Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰? 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐙𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐬? 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐞𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐨 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭."

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒖𝒎

Hello lovely readers and welcome back for those who arrives directly from Wars of the Stars! First off, a huge thank you to anyone who takes the time to dive into this new part of the series, it means the world.

If you are new, alert!

This story has a prequel: Legacy of the stars.

But while reading the prequel adds extra details, heartbreak, confusion, and context, Echoes can also stand on its own.

Useful links:

✧Discord! Legacy of the stars Cafè
 ✧ Playlist! Legacy of the stars

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒕’𝒔 𝑪𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒐 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒑

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

The shop is tucked into the heart of historic Asakusa, a quiet street just far enough from Sensō-ji’s tourist crowds to make visitors feel lost. Those who find it rarely stumble in by accident. 

As with previous installments of this series, here’s a short compendium, this time not on the OCs but on the assorted cursed relics and oddities stored in our Main Character (Kaoru)’s The Archivist’s Curio Shop.

They are listed in order of appearance (I'll update everytime a new cursed relics appears in the story). Beware of light spoilers.

Google Frontpage

Edo-period relics | Private consultations by appointment only | We don’t sell on Sundays.

Established: 1958.

★★☆☆☆ “Scary owner. Seemed to know I was lying about my family heirloom.”

★★★★☆ “Asked about an old katana, left with a history lesson and a sense of dread.”

Objects on Record

✧ Mame: a wooden comb with painted red camellias. Always seen tucked into Kaoru’s hair. Appears to have a personality of its own, smug and obsessively protective of her. According to Kaoru, Mame “handles her RCT and… other things.” Nobody knows what the “other things” are.

✧ Gojo Clan Kanzashi: a late Sengoku silver filigree kanzashi engraved with the Gojo clan mon. Traditionally passed from matriarch to matriarch. Currently in Kaoru’s possession, for reasons she refuses to clarify.

✧ Sake Cups from Keichō-Era: plain black sake cups of uncertain provenance. Their curse effects are unknown, though Kaoru claims one of them killed her father four centuries ago. 

✧ Jinmu’s Purifying Mantle: a cloak attributed to Emperor Jinmu, the first emperor of Japan (660 BCE). Functions as an alarm barrier and bursts into flame when cursed techniques touch it. Kaoru uses it as a curtain for her basement entrance.

✧ Musashi Miyamoto’s Dokkōdō Manuscript: an original copy of Dokkōdō (“The Way of Walking Alone”), written by famous Miyamoto Musashi (1584–1645). Contains a small grammatical and mora counts error that authenticates it. Useless as a cursed tool, but Kaoru is absurdly proud of it.

✧ Sakamoto Ryōma’s Kiseru: a dark wooden and iron pipe once owned by Sakamoto Ryōma (1836–1867), visionary samurai and revolutionary. Anyone who touches it is compelled to rant about the inevitable fall of the shogunate, international trade, and modernization for fifteen uninterrupted minutes. Kaoru uses it on chatty customers.

✧ Jujutsu High Uniform Buttons (Various Eras): a glass case of buttons collected from Tokyo Jujutsu High uniforms across the decades. Most were taken without consent.

✧ Isoroku Yamamoto’s Key: a large, rusted iron key belonging to Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto (1884–1943), commander of the Imperial Japanese Navy during WWII. The key always opens the same “room,” no matter the lock or the door. Kaoru uses it to relocate her basement as needed. She describes the effect as “conceptual overwriting” of the original room. No one knows what that means.

✧ Murasaki Shikibu’s Mask: a Noh mask in onna style, attributed to Murasaki Shikibu (973–1014), author of The Tale of Genji. Wearing it grants random prophetic visions centered on whatever currently obsesses the wearer. Side effects: severe nosebleeds. Kaoru keeps it boxed and avoids looking at it until necessary because it's creepy.

✧ Oda Nobunaga’s Rice Bowl: a ceremonial rice bowl once owned by the warlord Oda Nobunaga (1534–1582), said to have been with him at the Honnō-ji Incident, where Nobunaga was betrayed and forced to commit seppuku. Perpetually keeps food hot. Kaoru uses it to serve hot popcorn during movie nights.

✧ Tamamo no Mae’s Mirror: a small round mirror with blue frame and golden accents. Once wielded by the kitsune Tamamo no Mae. Allows the user to peer into the memories of anyone reflected within. Tamamo no Mae used it to perfect her illusions and shapeshifting.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Happy reading, brave souls! May the popcorn stay warm!

Chapter Text

𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝑪𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝑻𝒐 𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

November, 1989 – Gojo Clan Estate, Kyoto

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

September, 2014 – Tokyo

It was always the same.

People changed. Cities morphed. Years dragged themselves forward, but the way he saw the world through the layers of refracted cursed energy? Yeah, that didn’t budge.

There they were, the old alumni of Tokyo Jujutsu High; the closest thing he had to a friend group or... what was left of one, anyway. They'd gathered in the same bar, tucked in a sleepy pocket of east Shinjuku, for drinks and bad food.

From the outside, it probably looked the closest approximation of “okay” that their generation could manage. From his point of view, Six Eyes on, sensitivity dialed to max, it was a distorted mess of wavelengths and suppressed grief.

Satoru Gojo sipped his juice—cranberry, because it matched his mood—and didn’t react when every person in the room leaned away from him. Not obviously, not enough to call it fear. Just… a shift. Subtle and automatic.

He noticed. That was the problem, he noticed everything, he had the Six Eyes, after all.

A millimeter of tension in Nanami’s shoulders when their eyes met. How Shoko’s fingers hesitated at her glass, then resumed like nothing had happened. The small, involuntary twitch in Yu’s smile whenever Satoru laughed just a little too loud. And the cursed energy; that’s what really betrayed them. The tremble in their cores, the small delay before their smiles reached their eyes.

They didn’t mean to. He didn’t blame them. When Suguru left—no, worse, when Suguru chose—no one was left to challenge him; that’s what he missed the most, he supposed. Someone who didn’t just see him, but looked straight through the tricks and the masks and told him he was being a goddamn idiot.

He didn’t blame the others for pulling back, it was inevitable, it was just the cost of being him.

The strongest.

He had become something other than human in their eyes. Not quite untouchable—but certainly unrelatable. The one who didn't get asked how he was doing. Not because people didn’t care. But because… what was the point? It was rude, it was pointles, too scary, to messy. That was part of the new normal. He wasn’t allowed to not being fine, the idea itself made people uncomfortable.

The Satoru Gojo was supposed to be above all that. He was, in fact. He took another sip of his juice as if convincing himself.

Satoru didn’t resent them, really.

Mostly.

…Okay, maybe a little.

"Well," he muttered to himself, "cheers to alienation." He pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose, muting the visual noise of cursed energy just a little. The laugh that tried to escape as he tilted his head back stayed somewhere behind his teeth, choking him from the inside.

Across from him, Shoko was arguing with Nanami about the price of pickled daikon.

Shoko had stopped smoking last spring; apparently being the only medic in a society constantly hemorrhaging jujutsu sorcerers had finally made her rethink her lung capacity. Same sarcasm though; still the woman who could vivisect a curse and a moral dilemma in the same breath. She didn’t flinch when he spoke, not visibly, at least.

But even she slipped. There it was—just the barest flicker of cursed energy behind her temples, a twitch of concern veiled as side-eye; she thought he couldn’t see it.

Nanami, on the other hand, was consistent in his complete and utter refusal to pretend. Back from retirement, the prodigal salaryman still wore his suit like it was battle armor, still talked like every word was an invoice. Nanami’s cursed energy was more exact. There was no joy in it, just math. He was a man made of hours and percentages, always watching the clock.

Satoru respected the hell out of him for the refusal to laugh at his jokes. He also wanted to throw his drink at him, just to get a reaction.

Then there was—

Haibara Yu. Still smiling like someone who hadn’t nearly bled out in a cursed Red Ward.

Ridiculously sincere. Emotionally porous. The kind of guy who’d bleed for people who didn’t deserve it and apologize just for being in their way.

By all accounts, Yu shouldn’t be alive, everyone knew. The incident in 2007 should’ve been a one-way trip. Six months in a hospital bed, two emergency surgeries, Shoko working herself into the ground just to keep his lungs functioning. The official report? Redacted to hell and back. Even Satoru couldn’t peel it open, and he had Six Eyes and zero respect for privacy.

Still, Yu had survived. And smiled. And called it luck.

Satoru watched him in silence.

Empathic Assonance. A cursed technique that didn’t serve the user, but everyone around them. Very Haibara. Terrible solo sorcerer, brilliant team asset. He practically radiated connection. Thin, bright filaments of cursed energy looping around the people near him like threads on a loom: Shoko, Nanami, even the bartender who’d handed him a drink with a crooked smile.

They turned Yu into a living network of emotional tethers, pulsing gently invisible to everyone but the Satoru's Six Eyes.

It scared the shit out of him. Warmth like that? It got people killed. Got them left behind. Got you standing in front of the ruins of a friendship, wondering when exactly the fire started and why you hadn’t put it out sooner.

Anyway, Haibara Yu, specifically, was why he was here.

Yu was the only confirmed sorcerer to come into direct contact with Scarlet Mist and live. Barely; they’d dragged him back from the edge anyway.

And Satoru… Satoru wanted out. Not out out, not freedom-from-jujutsu-society out—but he was tired of fixing other people’s mistakes just so the next generation could be born broken all over again. He didn’t want to be the strongest forever, he wanted to raise people who could surpass him. Kids who didn’t have to grow up buried under blood and history.

He wanted to teach. Which meant, the old bastards upstairs had to get in his way.

Seventeen petitions to join the faculty at Tokyo Jujutsu High. Seventeen rejections. Same line every time: You can teach, Gojo-sama, once Scarlet Mist has been eliminated.

Satoru slipped his hand inside his uniform's jacket and pulled out the dossier.

It was insultingly thin. Entire pages blacked out, whole reports gone missing. He knew a lie by omission when he saw one and this lie had the fingerprints of the Jujutsu Society's higher-ups all over it. He flipped it open like he had dozens of times before, scanning lines he could already recite.

Scarlet Mist: the only known special-grade Vengeful Spirit classified as a national-level hazard. Unique behavior profile. Periodic. Cataclysmic. Surfaces every few decades, targets high-level jujutsu sorcerers—especially from the three great clans.

Last appearance: 2007. Next projected appearance, based on its usual cycle? Around 2037.

They knew he wouldn’t wait that long, that was the point. They didn’t want him in a classroom; they wanted him out in the field—between them and anything that might threaten their power, dangling the future in front of him like bait. You can build your better world only after you handle the one threat that's scheduled to never reappear in your lifetime.

...He should’ve killed them outright. Neatly, limbs in one pile, egos in another. But—

Then he looked at Shoko. At Nanami. At Yu. Thought of Megumi.

Who would follow him if he crossed that line?

No. Not like that.

Fine. He’d play their game. Find the damn thing, rip it out of the cracks where it was hiding, shove it under the sun until it screamed. Prove he could clean up their messes and still teach and then he’d happily watch the old world burn.

Satoru almost laughed. Honestly, they could’ve put in a little more effort. He was Satoru Gojo. When something was invisible, imperceptible, impossible to find? That just made it fun.

But first, he needed a lead, so tonight, he was doing the only thing he could do.

Interrogate Haibara Yu. Again.

He put his juice down. Then, just to disrupt the rhythm of the table, he laughed too loudly on purpose. “Alright,” he said, grinning, as he dropped the dossier onto the table with a thud that made Nanami’s eye twitch. “Game time.”

Three pairs of eyes turned toward him.

“Oh no,” Shoko muttered. “Dangerous.”

Satoru leaned forward, resting his chin on both hands like a kid confessing to a prank and grinned. “Yuuuuu-kun,” he drawled, too sweet to be anything but suspicious. “Remind me again—what do you remember about the night you almost died in 2007?”

Nanami set his glass down with a little too much control. “Gojo.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Satoru cut him off, not even glancing over. “You’re very protective, Nanamin. Adorable, really. But I’m working.”

“You’re interrogating him.”

“Oh please, I’m being gentle.”

“You’re never gentle.”

That part was fair.

Satoru ignored him completely. “Come on now, I need specifics. Did it talk? Did it bleed? Did it do anything weird?”

Yu choked slightly on his lemon sour. His fingers curled around his glass like it might offer protection. Then Haibara Yu did what Haibara Yu always did—he smiled.

“Ahhh, um. I mean—I’d love to help, really. But my memories of that mission are... a bit off,” he said rubbing the back of his head, voice just a little too bright to be normal. “I remember the beginning of the mission. It was just supposed to be a routine exorcism, low-grade stuff, monitor a cursed zone in western Tokyo. Then this weird kekkai activated, you know, the temperature dropping, the mist starting to rise, crimson and wet—”

“Red Ward. Scarlet Mist's signature kekkai forming. Good, go on,” Satoru leaned in. 

“Then I started coughing blood.” Yu smiled apologetically, like it was his fault for dying wrong. “A lot of it. Like, embarrassing amounts. Then—boom—” he touched his ribs unconsciously, “—hospital. Lungs full of holes, two blood transfusions, three weeks unconscious... Apparently, I flatlined twice?”

Satoru blinked. “...That’s it?”

Yu shrugged helplessly. “I mean, yeah? It’s mostly the... Mist. That—and blood. Mine.”

“Color me disappointed,” Satoru sighed, tossing himself backward into the booth like a Victorian widow overcome by disappointment. He was about to press further, he had at least eight more follow-up questions lined up, rapid fire, when Shoko cut in, dry as dust and just as tired.

“Oh, come on,” she said, finally looking up from her drink, one elbow propped lazily on the table. “You’ve already harassed Haibara about this three times this month. Didn’t they give you a dossier? You know, one of those official things that people like you ignore?”

Satoru leaned back, lazily folding his arms behind his head. “Oh, they gave me a dossier. A beautifully useless one, redacted to hell and back.” He jerked his chin toward the table where the file sat. “Go ahead, read it. Tell me what's strange.”

Shoko gave him a long look, then, with a sigh that practically echoed off the bar walls. “Exaggerating as always,” she muttered, but she picked it up anyway.

Nanami’s expression tensed immediately. “Ieiri—”

“Relax,” she muttered, skimming quickly. “If the higher-ups didn’t want it seen, they shouldn’t have let him have it.”

The others watched as her eyes skimmed page after page.

“Well.” She blinked. “That is… an aggressive amount of ‘REDACTED.’ Who edited this, a toddler?”

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𝙲𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙳 𝙳𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙴𝚁: #𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟾-𝚅𝚂𝙿
𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚢𝚘 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙲𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚕 | 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 

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▌𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙸𝙳
𝚄𝚙𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍: 𝙰𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝟷𝟾, 𝟸𝟶𝟷𝟺

𝙲𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎:  𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚝
𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗:  𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚂𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝
𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜:  𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛-𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 (𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝙴𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚌)
𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢:  𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕-𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝙷𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚍
𝖢𝖴𝖱𝖱𝖤𝖭𝖳 𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖳𝖴𝖲: **𝖴𝖭𝖤𝖷𝖮𝖱𝖢𝖨𝖲𝖤𝖣 – 𝖢𝖮𝖭𝖲𝖨𝖣𝖤𝖱𝖤𝖣 𝖠𝖢𝖳𝖨𝖵𝖤**

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▌𝚂𝚄𝙱𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙸𝙴𝚆

𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎 (𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎): ███████ (𝚍. 𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟾) [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳] 
𝙰𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 (𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎): 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚝 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗,  𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚏𝚞-𝙰𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚕 (𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟿)
𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 (𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎):  𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 (𝚄𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍)
𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 (𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜):  𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚂𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝
𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝙰𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎:  𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚡. 𝟸𝟶–𝟸𝟸.  𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜.  𝙰𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚏.

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▌𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙸𝙽 𝚁𝙴𝙿𝙾𝚁𝚃

█████, 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚕’𝚜 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑-𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚠𝚊 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚏𝚞.  𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚍 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]. 𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳] 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]
𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳] 
█████ 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟾 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚜. 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳].
𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]. 
[𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳].  𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙰𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜 “███████” 𝚊𝚗𝚍  𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 ███.

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▌𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙴𝙳 𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙸𝙵𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽

𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚡, 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛-𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙴𝚍𝚘-𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 “𝚙𝚛𝚎-𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛”.
𝚂𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 ████████████ [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙺𝚊𝚖𝚘 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝙸𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍.
𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍:

𝙲𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝙳𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 – “𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜”

• 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗
• 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝
• 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍

𝚂𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚜

• 𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚏𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜, 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚎, 𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐
• 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢: 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝟿𝟼% 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚜 (𝚗𝚘𝚗-𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛𝚜)
• 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎, 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚘𝚕𝚒, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎-𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.

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▌𝙼𝙰𝙹𝙾𝚁 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚂 𝙻𝙾𝙶

(𝙿𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝟺 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍) 
𝚂𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛. 𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝟷𝟾𝟽𝟸–𝟸𝟶𝟶𝟽 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎: 

𝟷. 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚎- 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢-𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚍  [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳] 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍/𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛 ███████████ [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]. 
𝟸. 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝-𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎

• 𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟿 – 𝙺𝚢𝚘𝚝𝚘, 𝙼𝚒𝚋𝚞 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍:  𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙼𝚒𝚋𝚞 𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚉𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜. 𝟹𝟶𝟶 𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝟸𝟾 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍.  𝚄𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎.
• 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟿 – 𝙴𝚍𝚘 (𝙼𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚢𝚘), 𝙱𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚢ō 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍:  𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍.  𝙴𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚉𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎.  𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎.
• 𝟷𝟿𝟻𝟽 – 𝙷ō𝚔ō-𝚓𝚒 𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚎:  𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙺𝚊𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎. 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙺𝚊𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜: 𝟸𝟹.  𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝙺𝚢𝚘𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚑.
• 𝙽𝚘𝚟 𝟷𝟿𝟾𝟿 – 𝙺𝚢𝚘𝚝𝚘, 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎  (𝙰𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍):  𝙳𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍. 𝙴𝚢𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜: ████████████ (𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢, 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍) 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊  𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎.
• 𝙰𝚞𝚐 𝟸𝟶𝟶𝟽 – 𝙸𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒 𝙴𝚡𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙶𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜:  𝙼𝚒𝚜-𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝟸 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.  𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍-𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚢𝚘 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝚃𝚎𝚌𝚑 (𝙺𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝙽𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒; 𝚈𝚞 𝙷𝚊𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚊) 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍. 𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚍-𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.  𝙱𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍.  𝚈𝚞 𝙷𝚊𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢; 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝.  𝚂𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍.   [𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜: 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝] 
• 𝙽𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚢𝚌𝚕𝚎 - 𝟸𝟶𝟹𝟽.

𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞.

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▌𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙳𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚂 -  𝙸𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎-𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙱𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜

𝚂𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝: █████ / “𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚝” 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕-𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝.  𝙳𝙾 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙴𝙽𝙶𝙰𝙶𝙴  𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞.
𝙸𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍: 

• 𝙳𝙾 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙱𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚄𝙽𝙵𝙸𝙻𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙰𝙸𝚁:  𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝟷.  𝚄𝚜𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎-𝟷 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛-𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚜
• 𝙴𝚅𝙰𝙲𝚄𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝙲𝙸𝚅𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙰𝙽𝚂 𝙸𝙼𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙻𝚈:  𝙴𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕.  𝙸𝚗 𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜, 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 < 𝟷𝟾𝟶 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜
• 𝙱𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙰𝙻𝚂:  𝙲𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚎
• 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙸𝙵𝚈 𝙷𝚀 𝚄𝙿𝙾𝙽 𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚃 𝙳𝙴𝚃𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽:  𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛

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▌𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙲𝙸𝙰𝙻 𝙳𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 -  𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝙽 𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙾𝙲𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙸𝚅𝙸𝙳𝚄𝙰𝙻: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝

• 𝙿𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝙿𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍.
• 𝙱𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎 “𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝”, 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚗-𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗-𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎
• 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒-𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜
• [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳] 𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚜
• [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳] 𝙵𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜
• [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳] 𝙲𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐:  𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍.  𝙳𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛-𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎.

 [𝙲𝚁𝙾𝚂𝚂-𝙾𝚁𝙶 𝙳𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝟺𝟽𝙰 – 𝙸𝙽𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳]   𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗  𝚊𝚗𝚍  𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜  𝚒𝚏  𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢.

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𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚎. 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝟼𝟼.

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Eventually, Shoko snapped the folder shut. “So what? You’re surprised they don’t trust you? Honestly, I’m not.”

Satoru leaned forward, the smirk reappearing. “Nah. It’d be weird if they did. You know what actually does surprise me?” He tapped the dossier with a single knuckle. 

Tap.

“The Archivist.”

That got their attention.

He spread his arms, as if announcing a ghost story. “In every single Scarlet Mist incident for the past century, every report, every secondhand account, every disaster site,” he said, casually but pointed, “someone saw a figure. Always the same. Never registers, never contacts the Jujutsu Society, no clan affiliation, no cursed technique on record, no name. He just… shows up, observes, and disappears. Just—poof. Gone. Every damn time.”

“Like they’re tracking it,” Shoko muttered, brow creased.

“Or guarding it,” Nanami added darkly.

“He has to know something,” Satoru said, voice low now, thoughtful. “And the higher-ups? There’s a standing ‘contain on sight’ order tucked under six layers of bureaucratic bullshit, which means they think he’s dangerous enough to panic over.” He turned back toward Yu, all expectations now. “And you,” he said, “You had contact in 2007, closest any of us has come. And you lived because this old cryptic man pulled you out of that mess. So. What did he look like, Yu?”

Yu’s smile wavered. He scratched the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable. “Uh, well... someone did save me. But... this is kind of embarrassing...”

“Try me,” Satoru said, already bracing for some grand revelation.

“I, uh. Don’t think it was a old cryptic man.”

A beat. Satoru blinked. “Come again?”

“Well...” Yu hesitated, then held up a hand, palm flat, wobbed it around shoulder height. “She was, like… A girl? Kinda short? Like… yay tall?” He paused. “Didn’t look much older than me, back then... Definitely not an old man.”

A beat.

Satoru blinked. “...She?”

Nanami squinted. “A woman?”

