that suggested he was about three seconds away from drawing his weapon—on her.

"Names," Aoi pressed. "And grades. Or should I stick with Blondie and Katana Guy?" she repeated, crossing her arms.

The swordsman’s jaw tightened, his expression practically begging her to shut up. "Do you ever stop talking?" he muttered.

"Not when people’s lives are in danger!" she shot back, her voice sharp with frustration. "Excuse me, but I’ll have you know I’m not some random civilian. I’m trained. I know what I’m doing. And I don’t have time for your nonsense. What kind of sorcerers are you? There’s something in that castle, and I know you know it. I can help you! I just need—"

That did it.

"Help us?" Blondie cut her off with a laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Help us. Right. And you are…?"

"Me?" Aoi smirked, pulling her bike upright and standing a little taller. "Oh, I see. They didn’t brief you. Wow, they really don’t trust you with anything important, huh? Worst. Sorcerers. Ever.»"

She reached into her backpack with a flourish, pulling out her cursed hammer. It wasn’t the flashiest weapon, but it looked official. Dropping her bike, she brandished it with both hands, glaring at the two men, as she infused curses energy in it, the faint glow flickering to life. Both tensed immediately, their eyes narrowing.

"I am," she paused dramatically, racking her brain for that stupid nickname she always used when she was a kid. "Ken Shimura. Special-grade sorcerer, sent here on a top-secret mission. You’re welcome, by the way."

Both men froze, staring at her as if she’d just announced she was the Emperor of Japan. Dead silence. Then, simultaneously, their faces twisted into expressions of such profound disbelief that Aoi had to fight the urge to burst out laughing. 

"Special-grade sorcerer." Blondie repeated, his tone as dry as the Sahara. "Right."

"Yes!' Aoi snapped, narrowing her eyes. "I get it. You wouldn’t know me. Obviously, I don’t waste my time with low-level field operatives. No offense." She paused. "Actually, offense."

Katana Guy barked out a laugh, though it was more out of exhaustion than amusement. "You’re kidding, right? Are you nuts? I swear, I've had enough of this city."

"Do I look like I’m kidding?" Aoi said, puffing out her chest. "Satoru Gojo sent me here himself. Another special grade. You’ve heard of him, right? Big deal. Huge. Probably too big for you to handle—not that I’d expect you to have met him—you’re obviously not in his circle—but—"

"Stop," the older man cut her off, raising a hand. "Just… stop talking. Please."

Blondie closed his eyes like he was trying to summon the strength to endure. "Gojo," he muttered under his breath, his tone dark. "Of course it’s Gojo. Why am I not surprised?"

"Ah, so you do know his name!" Aoi said, delighted. "Let me tell you, he wasn’t exactly confident in your ability to handle things here. Then, now that you understand the stakes here, if you could kindly—"

Katana Guy pulled out his phone. 

Aoi froze. "Wait. What-what are you doing?"

"Calling Gojo," the man said simply, already thumbing through his contacts. "Let’s see what your ‘special-grade’ buddy has to say about this."

Wait, they actually know him? Oh no. Oh no no no. That was not part of the plan. Aoi felt her panic spike as she imagined Satoru’s reaction. He’d laugh. He’d laugh so hard. And then he’d probably teleport here just to make things worse.

"No need!" she said quickly, waving her hands. "He won’t confirm anything. It’s a top-secret mission. You know how these things are, the protocols—"

Blondie pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can’t believe this is my life."

Too late. Katana Guy held the phone to his ear. 

"Ohi, Gojo," he said, his tone laced with exhaustion. "There’s some lunatic here calling herself… what was it? Ken Shimura? Says you sent her. She’s got a cursed hammer and an attitude. Is she yours?"

Aoi’s heart sank. She could practically hear Satoru’s smug laughter already. But then she noticed something. While the older man was focused on the call, his grip on the barricade tape had slackened. Blondie, meanwhile, was gazing off into the distance like he was trying to will himself into another dimension. 

Perfect.

Without hesitating, Aoi ducked low and slipped under the tape, bolting toward the castle. 

"Hey!" Katana Guy shouted, his voice rising in frustration. "Where the hell do you think you’re going, you little—!"

She didn’t stop. She heard him yelling into the phone, probably cursing her existence, but she didn’t care. The castle loomed ahead, and with it, whatever secrets it held.

"Get back here, you—!" Behind her, she caught a faint snippet of the conversation: "Shit— What do you mean, ‘just grab her’?! Why don’t you grab her, you—! Hey, stop!"

Sorry, Katana Guy, Blondie. Looks like I win this round. Aoi smirked to herself, adrenaline pumping as she sprinted forward.

She could still feel it—the pull of the cursed painting, stronger now. She wasn’t stopping until she reached it. I just need to reach the castle, she told herself, her grip tightening on the hammer. If I can get to the painting, I can fix this. No thanks to those two idiots.

If they wanted to stop her, they’d have to catch her first. She just hoped she’d live to see the fireworks.

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

The chase was, objectively, a nightmare—for everyone involved. Except Aoi.

Her boots squeaked against the frost-slick stones of Sunpu Castle Park, cursed hammer in one hand, breath coming out in frantic little clouds as she darted through snow-covered paths. Behind her: chaos. Two grown men—bickering and hurling insults—yelling, tripping, and generally failing to catch one girl. It was practically slapstick.

"Get back here, brat!" shouted Katana Guy, his voice cracking with rage. "You ever heard of slowing down?! What are you, part rabbit?!"

The other one—calm, composed, and frankly scarier because of it—spoke in a clipped tone. Aoi could practically feel his judgmental glare burning into the back of her head.

"She knows the layout," Blondie muttered, breath steady but clearly annoyed. "Kusakabe, take the south path. Cut her off."

"I know what I’m doing! Hey, kid, I swear if you don’t stop—" snapped Katana Guy—Kusakabe, apparently—just before something clanged loudly behind her. "Damn it! Lantern!"

Aoi vaulted over a low hedge, landing hard but upright, her grin wicked. The park had been her childhood kingdom. These two? Outsiders. Amateurs.

She ducked behind a frozen fountain, then bolted across the courtyard toward the tea house, snow crunching under her boots. The cursed pull was getting stronger, drawing her straight toward the castle. That sick, familiar energy tugged at her chest like a fishing hook.

She turned a corner—and nearly slammed into Blondie.

He was already there, standing calmly in the path with that judgmental calm only a sorcerer could master. His weapon wasn’t raised, but his calm, assessing gaze unnerving her more than any shout or insult.

"You’re boxed in," he said flatly, nodding toward the narrowing path behind her.

"Like hell I am!" she snapped, swerving down a side trail too narrow for Blondie to follow easily. Behind her, she heard Kusakabe curse again, followed by what sounded like a very loud collision with a stone lantern.

"This is ridiculous!" he shouted. "I’m a sorcerer, not a damn babysitter!"

The castle loomed ahead. That oppressive pressure of cursed energy pressed harder with each step, thick and suffocating. It crawled over her skin, down her spine, made her stomach twist. But she didn’t slow down. She didn’t need to turn around to know the sorcerers were still behind her, growing more frustrated by the second.

"Why won’t you stop?" Blondie shouted from behind.

"Why won’t you?!" she barked back, skidding around a corner and catching her balance just in time to avoid colliding with a stone pillar.

Then she saw it. The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time she reached the castle’s rear gate.

Aoi slammed through the door, breath ragged, her momentum carrying her inside and was instantly swallowed by the weight of cursed energy. It hit her like a wave—sludge-thick, cloying, stifling. She staggered, cursed hammer clenched tight in her hand, every instinct screaming.

It was here. The painting. Close. Too close.

Aoi froze mid-step, her hammer still clutched tightly. It was worse than she’d imagined—so thick she could barely breathe, like wading through an invisible sludge. Her heart pounded as she forced herself to focus on the pull of the painting, somewhere deeper inside.

It's close, she thought.

Footsteps thundered behind her.

Katana Guy stormed in, face red with fury, sweat trickling down his temple and snow clinging to his coat. Without hesitation, he grabbed her roughly by the arm and spun her toward him.