Yu nodded, laughing nervously. “A pretty girl. And she had this... look.”

“What kind of look?”

“Like I was… like I was the idiot, you know? Like, ‘Wow, you’re really just gonna bleed all over the place, huh?’” Yu laughed nervously and pointed at himself, cheeks tinged pink. “I, uh, got the impression I disappointed her.”

The memory clearly stung more than he let on.

Satoru stared. Mind: blank. Not calculating, not analyzing. Just pure, honest-to-god buffering.

He’d spent the last two weeks imagining some long-robed shadowy figure drifting through cursed history, always appearing when the Scarlet Mist struck. A cryptic old bastard, maybe older than modern jujutsu itself. Someone impossibly wise, that knew all the answers and spoke in riddles. Beard-forward. Definitely male. The kind of person you chased across ruins and begged for answers. A guide. A mentor. Someone like—

“—Like Gandalf,” he muttered, dazed. “I was looking for Gandalf. And you’re telling me the Archivist is a short girl with resting disappointment face?”

“She really looked disappointed in my almost dying,” Yu confirmed helpfully  visibly trying to shrink into his collar under Satoru’s stare.

Satoru opened his mouth processing the collapse of an entire mental mythology. Closed it again.

“I told you to stop romanticizing everything,” Shoko said without looking up, reaching for her drink.

Nanami cut in, brows drawn. “Can’t you just ask the Gojo clan?” he offered, tone strained. “They were attacked directly, in the 1989 incident. There has to be a record.”

“Oh, I did ask,” Satoru muttered to himself, running a hand back through his white hair “The dossier mentioned a witness but no name, no statement. So I asked the Gojo clan's matriarch—” He paused, rubbing his jaw. “—She went pale. Pale like I  just brought the Scarlet Mist into the hall. Told me to never bring it up again.”

Shoko shrugged. “Sounds like a dead end. Guess you’ll have to wait until 2037-or-something like a normal cursed plague-obsessed sociopath.”

“No way in hell,” Satoru snapped. “I am not letting a fog of tuberculosis delay my career for three decades. I need to find it now. ” He turned back to Yu, holding to a last hope. “Focus my guy. Anything else before your lungs decided to turn into cursed Swiss cheese?”

Yu squinted, lips pursed, expression strained with exaggerated effort. Then—

“Oh! She asked for a button.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

“…What.” Nanami said, deadpan.

Yu nodded earnestly. “Yeah. From my Tokyo Jujutsu High uniform. She asked for it, like, very seriously.”

Satoru leaned forward slowly. “Why?”

“I… don’t know?” Yu scratched his cheek. “She said something about missing it in her cursed collection? Or a collection of curses? Honestly I was kind of delirious, might’ve been both, my ears were ringing at that point.”

“And... the button?”

“When I woke up in the hospital, one was gone from my uniform.”

More silence. Even the bartender stopped wiping glasses.

Shoko was the one to summarize it. “So let me get this straight. The Archivist, the mysterious, century-old rogue sorcerer the higher-ups fear almost as much as the Scarlet Mist, who shows up to every disaster site and then vanishes, the one with a capture order standing—saved your life, judged you harshly, and stole a button?”

Yu gave a thumbs-up. “If you find her, Gojo-senpai, tell her thanks from me.”

Nanami let out a slow, quiet breath, pinching the bridge of his nose with the air of a man who wanted to unsubscribe from reality.

Satoru, for a moment, said nothing, then looked back at the file. Scarlet Mist was dangerous, sure. Deadly. Unpredictable. But if there was a constant in the Scarlet Mist mess, it wasn’t the cursed spirit—it was her. The Archivist.

She knew something about Scarlet Mist, he was sure of it. And if she didn’t want to be found—

Well. She was about to be very, very disappointed.

Because if Scarlet Mist wouldn’t come to him, then Satoru Gojo was going to start by dragging her out of whatever cursed hole she was hiding in and get his answers for the sake of his still-non-existent future students.

“Alright,” he muttered, half to himself, fingers tapping a rhythm on the folder. “You wanna play hard to get? Too bad.”

A pause, the smallest lift of a smirk.

“I'll find you.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

21 October 2014 – Tokyo

Well. This was unexpected.

Satoru did not believe in luck, but even he had to admit it was starting to feel like the universe was finally throwing him a bone. Unfortunately, it was also throwing thirty-seven Tokyo police officers and ten government clerks face-first into the pavement.

Small trade-off, right?

He slid his sunglasses up onto his head, the faint click of plastic snapping into place sounding oddly loud in the stillness. Six Eyes kicked into full clarity, and immediately the world, as always, exploded into layers; cursed energy webs, subtle fractures, and the last breaths of a cursed technique still clinging to concrete and flesh. 

Of course, the color was scarlet.

The Tokyo Metropolitan Police HQ was intact, structurally speaking. That was about the only thing that hadn’t been turned inside-out; the barriers were up, manned by overworked assistants shooing away nosy reporters and civilians.

The Red Ward had lasted nine minutes. That was all; nine. Nine minutes to kill forty-seven people, to dissolve lungs and tear alveoli apart like wet paper and then—vanish.

Scarlet Mist always vanished.

Didn’t even wait for me to show. Rude.

And among the unlucky? One very dead Zenin clan elder; a big piece of jujutsu bureaucracy who’d been dispatched as liaison between the Jujutsu Society and the regular government.

Wrong place, wrong time, wrong bloodline.

Satoru crouched beside the body and flicked the edge of the tarp back one last time; the man’s face was barely recognizable, chest caved in and lungs liquefied. “Damn,” he said aloud, tone light, disrespectful. “Talk about a bad luck.” Then, standing again with too much bounce in his step, he flashed a smile to no one. “But hey—lucky me.”

Decades intervals, they said? Bullshit.

Scarlet Mist had actually reappeared. In 2014. A neat twenty-three years ahead of schedule.

And now after chasing rumors, reports, censored names and coward higher-ups, he wasn’t just reading about it, he was here, now, observing it with his own Six Eyes. Ground zero. A Scarlet Mist event. And unlike the others, he wasn’t going to waste it. 

He strolled past the corpse with the casual grace of someone who’d long stopped being shocked by them, crossing to the main road in front of the building. The bodies were denser here, caught mid-run, some sprawled with mouths open as if still coughing up blood. 

Satoru wasn’t paying attention to them.

There. A point of convergence.

A spot in the middle of the street where the cursed energy didn’t diffuse, but instead clung. He followed it, pausing where the cursed energy condensed. A crater. His Six Eyes sharpened; yes—residue pooled there in tight concentric layers, like a spear had been planted and rippled outward.

A cursed object?

Satoru squatted beside the crater, fingers hovering above the surface, muttering under his breath. “Temporary,” he murmured. “But layered. Secondary field nested in the first. The kekkai, the structure—this—that's the doing of a cursed artifact, a powerful one, used to seal the area and infuse the Red Ward with the lethal mist.”

The mist—the tuberculosis curse—was just a symptom. Something or someone had amplified the curse with a high-grade cursed object and placed it precisely to bloom right inside the sealed area of the Red Ward.

Seven years since the last appearance. That was nothing. Whatever Scarlet Mist was, it was speeding up, getting bold, or worse getting help.

“That’s not supposed to happen.” 

“That’s not supposed to happen.”

He muttered in perfect unison with another voice behind him, like an echo with attitude.

Satoru froze. That voice. Female, vaguely annoyed, and definitely not one of his staff. A civilian? How did she get past the perimeter? Ijichi’s ass was so fired.

He straightened slowly, deliberately, like one might when spotting a stray cat you didn’t want to startle. And... there she was. At the edge of a service tunnel, half in shadow, with one hand to her chin, muttering as if to herself and posture unconsciously mirroring his own—

A young woman.

Black eyes narrowed, lips moving just barely as she muttered her own running analysis, a sliver of cursed energy still drifting off her. Not tall. Maybe twenty, give or take. Hair black and up in a high ponytail, dressed like she was out to buy milk: plain red tracksuit, scuffed sneakers. And tucked casually under one arm: a grocery bag.

A grocery bag.

Satoru stared; he knew field theory rambling when he heard it, but she looked... unimpressed. Deeply, cosmically unimpressed. Oh, he thought, heart skipping for the first time in hours. Bingo. There you are, Gandalf.

Before he could sharpen his focus, before he could analyze her energy fully with his Six Eyes, she clicked her tongue, disappointed at the world apparently, and turned on her heel, slipping back right into the tunnel.

Gone. Just like the dossier said, classic Archivist move.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” Satoru rolled his neck once, casually then smirked. “You don’t get to do the vanishing act on me.”

He spared a glance for the assistant currently supervising the cleanup; poor Ijichi was already trying to explain to three reporters why blood loss wasn’t technically contagious. “Eh. They’ll live,” he muttered, and without another word, ghosted toward the mouth of the tunnel.

Quiet. Slow. Hands in his pockets. Letting her have a bit of distance to avoid detection and following the thread of her cursed energy.

Strange stuff, her cursed energy. Calm, gentle, stable in a way most jujutsu users never achieved. It felt like watching at a 90 years old retired sorcerer. Old and familiar. Familiar in a way that unconfortable. It rolled off her in waves that reminded him of—

He frowned; where had he felt that before?

...Megumi?

No, that wasn’t right. The cursed signature was similar, almost excact sure; tense in the middle, soft at the edges. But more like..  if Megumi had a really terrifying, battle-hardened grandma.

And... He squinted at a wooden comb painted with red camellias tucked in her hair.

Is It cursed? Oh. It is.

“Really?” Satoru muttered to himself, half-laughing as he trailed her down the corridor.

She kept moving, completely unaware she was being tailed, still muttering. “Same compression pattern… deployment radius bigger than 2007…”

Satoru narrowed his eyes.and kept following. Let her get a little further, let her feel safe. She turned another corner calm and steady as ever perfectly at ease in her peaceful strolling. As if she was just a curious wanderer.

He was, frankly, beginning to feel like a  creepy stalker.

Not quite the thrilling rooftop pursuit he had imagined. It felt more like... Like stalking a very judgmental raccoon through a Tokyo alley at midnight.

He sighed half-exasperated with himself, already composing the apology he wouldn’t say when she caught him, but when he rounded the corner—She was gone. Gone. Gone-gone. The air snapped clean like she’d never been there. Satoru stood still. She’d seen him. She must’ve, no other way she’d disappear that fast.

...Or maybe she hadn’t, maybe she was just good. Really good.

Quickly, he looked left, right, tilted his head; the Six Eyes lit up every residual trace in full chromatic detail. And, oh, there—at the far end of the alley. A subtle shift, the tail end of her cursed energy curling into shadow, tucked into a narrow breach between buildings.

“...Oh? A shadow-based Cursed Technique?” he mused, grin curling up again.

Interesting. Looks like my Archivist's a little Zenin on the run.

The Six Eyes kept her cursed energy neatly mapped in his head through backstreets and rooftops and half a dozen wrong turns, until he landed here: Asakusa, historical heart of Tokyo. Narrow alleys, cobbled paths, wooden beams that groaned like they remembered earthquakes.

He’d give her this much: she was committed, but he didn’t lose her. Not even for a second.

And now, in front of him: an aging two-story structure tucked between a temple and a defunct noodle shop.

Lantern light flickered behind rice-paper windows. The cursed energy practically wept from the walls. But it was the sign in faded brushstroke letters dangling slightly askew over the door that made his brain stutter.

The Archivist’s Curio Shop.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then: “…Seriously?” He threw his head back and laughed. “We’ve been chasing your cryptic ass through a hundred years and this is where you live? You named a shop after yourself?” 

Satoru pulled out his phone, snapped a photo of the sign, and uploaded it to Google. Nothing beat ancient jujutsu secrecy like public registry and commercial metadata.

Edo-period relics | Private consultations by appointment only | We don’t sell on Sundays. Established: 1958.

He scrolled further. Two reviews:

★★☆☆☆ “Scary owner. Seemed to know I was lying about my family heirloom.”
★★★★☆ “Asked about an old katana, left with a history lesson and a sense of dread.”

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

He approached the door, smiling with expectations. It looked fragile; that should’ve been the first clue. The second was the faint glow of a security cursed talisman along the frame. The third? When he pushed, something gave way with a crack and the quiet finality of old things surrendering to force.

The entire door creaked open like it was made of paper.

“Oh.”

That probably wasn’t supposed to happen, but to be fair, it had been very fragile. 

Inside, a bell chimed, mockingly delicate. Something brittle shattered underfoot. He stepped in, unbothered, no regrets for the broken door.

The shop was… Chaos.

A sensory overload. Dust-heavy air, shelves packed with Edo ceramics, rusted swords, wooden boxes, netsuke, and a frankly disturbing number of religious charms. There, near the wall—a stack of katana bundled in twine. A kabuto helmet crowned with a golden crescent moon. A mirror that refused to show his reflection.

His Six Eyes practically screamed from the residual cursed energy; every single item—every one—was cursed. It was a museum of dysfunction, a shrine to bad decisions and things that never should’ve survived past the Meiji Restoration.

Whoever lived here had been collecting cursed artifacts for a very long time. A compulsive kind of collecting. He’d seen this before.

It was like a Zenin clan yard sale.

“...Zenin huh?” Satoru muttered. “Always so aggressive and dramatics.”

He turned, letting his Six Eyes adjust—just in time to lock with a pair of storm-grey eyes staring at him, narrowed.

Across the room, a tall man stood behind a cluttered low table, black hair tied back with military precision, face taut with something between stoicism and homicide, crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled just so. Gloves, of course, and a long nodachi strapped at his hip.

In his hands, a delicate black-lacquered sake set; it was cursed.

The man looked at Satoru like someone watching an unexpected unwelcomed disaster. His pupils shrank a fraction; immediate dislike.

Ah. Right. I broke the front door. Satoru offered his brightest, most shit-eating grin and waved. “Yo?”

Just like that, the sake cups fell from the man's grip. They didn’t just break, they detonated in a tiny shockwave of cursed energy that rattled the walls.

The man growled under his breath, staring down at the mess with the haunted look of someone who knew how expensive those were, and immediately dropped to the floor to sweep up shards. “Fucking white-haired punks…” he muttered in perfect, deadly calm.

“You know, I don’t think you were supposed to break those,” Satoru offered helpfully.

The man looked up, deadpan. “And you weren’t supposed to break the door. There was a talisman.” 

Fair.

Satoru just grinned wider. The man looked just a bit older than him but his cursed energy was bright and sparkling like a magical-girl mid-trasformation, too dramatic for someone pretending to be just a shop clerk. Moderate output. Mid-grade sorcerer, he guessed—Nanami level, if he squinted.

Refined, but not her. Not the Archivist he’d chased for kilometers.

He wandered forward, ignoring the man’s outstretched hand of warning.

His gaze drifted to a dusty glass case. Inside: a series of buttons. Not just any buttons. One, unmistakably, was a standard-issue Tokyo Jujutsu High button, exact match to the one Yu had described. Next to it, a rustier sibling, unmistakably Showa era. And beside that, one that looked like it predated electricity.

He laughed, delighted. Oh, Archivist. This is an adorable cursed collection.

“Don’t move,” the man snapped. “The shop’s closed. You’re trespassing.”

Satoru turned back to the man, entirely too pleased with himself. “So?” he asked. “Where is she?”

The man paused mid-squat as he still tried to gather the broken ceramic. Froze.

“The Archivist,” Satoru clarified smoothly. “Young woman. Not very tall. Big attitude. Last seen muttering to herself at a cursed crime scene.”

After clearly running dozens of scenarios in his mind, the man slowly looked up and stood straight, dusted his gloves, and took one off. He extended a hand with the enthusiasm of someone being forced to compliment their worst enemy.

“I am the Archivist,” he said, smiling like it hurt.

Satoru stared at the outstretched hand. Then back at his face. “...No you’re not.”

“Hisanobu Kashimo,” the man didn’t blink. “The Archivist.”

Satoru cocked his head. “Listen, 'Nobu. The Archivist's a woman. I know that much.”

A vein twitched near Hisanobu’s temple at the nickname. A pause. Then, a noise that might have been a laugh that sounded like a dying engine. “I get mistaken for a woman all the time. Something about my... aura.”

Satoru nodded solemnly. “You mean the Sailor Moon pin on your collar?”

That definitely hit a nerve. Satoru’s Six Eyes caught the smallest flicker of cursed energy as Hisanobu visibly restrained himself from slamming his own face into the floor. And behind the desk, just barely visible—stairs.

Downward. Subtle, but the trail he’d followed all night dripped down those steps.

Got you.

“Charmed, 'Nobu,” Satoru said, brushing past the tall, scowling fake-archivist with the same level of concern he might give a light breeze. “But I think I’ll go say hi to the real Archivist, I have a special-grade Vengeful Spirit to track.”

Hisanobu tensed, barked, “Stop right there—!”

Satoru didn’t stop. Not even when he felt a hand reach for his shoulder, which, of course, failed to connect. Infinity. The hand froze inches from his jacket, blocked by the absolute barrier of infinite space between them.

“Ah-ah,” he quipped over his shoulder, “no touching. Try again in twenty years or so.”

He vaulted the counter with lazy grace, hands in his pockets, neck craned toward the stairwell and sure enough—his grin spread the second his Six Eyes registered what was below. Now that was cursed energy. Not the noisy, low-grade static of the trinkets upstairs. That stuff barely qualified as a curse—more like antiques with an attitude. But this?

The good stuff. A real cursed collector’s basement.

Satoru took the stairs two at a time, not even trying to be stealthy. Why should he? He was on the case. Spiritually, this was his house now. Behind him, Hisanobu followed with the reluctant determination of someone already writing an internal apology letter to every ancestor on record.

A faded curtain hung at the base of the steps, drenched with residual energy and a subtle heat. A barrier, obviously. Probably cursed. Probably priceless. It looked like it had been there for centuries—and sure enough, as he reached out and pulled it aside—

The cloth burst into violet flame the second he touched it.

It didn’t touch him, of course, Infinity breathed outward with a hum, letting the fire curl away but it was definitely on fire.

“Of course it’s cursed,” he muttered.

“That,” hissed Hisanobu behind him, tense as a drawn bowstring, “was the Purifying Mantle of Emperor Jinmu. That thing was older than half the clans in this country! You just activated a relic-class barrier—!”

“Sorry,” Satoru said entirely not sorry,  as he stepped through the last of the embers. “How could I have known it would catch fire?”

And then he was in the room.

The basement wasn’t big but it felt huge. Like it didn’t obey regular spatial rules. Cursed energy rolled through it in nested waves. Dozens of artifacts, weapons, tools, most of them lethal, all of them illegal, were crammed onto old wooden racks and low shelves. 

It was a goddamn arsenal hidden in plain sight beneath a dusty shop in Asakusa.

Satoru inhaled slowly. This wasn’t a storage vault, this was an obsession. The kind of place you only built if you’d been alive long enough to see empires rise and fall and kept souvenirs from each. Illegal, unregistered, definitely unaccounted—or worse,probably one crime away from a death sentence.

God, it felt good to be somewhere unregulated.

The higher-ups would lose their powdered wigs if they saw this. They’d confiscate everything, wipe it clean, and rebrand it as “Clan Property.” Claim it for the “good of the jujutsu order.”

They’d turn this beautiful chaos into bureaucracy; he hated bureaucracy.

Still grinning, still marveling, he almost missed the voice.

“Nobu, did you touch the Jinmu Mantle again without gloves?”

The voice floated out of the center of the room. Satoru froze, just slightly. That voice. The same one from the Scarlet Mist crime scene. The one he'd chased across half the city, calm, unimpressed, vaguely maternal in the most terrifying sense of the word.

Beside him, Hisanobu stiffened and flinched like a soldier being court-martialed for doing something very stupid. Then, with a kind of grim dignity, he stepped past Satoru like Infinity hadn’t just denied him moments ago, and give a small bow of his head.

“My apologies, Ojousama,” he said with monk-like calm. “The error was mine.”

Satoru blinked. Ojousama? Really? Is this an antiquarian cult? Is he the butler? But he didn’t get a chance to snark. Because then—

“Never mind. The mantle will regenerate like it always does,” said the voice, tone flipping to cheerful, “But look at this newcomer,” she cooed, almost delighted.

He looked up—and there she was.

The Archivist.

Same black ponytail. Same deadpan scowl that somehow screamed 'you've disappointed me personally.' Same cursed signature—stable, quiet, familiar. So familiar it silenced everything else.

His Six Eyes without conscious effort, filtered out the noise of the artifacts. Fixed entirely on her. For a split second, it felt like peace.

She stood by a desk cluttered with open scrolls, old paper, and a small mountain of cursed trash piled around her like a nest. Short, yes. But sharp. Black eye focused on a weathered manuscript with the sort of reverence normally reserved for national treasures or nuclear launch codes. Now that he could take a good look at her... Same coiled stillness, same sharp eyes, same prideful attitude. She really did reminded him of Megumi on his bad days and even more dangerously reminded him of the only man who had ever come close to killing him.

There was a smile on her lips—soft, almost dreamy, private. Something about it didn’t match the sharpness of her presence, but it suited her somehow.

Well, she really was pretty, Yu hadn’t been lying. Pretty in the kind of way that felt like trouble. Nothing like Gandalf.

Her cursed energy, though quiet, reached toward him like something recognizing a shape it hadn’t seen in a long time, like it was brushing up against something it used to know.

Satoru felt it echo down to his ribs. His fingers twitched. It wasn’t recognition, it was more like déjà vu. Some part of him thought yes, of course it's you, even as every memory he had told him no, I’ve never seen her before in my life.

He blamed the Six Eyes. Probably a brain thing. Residual emotion. Phantom nostalgia. 

That, or she had a basement full of cursed stuffs and enough cursed energy to punch through a shrine, and fine—he’d admit it, it was kind of hot.

But it had been years since something made his brain light up like this. That was probably all it was.

He blinked. Took a breath. Tried to play it cool.

So, that’s the Archivist.

Then—

Then the smile changed; curved upward—too much. That was not a normal smile. That was an “hoarder dragon just found a new gem” smile. 

“This,” she said without looking up, “is a first transcription of Musashi Miyamoto’s Dōkkōdō. Handwritten and absolutely authentic!”

Hisanobu inhaled—probably to intervene, to stop the madness—but she rolled right over him.

Satoru blinked. 

…Was she about to monologue? Yes. Yes, she was.

“Do you know how I know? I can prove it,” she went on, tone rising into the practiced joy of a one-woman historical lecture. “Look. There’s an error,” She opened the manuscript with reverence. Her fingers moved over the page like it might bite.

Satoru found himself staring. She was radiant. She was unhinged. She was absolutely delighted by a centuries-old scribal mistake.

“Right here, in the mora count. It was corrected in later versions, or the forgeries, but here—here it’s untouched,” she said, breathlessly. “A beginner’s mistake. But that brat always had that flaw in his compositions, even in his poems. Sloppy. He always rushed his third lines—”

Then she looked up, smile still bright, eyes landing square on—

Him.

Her smile froze mid-sentence, eyes locked on his—black to blue smashing together like glass and everything stopped except for the faint crackle of the Purifying Mantle still burning behind them.

The room dropped ten degrees, as if her energy had folded in on itself; she stared at him like he’d walked in wearing the wrong face.

Something shifted in her face. That open delight shattered; not faded, shattered. Her hand rose, fingers brushing the cursed wooden comb pinned in her hair. Her mouth twitched like she was about to smile but restrained herself.

Then, in rapid fire—melancholy, fear, grief, shock, then a flicker of heartbreak so raw it hit Satoru like a brick to the ribs. What did I do? he thought, weirdly sorry for once. Satoru opened his mouth, half-lifted a hand as if to say I didn’t mean to burn your curtain? He didn’t know what he was apologizing for but he felt like he should.

Before he had the chance, her face hardened. Angry. Really angry. 

The kind of angry that said: You died on me four hundred years ago and I still haven’t forgiven you.

…Which—okay. Weirdly specific. Maybe he was just reading too much into it again.

She closed the manuscript. Placed it gently on the desk. Exhaled slowly like she was composing herself. And when she looked at him again, gone was the warmth, gone was the manic glee of a girl showing off a cursed antique. What remained was cold, steady, and deeply pissed off.

A Zenin glare, he thought, privately impressed.

Satoru smirked and recovered fast. “The Archivist, I presume?”

The silence was deadly. Next to him, Hisanobu looked like he wanted to crawl into the floorboards.

Satoru took one step forward, smile crooked. “Found you,” he said, light as a breeze, even as he had the feeling he'd been found.

The Archivist hesitated, black eyes narrowing. Then, too softly, “You found me.”

𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍

Chapter Text

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟏. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒂 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

October 21, 2014 – Tokyo

"I’ll find you, in my next life."

"I'll wait."

Kaoru had woken up annoyed as the words—his voice—had echoed in her sleep again.

A promise, stupid and stubborn. Too vivid to be memory, too gentle to be illusion. It had surfaced like a whisper underwater, rippling up from the depths of her subconscious just before dawn. And now it clung to her like a ghost with good timing.

She hated ghosts with good timing.

So yes—she was doing something very important now: she was drinking bubble tea.

Her red tracksuit caught the last wash of dusk, functional and mildly ridiculous. The sort of thing she never would’ve worn four hundred years ago—or maybe exactly the kind of thing she would’ve killed to wear back then. Stretchy fabric, pockets, and the freedom to wear what she wanted. Small mercies, hard-earned.

The cup sweated in her palm. Taro milk tea, heavy and cold, the tapioca pearls rolling upward as she walked—plop, plop, plop—like distant war drums. Under her other arm, a grocery bag rustled: tofu, daikon, miso, and black vinegar.

Dinner for two poor people.

She took another long sip through the oversized straw, and thought, with impressive dry neutrality: This is a shit day.

October 21st always was. 

There were anniversaries that deserved to be celebrated. Others were best ignored. This one? It didn’t even have the decency to be forgotten. 

Not that she’d ever admit why, but on October 21, the weather always felt a little off, like a sneeze held in the atmosphere. Her cursed energy clung to her skin too tight. She could never sleep the night before. Not really. She wasn’t much sentimental about it anymore, that would’ve been a luxury. But the ache had a shape, and the shape had a name she hadn't spoken aloud in—

Well. Centuries.

So. Bubble tea.

People said sugar helped with grief. She wasn’t grieving, of course, she was just... existing, functionally. In a deeply unpleasant time of year.

Four hundred and fourteen years of October 21sts. Not that she kept count. She’d stopped somewhere around the Meiji era—not for herself, but out of courtesy to whoever was beside her at the time.

They never stayed long, anyway.

She slurped the last of her drink and grimaced.

Immortality was a curse. But even curses came with perks.

Bubble tea, for instance, almost justified not dying. Taro root and condensed milk—sweet, dense, saccharine enough to knock the edge off a thousand bad thoughts.

Track suits. May the heavens bless whoever invented elastic waistbands, she thought reverently, eyeing the sidewalk ahead. And sneakers?  If she’d had these in 1600, she’d have ended the war herself. No more stiff male kamishimo riding up in battle, no more formal hakama that tangled around the knees mid-sprint.

Laundromats. How many bloodstained kosode and hakama she could’ve saved in the Sengoku period with a basic coin washer? The greatest inventions in modern history, second only to insulated water bottles and maybe deodorant.

And walking down the street as herself. As a woman. No disguise. No fake names. No cloak of respectability. That still felt like rebellion. Every step was a quiet middle finger to the father she’d buried four centuries ago.

She passed a shuttered shop window and paused. Her reflection blinked back at her. Same face. Always the same. A face that hadn't changed since the Keichō era, not a wrinkle, not a line of history to show for everything she'd done, lost, survived.

Kaoru had been twenty years old when he leaved her behind. She was still twenty years old.

She tilted her head, squinted slightly. There was a stillness in her own gaze that hadn’t been there the first time she looked through these eyes. It was the stillness of someone who had held too many hands at the end, watched too many lives burn out. It lived in her stare like a second shadow.

She didn’t look like someone waiting to die, she looked like someone who had been denied the opportunity.

Which, to be fair, was accurate.

“How much longer?” she murmured to no one.

Her gaze shifted upward, to the cursed comb in her hair. A faded wooden piece, painted with red camellias worn to memory. Mame. It pulsed faintly, soft and warm with cursed energy, like a sigh beside her scalpe. Kaoru gave it a tap with her index finger, half-affectionate, half-scolding.

“I know, Mame,” she said quietly. “I’m tired of waiting too.”

And still, she kept walking.

Immortality came with downsides too, of course.

First: the headaches.

Human brains weren’t designed to carry four centuries of vivid memory. People liked to romanticize it—“immortality” sounded so elegant, but they didn’t understand what it meant to really remember. The exact shade of a temple wall in spring, 1712. The name of a dying samurai who bled out in her lap in 1858. The way peach blossoms fell during the eighth year of Bunsei. It wasn’t just memory. It was weight, and it never stopped.

It was mortifying to be the one who remembers everythig. Most days her mind felt like a warehouse on fire.

Not even Mame’s authomatic Reverse Cursed Technique could ease that kind of pressure. Nothing helped, not with the forgetting, not with the remembering.

Second: the loss.

Every loyal hand, every voice that once called her Ojousama with too much affection and not enough caution. On average, seventy-three years. That’s what she got with each of them; one lifespan, one generation at a time.

The Kashimo line had never once broken their vow. A stubborn, brilliant bloodline that had pledged itself to her centuries ago, braver than most.

Harunobu was the first. Then his son Yoshinobu. Then his son. And his. Over and over again.

I remember every single one of them.

How they smiled, what made them angry, what they feared most and what they loved. She’d watched them be born, stumble into life, grow into men and women, grow old. Then watched them die. Now, beside her walked Hisanobu. Technically thirty-one. Stoic face, buttoned collar, a soul that refused to be anything but dutiful.

He reminded her of the first more than anyone else ever had. Same eyes. Same bone structure. Same impossible silence. Well—minus the Sailor Moon obsession.

Speak of the devil.

Kaoru stopped again, this time in front of a gacha machine. Sailor Moon pins. A whole row of them spinning behind the plastic. She huffed softly, almost a laugh.

Hisanobu, that terribly serious man who could disarm cursed traps blindfolded and recite the Edo-era Onmyōdō codes from memory, turned into a six-year-old at the sight of a pastel magical girl. He would deny it, of course. Insist it was a metaphor, something about Usagi’s moon prism power mirroring Domain Amplification. Total nonsense.

Kaoru dug out her wallet, squinted. Not ideal. Money was tight again; probably her fault. Hisanobu had pointed this out. Repeatedly. Utilities before haunted relics, he’d said. Like she didn’t know that, but what did he expect? Tokyo was expensive and she couldn’t exactly apply for a regular job when her resume technically began in 1598.

Besides, hoarding cursed objects was a family trait. She could blame her upbringing for that.

Still, she found a stray 100-yen coin, dropped it in, and turned the crank; a plastic ball clunked into the tray. She didn’t open it. Whatever it was, he’d pretend to hate it and keep it forever.

Kaoru slipped it into the grocery bag. Onward.

The third problem with immortality? Boredom.

Once you’d lived through the Tokugawa shogunate, the Meiji Restoration, two World Wars, and the invention of microwave popcorn, very little managed to surprise you.

Hence the hobby.

Tracking jujutsu history, collecting cursed relics. Not technically legal, definitely not ethical. But it gave her something to do, something to protect, something to remember the world by. A reason to care.

Kaoru had to work to care, to be curious, to try not to laugh whenever the Three Great Clans repeated the exact same mistakes their ancestors did—Over and over and over. Rewriting history to turn themselves into heroes, blaming each other for ancient failings, pretending their heirlooms had never existed.

And, naturally, managing to lose the only three artifacts they were explicitly told not to lose.

The Three Heirlooms.

Kaoru’s fingers tightened around her now-empty cup.

The Inverted Spear of Heaven.
The Void-Severing Shaft.
The Calamity-Binding Halberd.

Lost. In less than two and a half centuries since their creation, they’d managed to loose the three most dangerous cursed weapons ever forged.

"Idiots. All of them," she muttered, crushing the plastic in her palm.

So as usual, she’d been forced to get involved. Not because she wanted to, not because she cared about the jujutsu clans anymore, but because someone had to remember what happened the last time those weapons were in the wrong hands.

And she was the only one left who did.

So she moved quietly. Watched, collected clues, followed the artifacts before someone worse could find them. Because someone always did. And one of them—of course—was already back in play.

The Calamity-Binding Halberd.

Now wielded by Scarlet Mist; the most dangerous Vengeful Spirit she had ever encountered in four centuries of cursed existence. The boy had been a prodigy in life, ridiculous talent and cursed output. A calamity in death. With a personal vendetta against the Great Clans and the entire Jujutsu order.

His cursed technique had evolved into a powerful kekkai called Red Ward. Brutal. Kaoru could sense the Calamity-Binding Halberd’s signature from ten ri away. The last time she’d seen it? 2007. It got away again—thanks to that cursed weapon. 

Which meant she had until 2037. Maybe. Unless someone stupid poked the hornet’s nest early. And by then she'd better have a plan to catch him for good.

The last of her bubble tea gurgled up through the straw. Empty. Figures. She sighed, pitched the cup into a nearby bin, and muttered under her breath. "Oh well. I’ve got time."

Plenty of time, in fact. What else did she have left? After all—her long, unnecessary existence had been built around one singular, agonizing truth:

Kaoru existed solely to wait for him.

Chapter Text

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟐. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒌, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑲𝒆𝒚, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑵𝑯𝑲

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Technically, the house was his.

The key was his. The title deed? Also his. So, yes, the house was his. But practically? Calling it a home might be pushing it; he’d bought it just for the kids and he hadn’t been inside for almost three weeks, it was more like a donation to the future of Jujutsu Society.

He swung by now and then to drop off money, give ridicolous gifts, sometime drag Megumi to training or some basic missions, verified the existence of the children with a headcount and a pat on the head, and then... vanished like some well-meaning but emotionally distant uncle. He was a busy man. Clan head, Six Eyes, strongest sorcerer alive; no one expected him to be domestic.

Well. Except for one immortal archivist and her ever-disapproving sword-butler.

Satoru rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if he’d left anything particularly flammable in the living room. He allowed himself one brief, solitary moment of hesitation.

Yesterday, declaring “we can stay at my place” had felt like a flex, but now, standing outside the unassuming two-story house in suburban Saitama, with two guests and a creeping sense of existential dread, he was beginning to question his own judgment.

Tsumiki was responsible; give her post-its and she could probably run a small nation. Megumi was twelve going on retired old man, with a pair of Divine Dogs the size of wolves and a healthy mistrust for adults. Things should be fine.

Parental presence: totally covered.

But Kaoru…

Kaoru had looked at him last night with that expression. Not pity, he could deal with pity, no, this had been worse: genuine concern. For the kids. Like handing them off to him had set off red flags. Why? He wasn’t incompetent. But now he was thinking about it, really thinking about it, and—

God, were the kids alive?

He glanced back, sunglasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t nervous. Not nervous nervous. Just… disproportionately concerned with the opinion—on something as basic as childcare—of a centuries-old sorceress he barely knew. Which was dumb. Why the hell did he care so much about making a good impression? He didn’t want her thinking he was the kind of person who let kids raise themselves in a cursed-dust pit.

Even if he technically did.

Behind him stood the newest additions to this very strange ensemble.

Hisanobu Kashimo, the human definition of professional. Not a single hair out of place in his high ponytail. Black shirt, black slacks, black gloves. Black everything as if he were an Armani advertisement. He carried a garment bag in one hand—formalwear, Satoru guessed—and absolutely nothing in the other because his damn nodachi was strapped to his hip like this was still the Bakumatsu. The Sailor Moon pin at his collar shimmered like a medal. His face said: I serve Ojousama with pride.

No visible injuries. Kaoru’s work, if Satoru had to guess. Like her name, still sitting uneasily in his brain; he hadn’t meant to guess right.

And then there was Kaoru herself.

She looked… exactly the same. Hoodie, black pants, same sneakers, as if she’d combed through four hundred years of fashion and decided, firmly, this was peak functional wear; a god of war compressed into a five-foot woman in sneakers. Her hair was tied back, that cursed wooden comb tucked in behind one ear—Mame. It hated him. He was sure of it. The thing pulsed every time he got too close or stared too long.

Which he did, of course.

Kaoru was… gods, she was curious. And Satoru liked curious.

Not just because she’d nearly turned into a human bomb under his arms, even if—rude. It wasn’t even the eerie flatline in her cursed energy that got to him—if anything, it was oddly calming. Like snowfall. Calmer than Suguru’s ever was, and that was a thought he didn’t like unpacking.

Not even the Ten Shadows thing, though that, too, was a problem. She didn’t just have it—she used it. Smoothly efficiently and beautifully. Which, according to every record in the higher-up’s or his clan's archives, was impossible.

But what really stuck with him was the way she looked at him sometimes.

And—right on cue—she glanced over, her head tilted, just slightly. Their eyes met and her cursed energy shifted like she was bracing for impact or recognition. And then, far too quickly to be natural, she looked away.

Satoru didn’t laugh, but it was a close thing. What was that?

That flicker in her cursed energy when he caught her looking, he didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t the wary discomfort of Nanami or the anxious, open dread of someone like Haibara. This was different. A tightly wound protectiveness. She looked at him like he might see something she didn’t want shown.

Infuriatingly curious. And she was a terrible liar.

He shifted his weight, slipped his hands into his pockets and turned to the front door with the swagger of a man entirely sure of what he was doing. He was not entirely sure of what he was doing. “Alright,” he declared brightly. “Moment of truth.” His gaze flicked to Kaoru’s shoulder. “Archivist, when you said you needed to pack, I imagined, dunno, half your shop? A few cursed scrolls? Maybe a portable altar or tactical tea set.” He nodded toward the bag slung over her arm, pain canvas, small. As if that tote somehow contained everything she needed to track and neutralize a special-grade Vengeful Spirit on the run. “Not… that.” 

Kaoru blinked at him. Then at the bag. Then back at him. Without a word, she pulled out a rusted, oversized iron key.

Satoru frowned. “...That’s not an arsenal.”

“The key of Isoroku Yamamoto,” she announced, holding it aloft 

Satoru squinted. Then lifted his sunglasses and squinted harder. “Of course it’s cursed,” he muttered. “Why wouldn’t it be.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, already bracing for the inevitable ten-minute historical dissertation he’d absolutely not asked for., complete with dates, references, and footnotes spoken aloud.

She raised her chin. Innocent. Her cheeks betrayed her first, warming slightly, and a dangerous little smile he was already learning to dread started to bloom. The lecture smile he recognized from last night. 

Ah. There it was. Doom.

Sure enough— “Did you know—”

He shot a hand up like a traffic cop. “Don’t. I know exactly where this is going. You’re about to say ‘During the final year of the Pacific War…’. Let’s skip the national archives monologue and just go inside.”

Behind them, Hisanobu cleared his throat with the solemnity of a man addressing the Emperor. “With all due respect,” he interjected, perfectly formal, checking his watch like a salaryman, “Sailor Moon Crystal airs in thirty minutes.”

There was zero irony in his tone. Satoru stared. Kaoru didn’t even blink.

Right. This was his life now.

“Okay, ground rules,” he said, already regretting every decision that had led him here. One hand pointed toward the door, the other ran through his hair, fluffing it needlessly. “The kids inside? They know the basics, cursed energy, sorcerers, sure. But Scarlet Mist? Tuberculosis-themed mass-killing cursed spirit? We are not doing that over dinner or Tsumiki will never sleep again.” He turned sharply toward Kaoru, wagging a very serious finger. “And don’t give the kids cursed weapons.”

She frowned, mildly offended. “I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t hand over weapons to—” She stopped. Reconsidered. Her gaze drifted into the middle distance and the energy around her shifted, faint and crackling, like guilt trying to play it cool.

Satoru stared. Oh no. She definitely already had.

“…Right,” he muttered, turning the handle. “Welcome home, I guess.”

The door creaked open with suspicious ease. He stepped inside, hesitating with one foot still on the genkan. For the first time in a while, something about this felt… real. Like it was going to stick. For a few weeks, maybe longer, this plain little safehouse in Saitama would house two middle schoolers, a centuries-old archivist, her sword-butler, and the strongest sorcerer alive.

Which sounded like the setup to a horror sitcom.

There was, perhaps, one small thing he should have warned her about. A very small thing, barely worth mentioning. The boy. Megumi Fushiguro. Ten Shadows user. Zenin bloodline. Just like her.

…Oops?

The moment of panic lasted approximately 0.2 seconds. He glanced sidelong at Kaoru, who looked calm, completely unaware. Nah. More fun this way. Satoru’s smile turned absolutely radiant as he pushed the door open wider.

Nothing like a little Zenin family drama to kick off cohabitation.

The quiet hit first.

Not peaceful quiet—ominous quiet. The kind that made you wonder if the children had discovered fire or cryptocurrency. The hum of the fridge, the faint scent of rice; somewhere in the distance, a laundry cycle abandoned halfway through and Megumi had left the hallway light on again.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, Satoru stepped aside automatically, letting Kaoru pass and predictably, she didn’t wait. She moved forward like a cat entering a new space: light on her feet, posture straight, but eyes cataloging every exit, every corner.

Satoru watched her, amused from behind his shades. So dramatic.

Hisanobu followed in near-silent formation. His eyes flicked over every vent, light fixture, and hallway junction like he was preparing for a siege. When his gaze landed on the flat-screen TV in the living room, Satoru felt the internal struggle not to power it on.

“So,” he said, forcing brightness into his voice, “kids’ rooms are downstairs, guest rooms upstairs. Kitchen’s to the left. Should be enough space for everyone to——hey. What are you doing.”

Kaoru was no longer beside him but halfway down the hall, digging through her cursed tote like a raccoon with a mission. Her whole face lit up when her hand emerged gripping—

“Oh, no,” Satoru muttered.

That damn cursed key again.

That same ancient, rusting WWII naval relic she’d introduced earlier with the proud affection most people reserved for their children. Now she turned toward a door—that door—smiling in a way that would’ve been charming if it weren’t also deeply unhinged.

“This one important?” she asked, already raising the key.

Satoru, caught flat-footed by the earnest sparkle in her eye, blinked. “Yeah, that’s Megumi’s—”

Click.

Too late.

The key turned, not in a way that actually unlocked anything, but in a way that changed the air. His Six Eyes picked it up first; a ripple of cursed energy, fast and chaotic, latching onto the room. Kaoru cracked the door open, peeked inside for half a second, then shut it carefully and left the key in the lock like a satisfied gremlin.

Satoru stared at the door. Then at her. Then back at the door. He opened his mouth, then closed it again; no. Not asking. Whatever she’d done, he’d find out when Megumi inevitably started a house fire.

Kaoru, meanwhile, slid the bag off her shoulder without even glancing up, and extended her arm outward. Like clockwork, Hisanobu stepped in, received it with a bow, and vanished upstairs without a sound. “I shall choose an appropriate chamber for Ojousama’s belongings.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Satoru mumbled as the butler vanished up the stairs like a ghost.

And then it was just them. Alone, in the hallway, just outside Megumi’s door, with a cursed key and a suspiciously smug archivist who was still admiring her handiwork.

Satoru rested his chin in his hand, watching her watch the door. That was new, he didn’t usually observe people. Not like this. But something about the way she tilted her head, that little half-smile a little dangerous, like she’d just gotten away with something mildly illegal and totally justified—rubbed him the wrong way.

Or the right way, he wasn’t sure anymore.

She was so damn pleased with herself in a way that made his instincts scream. 