"That’s enough!" he growled. "Do you have a death wish? What part of stay out didn’t you get?"

She barely heard him. The cursed painting was somewhere beyond the next hall. She could almost feel the brush strokes—her brush strokes—twisting with malice under her fingertips.

"It’s here," she whispered, eyes distant.

"Hey!" Katana Guy gave her a shake, his frustration boiling over. "I’m talking to you, you reckless—"

"Tch," Blondie cut him off, his voice calm but laced with irritation. He was facing the entrance they’d come through, or rather, where the entrance had been. "The entrance is gone."

Aoi and Katana Guy turned in unison, their eyes snapping toward the spot where they’d come in.

"What?" They asked in unison. "What do you mean, ‘gone’?"

Blondie—stoic as ever—just gestured to the wall. Where the double doors had been moments ago, there was now nothing. Just smooth stone.

No seams. No cracks. No way out.

"Gone," he replied flatly, gesturing toward the wall. "Puff. Vanished. Would you like a drawing?"

Katana Guy groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he scanned the room.. "Perfect. Just perfect." He turned his glare back on Aoi. "This is all your fault. You and your cursed hammer—whatever the hell it is—and your ‘special-grade’ crap—special-grade pain in the ass, more like—"

Then he froze. His eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze sharpening in recognition. A long beat passed as he stared at her face.

She blinked, confused. He blinked back.

"...Wait a second," he muttered.

Blondie looked over. "What?"

"I’ve seen her before," Katana Guy said slowly, pointing at her. "Yaga’s office. She was eavesdropping."

Aoi’s eyes widened. "What? No, I—"

"You were crouched by the door like some kind of gremlin! I almost filed a report!" Katana Guy frowned like he was reliving the trauma.

Blondie sighed. "Unbelievable."

Aoi jerked her arm free and glared. "Okay, first of all—I was not eavesdropping. Second of all—if you two had listened to me instead of acting like brick walls, we wouldn’t even be in this mess!"

"Listened to you?!" Katana Guy threw up his hands. "You ran into a special-grade curse’s territory like a lunatic!"

Blondie ignored their bickering, his hands trailing along the walls as if searching for some hidden seam or clue. "This isn’t just a trap," he muttered to himself. "We're inside the curse's domain. The layout’s changing, it's a labyrinth."

Domain. Her grip tightened on the hammer. Of course, it was a domain. She should have known the moment the air shifted, the moment the oppressive energy pressed down on her.

"Of course it’s a domain," Aoi muttered, her frustration boiling over. "Look, I know what’s happening. I could fix this. There’s a cursed painting in here—it’s what’s causing all of this! If you help me find it, I can fix everything. If I can get to it, I can stop this."

Blondie, who had been running his hands along the walls, froze. He turned slowly, fixing her with a sharp stare. "A cursed painting," he repeated. "And you know this because?"

Aoi hesitated, but only for a moment. "Because I made it," she said, voice steady, even as her fingers tightened around her hammer.

Silence. Thick and immediate.

Then Katana Guy’s voice rose, incredulous and furious. "You made it?" His voice went up an octave. "Are you out of your damn mind?! What is wrong with you?!"

"It’s not like I did it on purpose!" Aoi fired back, her cheeks flushing with indignation. "But I can fix this—if I can reach the painting, I can stop all of this! All I need to do is touch the painting and—"

"Touch it, she says," he muttered, holding up a hand. "Yeah, sure. No. You’re on your own, kid. We’re not risking our necks for you." He turned away, very much focused on finding a way out. "You go ahead and touch the thing that cursed the building. Let me know how that goes."

She glared at him. "Oh, I see how it is. I didn’t realize I’m the one with the katana and the job title of ‘professional sorcerer.’ Are all sorcerers this unpleasant, or is it just you?" she hissed, taking a step closer to him.

Blondie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Gojo’s on his way. Until then, stay put and—"

Her breath caught. "Satoru?" she said before she could stop herself, voice barely above a whisper. Her heart skipped, chest tightening with something too complicated to name. "He’s here? In Shizuoka?" She tried to keep her voice steady.

Blondie gave her a flat look. Katana Guy raised an eyebrow.

Aoi looked away quickly, trying—and failing—not to smile. Of course Satoru was coming. Of course he was. Relief flooded through her like a warm current, quickly chased by dread. Oh god. He was coming. He’d see she was trapped in a domain. He was going to be insufferable about it. He’d be furious, of course. Probably throw some sarcastic remark her way and remind her why he’d locked her up in the first place.

Katana Guy stared at her like she’d grown another head. "What’s with that dumb look on your face?"

"Oh no," she muttered under her breath, feeling her cheeks heat, and she bit her lip to steady herself. Don’t blush. Don’t you dare blush in front of the grumpy samurai.

Before she could spiral further, a faint, sing-song voice cut through the tension like a knife, eerily playful and chilling.

"Found you~"

Every muscle in Aoi’s body froze.

They all turned at once, slowly. The oppressive energy in the room spiked. None of them moved. It was as if they’d collectively decided not to provoke the thing staring them down.

A girl stood in the center of the hall, between them—a childlike silhouette, dressed in a vibrant summer kimono, her tiny feet clad in wooden geta. She tilted her head, eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of mischief and malice.

She looked no older than eight. Messy brown hair tied in pigtails. Wide hazel eyes.

Aoi’s breath caught, nausea curling in her gut. That’s my face. But not.

The child’s grin was too wide. Too sharp. And she held a spiked bat in her hands like it was her favorite doll.

She didn’t need Satoru’s lessons to understand what she was up against.

Every breath felt labored, every sound muffled except for the soft, rhythmic clack of wooden geta against the floor.

Blondie shifted, calm but ready. Katana Guy's fingers hovered over his blade. For once, they looked the part of the professional sorcerers they claimed to be—focused, unyielding, and terrifyingly calm.

Aoi wasn’t calm. She wasn’t unyielding. And she definitely wasn’t terrifying.

Her fingers trembled against the cursed hammer in her hand, as she exchanged a quick, wide-eyed glance with the man in front of her searching for reassurance she knew she wouldn’t find.

The hammer in her grip trembled, inadequate against the overwhelming cursed energy emanating from… herself.

The curse skipped closer, dragging her bat behind her with a soft scrape. She spun on her heels, beaming up at Aoi with a grin that was too wide. Her mind raced, struggling to reconcile the terror in her chest with the need to bolt.

"I waited so long!" she chirped, like a child eager for playtime. "Now we can finally play! Right? You’ll play with me, won’t you?"

Aoi swallowed hard. "You… waited for me?" She croaked, the word barely leaving her lips. Her knees locked as the curse bounced closer, circling her like a predator toying with its prey. She forced herself not to step back. 

The cursed girl tilted her head like she didn’t understand. Then, brightening, she clapped her hands together.

"Let’s play a game! It’ll be so much fun! I’ve been waiting and waiting!" Her voice twisted at the edges, the sugar-sweet tone stretching into something darker. "We’ll play, won’t we? Won’t we?"

Aoi stared.

And thought, with a quiet, shaking breath—

Satoru, you better get here fast.

Her eyes darted to the katana-wielding sorcerer. His hand hovered over the hilt, his jaw tight.

"She’s targeting you," he said under his breath, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

Aoi’s mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Why her? The question was obvious, the answer... less so. She couldn’t say it. Not without explaining too much. Not with the curse circling her like she was a toy it hadn’t decided how to break yet.

She swallowed hard, the denial falling from her lips before she could stop it. "We… We can't play," she said, her voice thin.

The curse’s smile evaporated. Her pout snapped into place like a cracked mask, and she stomped her foot.

"What do you mean you don’t want to play?" Her head turned sharply toward the two men. "Is it because of them? I told them already, I don’t want to play with them. They’re boring."

Aoi barely had time to process the words. The curse lunged.

The world exploded into motion.

Katana Guy’s blade sliced through the air, the sorcerer shoving Aoi out of the way a second before the bat came down with horrifying force and smashed into the floor. Wood shattered. Splinters flew. Aoi hit the ground, rolling with the impact, coughing through the dust.

The cursed child giggled, wild and bright. "Boring, boring, boring!" she chirped, lifting her club again.

Katana Guy, grabbed Aoi's arm, yanking her aside just before the next strike hit. They crashed through a brittle wooden wall, landing in a heap on the floor of the next room. The brittle structure splintered around them, collapsing in a cloud of dust as they tumbled into the next room, landing hard on the cold, dusty floor.

Aoi’s side screamed. Her hammer clattered next to her as she coughed through the cloud of plaster dust, her hammer still clutched in one hand. She wasn’t bleeding. Just the impact. She could still move.

"You alive back there, ‘Ken Shimura’?" Katana Guy's voice snapped from in front of her. He was already on his feet, blood dripping from a cut on his brow, still shielding her like it was part of the job.

Aoi wheezed, as she stumbled to her feet. "Y-yeah. I’m fine. Mostly." She managed a shaky nod. "Thanks."

He kept his eyes on the curse. "How about the hammer? Does it do anything useful?"

"It, uh… hits things?" she offered weakly, still catching her breath.

Katana Guy gave her a long, unimpressed look. "Outstanding. We’re saved." His katana gleamed in the dim light, unwavering as he glared through the broken wall. "Nanami! You good?"

"Fine." came the terse response from the other side. Blondie—Nanami, apparently—sounded annoyed but alive.

Katana Guy wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand, muttering, "Little brat hits like a truck."

The curse stood among the debris, still smiling. She swung her club lazily and hummed a twisted tune.

"Play, play, play!" she sang. Then, clapping her hands, she beamed. "Let’s play Kagome Kagome!"

Nanami swore. That was all it took.

She launched herself at him before he could blink. He parried, barely, the blow forcing him back several steps. His counter missed—she was already behind him. Giggles echoed. He stumbled into the room with them, his coat disheveled, his expression grim.

"I said we’re playing Kagome Kagome!" she pouted, voice pitched high and sharp. "We have to play!"

"This is bad," Katana Guy muttered, casting a quick glance toward Aoi and Blondie. "Same as before. We don’t play, she attacks. And if you don’t play, you can’t hit her."

"It’s a domain, right?" Aoi said, stepping forward, her voice steadier than she felt. "Satoru taught me about them. They have rules. If we play along, maybe we can survive long enough—"

"You’re explaining domains to us?" Katana Guy shot back, exasperated. "This one's incomplete. No barrier, no sure-hit... Technically we can walk away at any time but this place turned into a maze. And she’s not letting us walk out easily."

The child’s eyes gleamed. Her foot slammed down again, her voice rising, her stance shifting as if preparing to attack again. "You have to play! Or it’s not fun!"

"Okay! We’ll play!" Aoi stepped forward quickly, raising her hands. Her voice cracked, but she held firm. "Kagome Kagome, right?"

Blondie's deadpan look could’ve killed a lesser woman. "You’re insane."

"We need to buy time. Satoru’s on his way, right?" she hissed. "We stay alive. That’s the goal."

Katana Guy clicked his tongue, clearly hating the situation and admitting she was right, but his blade lowered a fraction. "This is nuts."

The curse lit up. "Yay! Let’s play together!" She skipped closer, her club swinging cheerfully at her side. "Duuuunnnoooo… Who should be the ‘oni’? Oh!" She pointed her bat straight at Katana Guy.

"You! Ol’ man! You’re the oni!"

Katana Guy stared at her like as thrilled as someone being forced to eat nails.

Aoi nudged him. "You know how to play, right?"

"Of course I know," he grunted, looking like he wanted to skewer someone—preferably her. "I just can't believed I'm doing this."

The curse twirled. "No cheating! Close your eyes! No peeking!" She gestured them into a circle. "Come on! Everyone join in!"

Katana Guy muttered something indecipherable under his breath but stepped into the center with a long-suffering sigh, closing his eyes, katana still in hand.

The curse began moving around Katana Guy, waving at Aoi and Blondie to follow. "Sing!" the curse cheered. "And smile! It’s fun, right?"

Aoi took a breath, forced a smile, and joined the cursed child in circling Katana Guy. Her voice came out weak and shaky at first, but she managed to mumble the familiar tune.

"Kagome, Kagome…"

Blondie’s grumble was barely audible over the song, but he joined in, his half-hearted attempt at a smile more terrifying than reassuring.

"Kagome kagome

When, oh when will it come out

In the evening of the dawn

The crane and turtle slipped,

Who is behind you now?"

The childish chant came to an abrupt halt, and a heavy silence followed, pressing down on the room like a closing lid. Aoi tightened her grip on the hammer, palms slick with sweat. Her heart hammered in her chest as she watched Katana Guy stand still in the center of their makeshift circle, his eyes shut, jaw tight. Behind him, the cursed stood still, waiting.

Please, she begged desperately. Just say it. You know she is behind you—say it and this ends.

The curse swayed on her heels a few feet away, twirling her club lazily, geta tapping the floor with a singsong rhythm. She tilted her head, gaze fixed on Katana Guy, as if she already knew how it would play out.

Then Katana Guy spoke, voice firm and steady. "The curse is behind me." he said, voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders.

Aoi's breath caught. Relief flared in her chest for a heartbeat. He got it. He got it right. Didn’t he?

But the curse’s smile widened—too wide—and then she giggled, high and sharp and wrong.

"Wrooong~!" she sang, like a child announcing the punchline of a cruel joke.

Aoi barely had time to react before the curse lunged.

One moment, she was swaying in place; the next, she was in front of Katana Guy, her club already swinging in a brutal arc toward his head.

Katana Guy spun with his blade just in time to meet the spiked club head-on. Metal and cursed wood clashed with a sound like thunder. Sparks flew. The impact sent tremors through the floor.

Before Aoi could stumble back, Blondie grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the way with surprising force. She skidded, nearly dropping her hammer, the force of his pull jerking her breath from her lungs as the sound of the impact shook the room.

Aoi threw an arm up to shield her face, squeezing her eyes shut as debris rained down around them.

When the dust settled, Aoi peeked over Blondie's shoulder. He still stood like a reluctant defensive wall between her and the chaos, weapon raised. His hand clamped tight around her arm.

Across the room, Kusakabe knelt with his katana raised, blood streaming down one arm pooling at his elbow and dripping onto the floor. His breaths came heavy and labored, but his glare was fully directed on the curse.

"I won the first round!" the curse cheered, hopping in place, club twirling like it weighed nothing at all.

Aoi's breath caught. She leaned forward, whispering. "Katana Guy—are you—?"

Blondie's voice cut in first, sharp and unusually tight. "You good?"

"Tch," Katana Guy hissed through gritted teeth. "If not for my Simple Domain, I’d be missing my face. So yeah. Living the dream."

He forced himself upright, blood dripping down his sleeve in steady rivulets. He glared at the curse, still dancing like she hadn’t just tried to split his skull in two. "I guessed right. She was behind me. Why the hell did she attack?"

Aoi swallowed hard, trying to calm her breathing, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She was grateful for the shield Blondie provided, but she couldn’t stop the rising panic. "Why?" she echoed quietly. "Why didn’t it work?"

Katana Guy had done everything right, hadn’t he? So why had the curse attacked him anyway? Wasn’t that the point of the game? To guess correctly? Unless…

The curse didn’t seem interested in explaining, her club resting casually on her shoulder as she considered her next move. She just kept spinning in place, her voice light and cheerful. "Round two! Let’s go again!"

Aoi’s heart sank. "Again?" she said, more to herself than anyone else.

"Hmm… Who should be the oni now?" the curse mused aloud, her eyes darting between them.

Katana Guy stepped forward, still bleeding but already returning to his place in the circle. "I’ll do it again."

Blondie immediately turned toward him, brows drawing into a deep frown. "You're injured," he said flatly, gesturing toward the gash on the other man's arm. "Another hit like that and you'll lose the arm."

"What do you expect me to do? Hide behind you two kids? Not happening." Katana Guy snapped. "Unless you’ve got anti-domain tricks you’re hiding, I’m the best shot we’ve got. You just focus on keeping her alive."