Gods, she was weird in the way only an immortal could be weird, and for some terrible, irrational reason, he found it... hot? He scowled. Satoru Gojo, for the record, did not do smiling at cursed keys; so why the hell was she?

No. No, not hot. Concerning was the right term.

He stepped closer. Then a little closer, like a hunter not wanting to spook the prey. Not that Kaoru was prey—oh no—the moment you tried to pin her down, she’d probably curse your ancestors and set your bed on fire.

Still, he wanted a reaction.

He took off his sunglasses and tucked them into his uniform's collar, then leaned forward slightly over her shoulder—just enough to breach her space and see what she’d do.

“So,” he said, voice light and just smug enough to be annoying, the way he knew drove people up the wall. “This ‘Ojousama’ thing. You secretly Zenin royalty or something?”

Kaoru didn’t even blink. “Something like that,” she murmured, still staring at Megumi’s door, entirely absorbed in whatever cursed nonsense she’d just locked into place.

His brow twitched. Wait. Is she ignoring me? Rude.

Satoru leaned further, this time dipping low. “You’re blushing at a cursed key,” he whispered in her ear. “You know that, right?”

That got her.

She turned, slow and startled, like someone surfacing from a trance and promptly found his face about two inches from hers; their noses nearly brushed. Black eyes blinked wide into his blue ones and for a single beat, she didn’t register the proximity.

Then she did.

The flicker of horror in her expression was everything.

Gotcha.

He didn’t move, just grinned at her.

And just as he’d hoped, Kaoru detonated.

“Cursed hells—” Kaoru cursed under her breath and jerked back in a full-body pivot, smacking her shoulder into the closed door with a soft, dignified thud.

Satoru straightened, hands in his pockets again,  like the noble victor of some quiet, stupid war. “You okay there, grandma?” That was the second time he’d broken her composure. Two for two.

She scowled at him brushing off the front of her hoodie with wounded pride. For a moment, he could’ve sworn she was about to cast some dangerous Shikigami just out of spite, as Mame pulsed in her hair like a tiny angry lantern, ready to bite someone.

Before she could throw something—possibly at him—a voice called out from further down the hallway.

“…Gojo-san?”

Kaoru froze, Satoru exhaled, a grin breaking over his face. “Tsumiki,” he called out. Tension he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding slipped from his shoulders. See? Nothing to worry about. He made a mental note to never doubt himself again.

Two figures emerged in matching middle school uniforms. Tsumiki, thirteen and trying her best to look composed, even though she was clearly confused. Megumi, twelve and looking like someone had just asked him to smile for a photo.

Still alive. Still vaguely presentable.

Kaoru straightened instantly. Shoulders back, head high, the embarrassment vanished behind perfect posture.  From chaos goblin to imperial figure in 0.3 seconds. Her expression slid back into that maddening serenity, the kind cultivated through centuries of not being impressed. 

God, she really was a Zenin.

Satoru bit back a snort. “Clumsy,” he muttered under his breath.

“Gojo-san,” Tsumiki greeted again, approaching fast with a bright smile, always the diplomat. “We weren’t expecting you back so soon.”

“Yeah,” Megumi muttered, arms crossed. “Usually you drop cash and disappear for a month—”

“Okay, wow,” Satoru cut in, shooting Kaoru a tight smile. “No need to get into specifics, Megumin.” 

That earned him a narrowed glare from the boy. Satoru brushed off the implication of neglect with a casual wave, ruffling Megumi’s hair before the boy could dodge.

Time to pivot.

“Actually!” he clapped once, loud and dramatic. “Exciting news.”

He pointed at each of them in turn, like calling players onstage.

“You.” Tsumiki.
“You.” Megumi, who visibly regretted existing.
“She.” A nod toward Kaoru. “My little disaster archivist.”
Then a hand upward. “Sword-butler, currently upstairs.”
And finally, to himself. “And yours truly. Your strong, capable, emotionally available guardian.”

Pause. Big grin.

“We’re all gonna be living together for a little while!”

Silence.

They didn’t look surprised, they all looked vaguely alarmed. Especially Kaoru, whose expression was so blank it was practically sarcastic.

Satoru cleared his throat, a little less grand now. “Y’know. Team bonding. Starting today, we’re officially one big extremely powerful happy family.”

Tsumiki, bless her, tried to defuse. She took a step toward Kaoru and offered a polite bow. “Ah—my name’s Tsumiki. It’s very nice to meet you, um… Miss…?” She hesitated, clearly expecting a surname.

Kaoru opened her mouth.

Satoru opened his faster. “She’s a Zen—”

He didn’t finish; Kaoru lunged, turned sharply and smacked a palm toward his mouth. Too bad for her: Infinity. She remained a breath away, suspended in frozen mortification, hand hovering in front of his lips.

Kaoru’s expression was a thundercloud, her eyes  screaming Do. Not. Say. It.

Satoru raised an eyebrow, amused. Really? You wanna keep that secret going?

Her scowl deepened. Don’t you dare.

He gave the faintest shrug. Fine. Have it your way.

Kaoru turned back toward Tsumiki, face smoothing over in an instant. “Just Kaoru is fine,” she said, bowing lightly. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Tsumiki nodded, a little dazzled. “O-of course. Just Kaoru-san, then,” she repeated gently, filing that away in her mind as one of those things you didn’t ask about.

Satoru barely suppressed a snort. ‘Just Kaoru,’ she said. Sure. And he was just a low-grade sorcerer.

Megumi, meanwhile, was staring not in awe or suspicion, just the kind of staring one does when something’s wrong and you can’t tell why yet. Smart kid. And Kaoru—Kaoru just turned and stared right back.

It was mutual. Resting Disappointment Face: activated. Pure Zenin core.

Satoru folded his arms, watching with mild horror and deep amusement as the two mirrored each other’s frowns with uncanny symmetry. Same unimpressed expression. Same flat mouth. Same crossed arms. Megumi tilted his head ever so slightly to the left. Kaoru mirrored him to the right.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “It’s genetic.” He clapped his hands together again, irrepressible. “Well! What a warm family moment.” He leaned toward Kaoru, too cheerful, knowing exactly what he was doing. “Archivist, meet Megumi Fushiguro.”

Kaoru’s eyes flicked up to him, tilting her head just enough to signal she was listening.

Satoru smiled like a man throwing gasoline on a fire. “From the Zenin clan.” 

He saw it hit; the slight falter in her posture, the the freeze-frame of a woman realizing fate had just played a very old, very cruel joke. He leaned in for the kill.

“And,” he added, letting it land with just enough weight, “a Ten Shadows technique user.”

Kaoru’s lips parted, her eyes widening just enough to betray the shock. It was the exact same look she’d given him the first time they met. Recognition and horror. That quiet are you kidding me that only truly ancient people mastered. She turned back toward Megumi, slowly now, as if seeing him for the first time.

The boy, as usual, didn’t give a single damn.

Satoru tilted his head slightly, Six Eyes  squinted past the obvious. Now that they were side by side… Their faces weren’t identical, of course, but the shape of their brows, the dark hair and pale skin, the Zenin bone structure and the clipped posture, yeah, they kind of had the same.

But it wasn’t just the resemblance; it was the cursed energy. Kaoru’s was old, vast, tempered, Megumi’s was still rough, still growing—but the signature? The core? The alignment? Satoru had seen enough cursed energy in his life to recognize blood ties. But this wasn’t just historical lineage.

Near... Identical. Too much to be just bloodline.

Satoru exhaled through his nose. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, voice musing, “I’d say I’m looking at twins.”

It was a joke but Kaoru didn’t laugh.

Her head whipped toward him. First disbelief. Then… the shift. The gears turning behind her eyes and something clicking into place. Then—Kami above—a slow, dangerous smile, like she’d just understood  a joke four hundred years in the making. 

She looked back at Megumi and leaned forward slightly, intrigued. “What did you say your name was again?”

He looked at her, instantly suspicious. “…Megumi.”

“Oh…” she murmured, voice deceptively light. “As in ‘blessing’?”

“As in ‘my name’,” he said flatly. 

She nodded slowly, like she’d just solved a riddle. Then smiled again—small, a little unhinged, the look of someone who’d just found a shiny new weapon of mass destruction and was already drafting a training regimen. The kind of smile Satoru knew meant: this is going to be a problem for someone else, and I am thrilled about it.

He blinked, delighted. This? This was premium chaos. And Kaoru? She was clearly losing her mind in the most awesome way. That’s a good expression, he thought. She’s absolutely insane.

“Found something interesting, have we?” he asked with a grin, leaning back over her shoulder just to crowd her space again eager to provoke another reaction.

Kaoru didn’t flinch this time. She met his gaze, still smirking, and said without missing a beat, “I want a say in his education.”

Satoru blinked. That… wasn’t what he’d expected. But she meant it. He could hear it in her voice, serious under the grin. He stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or call the police, and then—he smiled and gave a low whistle, impressed. “Huh. You’re actually insane,” he said, like a compliment.

They held each other’s gaze, both grinning like devils, perfectly aligned in chaos.

Tsumiki, off to the side and very much aware she’d walked into something she didn’t have the emotional energy to process, cleared her throat. Loudly. “I’ll go… make tea,” she muttered, cheeks pink.

Kaoru blinked, startled out of whatever battle strategy she was forming. Satoru stepped back just slightly. They both turned away at the same time, just enough to pretend they hadn’t been weird about it.

Megumi snorted. “You’re two halves of the same idiot,” he muttered, brushing past them toward his room. He stopped short at the door. Opened it. Paused. Turned back around with a very slow, very deliberate expression—one that suggested betrayal, vengeance, and emotional damage.

“…Why is my room full of cursed weapons?” he asked flatly.

Satoru laughed until he nearly collapsed. Of course that was what the cursed key had done. The goddamn basement was translocated straight into the boy’s bedroom. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, breathless.

“Honestly?” he said to no one in particular. “This was a great idea.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Coexistence had begun flawlessly—if by “flawlessly” one meant Kaoru immediately using a cursed key once belonging to Isoroku-freaking-Yamamoto to overwrite Megumi’s bedroom into nonexistence and replace it with her own cursed weapons vault.

“It’s conceptually overwritten,” she’d said, and frankly, Satoru wasn’t even mad. If anything, he admired the commitment to chaos.

The boy had taken it badly, understandably, so now he was bunking with the human incarnation of silent judgment in a three-piece suit: Hisanobu. The alternative—sharing a room with his sister—had been deemed worse.

Kaoru, for her part, had retreated into her new room without so much as a gloat or a goodnight.

Satoru had waited; expected her to break out within minutes. She struck him as the type, the kind of sorcerer who kept escape hatches under her sleeves. He’d even taken bets with himself on how long it would take her to vault out the window the way she had at the shop.

But… nothing.

Thirteen hours of silence. No footsteps. No cursed energy spikes. No escape attempts. Just—flatline in a way only someone with centuries of training could manage. He’d monitored her signature with his Six Eyes out of pure paranoia. It didn’t fluctuate, not even a flicker. The stillness of it was unnatural, most sorcerers—even the high-level ones—trembled subtly in their sleep; subconscious flares, emotional echoes, kinetic static.

Kaoru? Nothing.

Not even his grandmother slept that hard and she was cremated.

If he hadn’t seen the faint thread of her cursed energy breathing, he would’ve thought she was dead. Then he remembered: right. Immortal.

Which brought him back to the part that bugged him more than he wanted to admit. He’d spent most of the night wide awake—perks of Reverse Cursed Technique continuously refreshing his brain cells. Not that he slept much anyway, but tonight, instead of annoying Megumi from the hallway, he’d gone full conspiracy theorist: cataloguing every historical scrap he could dig up on the Zenin clan, every dossier, bloodline chart, historical clan ledger he could remotely justify requesting. Every file he could get his hands on without triggering a Council complaint.

If she was from the Zenin family, she had to come from somewhere. And what did he find? One potential match, one historical user of the Ten Shadows technique who’d matched Kaoru’s potential.

Just one.

A Ten Shadows user from the Keichō era. A man, Head of the Zenin clan for a brief window before being branded a traitor after the Toyotomi-Tokugawa conflict. His name had been scrubbed from the records, his legacy erased, two years of leadership that nearly doomed the entire Zenin line and then poof—gone.

A man. So, not Kaoru.

Which was just weird. The Zenin kept records on everything. Births, marriages, cursed techniques; even low-grade sorcerers had footnotes. Kaoru was not footnotes. Kaoru could probably flatten half the current clan with an hairpin. Kaoru was...

Kaoru was weird and it was driving him nuts.

Now, scrubbing a hand through his unbrushed hair and fresh in his jogger in the kitchen doorway, Satoru blinked blearily into what he assumed would be chaos. A cursed knife hovering midair, maybe. Kaoru climbing out the window again. Megumi stabbing a toaster. Instead, he found...

...a breakfast scene?

Kaoru was at the table. Or rather, something vaguely Kaoru-shaped was slouched at the table, swimming in a t-shirt three sizes too big, one shoulder bared, head tilted at a dangerous angle. If she tipped any further, she'd faceplant in the jam. Her hair a tangle of obsidian spilling down her back and her lashes trembled like her eyes were too heavy to lift.

Behind her, Hisanobu stood calmly, brushing her hair like it was just another Tuesday, and maybe it was, for them.

At the end of the table, Tsumiki sipped tea with serene grace, while Megumi was halfway through a slice of toast, looking like he wanted to disappear.

It looked like something out of a slice-of-life anime. One of those weird domestic filler episodes with ominous foreshadowing.

Satoru didn’t know whether to laugh or walk away and pretend to have seen nothing. He blinked slowly. “This can’t be real.”

Kaoru didn’t even open her eyes when Tsumiki slid a mug of coffee and a perfectly buttered toast in front of her. “Angel,” she mumbled with the kind of reverence people usually reserved for saints or divine intervention. Her head tilted farther, Hisanobu caught her gently, nudged her upright.

“Five more years,” she whispered.

Satoru stared. Hard.

This wasn’t a deathless sage or an immortal archivist, this was… a deeply sleep-deprived high schooler who’d fallen asleep during finals and never recovered.

“Seriously?” he muttered, moving closer.

He dropped into a chair beside her, backwards, arms folded over the top, chin resting lazily on his forearm, watching as Kaoru sluggishly lifted the toast toward her mouth with all the coordination of a baby panda.

“Kaoru~,” he sing-songed, half-teasing. “You’re drooling, y’know.”

Ignored; the toast entered her mouth. Success by luck.

“Wow,” Satoru murmured. “Genuinely impressed.”

He bit his cheek to hide the grin, watching her—this half-mess of history and madness, hair still unbrushed on one side, jam on her cheekbone, and the poise of a clan leader who could order your execution between bites of rice. Still weirdly adorable in the pathetic kind of way.

Across the table, Tsumiki smiled at him like someone used to babysitting gods and lunatics. She slid him a plate with toast and a glass of milk. “We made breakfast already, Gojo-san. There’s jam, eggs, and a little rice left.”

“Bless you,” he replied dramatically.

Megumi stood with a sigh heavy enough to carry the weight of generational trauma. “I’m going to school,” he muttered, as if escape was noble. “It’s better than this circus.”

Tsumiki followed, grabbing her bag. “We’ll be back around six,” she added cheerfully. Then, pointedly: “Please don’t hex the fridge.”

It was unclear who she was addressing. Probably both of them.

Hisanobu straightened, bowing with textbook precision. “Tsumiki-sama,” he said like they were in the middle of a Meiji-era court drama. Satoru nearly choked on air.

Then, as if summoned by instinct, they launched into a full discussion about dinner prep and laundry logistics like this was a normal household, and not a fortress full of sorcerers and cursed freaks. Clearly, they had already decided neither he nor Kaoru were to be trusted with domestic responsibility.

Satoru watched, vaguely baffled, before turning back to the half-melted figure beside him, Kaoru, whose cursed energy still hadn’t flickered above background hum. She looked fried. Okay, so maybe she really had slept thirteen hours. 

Still—was this the immortal woman who was supposed to help him hunt a mass-murdering cursed spirit?

He slouched a little closer in his chair. “Kaoru,” he said, a touch more serious now, “you do remember we’re supposed to start tracking Scarlet Mist before I hit forty, right? No offense, but right now you don’t exactly scream reliable. Any Edo-period sermon incoming to inspire confidence, or should I just start scanning the country inch-by-inch with my fancy eyes?”

One eye cracked open with effort. “This,” she croaked, lifting a finger to tap her temple, “is what happens when your cerebral cortex has four hundred years of storage in it.” She reached and downed her coffee in one long, committed gulp.

Satoru frowned, studying her. Yeah, she did look wiped. But still… “Your Reverse Cursed Technique  looked top-notch. You were healing in seconds the other night.”

Kaoru sighed, absently poking at the wooden comb still tucked in her hair. “Mame’s good. But even its RCT can’t… clean memory. Just restore tissue.”

“Mame,” Satoru echoed, staring at the comb. “So it’s Mame doing your RCT?”

A pause. Then, very quietly: “…Yes. It takes care of a lot of things.”

That pause said a lot. So did the tone. So did the fact that she wasn’t explaining further. Satoru filed that away in the ever-growing pile labeled “Weird Shit About Kaoru.”

“Anyway—” he started.

“Anyway—” she said at the same time.

They both froze, looked at each other.

Satoru smirked, gesturing for her to go first. “Ladies first.”

Kaoru rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Anyway,” she muttered again, slightly more coherent, “I needed that rest. It won’t happen again. From today onward I’ll need all my focus—tracking Scarlet Mist will take time, and I probably won’t sleep again for a while.”

She stretched then, slow and languid, something in her cursed energy shifting, spiking and settling into place. She was centering herself, grounding, becoming that version of herself again—the one he’d met at the shop.

Satoru’s eyes narrowed, smile stretching. There she is. He sat up straighter, letting his grin widen. “Knew I could count on you, Gandalf.” He raised his toast in mock salute. “O sage archivist of cursed things!” he continued, reverently. “Forgive my doubts! Guide me with your ancient wisdom, take my hand and lead me to Scarlet Mist.”

Kaoru didn’t even blink. She put her hands on her hips and matched his deadpan. “It’s very simple,” she intoned, with mock solemnity. “We’ll need patience, and—”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “And?”

She gave him a side glance. “NHK.”

Pause. “…NHK?”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Satoru was not watching her.

He was watching the TV, or the empty cookie plate, or maybe the ceiling. Definitely not her.

And yet, somehow, he could not stop seeing her in his peripheral vision, Kaoru, slouched like a discarded scroll, her cheek nearly pressed to the floor, hair disheveled from static and god knew how many hours of sitting in the same spot.

She was still in that oversized shirt, glued to the NHK rerun of Shinsengumi!. For the third time in a row.

Satoru Gojo,  undefeated strongest sorcerer of his age, wearing pajama pants with tiny pandas, was beginning to lose a very stupid war against historical television.

“…I needed that rest,” he muttered under his breath, mocking her. “It won’t happen again. From today onward I’ll need all my focus, tracking Scarlet Mist will take time, and—blah, blah, blah.” His voice dropped an octave for dramatic effect. He kicked a stray slipper out of his path and grumbled, “Yeah. Sure. Full focus, my ass.”

He’d gone to the kitchen for a single goddamn reason: cookies. Chocolate chip. He deserved this; what he did not deserve was to return  in the thick silence of 3:47 a.m. and find her still planted there like a forgotten rug, elbow perched just so, hand lazily trailing toward the now-empty plate beside her. She didn't noticed; her hand kept searching like a broken Roomba.

She wasn’t even looking at the screen, just sort of absorbing it by osmosis, like an ancient tree absorbing rainwater.

The opening theme blared again with triumphant NHK energy, the familiar taiko and shamisen crescendo bathing the room in holy blue light. Kaoru hummed along, not consciously.

Satoru sighed, exasperated, and considered just turning around and going back to his room, where dignity still lived, to let her rot in her NHK delusion. But instead, he stepped inside, raising the cookie box over her head like a peace offering—or maybe a warning.

Two weeks. He had survived two whole weeks of this.

He had come to the sobering realization that, if it weren’t for Tsumiki and Hisanobu, the house would have burned down twice and Megumi would be in hiding.

Kaoru? She barely slept, barely moved. Just ate toast, drank terrifying amounts of black coffee and kept marathoning the same damn Taiga drama over and over again. At least twice a week she muttered aggressive rants about NHK’s portrayal of Hijikata Toshizō being “egregiously neutered.” Her cursed energy usually smooth, now hummed at a frequency somewhere between mildly brainrotted and historically obsessed. 

At first, he thought it was a plan, one so good even he could not understand. That somehow, watching Shinsengumi! unlocked historical patterns to track Scarlet Mist. Then he realized… no, Kaoru was just like this.

“Oh, wow.” He stomped forward, footsteps intentionally heavy. “The brilliant plan to locate Scarlet Mist was to binge Shinsengumi! until your brain liquefied. Genius peak sorcery. I can’t imagine why this hasn’t worked yet.” He stepped dramatically into her line of vision. “Made any progress? Maybe Hijikata-san's going to whisper the cursed coordinates to you in a dream?”

Kaoru, maddeningly, didn’t look away from the screen as though his sarcasm hadn’t landed. “Almost ready,” she mumbled and reached again for cookies that weren’t there.

Satoru stared at the empty dish. Then at her. To do what, he wanted to scream, reincarnate into Edo and cosplay with historical accuracy?

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He rarely experienced that particular brand of tension, the kind that crept up the side of his face and made him wants to frisbee the entire cookie box at her skull, but here it was. That was it. He wasn’t doing this, he was not letting his future rest in the hands of an immortal shut-in with a drama addiction.

“Fine,” he snapped. “It was a mistake. I’ll just scan the entire country centimeter by centimeter with the Six Eyes until I find Scarlet Mist myself—”

Pat pat.