Aoi’s heart twisted. She hated how right he was. She felt like dead weight dragging them all down. But then a thought stirred—vague, half-formed, but stubborn.

She out slightly from behind Blondie's protective stance before she could talk herself out of it.

"Wait!" Her voice trembled, but she didn’t stop. "Maybe… maybe it’s the name." She looked between them, urgency blooming in her chest. "My name is Aoi Fujikawa. And so is hers. If you don’t call her properly, she might attack again. Maybe we should... Use our proper name to play?"

Both sorcerers turned to her, their gazes heavy with questions. The only sound was the soft, tuneless humming of the curse as she skipped in the distance.

Katana Guy sighed, wiping blood from his brow. "Fine. Atsuya Kusakabe."

Blondie followed with a curt nod. "Kento Nanami."

The wave of gratitude that hit Aoi nearly knocked her over. In the midst of all this chaos, their acknowledgment felt like a lifeline. 

She nodded back, her grip tightening around her hammer. "Good. Now, let’s get it right this time."

Kusakabe stepped back into the center of the circle. Blood darkened the floor beneath him. His knuckles were white on the hilt of his katana. As he closed his eyes, the curse squealed with glee.

"Again! Again! Let’s play!" It cheered, swinging her club like a toy, almost grazing the wooden planks.

The tune started once more—off-key and sing-song, echoing through the splintered room. Aoi fell into step behind Nanami, her legs trembling, her breath shallow. Her voice wavered as she joined the chant, her hammer heavy in her hands.

"Kagome kagome... Who is behind you now?"

They stopped, as silence filled the room. Once again, the curse stood behind Kusakabe, waiting.

Come on, Kusakabe, she pleaded silently, her chest tight. Get it right. Just get it right.

Kusakabe's jaw clenched. "Aoi Fujikawa," he said, clear and certain.

For a fleeting moment, the room felt suspended in time.

The curse tilted her head. For a second, the smile slipped from her face. "Oh?" she murmured, curious.

Aoi’s heart lifted. Maybe—just maybe—

But then the grin returned. "That’s… wroooong!" the curse sang, eyes glittering with malice 

Before anyone could react, she lunged.

Everything happened at once.

Nanami moved first, yanking again Aoi out of harm just as the club came crashing down again at Kusakabe. Wood and dust exploded around them, splinters flying. Aoi instinctively ducked, squeezing her eyes shut as the impact shook the room. She stumbled, coughing against the thick dust hanging in the air, and felt something wet land on her cheek.

She wiped it with trembling fingers—blood.

Not hers.

Her stomach twisted as she looked up. Her body was shielded once again by Nanami in front of her, his weapon poised, his gaze locked on the wreckage.

Kusakabe was down again, blade raised, shoulder pouring blood, soaking into his uniform. But he was breathing. Alive. Barely.

"Why is she still attacking?!" he growled, struggling himself upright. "I said the name! That was the right name, wasn’t it?!"

Nanami’s expression darkened. "She’s not following her own rules?"

The curse twirled in place, beaming. "I win again! Sooo much fun! Let’s go again! One more round!"

Aoi’s breath came fast, adrenaline clawing at her chest, as she took in the scene—Kusakabe, blood dripping steadily from his arm and shoulder, glaring at the ground as if sheer force of will could stop the bleeding, Nanami rigid at her side, his normally calm demeanor cracking under the strain.

And the curse—that distorted, childlike version of herself—practically skipped in circles, humming the Kagome Kagome tune with eerie delight. Her summer kimono fluttered lightly as she hopped from foot to foot, the massive spiked club dragging behind her like a toy.

She bit her lip, frustration bubbling in her chest. She felt useless, like dead weight dragging them all down.

Her throat felt dry, her mind racing through fragments of what she’d learned from Satoru. Domains have rules. Strict ones. They had to play by them to survive. But this wasn’t just any domain—it was born from her, a fragment of her twisted emotions.

She knew it, or at least she should have. She just needed to figure out what part of her was driving it.

"It doesn’t make sense," she whispered. "You did name her right. I don’t... I don’t know why—"

"Then think harder!" Kusakabe snapped. "If you’ve got some genius idea, now’s the time, Ken Shimura!"

The name hit her like a lightning bolt.

Ken Shimura?

Her heart pounded as the memory surfaced: her voice as a child, high and dramatic—“Ken Shimura! That’s my name today!”

She’d loved silly nicknames, especially ones that made people laugh. She used to change them constantly. One per day. Sometimes more. And if someone called her by the wrong one? Oh, she’d throw a tantrum like it was the end of the world.

Her gaze fixed on the childlike figure, her lips parting as realization dawned. "She doesn’t want to be called by her real name. She never did," she murmured, her voice trembling. 

Both men turned to her, their expressions sharp with skepticism and urgency.

She looked at Kusakabe, still bleeding and glaring like he could scare the curse into obedience. He had called the curse by her real name.

And that was the problem.

"You used the wrong name," she said, breathless. "Well, the right one, but… not the one she wants."

Nanami’s jaw clenched. His eyes darted to Kusakabe’s injuries before fixing on the curse, scanning it like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. "That’s her name, isn’t it? You just said so yourself."

Kusakabe scowled. "I’m not following."

"It’s complicated! She doesn’t want ‘Aoi Fujikawa.’ She wants the nickname. ‘Ken Shimura.’" Aoi blurted, clutching the hammer like it might help her explain. "That’s what she used to do—I used to do. She’d change her name all the time, make up ridiculous ones, and get mad if someone didn’t play along."

Kusakabe blinked. "Ken Shimura," he repeated, like the name personally offended him.

Nanami didn’t say anything—just stared at her, brow furrowed like he was solving a math problem with blood all over it.

"It was… a phase," Aoi said lamely. She clenched the hammer tighter, bracing for their judgment. "A very dramatic phase."

Kusakabe let out a humorless scoff. "Great. We’re playing a death game with a stand-up comedian."

Aoi ignored him. Her fingers curled around the hammer. "I'll be the oni," she said, her voice trembling but resolute.

Her gaze darted between the two sorcerers, both of whom looked at her as if she was crazy. 

"Absolutely not," Kusakabe snapped. 

I know her," she insisted, stepping forward. Her hands trembled, but her voice was steady now. "I know how she thinks. Let me try."

"You’ll be dead in seconds—"

"I won’t!" she said, louder now. "I have a chance. Please. Trust me."

Kusakabe looked ready to argue again, but Nanami silently placed a hand on his arm. His eyes flicked from Aoi to the curse and back again, jaw tight.

“If you die,” he said evenly, “I won’t feel bad.”

Aoi gave him a shaky, crooked smile. “That’s fair. I won’t blame you.”

Kusakabe grumbled something under his breath, but stepped back, ceding the circle to her. Reluctantly.

Aoi stepped forward. Her legs were trembling, but she kept her chin up. Satoru would’ve let her do this. Maybe. Probably while making some stupid comment about her odds of survival. She forced herself to breathe.

Nanami and Kusakabe hovered nearby, weapons raised. She tried not to look at them. Tried not to think about what would happen if she failed.

They wouldn’t let her die if she got it wrong. Right? But would they be fast enough? Strong enough? Would it even matter if she got it wrong?

Her heart hammered in her chest, her breath shallow. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she begged, Satoru. Where the hell are you?

The cursed girl lit up when Aoi took her place in the circle, clapping her hands like a child at a birthday party, her summer kimono fluttering slightly. “Your turn, Aoi! I’m so happy it’s finally your turn!”

Aoi swallowed hard and closed her eyes. The world narrowed to sound: the creak of wood, the swish of a kimono, the quiet drip of Kusakabe’s blood onto the floor.

She didn’t think about dying. Didn’t let herself imagine her own head crushed beneath that spiked club. Her knees trembled, threatening to give way.

You can do this. You have to do this. Don’t think about the two sorcerers watching your every move. Don’t think about the twisted version of yourself waiting to pounce if you slip up.

The chant ended.

"Kagome kagome... Who is behind you now?"

Her thoughts clung desperately to Satoru’s lessons. Stay calm. React, don’t overthink. Trust yourself. She focused on the cursed energy in the air, on the pull she’d learned to recognize. That thread between them, faint but steady.

Her heart steadied. Behind me.

It’s her.

No—not her.

“Ken Shimura,” she said, her voice trembling but firm.

Her eyes flew open as she spun, hammer raised. The cursed child was there—just where she’d felt her—frozen in place with her wide eyes blinking with a look of exaggerated surprise.

The air seemed to hold its breath.

Nanami and Kusakabe didn’t move, barely breathed.

“…Correct,” the curse murmured, like it tasted bitter on her tongue, her grin faltering for a brief moment.

Aoi nearly collapsed. The word echoed in her mind, a lifeline in the chaos. “Correct?” she whispered. “So we—”

“Now!” Kusakabe’s voice broke through.

He was already moving, katana flashing through the air. Nanami followed, blade crashing down in an overhead strike. But the cursed girl darted away, her body moving faster than thought, taunting them as she danced around their attacks. Nanami’s sword hit the floor with a crash that sent part of the room collapsing.

“Too fast,” Aoi gasped, knuckles white on her hammer.

Then, suddenly, the curse was beside her.

Too close to move, too close to run.

Aoi froze as the childlike figure tilted her head, her large eyes fixed on Kusakabe and Nanami.

“Boring,” the curse said, eyeing the men. “They just keep hitting without reason. No fun.”

Her breath caught as fear rooted her in place. She could smell blood and dust, feel the cold sweat on her skin. But—

Without reason?

Oh. Right. She won the round. Not them. She had the right to attack.

Do it now or die.

Gritting her teeth, she raised the hammer. Cursed energy surged through her, not smooth or elegant, but raw and defiant. Satoru’s voice echoed in her head: Don’t overthink. Trust yourself. Shoko’s words, too: If someone bothers you—hit them.

The memory of Sendai surfaced—the raw panic, the fleeting clarity, the determination to survive.

She swung with everything she had.

The curse's eyes widened in surprise. Too late.

Her hammer connected with the curse’s face in a sickening crack. The child-like figure flew backward, slamming into the wall hard enough to crater the wood.

Aoi stumbled back, chest heaving, arms shaking.

Then, inexplicably—she laughed.

Not a graceful, victorious laugh, but a half-hysterical one, choked with disbelief. “I—I did it!”

For a moment, the room was silent save for Kusakabe’s gruff voice, despite the blood dripping from his arm. “Well, I’ll be damned. That stupid hammer actually works. About time," he grumbled, sounding almost impressed.

Aoi almost laughed harder.

Nanami stepped in front of her again, blade raised. Protective. Solid.

The curse pulled herself from the wreckage, her cheerful mask gone. In its place was something colder, darker—a malicious presence that sucked the air out of the room.

“This isn’t fun anymore,” she hissed. The spiked club scraped against the floor as it took a step forward, the room seeming to grow darker with its every movement. "I don’t want to play this game anymore."

The room dimmed with every step she took.

"Let's play tag."

Aoi’s breath hitched. Her hammer felt suddenly small again, panic creeping up her spine like cold fingers.

This is it, she thought, her heart hammering in her chest. This is where it ends.

And then—

A wave of cursed energy shattered what was left of the ceiling. Dust rained down. A wall cracked in half.

Aoi stumbled back, shielding her eyes. When the smoke cleared, she squinted against the dust.

There he was.

Satoru Gojo.

“Well, this looks like a mess,” he said, surveying the chaos he just made worse. “Didn’t we talk about not giving the public a show? Honestly, Kusakabe, Nanamin, you’re slipping.”

His voice carried that same maddening lilt—half smug, half bored, all Gojo.

He stepped through the gaping hole he’d just created with his usual infuriatingly casual posture, like it was a red carpet, hands in his pockets, silver hair glowing under the moonlight. A paper bag swung from one wrist like he’d just come from the convenience store.

His eyes met the curse—cold, calculating, utterly unimpressed, like he hadn’t just exploded his way through a centuries-old castle.

Kusakabe and Nanami, of course, didn’t share Aoi's awe.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Kusakabe didn’t miss a beat, as he threw an exhausted glare at the newcomer.. “You destroyed half the castle!”

Nanami sighed. “Of course you did.”

Satoru tilted his head, his smirk stretching wider. "Oof. Kusakabe! You look terrible. That’s a lot of blood. What happened?" His gaze lingered on the bloodied sorcerer. "Did yu trip?"

Kusakabe made a noise that might have been a growl. “Gojo.” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. The curses muttered under his breath said enough.

Aoi barely heard any of it. Satoru’s attention had shifted—and then his eyes met hers.

Everything else dropped away—the curse, the sorcerers, the blood and wreckage.

The ruined walls, the dust, the curse—the world narrowed to the way he looked at her.

And he was looking. Really looking.

Not angry. Not smug. Not yet. His gaze softened—only slightly—but it was enough to make her heart skip a beat like a traitor.

Was that relief in his eyes? Amusement? Oh god—was that happiness? That would be worse. Why was he happy? And why was she happy?

You locked me up, you idiot, she thought, gripping her hammer tighter. You locked me up and disappeared. You—

But none of that mattered.

I missed you.

And that thought was even worse.

His expression didn’t help. He looked like he knew. Of course he knew. He always knew. Damn him. Damn his stupid eyes, his stupid smirk and his perfect timing and the way her knees suddenly forgot how to function.

She wanted to yell at him. Or hit him. Or maybe cry? No, not in front of Kusakabe. She had some dignity left. She hoped.

She was angry, and hurt, and so goddamn happy to see him she could scream, instead, her lips betrayed her. A twitch. The beginning of a smile she didn’t mean to show.

"You’re late," she murmured.

His smirk turned wicked. "Fashionably."

Aoi felt her cheeks go up in flames. Wonderful. Now she was blushing. In the middle of a fight. In front of two grumpy sorcerers. With blood on her face.

Could this get any worse? She was an idiot. He was an idiot. What the hell was wrong with them?

Stop smiling. Stop smiling, you idiot. This is a battlefield, not a reunion.

And yet—

Why, why did she feel that tiny, stupid, fluttering warmth in her chest? Completely and utterly stupid.

He stood there, in the middle of the wreckage, looking like he’d just stepped off the cover of Sorcerer Monthly, and all she could think was:

God. What kind of lottery did I win to have him show up looking like this? 

She felt her lips curve again.

Was it the time for this? No. Did she care? Also no.

Satoru tilted his head again, like he was about to say something—something important. His lips parted, and her breath caught, anticipation freezing her in place. But before he could speak—

"Hello?" Nanami’s voice cut through, flat as ever.

Like a slap to the face.

Kusakabe groaned. “Oh, great. We’re doomed.”

Chapter Text

FUN

✎✘✘✘✘✘■■■■■

-Satoru-

The situation was… not ideal,  but Satoru had learned to thrive in chaos. Mostly because he caused 90% of it.

The scent of plaster dust and the metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air, but Satoru Gojo, the strongest, stood in the middle of it all, marveling at the absurdity of his situation. Oh, how life loved to throw him curveballs. His blue eyes scanned the ruined room, taking in the chaos that had led him there. Kusakabe bleeding like a discount horror prop, Nanami with his signature "I hate my job" aura cranked to maximum, and then there was her, Aoi, who looked like she’d been put through a wood chipper and then asked for an encore.

But hey, at least she was alive. Which, really, was the important thing.

Satoru adjusted his footing on the creaking, cursed-imbued floorboards, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. Around him, the air reeked of malevolence, the kind of suffocating cursed energy that would have sent most sorcerers scrambling for backup. For him, though? It was Tuesday. Or Thursday. Whatever day it was, it didn’t matter. They all blurred together in a string of bad decisions and worse outcomes lately.

Two weeks. He had spent two long weeks in Shizuoka, assisting Kusakabe and Nanami while they tried to unravel the mystery of the city’s sudden cursed infestation. A tedious, uneventful assignment, save for the increasingly distracting pit in his stomach every time his mind wandered back to her. Aoi. Locked away in the barrier where he’d put her. For her safety. For her own good.