Kaoru’s hand tapped the floor beside her again, lazy, like she was summoning a particularly difficult stray cat. No words. Just the universal summoning gesture of people too tired to argue.

He squinted at her. “Seriously?” he muttered. “I’m not going to sit—”

Pat. Pat pat.

“I’m serious—”

Pat-pat.

He stared at her hand like it had personally offended him. 

Satoru, for the record, did not get manipulated by little gestures and lazy summons. Still, he dropped onto the floor with a dramatic grunt, mimicking her ridiculous sprawl elbow-to-elbow, head cradled lazily in one hand, and flung the cookie plate between them with passive-aggressive flair.

“There,” he huffed. “I’m horizontal, annoyed and watching the sacred Shinsengumi with you. Behold, I’m even taking off my sunglasses. This is commitment,” he gestured grandly. “Happy now?”

Kaoru didn’t look at him but her lips curled, just a little. “Happy enough,” she murmured. “Told you. Patience.”

They shared the next few minutes in mutual silence, broken only by the steady munch of cookies and occasional snort at poorly choreographed swordplay on screen. Satoru rolled his eyes, but a chuckle escaped when one character dramatically threw himself off a balcony in the rain for the sixth time.

He didn’t remember when, but at some point, he started enjoying it. 

“Did you know?” she continued, far too calmly, “ One of your clan’s heads once waited thirty years before exacting revenge. When he struck, he wiped out an entire fortress.”

Satoru cocked a brow. “So?”

“So,” she said, twisting just enough to flash him a smirk. “Looking at you now, it’s obvious his genetic line went extinct.” 

A pillow flew toward her face.

She caught it one-handed without blinking, spun it lazily, then lobbed it back. It bounced off Infinity an inch from his nose.

“Yeah, well, some of us have shit to do,” Satoru snorted and shoved another cookie into his mouth. “I don’t have thirty years to waste. Clan head, strongest sorcerer of the era, national treasure. Blah blah. Time’s ticking”

Kaoru didn’t laugh, but her smile curved, just slightly, as her fingers landed triumphantly on the last chocolate chip cookie. “That’s what they all say,” she murmured. “Right before they waste it anyway.”

He rolled his eyes, but the words stuck. And then—

“…Why is it so important to you?” she asked, voice soft but unwavering. “Finding Scarlet Mist, I mean.”

A loaded question; he didn’t like those. Satoru kept his eyes on the TV, on Kondo Isami giving some grand speech about dying with honor, which somehow made it worse.

“Because it’s my job,” he replied too fast.

“Liar,” she said, calm as ever, biting into the cookie like punctuation.

He winced, caught. Her stare had sharpened—knife beneath the silk. She didn’t say anything more, didn’t press. She just waited patiently. 

Eventually, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because I want to teach,” he said. “The higher-ups won’t let me. Not until I fix their problems first. So—I fix.”

Kaoru blinked. Her head tilted again, curious now. “Teach?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I want to raise kids who’ll tear it all down, who’ll build something better than me. Better than this—” he waved vaguely at the world beyond the living room walls “—rotting, cursed-up, broken mess we were handed. I’m sick of watching it chew up people who don’t even know they’re in the jaws yet.”

There was a moment where neither of them looked away from the screen, then, slowly, he turned and found her already watching him. Her black eyes were on him, not with pity but with… presence. Quiet, searching presence. Like she was trying to memorize something in him, or maybe recognize it.

“I want to watch their old empire burn,” he said softly, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, “and I want to be the one who lights the match.”

Kaoru smiled fond and lopsided, as if the answer was expected. “There it is,” she said. And then, quieter, barely audible, almost to herself: “You always did have a soft spot for children.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Her eyes drifted to the screen, where Hijikata’s silhouette stood framed in rain, but she was still smiling. “And you think they’ll let you?”

“They won’t have a choice after this mess.”

She hummed softly, far too softly for what followed. “Then just exterminate them.”

Satoru blinked.

“The higher-ups,” she clarified, dead serious. “The ones who decided this was how things should be. They’ve ruled for centuries and learned nothing, same mistakes, same suffering. Burn it down and be done with it. You wouldn’t even need help.” Then she turned toward him fully, and her gaze leveled with his. “…But I’d help you.”

There was something teasing and uncomfortably accurate about the way she said it. She didn’t look like she was joking, she looked… resolved. Like If he’d said “let’s do it,” she would’ve stood up right then, barefoot and exhausted, and gone level the jujutsu system without a second thought.

For one terrifying, electric second—he believed her.

His mouth went dry but he covered it with a crooked grin a met her gaze. “...Should I?”

Kaoru tilted her head, amused, her lips quirked. “Of course not,” she said at last. Then grinned. “But it was worth asking.”

Satoru stared. A test. Maddening woman, it was a damn test. He gave a quiet huff of laughter, but it sounded breathless even to him. “I want to do it right,” he said. “Even if it’s the long way.”

That earned him a long look, then, with slow sincerity, Kaoru nodded. “Then you’ll need backup.” She reached for the cookie. Found it empty but didn’t complain.

Satoru blinked, a little startled by the sincerity. “You’re insane,” he muttered, half laughing

“So are you,” she replied evenly. “But I got it. I’ll help.”

He turned toward her again.

“We’ll find Scarlet Mist,” she offered a small, tired smile. “You’ll get to teach. Just be patient and trust me with this.”

Satoru blinked. Trust. That word wasn’t supposed to apply to him. He didn’t do trust, he was trust for everyone else. But the way she said it, sure, unforced, like an old lullaby only one person remembered, landed differently. And for once, the voice in his head that usually said don’t stayed silent.

“Thanks,” he said, more sincerely than he meant to. Then, leaning back toward her with a grin: “Just promise me you won’t kill anyone without inviting me first.”

Kaoru’s smile widened only a little, enough to make his chest do a stupid little thing he’d definitely never admit out loud. And then—

CRASH.

A mug exploded somewhere behind them, across the hardwood. In unison both turned, still on their elbows, still half-reclined.

Standing in the doorway was Hisanobu, frozen mid-step, one hand outstretched, the other conspicuously empty. At his feet: porcelain wreckage.

Kaoru and Satoru blinked at him. Hisanobu blinked back like he’d walked in on a murder or worse—emotional vulnerability. His eyes darted: Kaoru, sprawled much too close to Gojo Satoru; Satoru, grinning like a cat who’d stolen the fish. Shinsengumi! played on in the background with emotional violins and noble bloodshed.

Satoru broke first. “You good, ’Nobu?”

Hisanobu didn’t answer right away. His stare ping-ponged between the two of them, face rapidly cycling through disbelief, dread, and existential crisis, as if trying to process exactly what was happening here.

“That’s the second time you’ve dropped something just from looking at me,” Satoru said, lips twitching. “Starting to feel like you’re into me.”

The man made a strangled noise and dropped to his knees, muttering as he began collecting the shards. “I was not looking at you,” he said through gritted teeth. “I was looking through you.”

Kaoru sighed, rubbing her temple. “Stop tormenting my retainers.”

Satoru grinned, fully intending to ignore that.

But then Kaoru straightened with a snap, her hand shot up and pointed at the screen. “There. Look. Scarlet Mist.”

Satoru turned to the TV. Shinsengumi! was still playing—soft focus and over-saturated color—but Kaoru’s eyes were locked on a single figure. Onscreen, a pale, sweating swordsman collapsed in a blood-drenched field under dying light.

“…Tatsuya Fujiwara?” his brain helpfully supplied.

Kaoru made a disgusted sound. “No,” she muttered, eyes clear now, as if slapped awake. “Not the actor. Him. Okita Sōji.”

Satoru’s brow lifted. Oh. Okita Sōji. Sword prodigy. Poster boy for tragic death by tuberculosis. He knew the name, everyone in Japan with a functioning education did. But— “…You’re saying Scarlet Mist is—was—Okita Sōji?”

Kaoru’s lips curled into that smile again, the one that made Satoru’s stomach do something dumb. “Exactly,” she said, like she’d been dying to tell someone. “In life, he was a genius. Sword prodigy, yes, but an even better jujutsu sorcerer,  gifted from birth. Possibly the strongest sorcerer of the Bakumatsu era,” she said, almost fondly. “But…”

“But?” Satoru prompted, too curious for his own good.

“But,” she exhaled, rubbing the corner of one eye, “he served the Shinsengumi.”

Satoru leaned on one arm, half-laughing. “The special police force?”

“Not just that. They were a elite jujutsu division under the direct command of the Tokugawa Shogunate. To prove their loyalty the three great clans—Zenin, Gojo, Kamo—each sent handpicked sorcerers to serve.” A shadow passed behind her gaze, dimming the sudden excitement. “Okita Sōji came from a high-standing Kamo branch. He was their star and was chosen for his talent. Youngest ever appointed.”

“Kamo, huh,” Satoru let out a low whistle. “And now he’s a Vengeful Spirit pissed off at the jujutsu world,” he said dryly. “So… what went wrong?”

“I don’t know what happened,” she admitted—and that was rare—frowning. “I wasn’t in Japan when everything went down. When I returned in 1869, the Shinsengumi were already branded as traitors, the Meiji restoration had happened, and Okita was already a Vengeful Spirit. His entire family line? Gone. Whatever happened between them and the clans is? Erased.”

He studied her expression. “...That bother you?”

“No,” she lied as she stood, abrupt, like her body had remembered a purpose. She stretched her arms over her head and rolled her shoulders with a grunt. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, “What matters is this—he’s still here and I’m ready.”

Satoru blinked, then brightened like a switch had been flipped. “Wait. Ready ready?”

Her answer was to vanish into the corridor.

Satoru nearly levitated off the floor, grinning ear to ear. Kami bless she's moving again. No more NHK-induced stasis.

He followed like a very tall and extremely curious duckling, tailing her to what had once been Megumi’s room—and now was unmistakably Kaoru’s cursed basement. She opened the door, and immediately, the pressure of a dozen conflicting cursed signatures pressed on his Six Eyes like a migraine. 

Yeah. Still deeply unsettling. Just... moved here.

Kaoru crossed briskly to a shelf stacked with chaotic junk; scrolls, bones, brass trinkets, too many things that hummed with residual wrath. Some could be classified Special Grade. Others were just… weird.

Hisanobu hovered by the door, visibly pale. “Ojousama,” he said carefully. “You’re not thinking of—”

She crouched,  batting aside a scroll that growled at her. “Yes,” she snapped, still rummaging like a woman searching for a misplaced kitchen knife. “I didn’t binge Shinsengumi! three times for fun—ah!”

With a triumphant sound, she pulled something out from beneath a pile of cracked boxes: a Noh mask. Pale as moonlight, Onna-style, delicate, feminine, hollow-eyed. The kind of face you see in dreams right before they turn into nightmares.

It stared back.

“That’s it?” Satoru frowned as he stepped closer; he didn’t like how much it smiled. “You're like a cursed Doraemon.”

Kaoru turned with that dangerous little grin, the one Satoru had officially classified as “ominous but kind of hot.” 

“This,” she said, brushing dust off its cheek, “is the Mask of Murasaki Shikibu. She wore it during the final edits of The Tale of Genji. It offers fragmented glimpses—of the past, of the future. Disjointed, cryptic, but if your mind is locked onto one thing…” Her voice tilted, dangerously light. “Then the vision reflects it.”

Satoru, naturally, helped himself. He snatched the mask from her hands with a grin. “Oh, he said, spinning the mask by its edge and and exaggerated smirk. “That’s why you rotted your brain with NHK, so your vision would lock onto Okita Sōji.”

Kaoru stole the mask back with the reflexes of someone who had definitely fought in wars and something like possessiveness. “Careful,” she warned.

Hisanobu muttered something reverent about how Ojousama always had a plan as Kaoru gave him a rare nod of approval. “In the past, I had to reread the same two scrolls about the Shinsengumi over and over. At least now I can binge-watch my misery.”

She motioned for them to follow her back upstairs into the kitchen, which had become her staging ground for ridiculous things. Moments later, she dropped into a kitchen chair with the mask in her lap, expression clouded. Her fingers drummed nervously against her knee.

Satoru leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “What?”

Kaoru’s nose wrinkled slightly. “Ugh. I just forgot how unpleasant this feels,” she admitted quietly.

“Want me to do it?” he offered, half-joking, half-serious.  “You’ve already force-fed the Shinsengumi timeline to my brain, maybe I’m synced up enough.”

“No,” Kaoru lifted the mask, hesitated, then—almost reluctantly—held it just before her face. “Just... don’t touch me while it’s on, it won’t end well. And you—” she tapped Mame once “—don’t throw a tantrum.”

The cursed comb tucked behind her ear flared in response, in what Satoru could only interpret as a sulk.

Kaoru inhaled deeply, then she placed the mask on. It didn’t need straps, it just stayed. Her breathing slowed. Her cursed energy shifted. Then—it flatlined like she’d fallen asleep upright.

Satoru blinked; the mask sucked everything inward, not a flicker left, not even from Mame. “Yeah, that’s not ominous at all.”

He glanced at Hisanobu, who stood behind her with the tight, composed stance of someone who expected the worst but wouldn’t dare say it aloud.

Satoru stepped forward, peering cautiously over Kaoru’s shoulder. Hisanobu mirrored him from the other side. They stared.

Nothing.

And then—

Mame pulsed violently, like a warning flare, enough to sting Satoru's eyes; the Six Eyes caught the sudden shift in energy, violent and unspooling in all directions, until—

Blood.

Thick, pouring from beneath the mask, gushing down her chin in alarming volume, soaking her shirt. Hisanobu lunged forward with a towel, catching it just in time, his hands avoiding direct contact with her. Irrationaly, Satoru’s brain went from humor to alarm in under a second.

“Nope—” said Satoru, immediately reaching to shake her.

“Don’t—” said Hisanobu.

Too late.

His hand had closed instinctively over her shoulder.

The cursed energy snapped back like a whip, coiling over Satoru’s hand and up his arm.

He wasn’t in the kitchen anymore; he was looking out through someone else’s eyes.

A silk kimono, soft peach, dusted with cranes. A familiar woman. Black hair pinned. He saw her through eyes that weren’t his, and yet he was there. Her face—a blur like a memory forgotten mid-thought. She turned to him with a faint smile.

“What,” she said softly, “you want us to fall like camellias?” The smile deepened. “Together?”

“Yes,” he heard his own voice answer. Or was it someone else’s? “Together.”

When he blinked, he flinched back, hand leaving her shoulder as if burned. Hisanobu shot him a glare that might’ve killed a lesser man, muttering darkly as he kept blotting blood from Kaoru’s chin. “That’s why she told you not to touch her.”

Satoru’s eyes were still locked on her face, or rather, the mask. A memory of the past? No, not his. A vision of the future? What the hell was that?

He filed the thought away just as, with a sharp inhale, Kaoru tore the mask from her face and dropped it on the table like it was hot iron. Her back arched like she’d been drowning and just broken the surface.

The mask clattered to the table as blood still trickled from her nose. Hisanobu was already holding out a second towel with the resignation of a man who had cleaned this up before. Her whole body slumped and Mame pulsed violently in her hair, already snapping RCT into place, closing veins and vessels at inhuman speed.

She pressed the cloth to her face, blinking hard, slowly grounding herself. She didn’t look at him, she didn’t seem to have noticed what he’d seen. Mame was circling her like a furious guardian spirit.

Satoru didn’t say anything, not about the vision, not even about the disturbing way her energy had reacted to his touch. “Is she—?”

“She’s fine,” Hisanobu said, curt. “The mask always bleeds its wearers; without Ojousama’s RCT, anyone else would be unconscious.”

“Good to know,” Satoru muttered, ruffling his hair. “Next time, lead with that.” He leaned forward, Six Eyes scanning her cursed energy; it was stabilizing. She was pale, yes, but functional. It wasn’t concern—he didn’t do concern—but it was close enough to be annoying. “You okay?”

She grumbled something only half-conscious, still holding her head and pressing the towel to her face as blood streaked her lips. She blinked, looking up, still out of breath. “Ugh. I forgot how much this part sucks.”

Satoru, still half-staring, muttered, “You didn’t feel that?”

Kaoru blinked up at him, more preoccupied with cleaning the blood from her chin than the emotional existential meltdown he was potentially about to spiral into. “Feel what?”

He didn’t answer. She hadn’t noticed, the vision—her vision—must’ve diverged the moment he touched her. His own had been something else entirely. He looked toward Hisanobu, who was glaring again like he’d punch him if Kaoru weren’t bleeding.

Satoru ignored him with well-practiced indifference. “She didn’t notice,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Kaoru finally lowered the towel just enough to look at him, grinning, tired, and just a little dangerous, eyes dizzy but intact. “I got it,” she said.

Satoru blinked. “You got it?”

She extended the towel to Hisanobu, and Mame throbbed smugly like it was taking credit for the whole operation.

“I saw it,” she said. “I know where Scarlet Mist is going next.”

They cleared the kitchen table as Hisanobu unfolded two maps—one of the country, one of Tokyo. And just like that, the room transformed. No longer a cursed den or temporary kitchen; this was war council.

Satoru leaned in, the first flash of real excitement cutting through the lingering weirdness in his chest. “Describe the vision,” he said, pen already spinning between his fingers.

Kaoru sat forward, dried blood flaking faintly at the corner of her mouth. “There were sirens,” she said, fingers trailing Tokyo’s arteries like lifelines. “Ambulances. An overlit hallway. Linoleum floors. Wide double doors. Emergency wing, I think.”

“So, a hospital,” Satoru echoed, already scanning the map.

Kaoru nodded. “A big one. Probably Tokyo.”

Satoru tapped a knuckle against his mouth. “Do you remember the building’s name?”

“No signage,” she squinted, brows tightening. “But there were elevated walkways, a cross layout and a distinct sculpture in the front garden, something abstract and awful. Looked expensive.”

“Oh,” Satoru smirked. “Tokyo Medical University Hospital. Awful statue. Smells like bleach and rich people.”

Kaoru smiled, brief but triumphant. “So that’s the one.”

“But when?” he asked, narrowing his eyes, already scanning the city grid. “You didn’t get a timestamp?”

“There was snow,” she said simply.

That gave him pause. His fingers tapped the map. “We’re in mid-November,” he murmured. “Snow doesn’t hit Tokyo until at least December.”

Kaoru nodded thoughtfully. “There wasn’t any snow on the ground. Just those fat, slow flakes that melt the second they touch the ground.”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed. “That narrows it. Tokyo won’t see its first real snow for another three, maybe four weeks, if we’re lucky. But—” he drummed his fingers on the map, eyes scanning—“on the day of the first snow… it’s cold enough to flurry, but not cold enough to hold. That gives us a very specific window.”

She leaned in beside him. “So.”

“So—” he grinned, tapping the location, “—Tokyo Medical University Hospital. Day of the first snow.”

Hisanobu blinked between them, watching the volley of logic snap back and forth, more surprised than he’d admit. Their exchanges overlapping seamlessly, like generals mid-campaign. “So… that’s our target?”

Silence.

Then Satoru, a little quieter: “No. It’s not our target.” He tapped the map with two fingers. “It’s its.”

Kaoru leaned back in her chair, one hand resting at her chin. “If Scarlet Mist cast a Red Ward around that building…”

“The casualties would be in the hundreds, if not thousands,” Satoru finished. “A potential massacre.”

The word hung there like a blade.

Kaoru’s hand drifted to her chin, thoughtful. “The Red Wards’ effect on non-sorcerers is nearly instantaneous. Once the mist starts to spread, if we don’t act fast…”

“I can track the kekkai’s formation the second it appears,” Satoru cut in, thinking fast. “Then identify Scarlet Mist’s location, and eliminate it… best case scenario, I can neutralize it in three minutes. If he resists, longer. And that’s assuming I can move freely inside the building. With that many civilians? Unlikely.”

“Three minutes,” Kaoru repeated, voice flat. “That’s enough to kill hundreds.”

Hisanobu voice came in sharp. “Then we evacuate preemptively. Say it’s a drill—”

“No.” Kaoru cut in. “If Scarlet Mist senses even a whisper of preparation, he’ll abandon the attack entirely. We’ll lose our only confirmed window.”

The silence that followed was unpleasant.

Satoru ran a hand through his hair. “So we can’t evacuate. But we have to stop a massacre.”

Kaoru bit down on her thumb. A nervous tic, maybe. “Even with our combined effort,” she said, voice tight, “we can’t secure that many civilians and kill a special-grade like Scarlet Mist at the same time. We’re good, not that good. This is a full-scale operation.”

Satoru’s grin returned, too casual to be harmless. “Okay. Then I’ll call the party.”

Kaoru narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like how you said that.”

“I’ll handle the Jujutsu Society,” he waved a hand. “Let me worry about the politics. Trust me, the higher-ups are so terrified of Scarlet Mist, they’ll let me pull together a battle royale in a morgue if I promise to solve it.”

Her suspicion was immediate. “If it involves dragging me into the Jujutsu Society—”

Satoru waved her off, hands already fishing his phone from his pocket. “Come on. I’m Satoru Gojo. I’m in charge of the Scarlet Mist case, I’ll create the perfect cover ID for you. Super stylish. Very mysterious. You’ll be some fancy kekkai specialist brought in at my personal request.” Pause. Smile sharpening. “And I already know exactly who to bring in.”

Kaoru studied him. “People you trust?”

There it was. Satoru’s smile twitched then steadied again. “More than most.” He stood, too quickly. “Alright, give me a day. I’ll summon the dream team for the Okita Sōji Exorcism Event. Catchy name pending.”

Kaoru didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue either. Satoru took that as a win but then... He was nearly at the hallway when her voice caught him. “Something’s not right.”

He turned. “…What now?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Then, slowly: “It just doesn’t fit.” She frowned. “Scarlet Mist always targeted strategic points—sorcerers, archives, clan estates. Not civilians. But now… Tokyo Police HQ? A civilian hospital? This is a shift.”

Satoru’s smirk lingered, but something behind his eyes cooled. “What are you thinking?”