It was the right thing to do. He had told himself that so many times it had almost started to feel true. Shoko didn’t buy it. Granny Mochi definitely didn’t buy it, her biting remarks about how he was handling the situation still stung. But they didn’t get it. She was safer in there. Period. No cursed paintings, no high-grade threats, no killers, just a safe little bubble where she couldn’t get herself killed. That’s what mattered. Right?

And yet, here she was. Not in the barrier. Very much not safe.

She escaped, and let’s be honest, things kind of fell apart after that.

And the universe decided to add some flair. She’d come straight to Shizuoka. Shizuoka. Why wouldn’t she waltz straight into the epicenter of all the chaos? Straight to him. Of all the places to run, she had to pick the one city where a special-grade curse, born from her painting, had set up shop. Ha ha. Very funny, universe. And because she was Aoi Fujikawa—his sweet, dear, rebellious shogun—she hadn’t just thrown herself into the mix. No, that would’ve been too simple. Instead, she’d introduced herself to Kusakabe and Nanami—two men not exactly known for their sunny dispositions—as Ken Shimura, armed with a cursed hammer and an attitude, and proceeded to make their lives infinitely harder than they already were. To be fair, Kusakabe hadn’t even known her name yet, but that hadn’t stopped him from wanting to strangle her on the spot.

What, exactly, was the plan there, Aoi? Charm them with your snark? Because that was bound to go well.

«There’s some lunatic here calling herself Ken Shimura,» Kusakabe had snarled into the phone. «With a cursed hammer, of all things. She’s causing chaos. Do you know her?»

Do I know her? Oh, Kusakabe, if only you knew. Oh, how he’d laughed. Loudly.

Then came the chase.

«She’s interfering.»

No kidding.

«She's running.»

Of course, she is.

«She’s fast.»

Oh come on, how hard could it be? Two full fledged sorcerers versus one nineteen-year-old art student. Should’ve been easy. Right? Wrong. The endless phone calls, the exasperated shouting, the utter disbelief from Kusakabe and Nanami when Aoi had outrun both of them.

«She’s wily.» he replied helpfully. «Like a gazelle. Elegant. Nimble.»

«Come and grab her yourself!» Kusakabe had practically screamed.

And he wanted. Really. But see, first, he’d swung by his hotel room to grab Granny Mochi's mochis. Mochi. The very thing he was currently clutching in a paper bag, because he knew—knew—he’d need something to soften the blow when he inevitably had to face Aoi. Without them, Aoi would probably crush his soul into powder before he could say, oops, my bad.

So yeah, detours. He figured he had time for one—what could possibly go wrong in a few minutes? Turns out, a lot. The curse had finally revealed itself, turning Sunpu Castle into its own personal playground—twisting the place into a labyrinthine domain. Fastidious, yes. Unmanageable, no.

It had been a simple decision to smash through the wall instead of navigating the maze. He wasn’t about to let Aoi—or the others, fine—risk their necks for a second longer.

So he did what he did best: he made an entrance.

Hence the wall.

He stepped through the debris, standing in the wreckage of a historic building he’d casually demolished, staring down a childlike version of Aoi twisted into a monstrous curse that stood glaring at him, her geta tapping against the floor in irritation. Nanami and Kusakabe glared at him like he was the source of all their problems. Honestly? Fair. Kusakabe looked like he’d gone through hell, bleeding heavily but still standing, which, knowing him, meant he’d thrown himself in harm’s way. Satoru didn’t miss the way he kept glancing toward Aoi, or the fact that Nanami had shifted just enough to keep her squarely in his line of defense. Say what you will about those two perpetually sour attitude, but they would die before letting anyone get hurt under their watch. 

Not that Satoru would ever thank them aloud. That would ruin his mystique.

Then there was her. Aoi. His eyes caught on her, and for a moment, the rest of the room faded away.

He felt the tug of the cursed bond, a faint, lingering pulse of shared pain and exhaustion. She was a mess—her brown bobbed hair disheveled, cheeks flushed from the cold, clothes dusted with debris. There was blood on her face—not hers, thank god, but still it set his nerves on edge. Her hands shook slightly as they gripped the cursed hammer, her knuckles white, her hazel eyes wide and fixed on him with a mixture of relief, anger, and something else he couldn’t quite place. Her lips parted, as if she were trying to speak but had forgotten how.

Then, just as he thought she might say something, she bit her lower lip.

Hard, the pressure turning it pale before she released it briefly, only to bite down again, her gaze still fixed on him. His fingers twitched in his pockets. It wasn’t deliberate—he could tell that much. A small, unconscious movement—nervous, maybe, or just Aoi being Aoi. But damn it all, it was distracting and he was utterly incapable of focusing on anything other than her lips. It wasn’t fair.

Don't. Don’t stare. Oh. You’re staring. Great. And now you’re thinking about it. Stop biting your lip, Aoi. Please, for the love of everything holy, stop doing that, you’re killing me here.

She didn’t stop. Of course she didn’t. Aoi Fujikawa never did anything by half measures, even when it came to unintentionally driving him insane. He swore he could feel her lip catch under her teeth like it was his own—thanks to that cursed bond that sent his focus spiraling. Of all the reckless things she could’ve done, biting her lip like that, with those wide, stormy eyes watching him like he held every answer in the universe, was the one thing that left him utterly defenseless.

She looked… awful. And perfect. A disaster. A perfect infuriating disaster.

What should I say? he thought, his mind scrambling for something, anything appropriate. He should probably reprimand her. Why did you run away? Look at the chaos you’ve caused. You could’ve died. Yeah, like that’d help.

Sorry for locking you up? But hey, look at this mess you’ve made in less than 24 hours. Kind of proves my point, doesn’t it? No, that’d get him killed.

Don’t tell her she looks like a trainwreck. No, definitely not.

Maybe something simple, like, I missed you? Hmm. Tempting, but she’d probably hurl that hammer straight at his face.

I bought you mochi? Okay, that might be a safe opening. Test the waters with food first, see if she approached without violence.

But oh no, she was staring at him. She noticed she was staring at him, didn’t she? A smirk tugged at his lips. Aoi, you’re staring. Caught you. Not letting this one slide. He felt his lips twitch into an involuntary grin. What are you looking at, huh? he wanted to tease.

Her lips moved then, hesitatingly, and his traitorous eyes followed the way her teeth grazed that same spot again, just briefly.

«You’re late.» Aoi said, her voice soft but cutting through the tension like a blade.

His grin widened instinctively, tilting his head slightly, though his brain was still catching up. «Fashionably late.»

She smiled, just a little. Completely unfair. Damn her and her ability to make him feel like the whole world could crumble and he wouldn’t care. He couldn’t help but smile back. Were they both just standing there, gaping at each other like idiots? Oh, yes. Definitely.

The silence stretched just long enough to become awkward. Suspended, absurdly out of place in the chaos around them. And then—

Then Nanami cleared his throat. Loudly, dry and unimpressed. «Hello?»

Kusakabe groaned, dragging a hand over his face, his voice flat and dripping with exasperation.  «Oh great. We’re doomed.»

«Right,» Satoru blinked, mentally shaking off the distraction. Right. Focus. There was still a murderous curse glaring at them with an expression that could melt steel. And it wasn’t just any curse—it was a twisted, childlike version of Aoi, the resemblance enough to make even him feel an uncomfortable pang in his chest. That wasn’t helpful. Time to compartmentalize.

«Well, well, little princess,» he drawled, his hands still casually tucked into his pockets as his eyes glinted with amusement. «Playtime’s over. It's New Year's Eve, you know—things to do, places to be, fireworks to watch—»

The curse tilted its head, its geta tapping against the warped floorboards, a hollow clack clack clack that echoed unnervingly. Its summer kimono swayed lightly in the faint breeze from the gaping holes in the crumbling walls, but its gaze was anything but serene. Those hazel eyes—wide and glassy—glared at him with a ferocity that belied its small, childlike form, the cursed energy surrounding her thickened, pressing against him like an unwelcome guest. Satoru’s smirk didn’t falter, though. If anything, it widened.

So, what’s the play? Domain Expansion? Maybe test the waters first.

In the blink of an eye, he moved. The floor creaked once beneath his feet, and in the next instant, he was behind the curse. It wasn’t a calculated move—it was pure confidence. If he could end this quickly, so much the better. His hand shot out, lightning-quick, aiming to plant itself firmly on the top of its head and end the fight in a single, decisive blow. «Nighty night,» he muttered. For a fleeting moment, he felt the texture of hair beneath his fingers—so eerily like Aoi’s—

But then—puff. She vanished.

A flicker of movement at the edge of his senses, and he felt it before he saw it: the curse reappeared behind him, her spiked club raised high and aimed directly at his head. Without even turning, he ducked just as a spiked club swung overhead, the rush of displaced air whistling past his ears. The force of the swing was incredible—far beyond what a childlike form should be capable of. It slammed into a wooden pillar with a deafening crack, the wood shattering like kindling under the impact. The ceiling groaned ominously, part of it collapsing in a cloud of dust and debris.

Satoru reappeared a few meters away, unharmed and maddeningly composed, brushing nonexistent dust from his jacket. He glanced over at Kusakabe and Nanami, who were dragging Aoi out of harm’s way, ignoring her frantic stammering as she tried to protest. She stumbled, her cheeks pale, throwing a wide-eyed glance back at Satoru, caught somewhere between indecision and fear.

The curse turned its head sharply to follow him, its geta tapping an impatient rhythm as it shifted its weight from foot to foot. Satoru noticed the subtle increase in speed—it wasn’t just stronger here in its domain; it was faster. More aggressive. More dangerous. Great. That would make things fun.

«Ah,» Satoru mused, his tone almost bored as he observed the curse’s movements. «So you’re still doing that thing, huh? The one where you can’t be attacked unless we ‘play’ your games?»

The curse’s mouth curled into a feral grin, its sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. Its childish voice rang out, distorted and mocking. «Not playing means no fun! No fun means no hitting!» It giggled, the sound shrill and grating.

Satoru tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his blindfold. «Cute. Annoying, but cute.» He sighed, his voice dropping to a quieter murmur.

The floor beneath his feet groaned again, and he glanced back at Kusakabe and Nanami. Kusakabe looked like he was barely holding himself upright, blood dripping steadily from a deep gash on his shoulder with a nauseating pat-pat-pat. Nanami’s face was as impassive as ever, but Satoru didn’t miss the tightness around his eyes, the subtle way his movements were slowing. They were running on fumes, and if he didn’t act soon, they wouldn’t make it out unscathed.

He let out a low whistle, assessing the situation. «Alright then… seems like there’s not much choice, huh?» He hesitated briefly. Could he really afford to use his Domain Expansion with so many people nearby? He’d never tested it like this before. Could he target only the curse while sparing everyone else? Probably. Maybe.

But why risk it?

«Nanamin, Kusakabe,» he called out, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of command. «Maybe it’s time you two checked on the situation outside, huh? Make sure the area’s clear, look for stragglers, you know. Y’know, not entirely sure I can keep you out of what’s about to happen.» he insisted, tilting his head toward the exit. «I’m responsible for her,» he added, jerking his thumb toward Aoi, who was half-hidden behind Kusakabe. «but you two? Eh, not so much»

The two sorcerers exchanged a look, and Satoru could almost hear their unspoken agreement: Absolutely not staying here for this. They weren’t about to argue when their survival depended on it.

«I’ll grab the first aid kit,» Kusakabe muttered, already inching toward the door.

«I’ll grab him,» Nanami replied dryly, following the older man.

They muttered something else sharp under their breath about reckless idiots, but neither of them hesitated to make their way toward the exit.

Aoi, however, hesitated. Her hands fidgeted at her sides, her brows knitting together as she glanced nervously between Satoru and the curse. «I-I should go too, right? You know, for... safety?» she stammered, her voice barely audible over the lingering crash of debris.

Satoru’s head tilted slightly as he turned his attention to her. «Oh no,» he said, his smirk softening into something gentler as he stepped closer, planting himself firmly in her line of sight. «I need you here. Find the damn painting, yeah?» She froze, visibly torn, but he wasn’t done. Leaning in slightly, his voice dropped, low and teasing. «And besides,» he added, his smirk widening. You and I still have a little unfinished business, don’t we? He thought.

Her cheeks paled, then flushed again, her lips pressing into a tight line. But she didn’t move. Her hazel eyes flicked to him, and he saw the hint of trust there, however begrudging. She nodded, albeit reluctantly.

«Good girl,» Satoru murmured, almost too softly for her to hear. Satisfied, he turned back to the curse, but before Nanami and Kusakabe could slip out, the curse materialized in front of them, its geta clacking sharply against the floor. It raised its club again, ready to strike—but Satoru was faster.

«Uh-uh—» he murmured, snapping his fingers and unleashing a precise Cursed Technique Reversal: Red. The blast tore through the air, its trajectory perfect right between the two sorcerers, but the curse vanished once again at the last second, the energy slamming harmlessly into the far wall. The castle shuddered under the force, another section of the ceiling collapsing with a thunderous crash.

«Missed again.» Satoru remarked, his voice dry as he glanced at the curse, who had reappeared at a safe distance.

Kusakabe shot him a scathing look. «You’re destroying the entire place!»

«Oops,» Satoru said, unbothered. He met Kusakabe’s incredulous stare with a shrug. «Hey, it was already falling apart. Castles are overrated anyway.»

With the curse momentarily distracted, Nanami and Kusakabe finally slipped out, leaving Satoru alone with Aoi and the increasingly agitated curse. The curse’s childish voice rang out again, shrill and petulant. «Not fun anymore, you cheater! Don’t wanna play!»

He glanced at Aoi, who was still standing frozen beside him, her face pale but determined. 

«The painting,» she blurted, snapping out of her daze. «I-I think I know where it is.» she stammered, her voice shaking as she clutched at her jacket. She looked exhausted, her hair plastered to her damp face. Her hands trembled faintly as she struggled to keep her composure, still holding to her cursed gavel like a lifeline.

«Good.» Satoru said with a shrug. «Then let’s not drag this out. Hold on, yeah?»

«Hold… on?» she echoed, staring at him like he’d just sprouted another head.

«To my arm, obviously. Like, now.» he replied, rolling his eyes.

Aoi hesitated for only a second before grabbing onto his arm. Her grip was tight—frankly, overkill, her nails digging into his sleeve. «Ow, ow, ow—» Satoru raised an eyebrow, glancing down at her. «I said hold on, not cut off my circulation. Geez.» he muttered, rolling his eyes skyward. But the way her trembling fingers clung to him, the slight hitch in her breath, told him everything.

She was scared. But she trusted him. He pretended not to notice.

«What now?» she whispered, her voice trembling. «You’re not going to blow up something? Someone?! I swear, if I have to see another splatter like in Sendai—»

«Dramatic much?» he quipped, his grin sharpening. «Relax. I’ve got this. Now, where were we last time?» he said, glancing at her with a grin she probably wasn’t even seeing. «Ah, right. How to counter a domain. Lesson time. Pay attention, art girl—this is one way to do it. Expand your own domain. When two domains collide—»

«—the stronger, more refined one wins. You already said that.» she murmured, nodding along, though she seemed more focused on staying upright than his explanation.

«Bingo.» he said with a grin. He could see the exhaustion written all over her—her trembling hands, the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes darted to him for reassurance. It was almost enough to soften his smirk. Almost.

But still, enough was enough. It was time to end this. «Okay then,» he said softly, his tone losing its usual arrogance for just a second. «End of the games, little princess.» Raising his free hand, his fingers curled into the familiar hand sign, and the space around them shifted as he activated his domain.

«Domain Expansion: Unlimited Void.»

The oppressive weight of the curse's domain vanished in an instant, replaced by the infinite, chilling void of Satoru's Unlimited Void. The air thickened with an overwhelming sense of inevitability, and the childlike curse froze, its geta mid-tap against the creaking floorboards. The summer kimono fluttered as if caught in an invisible breeze, its bright colors stark against the monochrome stillness of the domain. Wide, childlike eyes blinked, the only movement left as Satoru’s domain swallowed everything else. The remnants of its own domain disintegrated like ash in the wind, overwritten entirely by Satoru’s.