She didn’t answer immediately; her fingers traced the edge of the map. “The Zenin elder killed last time felt incidental, not the objective. I think the real target was the civilians. He’s not aiming for sorcerers, now, hes' aiming for non-sorcerers, the more the better.”

Satoru inhaled, barely. Non-sorcerers.

His jaw didn’t tighten. His shoulders didn’t move. But something deep in his chest began to lock. he knew where this conversation was going knew the name he couldn’t—wouldn’t—say out loud that was beginning to darken the edge of the whole cursed case of Scarlet Mist.

Kaoru kept going. “That hospital? There’s no one from the Jujutsu Society there, it’s just overworked staff and regular civilians.”

Hisanobu folded his arms. “Didn’t you say you thought someone might be helping him, Ojousama? Could these changes be connected?”

The question landed hard. Then—

The room narrowed. Satoru didn’t move, didn’t blink. His mind shut the thought down immediately, rejected the implication before it could form completely.

No. Not him.

He might’ve gone mad, might’ve fallen, might’ve been a criminal. But this? A civilian hospital? He knew him better than anyone. Didn’t he? He would never—

No.

Whatever Scarlet Mist had become, Satoru would handle it, no matter who stood at the center of it. He would deal with it alone, there was no need to voice it. 

Kaoru was saying something. So was Hisanobu. Their voices blurred—noise against a closed door. “...massacring non-sorcerers?” she’d asked. “Why the shift?”

Satoru’s mind snapped the door shut harder.

When her voice cut through again—“Got any theories?”—he looked up fast.

“None,” he said. Too fast. The smile he offered curled just a bit too tightly. “Getting a little conspiracy-drunk, don’t you think? It’s a Vengeful Spirit, a very angry, very dead one. He’s doing what Vengeful Spirits do. That’s all.”

Kaoru’s gaze didn’t waver. She studied him a second longer than was comfortable. Then, finally, she nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” he said, already turning toward the hallway again. “I’ll go gather the team. Don't worry about it, ojousama. Try not to bleed on anything important.”

Satoru was almost at the door when her voice caught him again and stopped him. “Are you alright?” she asked, quietly.

He paused and looked at her over his shoulder, just barely; she was still seated, still watching him with those sharp, unreadable eyes. Like she knew where the wound was, knew its shape.

Satoru hated that, just a little.

You’re not the only one with a poker face, you know?

Kaoru was interesting. Strange, clever, the kind of woman completely unhinged and composed at once. She made him laugh, got him, somehow, in ways no one else did, but she wasn’t his ally, she was just be another piece on the board, just temporary collaboration for the sake of the country.

Satoru liked her, sure. That didn’t mean he trusted her.

Especially not when it came to Suguru. He didn’t trust anyone when it came to Suguru. Not even himself.

He flashed a grin. “Of course. What could possibly be wrong?” 

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

“Are you alright?” she had asked.

And he’d given her that grin. That unbearable, insufferable Gojo grin, all sunshine and mischief, like the weight of the world bounced right off his fancy Infinity.

“Of course,” he’d said, all teeth. “What could possibly be wrong?”

Kaoru gritted her teeth now, remembering it. The memory returned unbidden, fully formed, with all the bile of déjà vu; it was barely past dawn and she already wanted to throw a chair at something.

That grin. That voice. That lie.

That was three days ago and Kaoru still hadn’t forgiven him for it.

Kaoru hadn't experienced this exact flavor of irritation in about four centuries. The precise, slow-burning kind reserved for one particular bloodline. That unique Gojo signature: lying straight through a smile with the kind of charm that said I’m fine when it meant I’m bleeding to death inside, but screw you for noticing.

Kaoru had recognized the lie in every line of his face.

With a groan, she scrubbed her hands down her face and sat up. “Damn it, Satoru Gojo.”

There it was again; the name that kept slamming into her thoughts like a dull hammer.

After days spent binge-watching Shinsengumi! until her brain melted out of her ears, she’d expected at least the reward of unconsciousness. But no. Every time she closed her eyes, all she saw was that stupid grin and Satoru Gojo saying, “What could possibly be wrong?” with that smug little mouth and that wide-blue-eyed innocence that wasn’t fooling a single soul.

Kaoru’s brow twitched. The last man who had said that to her had cursed her with immortality and vanished into legend. She hated Gojo men who lied, hated them almost as much as she hated herself for still giving a damn.

Stretching until her spine popped, she muttered into the quiet room, “What am I even doing?”

She shouldn’t be surprised.

He didn’t remember her, or anything, so of course he didn’t trust her. Why should he? Curry dinners and bad TV and synchronized map deductions didn’t mean anything.

To him, she was a temporary ally. Just another piece in his case. Just The Archivist.

And that was fine. Really, it was; she could handle that. What grated was the way he was avoiding her. The three days of barely-there glances, half-muttered jokes, disappearing the moment she entered a room. Coward. What was he, five?

Kaoru just wished she could find a way to show him. She scowled as she padded barefoot to the door. “How the hell am I supposed to prove it to him?” she muttered. “That he can trust me. That I’d—”

That if he asked—truly asked—she would follow him anywhere, through any Red Wards and whatever fresh disaster this century wanted to throw at them. All he had to do was ask. Hell, she’d help him burn it all down, if that was what he wanted.

…Probably.

She slid open the door to her room, mid-rant and halfway into composing a very pointed mental letter to the kami—

And stopped.

A plastic shopping bag sat neatly on the floor just outside.

Kaoru blinked. “…What the hell?”

She stared at it like it might explode, then picked it up, suspicious and curious in equal measure. She brought it to the bed and unwrapped it carefully. Inside: a neatly folded Jujutsu High uniform, an ID, and—of course—a note.

Off to run errands! The Dream Team arrives today.
Remember your new ID, Cadet Kaoru of the Fukuoka Branch, so no one questions why you're weird.
Also: don’t forget to SMILE! ( •̀ᴗ•́ )و̑✧
—S.G.
(P.S. I drew you. You're welcome.)

Under the note, a chibi sketch of her in full rage-mode, yelling flames and all, while Mame was a floating bean with shark teeth.

Kaoru couldn’t help it. She laughed, short, loud and a little bitter. “Idiot.”

She picked up the ID, turning it over in her hand. Kaoru. No surname, no clan. Satoru hadn’t been joking when he said he could do whatever he wanted. Grade 2. Kaoru squinted at the card, affronted. Yes, it was a cover identity, but still—Grade 2? After all she’d done? After surviving Meiji, Taisho, the Pacific War, postwar Tokyo, fax machines?

The uniform was modern, new-issue Jujutsu gear, but tailored like an old-school Sukeban uniform: a long black skirt that swayed to mid-calf, and a cropped, high-collared jacket with silver buttons lined diagonally down one side. Kaoru studied it, fingers lingering on the stitching.

“…Fukuoka branch buttons. Original design. Real metal,” she murmured. “Nice.”

She was definitely stealing those for her collection, later.

Still chuckling, she changed into the uniform, tying her hair up into a messy ponytail and tucking Mame behind one ear. The comb buzzed faintly, a quiet, sleepy hmph of acknowledgment. “Yeah, yeah,” she said, patting it gently. “Morning to you too.”

Downstairs smelled like ginger and miso. Something was sizzling. Her stomach growled.

In the kitchen, Tsumiki and Hisanobu moved in perfect, almost eerie harmony. Hisanobu,hair tied back in a formal tail, still in his usual three-piece suit, wielded a kitchen knife with the same deadly grace he used when swinging his nodachi Moon Pride. Tsumiki, sleeves rolled up, rinsed vegetables and passed them along without missing a beat.

“—and the flyer said daikon’s half-off on Thursdays,” Tsumiki was saying, “so we need to go early.”

“If we miss it, we’ll have to substitute again,” Hisanobu replied, not even glancing up from the chopping board.

Kaoru leaned against the doorway. “Well, well. Look at you two. Has the domestic cult begun already?”

They both turned at once.

“Kaoru-san!” Tsumiki beamed. “We saved some breakfast in the fridge—oh.” She blinked. Then squinted. Her gaze swept Kaoru from head to toe.

Hisanobu also paused mid-chop.

Kaoru struck a pose, hands on hips, like a smug Sukeban on a movie poster. “So? How do I look?”

Hisanobu didn’t even blink. “Dangerous,” he said, deadpan.

Tsumiki gave her a very earnest smile. “It fits you. You look like one of those cool girl gang leaders from the ‘90s.”

Kaoru grinned, pleased. “Perfect. Exactly the vibe I wanted.”

She was about to tease them further when her eyes drifted toward the sliding glass door that looked out onto the courtyard—and stilled.

Megumi. Standing in the morning cold, breath fogging the air, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big and a scarf tucked up to his nose. His hair was a mess, spiking in every direction.

The boy with a face far too familiar, who scowled every time she entered a room, and who hadn’t forgiven her for turning his bedroom into a cursed artifact vault.

Understandable.

Kaoru watched as he brought his hands up and—snap—summoned the Divine Dogs. White and black flickered to life beside him, growling with cursed energy and shadows.

Kaoru’s smile faded into something quieter.

Megumi was sweating, even in the chill. He looked pale and strained.

He dismissed the shikigami, exhaled sharply and then immediately summoned them again.

And again.

Kaoru crossed her arms, thoughtful. Pacing. Rhythm. He's trying to shorten the delay.

“Trying to speed up the summoning…” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “Smart. But wrong.”

She stepped into her sneakers, slid open the door, and stepped outside without flinching at the cold. The bite of late autumn hit her skin but she barely noticed. Megumi didn’t notice her, he was too wrapped up in what he was doing, frustrated, focused, trying again. His latest summoning attempt flickered out mid-formation.

Kaoru stepped down into the yard just as Megumi finished another sloppy invocation. Each time, his breath got a little shorter. His hands didn’t tremble—credit where credit was due—but the impatience behind his eyes was obvious. He looked like a kettle about to hiss.

Classic Zenin: all pressure, no pause.

He didn’t so much as glance her way when she approached. Better. He kept his glare fixed on the dirt, like it had personally insulted him, as the shadow at his feet still rippled from the last summon.

“Still too slow,” Kaoru called out, loud enough to provoke him.

He turned, already mid-glare. “I don’t need help,” he muttered, brushing sweat from his temple with the back of his sleeve.

Kaoru arched a brow. “Oh, you’re absolutely getting help,” she replied, tone light. “Satoru said I could contribute to your education, that means you’re out of luck, kid.”

Megumi’s expression shifted just slightly—panic hidden behind practiced blankness. The Zenin family’s greatest gift: the resting disappointment face. Preadolescents and their disdain for adult supervision; it was adorable, in a self-destructive way, and it reminded her—painfully, amusingly—of someone else.

The thunderbrat.

He’d stomped his foot and said he didn’t need a babysitter anytime she tried to teach him something. She’d responded by dragging him through a three-hour endurance training and letting him pass out with a broken nose and a stupid grin.

Kaoru cracked her knuckles and stepped closer. “Well then,” she murmured, forming a seal with her hands. 

Her shadow split open at her feet and something huge rose from the dark: a Divine Dog, white as bone, veins of obsidian threading through its fur. The beast was massive—larger than Megumi, paws like boulders, cursed energy thick enough to warp the air around them. The courtyard cracked under its weight.

“Ojousama...” came Hisanobu alarmed voice from the kitchen.

Kaoru ignored him.

Megumi took a half-step back instinctively, breath hitched. He tried to cover it with a frown. “That’s—” he started.

“A Totality,” Kaoru said, casually scratching behind the beast’s ear. “The other was destroyed.” She didn’t explain, just lingered a moment, fingers buried in dense fur. Then she snapped her fingers and the shikigami melted back into her shadow. “Watch.”

Megumi barely had time to register it before she invoked it again, barely a breath between disappearance and reappearance. As smooth as a blink. The Divine Dog leaned against her leg, massive head dropping to nudge at her hip. Kaoru scratched behind its ears absently, then gestured at Megumi.

“See?” she asked.

Megumi squinted. “There was no delay.” His eyes narrowed. “How?”

Kaoru grinned. “You’re wasting your cursed energy.”

He didn’t deny it.

She dropped her voice to a patient hum. “You’re keeping your output too high through the entire summoning process. That’s the rookie mistake” she added, pacing a slow, mocking circle around him. “You don’t need to pump cursed energy from start to finish. That just drains you and slows everything down. There’s a window—a very short one—where it matters.”

He tilted his head, still scowling, but she saw it, the curiosity bleeding through. “…When my mind pictures the shikigami, and my shadow… responds to it?”

Kaoru’s grin widened, proud. “Correct.” 

He blinked. She could almost see the little internal celebration before he buried it beneath his patented Zenin Resting Disappointment Face. “So,” he said, piecing it together, “the cursed energy should spike exactly when the image is clear. And fade right after?”

“There we go.” She dismissed the Divine Dog again and stepped up behind him. “Now,” she said, jabbing a finger between his shoulder blades that tensed under the coat, “straighten your back.”

“I am straight.”

“Straighter,” she said, unimpressed. “Try again.”

He glared at her over his shoulder.

She didn’t blink. “We don’t have all day.”

He muttered something that sounded vaguely like an insult and formed the hand sign again.

Kaoru’s eyes dropped to his feet. His shadow was twitching, just about to ripple. “Now,” she said, pressing her finger harder.

Megumi flinched at her timing. The shikigami appeared, slower than hers. He groaned.

“Too late,” she said flatly. “Again.”

Megumi clicked his tongue and withdrew them. Started again. Again, the finger. “Now.” Again, the invocation.

“Too early,” she said.

“Are you serious—”

“Again.”

Scowl deepening. Hands again. She jabbed again. “Now.” The shikigami burst out faster but still not fast enough.

Kaoru’s verdict came sharp. “Still too late.” 

Another press. This time sharp enough to jolt him forward. “Ohi, damn hag—!”

Kaoru didn’t even blink. Then, with the casual finality of a judge pronouncing a death sentence, said, “Excuse me?” Deadly glare: activated. Another jab. “You wanna repeat that?”

He ducked back, squawking like an indignant crow. “You keep doing this—” He jabbed her back, not in the shoulder, but somewhere vague near her elbow, mimicking her movement like a very aggrieved monkey. “—and it’s annoying and I can’t concentrate!”

She squinted at him, unimpressed. “In war, there are distractions. If a finger poke throws off your summoning, your summoning’s garbage.” She leaned in face perfectly blank. “Grow up.”

Poke.

Megumi was vibrating with teenage rage. Kaoru was glowing with unholy satisfaction. Before she could jab again—

Ding-dong.

The front doorbell rang. Both froze mid-motion, caught in a ridiculous tableau of generational trauma and aggressive mentorship. From the kitchen, Tsumiki’s voice floated out, bright and oblivious:
“Kaoru-san? Can you get the door?”

Kaoru straightened with the leisurely grace of a victorious general. As she passed Megumi, she reached out and tousled his spiky black hair.

“Keep practicing,” she ordered. “Practice makes perfect.”

He slapped her hand away with a growl, face red.

Kaoru, still smug, padded toward the entrance, then paused. There were voices outside.

“Shoko-senpai, you think it’s true?” chirped one—sunny, high-energy.

“Oh my god, shut up, Haibara,” came a second voice, flat, female, laced with exasperation. “You’re going to give Kusakabe another ulcer.”

“I already have one,” grumbled a third—older, dry, and deeply caffeinated. “Why am I even here?”

Then, a fourth warmer, more maternal: “Because Gojo-san called us his dream team, remember, brother? Said we were irreplaceable.”

A pause. Then a strained groan: “Shut up, Uzuya.”

Kaoru blinked. Ah. So this is the dream team.

She slid the door open... And was met by chaos incarnate.

Four pairs of eyes snapped toward her. For one long beat, no one said a word. The silence stretched, thick with first impressions and mutual judgment, like a held breath before a punchline.

Kaoru, barefoot in her crisp Fukuoka Branch uniform, one brow arched, stared them up.

First: a woman in her mid-thirties with pixie-short brown hair under a beret, long brown coat, a katana slung over one shoulder. Clearly reliable and possibly dangerous.

Second: a man, unmistakably related to the first woman, little older but same coat, same eyes, samd katana at his hip. Exhausted already, wore the expression of someone who’d rather be anywhere else. 

Third: a young woman in her twenties, brown hair in a messy bun, eyes shadowed by exhaustion, wearing a coat too heavy for November possibly hiding snacks, and an aura of spiritual decay even Kaoru found impressive. She looked Kaoru up and down, then deadpanned: “So it’s true. Gojo lives with a woman.”

Kaoru blinked slowly. She didn’t dignify that with a reply.

And then—

Fourth.

Her eyes narrowed, just slightly.

A young man in a classic jujutsu sorcerer's uniform. Hair like a perfectly round mushroom cap, smile too bright for this dimension. He was practically buzzing with cursed energy, like he might accidentally levitate if he got too excited. In his hands: a lovingly wrapped box of mochi.

He stared at her like he’d seen a ghost.

Then gasped—loud, scandalized, thrilled. “Wait!” he blurted, pointing at her like she was a celebrity. The grin exploded across his face. “It’s you! Gandalf!”

Kaoru’s soul briefly left her body. Oh no. Behind her ear, Mame pulsed with faint horror. What with this one? Why he knows me?

She instinctively took a step back. But it was too late—the boy was already halfway through the doorway, bouncing on the balls of his feet, mochi still clutched in both hands like a sacred offering.

“You saved my life! Seven years ago!”

Kaoru closed her eyes praying the kami. She was going to kill Satoru Gojo.

✦𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 𝑻𝒆𝒂𝒎

Chapter Text

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟑. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 𝑻𝒆𝒂𝒎

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

In Satoru’s not-so-humble opinion, he’d been ridiculously efficient that morning.

Not even ten, and he’d already, chronologically, done the following:

First, he’d dropped off Kaoru’s entire fabricated identity package complete with a non-existent transfer order. And by dropped off, he meant unceremoniously abandoned it in front of her door to avoid the human interaction. Grade 2, Fukuoka Branch; perfect. No one ever remembered the Fukuoka Branch existed, and Grade 2 was high enough not to be questioned, low enough to be ignored. Yes, if Satoru was right about her power level, and he usually was, Kaoru could probably qualify as Special Grade without breaking a sweat if she ever stopped pretending, but that was a problem for future Satoru. Future Satoru was going to be very tired.

She’d blend in fine.

Though he had a feeling it was only a matter of time before Kusakabe had a full mental breakdown.

Next on the checklist: dropping by Jujutsu High and pestering Yaga until his former teacher cracked and handed over what few Edo-period records still survived. Dusty, half-burned, brittle with age; but if Kaoru really was who Satoru suspected, since she hadn’t exactly denied the name Zenin, then something had to be in there. No Ten Shadow prodigy, no one that powerful just disappeared. Not without leaving a trail.

So now he had a bundle of those records tucked under his arm; they probably shouldn’t be rattling around in a plastic bag. Eh. Too late.

He’d picked up Megumi’s favorite snack on the way home. Satoru had to make a detour for it, but whatever. He remembered the kid once called it “tolerable” with the emotional investment of a spreadsheet, which, by Megumi standards, basically meant five stars. So, Satoru had filed that away; it wasn’t much, but surprising Megumi with food he liked made Satoru feel like he was doing alright at least for five minutes. Parenting was mostly showing up and not dying, right?

He’d also exorcised two mid-grade curses on the way back, mostly out of boredom. That, and because every time he slowed down, that memory that voice echoed inside his skull—

“What, you want us to fall like camellias? Together?”

He scowled and winced at the memory, hands shoved deeper into his coat pockets.

That damned mask of Murasaki-something. Ever since he’d touched her while she wore it, Kaoru’s voice had taken up permanent residence somewhere behind his eyes. The same line, over and over, crawling back into his mind whenever he got too tired or blinked too long. Three nights now. Her voice, her blurred face.

It was annoying.

Why did she sound so familiar? What was it with her? 

He shook the thought off, irritated. No. Focus, Gojo. Scarlet Mist. That’s the mission. Kaoru was a temporary asset, a reluctant ally with excellent intel and a tendency to disappear mid-conversation. They had a deal: she’d help him get rid of Scarlet Mist, and then she could vanish back into whatever cursed antique drawer of history she’d crawled out of.

No entanglements, no blurred memories, no fixation.

He definitely wasn’t about to get a soft spot for an unregistered immortal archivist with the deadliest poker face he’d ever seen. Totally professional. Totally ignoring the way she made his brain itch. Or the sense that her cursed energy shouldn’t be unfamiliar at all.

He scowled, then grinned, then scowled again. 

...Whatever.

Time for the fun part: introducing Kaoru to the Dream Team.

He adjusted the white bandages over his eyes, emergency measure, but necessary; the cursed basement Kaoru had dropped into Megumi’s bedroom had been screaming at his Six Eyes for weeks now and the migraines were getting personal.

Still, worth it. Probably.

With one hand ruffling his hair into a more heroic disarray, he turned down the sleepy residential street. Quiet. Suburban. Saitama was aggressively normal, which made it the perfect place for temporary relocation. No one asked questions here. No one wondered why a bunch of suspiciously beautiful people with dangerous auras were sharing a house and ordering delivery at midnight.

As the house came into view, Satoru exhaled through his nose. Even with the wrap dampening his perception, he could feel them; five adult sorcerers, one immortal, a Megumi, and a cursed comb.

He had counted at least ten ways it could go wrong before breakfast. Seven of those ways involved Kusakabe snapping a nerve, three Haibara being Haibara, and the rest… well, Kaoru would probably surprise him. She always did and he was looking forward to it, against his better judgment.

Ah yes. Chaos.

Satoru stepped onto the porch and threw the door open with the enthusiasm of a main  character, and called out, “Your local disaster is home~!”

Silence.

Not peaceful silence, no, no, the thick, awkward, kind of silence that meant someone had already said something wildly inappropriate and nobody knew how to recover.

From the kitchen, a voice like a half-panicked angel: “Welcome back, Gojo-san!” Tsumiki poked her head around the corner, smiled too wide, what the hell is going on out there written all over her face, then promptly vanished like a civilian fleeing a hostage situation.

That wasn’t encouraging.

Satoru toed off his shoes, set the plastic bag in his hand and turned the corner where a familiar mop of black hair intercepted him.

Megumi, hands tucked in the sleeves of his hoodie, stopped with the stiff, wary posture of someone who’d been listening at the adults in the living room from a shadowy hallway and was deciding whether to retreat or not.

Satoru grinned. “Megumin,” he said, casually fishing in the plastic bag. “I grabbed those rice crackers you like. The weird ones with the chili glaze you said were ‘not disgusting’ that one time.”

Megumi blinked. Slowly. “…You remembered that?”

“Of course I did,” Satoru said, handing the pack over with a fake-nonchalant flourish. “I'm just that generous.”

Megumi took the snack and muttered something in the realm of thanks and Satoru, already smug, reached out and ruffled his hair just to seal the deal.

The boy recoiled. “Don’t.”

“Oh?” Satoru said, gesturing vaguely to Megumi’s aura, “Your cursed energy’s... steadier today. More controlled flow, less static.”

Megumi looked away toward the living room, a faint flush at his ears. “...It’s not all on me.”

“What?” Satoru leaned in with an amused tilt of his head. “Someone helping you out?”

He didn’t answer directly, but his black eyes flicked meaningfully in the direction of the living room.

Ah. So, that's how it is. Satoru grinned, genuinely pleased. So Kaoru had seriously taken Megumi under her wing out of sheer stubbornness. He liked it. If Kaoru was going to stick around, the least she could do was help turn Megumi into even more of a problem for the world.

“Good taste,” he smirked, and padded onward down the hallway, and poked his head into the living room.

The living room was chaos. Not loud chaos, worse; tense, polite chaos.

Haibara was kneeling on the floor like a penitent samurai, head bowed, arms visibly trembling, whispering something between an apology for existing and a declaration of love.

Kaoru sat on the couch, barefoot, legs crossed, wrapped in her brand-new Fukuoka Branch uniform like it was armor, staring at Haibara like she was seriously debating how fast she could kill him and get away with it.

Opposite her, slouched like a corpse, was Atsuya, Kusakabe-senior. Grumpy, perpetually done, possibly asleep. He had his arms crossed over his sheathed katana like it was a therapy dog and a Shonen Jump magazine half-fallen over his face like he wished he were dead.

Uzuya—his sister, younger, scarier, and infinitely more functional—was kneeling politely on the floor with her beret neatly in place, all warm smiles and steel eyes, clearly the only person preventing the room from descending into physical violence. How she always managed to radiate inner peace while sitting in the middle of a metaphorical minefield, Satoru would never understand.

Using her lap as a pillow was Shoko, eating pocky sticks and gazing at the ceiling like a woman waiting for the apocalypse to pass.

And Kaoru, poor Kaoru.

She turned her gaze toward him, slow and full of betrayal, murder and confusion. Her eyes flicked once toward Haibara, then back, transmitting telepathically: Why is this boy worshipping me? Fix it.

Satoru barely held in a laugh. Oh. She was blushing. Not much—just the faintest flush at the tips of her ears, enough to be noticeable if you’d been watching her for a while. Which he definitely hadn’t been. He absolutely did plan to mention it later.

He leaned against the doorframe, grinning.

Satoru couldn’t blame her; Haibara’s devotion was a lot to take in when deployed at full blast.

Haibara’s voice rose faintly in the background. “—You saved me, I was seventeen and foolish and bleeding and screaming and there was the Red Ward and the Scarlet Mist—”

Kaoru’s eye twitched. A silent plea: Help me.

Yeah. This was definitely the dream team destined to stop a legendary Vengeful Spirit with a history of genocide and supernatural tuberculosis.

Satoru pushed off the doorframe with all the confidence of someone crashing a wedding and strolled into the room. “Wow,” he said brightly. “I leave for one hour and we’re already in the devotional apology phase.” Hands in his pockets, he came to stand squarely between Haibara and Kaoru, tilting his head with a grin. “Yu-kun, my guy, try not to stare at her too long, will you? She’s shy.”

“I’m not,” Kaoru deadpanned from behind him.

“See?” he grinned. “Painfully shy.”

Haibara, still clutching the box of mochi like a sacred artifact, looked up at him with the eyes of a man who’d seen a miracle. “Gojo-senpai, she’s—seven years ago, I remember, the Red Ward, she—”

He tried to lean around him, to get another glimpse of Kaoru, but Satoru shifted perfectly in sync, blocking the view like a bodyguard.

“I said,” Kaoru’s voice came dry, clipped, “I don’t know who you are.”

The words landed with a thud and there it was—Haibara's heartbreak. The mochi trembled in his grip.

Satoru stole a glance behind him; Kaoru’s posture was stiffen, he could practically hear her thinking through the fallout. She wasn’t looking at Haibara, her black eyes were fixed just past Satoru’s shoulder, distant and trying to place something she couldn’t quite reach. Then he caught it, the faintest intake of breath, her lip pressed between her teeth. She really didn’t remember him.

Oh, right. That.

Kaoru had mentioned—casually, like one might mention forgetting to buy soy sauce—that memory became less linear the longer you lived. Things blurred, names fell through the cracks and the mind, she’d said dryly, only kept what mattered.

But still. Oof.

“You’re breaking his heart, Kaoru,” Satoru said cheerfully, glancing down, letting the grin do most of the work. Not that she could see his eyes through the blindfold. But he knew she felt it. “At least pretend you care.”

Her eyes snapped to his. You could’ve warned me.

Satoru shrugged. I could've. But come on, the boy thinks you descended from heaven. Humor him. It’ll make his whole year.

She sighed through her nose, the expression of someone who’d been caught in social dread for the first time in centuries. Slowly, almost painfully, she leaned just far enough to peek past Satoru’s side like a suspicious cat, reluctant but curious.

“You…” she said, slow, wary. “What did you say your name was?”

“Yu! Haibara Yu!” he shot up a little, eyes lighting up like a summer festival lantern. “Semi-grade 1! I brought these for Gojo-senpai but… if you want them...” he held out the mochi box, face burning with effort and sincerity. “It’s not much, I know, but as thanks for saving my life seven years ago—” 

Kaoru stared at the box, then at him, then back again. She reached around Satoru’s side—quick, smooth—and plucked it from Haibara’s hands with a speed that made Satoru’s jaw twitch just slightly.

Food. So that’s what it took.

“…Much appreciated,” she said finally, with the tone of a general accepting tribute from a vassal lord.

Haibara took this as a clear signal to go on, launching into a breathless recounting. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you, but seven years ago, you were so cool,  I was bleeding and screaming and vomiting blood, but you walked right into the Red Ward and told me to stop crying—”

Kaoru raised one hand and Haibara stopped like someone had hit pause on his soul. “You are,” she said carefully, “not as intolerable as I expected.”

He made a small, delighted noise. “Th-thank—”

“However,” she continued, adjusting her seating posture like a queen recentering her crown, “if you ever kneel at my feet again without reason, I will assume you are attempting to lick them and respond accordingly.”

A beat. “…Got it,” Haibara squeaked.

Satoru almost choked laughing.

He slipped the bandages off his eyes and tilted his head toward her, grin crooked. You’re welcome, he mouthed. Then, because he couldn’t help himself: Nice uniform, by the way.

Kaoru glared at him. And—yes, there it was—she blushed, the faint pink at her cheekbones a tell to how much she hated it. She mouthed back, You did this to me.

“Guilty,” Satoru said brightly, and dropped onto the couch between her and Kusakabe with all the grace of a sack of laundry.

Kusakabe, whose face had remained blessedly covered until now, let out a sound halfway between a grunt and a prayer. He yanked his magazine off his face and immediately scooted to the side, putting as much distance between them as the furniture allowed. Kaoru, for her part, didn’t move an inch—even when Satoru’s weight tipped against her side; she just shifted the mochi box slightly in her lap and began inspecting it like it was a cursed artifact.

Satoru stretched, arms up and over the backrest lounging like the king of a cursed kindergarten. One arm behind Kaoru. One behind Kusakabe. Instant tension. From both sides.

Delicious.

“Right,” he said, bright and shameless. “Dream Team assembled. Handpicked by yours truly to save Japan, the Jujutsu society, and probably the world.” He crossed his legs like a man making a royal declaration. “Our mission: to exorcise Scarlet Mist. Once and for all.”

Silence. Kusakabe let out a sigh long enough to qualify as a prayer. Shoko popped another pocky into her mouth without breaking eye contact with the ceiling. Haibara went pale in a way that screamed past trauma.

Only Uzuya looked calm. She raised one hand like a soldier. “Gojo-san,” she said steadily. “Scarlet Mist as in… the cursed tuberculosis mist? That doesn’t appear more than once every few decades. The fact that it’s returned twice in seven years—”

“—is an anomaly,” Satoru finished. “Which brings us to our secret weapon.” He turned, dramatically, and pointed to the top of Kaoru’s head.

Poke.

She blinked up at his finger without flinching.

“This,” he said, “is Kaoru. Grade 2, Fukuoka Branch. She’s been studying this case for years and already predicted the time and place of the next manifestation.” Poke. “She’s the expert.” Poke. “You’re gonna love her.”

Kaoru raised her chin half a degree. “I'm Kaoru. Just Kaoru,” she said, perfectly poised. “Grade 2. Specialization in kekkai and cursed weaponry. Pleased to meet you.”

And somehow—just like that—everyone sat up straighter.

Shoko, damn her timing, chose that exact moment to stir. She didn’t even look at them. “What? Fukuoka Branch?” she mumbled from Uzuya’s lap. “Isn’t she that immortal archivist you’ve been obsessing over—”

“Shoko,” Satoru sang to shut it down fast, “let’s not.” He waved a hand toward Kaoru. “Come on. No one lives over a hundred years and still looks that—” he waved vaguely, “—pretty.”

He poked Kaoru’s head again and she solemnly nodded, playing along like they’d practiced it.

Nobody looked convinced. Shoko narrowed her eyes but didn’t press. Haibara, meanwhile, was clearly trying to do the math and failing, but no one pressed. Not with Satoru in that mood.

Uzuya, saint that she was, broke the tension with a graceful tilt of her head. “Uzuya Kusakabe,” she said warmly, tipping her hat over her short brown hair. “Grade 1. New Shadow Style, sword-user. I look forward to working with you, Just-Kaoru.”

“She’s the team mom,” Satoru added. “Also, the only one Shoko listens to and that can stop her from smoking.”

Uzuya tipped her military cap and offered a sunny smile.

“And this grump,” Satoru jabbed a thumb toward the far end of the couch, “is her brother. Kusakabe Atsuya. Grade 1. Same deal, just older, angrier and less charming.”

Kusakabe didn’t even bother to look up. “Drop dead.”

“Charming,” Satoru echoed cheerfully.

Shoko finally rose, pokie between her teeth, arms draped over her knees. “Shoko Ieiri. Jujutsu doctor. That’s the whole bio. Also—” she offered toward Kaoru, “I'm sorry you got stuck with him.” She peeled herself off Uzuya’s lap and padded to the window, still munching, wrapped in her uniform jacket and never looked back.

“And last but not least—” Satoru gestured to the one still kneeling, “—Yu-kun. You’ve met.”

Haibara practically radiated joy. “Kaoru-san!” he said, pointing enthusiastically to his own chest. “I might not be the strongest, but I’ll do my best to help this time!” A beat. “My technique isn’t really mine—it’s everyone’s. I’m here to help people shine!”

Kaoru blinked. “That’s… a peculiar phrasing.”

Satoru leaned in, close enough to speak at her ear. “Empathic Assonance,” he murmured, almost lazily. “Yu’s a walking empathy bomb. Not just metaphorically.” He pulled back with a grin and raised his voice, lighter now, sunnier. “He’s also the centerpiece of my entire plan to destroy Scarlet Mist.”

That, predictably, wiped the smile right off Haibara’s face. “...I’m what?”

Satoru sat up straighter, grinning wider, as if that had been the goal. “The centerpiece!” He sat forward, elbows on his knees, launching smoothly into full Jujutsu-nerd mode, the kind that usually made Yaga leave the room and Nanami sigh in real time.

“Yu-kun’s cursed technique,” he began, “creates invisible threads made of cursed energy. He can link them to anyone he chooses.” He lifted a hand, fingers flicking through the air as if tracing strings. “Most people can’t see them, but with Six Eyes, I do. Like glowing wires, pulsing between him and everyone else.”

He turned to Kaoru.

“The threads let him feel your emotions, sense incoming danger, sync like you’re sharing a brain. And if you get hurt—” He snapped his fingers. “—he reroutes the damage to himself. Think co-op game. He’s got everyone’s controller wired through his nervous system. A Digimon support class.”

Kaoru tilted her head. “...Digi-what?”

“Digimon,” he clarified, like that settled everything. “You know. Agumon digivolves when Tai believes in him. Same vibe.”

Haibara made a noise like his soul was collapsing. “...Not even remotely the same vibe.”

But Kaoru turned to him, and this time gave him her full attention. “And you can... maintain these threads over distance?”

Haibara nodded quickly. “Once I’m linked to someone, the connection holds until one of us breaks it.”

“And you can transfer the pain to yourself,” she said, already folding the idea into some internal calculus.

Satoru flicked a lazy finger in Haibara’s direction. “Not just pain, the whole damage. Bone fractures, organ rupture, the works. Little masochistic.”

Kaoru folded her arms, her gaze narrowing slightly—not at Haibara, but at Satoru. The way she stared said that’s an awful lot of pain to be joking about.

Satoru just grinned wider, unaffected.

“…Explain,” she said finally, tone cool.

God, he loved when she said that.

“Well,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “Scarlet Mist knows you. And it definitely knows me. We’re high-priority targets, which means the second it senses both of us, it’ll sense the trap and vanish. So we let it think it’s winning, we let the Red Ward activate at a distance, without us inside.”

“That’s possible,” Kaoru nodded, thoughtful. “A Red Ward traps people inside, not out. But a few seconds of delay is enough to kill any civilian caught inside and if we breach late, we risk Scarlet Mist fleeing before we reach it—”

“—which is why,” Satoru said, stretching lazily and throwing an arm over the backrest, “someone’s already inside when it starts.” He gestured toward the Kusakabes. “They’ll be inside in waiting for it. Scarlet Mist won’t suspect two Grade 1s with swords. Perfect bait.”

Kusakabe groaned like he’d just been condemned. “Great. Bait duty for tuberculosis. This can't get any worse.”

“I figured,” Satoru said, smug, “Scarlet Mist it’s a prodigy of the Bakumatsu? Fine. I’ll send in the best swords-prodigies of our time.”

Uzuya adjusted her cap with quiet confidence. “We’ll stall it until you arrive and neutralize it. That’s the idea, right?”

“Stall it?” Kaoru’s voice had flattened again. “Scarlet Mist was an exceptional swordsman even in life. It won’t be a fair fight and without RCT, you won’t last long inside a Red Ward.”

“Bingo! Enter Yu-kun,” Satoru said, finger raised.

Haibara sat up straighter, not sure whether to be proud or panicked. “Me?”

“He links to the Kusakabes beforehand, stays outside the Red Ward. As long as the tethers hold, any damage they take—” he snapped again, “—goes straight to him.”

Haibara paled. “Wait—”

“He’ll die in under thirty seconds,” Kaoru cut in, matter-of-fact.

Satoru gestured toward the window. “That’s why we have her.”

All eyes turned to Shoko, who blinked lazily and removed the pocky stick from her mouth like it was a cigarette. 

“Mmh?”

“You’ve treated this kind of damage in 2007,” Satoru leaned sideways, chin in hand. “Can you keep him alive long enough?”

She considered, tilting her head like a philosopher. “Pulmonary hemorrhage, necrotizing alveoli, full systemic inflammation…” She paused, tapping the pocky against her lips. “If I maintain activate RCT in a continuous loop via direct contact and start reinforcing his lungs before the actual exposure... Might even pre-oxygenate his bloodstream to delay collapse. Five-or-so minutes after exposure starts. After that, I’m not responsible if his lungs explode.”

Haibara looked like he was about to throw up.

Kaoru’s brow furrowed. “Five minutes might not be enough.”

“It’ll be enough for me,” Satoru said smoothly, no room for doubt. “Trust me, I'm the strongest.”

Kaoru’s gaze swept across the group and a strange stillness came over her. Surprise, not just at the plan, but at the people enacting it; the ragtag mess of a so-called Dream Team. They were listening, paying attention. Even Kusakabe, who looked like he wanted to crawl out a window, hadn’t objected yet.

Her eyes lingered on the siblings. “Scarlet Mist was a prodigy of swordsmanship in life. He’ll engage. Think you can manage it?”

Kusakabe stood with a groan, stretching his back like a pensioner. “We’re not miracle workers,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes, and began pacing the room, arms folded. “With Haibara’s technique buffering us, and five minutes of breathing room…” He trailed off, grimacing.

“We’ll hold the line until you arrive,” Uzuya finished, standing beside him like they’d rehearsed the timing, mirroring his movement, already calculating. “You can trust us for that, Kaoru-san. We’ve dealt with worse, my brother and I.”

“Not much worse,” Kusakabe clarified.

“But worse,” she confirmed.

Kaoru looked between them—the Kusakabes, two swords wrapped in too much tired cynicism and too much calm resolve. She didn’t argue, not verbally, but her gaze shifted to the window, locking briefly with Shoko’s.

Shoko held her eyes with half-lidded boredom. “Relax. No one dies under my supervision.” A beat. “Especially not mushroom boy.”

Kaoru smirked. “You sound very sure.” She turned toward Haibara. “What about you?” she asked quietly. “You’ve faced it once, you know what it does. Even with RCT, it’ll hurt. A lot.”

The boy lowered his gaze for a moment, pale, visibly remembering his last encounter with Scarlet Mist. His fingers clenched at his knees.

Satoru didn’t interrupt; the boy had every right to be scared. He remembered how they pulled him out of the Red Ward, seven years ago, limp and shaking and covered in blood, gasping like a drowning child. “As I said you’re the heart of this plan. But if you say no,” he added, “we rethink the plan. No shame in it.”

Haibara looked at both of them, Kaoru with her stillness, and Satoru with his tilted, lazy grin that didn’t quite hide how closely he was watching. “If it’s something only I can do,” he said, voice steadying. He smiled, shaky but determined. “Then I’ll do it. If I can ease even a little of the weight my friends carry… that’s enough.”

Satoru grinned, the kind of grin that made his whole face shift, softer at the edges. Satisfied, he stretched further into the couch and turned toward Kaoru, elbow resting, cheek against his palm. “So?” he asked, quieter now. “Come on, admit it, they’re dependable beneath the chaos.”

Kaoru watched all of it—and Satoru watched her, watched it happen, the slow understanding that maybe after centuries she wasn’t alone in this, her shoulders slowly lowering, as if the math in her mind had finally balanced. The plan held, no fatal gaps. Uzuya was already whispering battle timing to her brother. Haibara had crawled to Shoko’s feet and was now half-kneeling, half-begging. “Please don’t let me die.”

“I’ll think about it,” Shoko muttered, bored.

Which left just them—Kaoru and Satoru—quiet in the eye of the storm.

She glanced sideways at him. “You planned all this.”

Satoru leaned a little closer. “Told you,” he said still grinning. “Dream Team.”

Her fingers tapped idly against the mochi box in her lap. Between strands of her black hair, the cursed comb pulsed content. Mame, apparently, agreed.

Satoru caught the pulse of cursed energy and smirked wider. “See? Even Mame’s on my side this time.”

Kaoru shook her head once, but her smile tugged at the corners. “I suppose,” she murmured softly. “I may have underestimated you. I didn’t think you were the strategy type.”

“Oh?” He pouted, scooting closer along the couch just enough to lean in with dramatic flair. “Rude. I am a strategy type, I’m just usually too strong to need one.”

She gave him a slow, unimpressed look “I pictured you more as the ‘leap into a misty forest full of cursed locusts and detonate tree just to make a point’ type.”

“That’s—” he paused, nose wrinkling. “Unnecessarily specific.”

“It’s also accurate,” she replied evenly, then allowed herself a small, foxlike smirk. “Still. The plan’s good. Well done.”

His heart did something small and stupid it really shouldn’t have. That was real praise. From her. No teasing, no smirk, just honesty—and he hadn’t even asked for it.

Oh no. He wasn’t trying to impress her. But if he had been…

He tilted his head, smiling lopsided. “Wait. Was that a compliment?”

“I just said—”

“No no,” he waved her off, grinning wider. “Don’t ruin it. You said I’ve been good. Come on. Scale of one to ten?”

Kaoru narrowed her eyes. “Don’t push your luck.”

“I’m not pushing, I don’t need praises but I wouldn’t say no.” He slouched further, cheek smushed into the couch, eyes like a dog who just got head-patted. “So? Was I good?” he repeated, mock-pouting.

She gave him a slow once-over, like she knew exactly what he was doing and found it vaguely entertaining anyway. Her smile came reluctant and real. “...Nine,” she said, the word escaping on a soft laugh. “You’ve been good.”

His grin softened at the edges, he tilted his head. “You’ve been good too.”

She blinked, startled again, mouth parting just slightly.

Satoru nodded toward the door. “Megumin,” he said simply, almost serious. “His cursed energy. More stable than usual.”

“…Maybe,” she muttered.

Satoru’s grin turned faint. “You gave him a few tips. You’re helping him and you’re not subtle.” He leaned in closer, just a little. “So,” he said, mimicking her tone with exaggerated reverence, “Well done.”

Kaoru stared straight ahead, jaw tight, and blushed faintly. Which, in his professional opinion, was better than victory.