Next to him, Aoi clung to his arm like her life depended on it. She had buried her face against his bicep, her brown bobbed hair disheveled and spilling over her cheeks, but he caught the faintest tremble in her grip. Poor things looked like she expected explosions and flying blood at any moment. Cute, but unnecessary. Not that he could blame her—her track record with curses and sudden violence was, well, unfortunate.

«Relax,» he said lightly, sparing a glance at her as he started toward the immobilized curse. «No fireworks. Not yet, anyway.»

She didn’t answer, her grip only tightening. Damn, did she have a death grip. His arm was starting to go numb. Fine. Better she didn’t see what came next anyway.

Satoru sighed and stepped forward, dragging her with him for a few paces before he stopped in front of the curse, towering over the diminutive imitation of childlike-Aoi as it remained frozen, the infinite information of his domain had overwhelmed its sensory processing, freezing it in place. He crouched slightly, leveling his eyes with the curse, its eerie semblance to Aoi gnawing at the back of his mind. The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on him. Here he was, about to destroy a twisted replica of the girl standing just behind him, a girl whose trust he was still trying to salvage.

He needed to finish this. The curse, the painting—everything. Quickly. Cleanly.  The sooner he ended this, the sooner he could deal with the real problem. The girl standing just behind him. And finally—finally—put this night behind them.

Mochi and fireworks. That was the plan. That’s how this night should end. He was going to give her mochi, watch her face light up at the fireworks, and somehow—by sheer force of charm or luck—earn her forgiveness.

Maybe she'd even smile at him if he was lucky.

But first...

«Huh,» he mused aloud, his tone almost conversational as his hand hovered above the curse’s head. «You really do look like her. Almost makes me feel bad. Almost.»

The curse didn’t respond, of course. Its body flickered faintly, and for a brief moment, he thought he caught the shadow of a pout in its twisted expression. Whether it was a trick of the light or some echo of Aoi’s spirit within the cursed painting, he didn’t dwell on it.  «Well,» he continued, his voice dropping lower. «Night-night, little princess.»

His hand settled gently on the top of the curse’s head, fingers splayed as if in a tender gesture of affection. The pause that followed was so brief it could barely be called hesitation. With a swift, practiced motion, he wrenched its head clean from its shoulders. The motion was over in an instant. The severed head tumbled backward, its geta clattering noisily to the floor as the body dissolved into dust. The air around them lightened perceptibly as the curse’s malevolence dissipated, leaving only a faint shimmer of cursed energy in its wake.

A faint grimace crossed his features, but he quickly smoothed it out as he straightened. Finally, silence.

He glanced over his shoulder at Aoi, her face still buried against his sleeve, her eyes tightly shut. The hammer she clutched so fiercely earlier now hung limply in her grasp, her knuckles no longer white with tension. «Alright,» he said, brushing his hands off as though the curse had left physical residue behind. «You can open your eyes now.»

Aoi’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t move. «Are you sure?» Her voice was soft, uncertain.

«Pretty positive.» he replied, the hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Cautiously, she cracked one eye open, then the other, her gaze darting around the room. When her eyes finally settled on the now-empty space where the curse had stood, she straightened slightly, her grip on his sleeve loosening a bit.

«The curse?» she asked tentatively.

«Gone,» he confirmed, his tone light. He could have elaborated, could have told her how it dissolved into nothingness with a single movement. But no. No need for that particular detail. She didn’t need to know he’d casually decapitated something that looked so much like her. Definitely not the kind of imagery that would help their fragile truce—not when he wasn’t sure if she’d respond with diplomacy or a hammer to his skull once this was all over.

She gave a small nod, her shoulders sagging in visible relief. For a brief moment, Satoru felt the urge to steady her, to reach out and place a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t. Instead, he turned his attention back to the task at hand. «The painting?» Satoru pressed, eager to end this fiasco before the painting had a chance to spawn yet another problem.

«Right, the painting,» Aoi said, looking around the room with a mix of exhaustion and determination.

«Let’s hurry,» he added, noting her faltering pace. «After using a domain, there’s a bit of a cooldown, you know? Can’t use my technique right away. It’s like a motor—it needs time to cool off. So if something else pops up, I’d prefer we not test our luck.»

She nodded again, still clinging to his arm as her gaze drifted to the walls. Good grief, she’s strong when she’s scared. After a moment, her eyes locked onto one particular section.

«There,» She raised a trembling hand, pointing. 

Satoru followed her gesture, his gaze narrowing. «There?» he repeated, skepticism dripping from the single word. The wall looked completely ordinary—aged wood, a few cracks, nothing remotely suspicious. «Art girl, that’s just a wall.»

«No, it’s not,» she insisted, her voice more confident now. «There’s a hidden room behind it. I know it.»

He frowned, skepticism written all over his face. «How exactly do you know that?»

Her cheeks reddened slightly, and she glanced away, her confidence faltering for a split second. «I don't know... I just do?» she muttered, clearly frustrated by her own lack of explanation.

Satoru gave her a look, half-exasperated, half-incredulous. «You just do,» he repeated flatly. There was something almost eerie about her certainty, something that tugged at the edges of his thoughts. Unconscious descendant of the Tokugawa clan? Master of all their secrets? Yeah, sure. Let’s go with that. Totally normal. If it wasn’t so creepy, it might actually be funny. Still, no time to dwell on it.

«Art girl. My arm. Blood flow. Please.» He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Her cheeks flushed slightly as she released him, muttering an apology under her breath. Blood flow returned to his limb, and he gave it a quick shake to get feeling back. She approached the wall, running her hands along the surface until her fingers brushed against a wooden panel. Pressing and levering it, she triggered a mechanism, and part of the wall creaked open to reveal a hidden room.

«Huh,» Satoru said, glancing at her. «So there really was one. Creepy, but impressive.»

She stared at the revealed space, looking more puzzled than proud.

«C’mon,» Satoru said, stepping into the room. The air grew heavier, the cursed energy emanating from the painting pressing down on him like a physical force.

The painting stood at the room’s center, leaning precariously against the wall like some forgotten relic. Yet there was nothing ordinary about it. Even without touching it, the sheer density of its cursed energy was staggering, radiating waves of malice that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Satoru wrinkled his nose as he let the door swing shut behind him, his gaze fixed on the grotesque centerpiece. «Well,» he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, «that’s charming.»

He stepped closer, gesturing for her to follow. She hesitated, then moved beside him, clutching her hammer tightly. «Let’s finish this,» he said, his tone unusually cheerful as he turned to Aoi, his lips twitching into a faint smile.

She hesitated, her eyes locked on the painting. The faint glow of its cursed energy reflected in her gaze, and for a moment, she looked as though she might refuse. But then, clutching her hammer tightly, she stepped forward, her movements cautious and deliberate, as if approaching a predator poised to pounce. «Alright,» Aoi crouched in front of the painting, her brow furrowed with concentration as she extended a trembling hand toward it.

Her fingertips brushed the edge of the frame—and all hell broke loose.

The painting erupted with a violent pulse of cursed energy, an invisible shockwave that tore through the room like a detonation. Furniture was thrown askew, splintering against the walls. The already fragile structure of the room groaned ominously, chunks of plaster raining down as the floor itself trembled. The force hit Aoi directly, throwing her backward like a ragdoll.

Her small cry pierced the chaos, but Satoru moved in an instant, catching her mid-air  and pulling her securely against him, absorbing the brunt of the impact as he steadied them both, his feet skidding slightly on the uneven floor.

«Gotcha,» he muttered, stepping back several steps, creating space between them and the still-glowing painting. «You okay?» He glanced down at her, noting the way her eyes were wide with alarm, her cheeks flushed, her hair slightly disheveled from the blast. 

«Y-Yeah,» she stammered, clutching his sleeve for balance.

Before he could say anything more, the cursed energy in the room began to shift. His gaze snapped back to the painting just in time to see the cursed energy coalescing, swirling into a familiar, grotesque form. When the dust settled, there it was again.

The curse.

Same Aoi-childlike form. Same summer kimono. Same damn geta.

And the oversized spiked club.