Satoru didn’t look away as he finally leaned back. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell the others.”

She scowled and buried her face behind the mochi box with a groan. “Infuriating.”

He watched from beneath his bangs the curve of her profile, the way she softened when her guard dropped; she looked less like a small general now, more real, her body leaning—not toward, not away—just existing in parallel with his. And for a moment, he thought that maybe he didn't need the old scrolls, he should just ask her.

Ask who she really was. Ask about the vision. Ask why she looked like a memory he never had. Ask what she saw when she looked at him like—

“Kaoru—”

Someone cleared their throat behind them with the passive-aggressive force of a declaration of war, and the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees.

Standing in the doorway like a painting of repression come to life was Hisanobu, still in his formal black suit, long hair tied back with brutal precision, a tray of tea cups balanced in one steady hand. The other rested close to the hilt of his nodachi.

His eyebrow twitched dangerously. His gaze dropped to the frankly ridiculous amount of space Satoru wasn’t giving Kaoru.

Then locked on him.

Then locked like he had just now decided homicide was acceptable if it involved Satoru Gojo getting his face off his Ojousama’s shoulder.

“The tea is ready,” he said, voice flat enough to break stone.

Satoru, to his credit—or complete lack thereof—didn’t move. He only smiled shamelessy, stretching deeper into Kaoru’s side like a particularly confident alley cat. “Ah!” he chirped. “The final member of our dream team. Hisanobu Kashimo. Polite, punctual, and terrifying. He’s also got a sword named after Sailor Moon. Yu-kun, Shoko—if anything escapes the Red Ward before we’re out, he’s the wall.”

“Hmm.” Shoko lifted the pocky from her lips and held it like a cigarette between two fingers. “…So. Personal bodyguard?”

Kaoru nodded with something suspiciously close to maternal pride. “You can count on him,” she said softly. “’Nobu’s a great sorcerer, I trained him myself.”

Satoru very slowly turned toward her, one hand covering his mouth. Oh, no. Wrong move, Kaoru.

She immediately stiffened. “I mean—at the Fukuoka Branch. As part of the staff,” she added quickly, clutching the mochi like it might save her.

No one believed her.

Shoko walked forward, circled Hisanobu like a shark, eyeing him top to toe. “So? Can we call you ‘Nobu too, Mr. Bodyguard?” she asked, cocking her head.

Silence. He did not answer.

Shoko didn’t blink. She kept staring, and staring, and staring with infinite time and no shame. Hisanobu stared back, jaw clenched, posture immaculate; if not for the faint redness blooming at the tips of his ears, he would have looked untouched.

“…So? You gonna answer, or do I have to guess?”  Shoko repeated, same flat tone.

A long, terrible pause and finally, after what might’ve been the longest three seconds in recorded human history: “...You may.”

Satoru and Kaoru turned in opposite directions at the same time to muffle their laughter.

It was, in the end, a perfect beginning; a very cursed dream team indeed.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

December 2014, Saitama, Tokyo

“Too many people, Pretty Boy. This isn’t a secret anymore. It’s an information leak. And leaks get people killed.”

The words echoed again as Kaoru opened her eyes to the bite of morning cold. Her nose twitched; she sneezed, soft and undignified.

Annoyed, she tugged the scarf tighter around her neck, then blinked up toward the pale sky, listening absently to the muffled rustle of wind through the leafless branches beyond the garden wall. She hated this weather. Even more, she hated the dream that had come with it.

The others sat on the edge of the veranda in various poses of attention and disinterest, and Kaoru, standing in the garden, watched like a teacher at morning roll call. Or an executioner at a lineup.

Shoko slumped with her hood half-falling over one eye, poking frozen moss with her boot; Haibara crouched in some physics-defying position, nodding like an eager apprentice; Uzuya, alert as ever, cap still perfectly snug; and her brother behind her, arms crossed, expression like someone awaiting a dental procedure.

“Too many people, Pretty Boy—”

It had started as a comfort, that dream. That white-haired man. That voice that knew too much, carried too much weight. Those eyes. That face.

That face.

It had felt like home, until it didn’t, until the tone shifted into a warning.

Her scowl deepened. Of all the things buried deep, that one had no business resurfacing on the eve of a dangerous mission. Still, it wasn't wrong.

She told herself she wouldn’t look, but of course, there he was. Satoru Gojo.

Lounging against the doorframe with all the indifference in the world, sunglasses tucked into that ridiculous white hair, smiling like the cold didn’t dare touch him, like the weight of the mission ahead was not a reality.

But it was real.

After days of rehearsals, of mapping the hospital corridor by corridor, anticipating every response and possible breakdown, it was time. Today, they prepped the Kusakabes for frontline contact, against Scarlet Mist, no less.

Kaoru’s stomach knotted just thinking about it.

She didn’t like trusting others with her life and certainly not with his life, Satoru Gojo's life. Not that she believed his life was really at risk, but still.

The plan depended on everything working. Everything. The Kusakabes delaying long enough. Haibara holding his link. Shoko keeping him breathing. No one freezing. No one panicking.

The Kaoru from centuries ago would’ve called it reckless optimism, but—

She glanced at Satoru again.

He hadn’t hesitated once in handing them this plan. Not a flicker of doubt. And strangely, no one had questioned it. Not even the most absurd part; entrusting a walking empathy circuit to act as a human failsafe. That part of him—that Satoru—was just like him. The way he dragged others into his orbit, made them believe in impossible things, smiled like it was easy. Still—

“This isn’t a secret anymore…”

No. That voice didn’t matter, that past didn’t matter. She wasn’t that Kaoru anymore and he wasn't that man anymore.

Her grip shifted on the bokken resting against her shoulder, and she raised her chin slightly. She’d made her vow. Always on the same side. And now… they had a team.

The thought was terrifying and also a little exhilarating.

She caught herself smiling at him jst a little. It was unfamiliar, foreign on her mouth, and it must’ve lasted too long, because Satoru tilted his head at her in confusion, that knowing little grin starting to curl. She looked away quickly before it bloomed into full-blown smugness, breath fogging the air in front of her.

“Alright,” she said crisply, the edge in her voice returning. “You know the theory. Now let’s discuss what’s going to actually try to kill you.” She shifted her stance, the bokken tapping lightly against her shoulder. “The mist isn’t your first problem. It’s the weapon.”

Kaoru pointed the bokken at the Kusakabes. “Scarlet Mist doesn’t begin with mist. It starts with the halberd, a golden-bladed naginata. That’s what activates the kekkai that triggers the Red Ward. The mist only floods in after the kekkai is complete.” She paused, letting the implications hang. “That gives you one window. Small, between activation and full manifestation. After that, starts the killing among civilians.” She paused, letting that settle. “Your job is to delay that as much as possible.”

She twirled the bokken once, clean and precise, catching it halfway. “In life, Scarlet Mist was Okita Sōji. Master Jujutsu sorcerer and swordsman. Katana, bō, naginata. Deadly even before death. If he were classified now, he'd be special grade without argument.”

“Cool,” Uzuya murmured, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

Kaoru made a mental note of that; it was always the quiet ones. She tapped the ground with the tip of the bokken. “His weapon is called the Calamity-Binding Halberd. One of the Three Heirlooms. Alongside the Void-Severing Shaft and the Inverted Spear of Heaven,” she said, that glint of obsession peeking through her lashes. “Did you know? Once… they were a single weapon, forged back during the Golden Age of sorcery.” Her eyes gleamed, voice a bit too fast, too precise. “A perfect trinity of cursed weaponry. Capable of nullifying any technique, creating and destroying kekkai. It nearly shattered the balance between the Big Three during—”

“She’s doing it again,” Shoko deadpanned. “She’s totally obsessed.”

Kaoru did not respond, but her face stiffened into something perilously close to shame. She cleared her throat, shifted the bokken back to her shoulder. “Anyway. A lot happened.”

“You really like cursed artifacts, huh?” Haibara said, blinking with genuine wonder. “What happened to the weapon?”

Kaoru tilted her head, and for a breath too long, looked like she might launch into a full lecture. “It couldn’t be destroyed. No matter how hard anyone tried,” she said, tone already slipping into museum-guide cadence. “So, during the Keichō period, it was divided into the Three Heirlooms through a Binding Vow. Each piece given to a different clan to stop it from ever being whole again. Guess which one this one belonged to.”

Haibara shot his hand up like a child in school. “Kamo clan?”

“Ten points to the obvious,” Kaoru said flatly.

From his usual corner near the back wall, Satoru made a small, interested sound. She turned too fast, as if sensing it before it fully left his mouth. He opened his mouth, then stopped. Something flickered behind his blue eyes, almost a wince of terror. It lingered in the crease of his brow, the faint downturn of his mouth. Kaoru glanced sideways—curious. He looked like he was weighing something—something heavy, potentially catastrophic.

Like he was trying to decide whether to ruin her day.

Then, just as quickly the moment was gone and he raised a hand like a schoolboy. “Kaoru-sensei!” he drawled. “Anything else we should know about his combat style? You know… something like his signature sword technique or the angle of his footwork?”

Kaoru’s brow twitched. “You’re fishing.”

“I’m curious,” he said innocently. “Surely you studied it. I know you did."

Of course he knew. And yes, she had tried to replicate Okita’s style. Once. Maybe more than once; there had been something fascinatingly brutal about watching that boy move like a goddamn comet in a blue haori.

Kaoru exhaled. “Fine. But I haven’t used this in years, so I’m not promising anything,” she muttered. She tapped her cursed comb—“Mame,” she warned, “don’t interfere”—and the faint buzz of cursed energy stilled.

She turned, raising the bokken to a diagonal guard and tilting her weight onto the back foot. Her stance dropped, centered. “’Nobu,” she called. “You’re up.”

From the sidelines, Hisanobu hesitated just a second. Then nodded, stiff like a man walking toward his own death, nodachi exchanged for the practice blade now resting flat in his palm. "...Yes, Ojousama." He mirrored her position with the silent grace of someone resigned to his fate. 

They squared off and the garden held its breath.

Haibara whispered, “Her form’s perfect.”

Uzuya murmured, “No wasted motion.”

Kaoru didn’t hear them. She was already somewhere else, deep in focus. “This,” she said, eyes never leaving Hisanobu’s, “is Sandanzuki. Okita’s triple-point thrust that earned him the title of Kyoto’s Swiftest Blade.” She smiled faintly. “Just try to survive.”

Hisanobu tensed but he didn’t have time to respond. 

She was inside his guard before he registered the step, one blink and she was already low across the frost-bitten earth, slicing up in a rising diagonal arc. He stepped to intercept—too slow. Her bokken whispered past his block and tapped once, twice, thrice and he stumbled. Not really fatal, but potentially.

There was a crack of impact.

Kaoru pivoted behind him with a skid, landing in a low crouch, bokken raised behind her head in a perfect line as if catching the ghost of her own momentum.

Hisanobu hit the ground hard, palm braced against the ground, the other clutched over his chest, and wheezed audibly. His pulse scrambled to catch up, once, twice, then folded forward, breath escaping him and a cold sweat broke across his temples.

Satoru whistled. “Damn.”

Kaoru relaxed, tapping her bokken lightly against the ground. “Not bad, 'Nobu. But you still pull your right knee back before you block,” she said with a touch of fondness buried under the critique. “It’s inefficient.” Then she finally noticed his wheezing. “...Also, your heart stopped for a full three seconds. Shoko?”

“Ah. He’s dying.” The doctor uncoiled from her perch and made her way over without urgency, boots crunching on frost. She crouched beside Hisanobu, activating RCT like she was microwaving leftovers, and patted his back. "Up you get, handsome drama king," she said flatly. “I’m not losing my bodyguard to sparring injuries.”

“I’m—not—being—dramatic—” Hisanobu wheezed.

Kaoru rolled her shoulder. “Too slow. I’m out of shape.”

“Uh-huh.” Kusakabe crossed his arms. “You nearly stopped his heart.”

She waved that off. “Sandanzuki’s a diagonal cut. It aims for heart, lung, throat. If it connects, you’re cursed with tuberculosis, so you’ll want to reinforce them beforehand. Stay in motion and don’t let him pin you."

Kusakabe looked vaguely offended by the logistics. “Understood,” he said, sounding like he was already halfway to writing his will.

Uzuya, meanwhile, grinned like she’d just been handed a new toy. Then—

A soft melody chirped from her coat. Her entire face transformed from war general to doting mother in a single breath. “Ah! One sec!” She fumbled her phone from her pocket, eyes lighting up. She gasped, tapping the screen. “Takeru! Mama’s almost done!” She cradled the phone to her chest, bowed lightly to Kaoru, and walked off down the veranda cooing sweet things into the video call.

Kaoru blinked, mildly stunned.

“She’s one of the strongest Grade 1 in Japan,” said Satoru beside her, hands in his pockets. “I’ve seen her solo a special grade curse, but she turns to goo the second her son calls.”

She glanced again toward Uzuya, who was now cooing sweet nonsense into her phone, gesturing wildly with one hand like she hadn’t just been planning a battle five minutes ago. Her joy, so sincere it made Kaoru’s chest ache in places she thought long buried. The strength it took to smile like that, to stay soft after everything. Her eyes shifted to Kusakabe, who was very obviously pretending not to watch his sister with a familiar sort of helpless resentment.

“Told her to quit, after Takeru was born,” he grumbled. “Too stubborn. Says she’s doing it for him. Idiot.”

Kaoru didn’t answer. Her hand tightened once around the hilt of the bokken, then released. She had no right to judge that kind of strength. “Fighting for the people you love isn’t really a choice,” she murmured instead. “It’s the only thing you can do.”

Her gaze drifted downward—and landed on Haibara, still crouched near her feet. He was staring up at her with open admiration, all shining eyes and dumb loyalty, hair flopping just slightly with the breeze. She squinted.

…Damn, that mushroom cut really did look soft. Unreasonably so. Before she could stop herself, her hand moved, impulse overriding caution, and she ruffled his hair. It was disgustingly fluffy. She hated how satisfying that was.

He yelped, high-pitched, startled. His mouth opened. Closed. Sputtered.

“…What?” She tilted her head as if humoring a scared child. “Wanna try it next?” she added, dead serious.

Haibara waved both hands. “Absolutely not!” he said cheerfully smiling up at her. “You’re terrifying!”

“I wanna try it next,” came the inevitable voice

She didn’t have to look. She already felt him there, heat against her side, wearing the world’s most punchable smirk. Of course. Kaoru turned and there he was, halfway invading her personal space. Satoru, one arm slung lazily over her shoulder like he was some kind of house cat with boundary issues, the other perched on his hip, smug as a sunrise. His cheek hovered just too close to hers.

She exhaled. Damn it. This was her life now; babysitting the world’s most powerful apocalypse.

“Ka-o-ru,” he sing-songed, the grin stretching further. “I said I wanna try it next!”

Five full seconds of unimpressed silence. “No.”

“Why not?” he asked brightly, as if this were a game. “I’ll hold back.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She turned on her heel, stepping down from the veranda and stalking into the frost-tinged garden, scarf fluttering behind her like the war banner of someone too old for this nonsense.

No. Absolutely not. She had zero interest in sparring with—

“Scared to lose?”

Her steps halted mid-grass as the words hit her back like a thrown rock. That cadence, that tone, that exact pitch, damn him—that unmistakable Gojo pettiness that had haunted her since the Keicho period. For one unbearable second, she saw another him in his place. Same hair. Same grin. Same infuriating arrogance.

Her eye twitched. All that was missing was—

Kaoru turned slowly and stared at him over her shoulder, expecting—half-dreading—that the next words out of his mouth would be Pretty Boy, because at this point, he might as well have been him. Always calling her Pretty Boy.

She scowled. 

If there was one thing able of silencing four hundred years of discipline and tactical restraint, it was her stupid pride, especially when poked by white-haired men with too much cursed energy and too little survival instinct.

“I don’t see the point,” she said, voice tight. “Infinity would block a slash from Scarlet Mist anyway. This demonstration would be useless.”

Satoru, hands still in his pockets, hopped down from the veranda and closed the distance until they were toe-to-toe. He bent forward slightly to meet her gaze close enough that she could count the silver strands of his hair. “Then I won’t use Infinity,” he whispered, cheerful. “Promise. Just taijutsu, no cursed energy.” He tilted his head. “Still afraid to lose?”

A pulse throbbed at her temple. Oh you little—

“Fine,” Kaoru snapped, still glaring at Satoru. “'Nobu! Give him your bokken—”

“Don’t bother. I don’t need it,” Satoru interjected, maddeningly smug.

That did it. She was going to kill him, or at least severely bruise his ego

Kaoru stormed a few paces off, bokken in hand and settled into her stance, centered, weight low, grip tight. Satoru stood with his hands still shoved in his uniform pockets, posture upright, stance relaxed.

That sheer pettiness. Too much alike, too—

She narrowed her eyes; the beginnings of something disturbingly like anticipation crawled up her spine. Not many could bring it out of her anymore, but damn if he didn’t manage it just by existing.

Let’s see how long it takes you to take your hands out.

The others had fallen completely silent, the kind of silence that grew when people knew something deeply stupid—and deeply entertaining—was about to happen.

Shoko was back on the veranda, patting a now-recovered Hisanobu with less sympathy than one might afford a damp umbrella. Uzuya, still holding her phone, had frozen mid-call. “One second, Takeru,” she whispered into the speaker. “Mama needs to watch something real quick.” Haibara crouched low, biting his knuckle, eyes wide.

Kaoru adjusted her grip on the bokken, then she moved. Fast. Her first Sandanzuki carved through the air like lightning. It wasn’t a light strike, but it hadn’t been her best either.

Satoru dodged with a tilt of his neck, hands still buried in his pockets; his breath didn’t even hitch. That was annoying. He raised an eyebrow. “Faster than the one you used on ’Nobu,” he noted.

Kaoru spun on her heel, frustration barely there. She hadn’t expected it to land, not really. “Obviously. I wasn’t trying to really kill ’Nobu.”

“Oh?” he bounced a little on his heels. “So I get the real you?”

She exhaled. “Do not—”

Too late; her body moved before the thought finished forming. Second Sandanzuki; this one wasn't polite. She blitzed forward, her full weight behind it, feet exploding across frozen soil, bokken driving upward with speed that blurred the edge. A war cry might’ve suited the moment, but Kaoru always preferred silence.

Satoru’s eyes widened, a blink of surprise, maybe even something like glee, shifting mid-dodge; he yanked his hands out of his pockets just in time and deflected the strike with a raised forearm reinforced in the last second by cursed energy.

Kaoru heard the thud echo in his bones.

He chuckled. “Okay. You’re fast.”

“And you,” she said coolly, “took your hands out.”

“Only ‘cause you made me.”

Third strike. This time, she let her cursed energy settle in the bokken, reinforcing her momentum. She moved—and he moved too fast. Not the lazy dodge from before, not the smug little tilt of the shoulder. No, this time, his body blinked out of reach, scattered the ground in the aftershock of Blue.

Kaoru skidded to a stop. “You cheated.”

“So did you,” he shot back.

She didn’t bother replying, just slammed a heel into her own shadow and her body sank into it. She emerged again behind him in a vertical flash, bokken aimed at the base of his spine.

Satoru pivoted, eyes wide with delight as he turned to meet her—too late, she was behind his guard. Except his hand snapped back and he caught her wrist with one hand, pivoted smoothly, and the next thing she knew—she was slammed into the ground with a thud, pinned flat beneath his weight, Satoru's  knees framing her hips, one hand pinning her wrist,

“Well, well,” he murmured, leaning in just enough to be unbearable.

She scowled. “You cheated.”

He blinked slowly. “We said no cursed energy. You started it.”

“We said no techniques,” she snapped.

“Ten Shadows is a technique, Ka-o-ru,” he sing-songed, smug as ever. “Kind of a big one.”

“Only because you—!” She glared up at him. “You Blue-blinked across the garden!”

“Sure, but you shadow-jumped,” he pouted, mock-innocent. “We’re both little rule-breakers, huh?”

“Ugh—”

“Look, the point is”—he leaned closer,  lashes too long for someone that annoying—“you’re on the ground. And I’m not.”

Oh hell no, this again. The unfairness of it, the injustice. Once, four hundred years ago, she’d been his equal, his rival, and this exact position had been reversed. More times than she could count, she’d had him flat on his back, smugness wiped clean off his face. What divine joke had decided to reincarnate him taller, stronger, smugger, with better bone density probably, while she was stuck in a body that refused to age or grow another damn centimeter?

But fine. He was basking. She under him in a humiliatingly literal sense.

So she twisted her hips, flipped behind his knees like a monkey, and rolled them both. He let her, and maybe that was the final insult.

His back hit the ground, and she perched on top of him like an offended cat, planting one knee to his hip and stabbing the bokken into the dirt beside his irritatingly handsome face with unnecessary force.

Exactly where she’d been so many times before. Cosmic balance: restored.

“Oh,” he said, a little breathless, blinking up at, sprawled beneath her in the grass. Then, burst into a grin so wide it looked almost nostalgic. “Damn,” his gaze followed down her legs in a deliberately exaggerated sweep. “Strong legs.”

Kaoru froze. That line; he’d grin up at her, eyes soft and stupid, and say something equally foolish like how beautiful she looked standing over him. Her stomach twisted, and not entirely with rage.

How dare he say it the same way? How dare he not know? How dare he be so him and yet not him at the same time?

For one second, Kaoru forgot herself. She leaned in, smirking now herself. “Ah,” she said coolly. “Looks like you’re the one on the ground now... Pretty Boy.”

And that wiped the grin off his face. Satoru stared up at her, wide-eyed; a beat of confusion passed, then he dropped his lids low and relaxed beneath her entirely.

Kaoru frowned. The silence around them was deafening, the kind of silence where you knew people were watching. Something was wrong. Wait. Why is he looking at me like that? Why is everyone so quiet? 

“…What?” she asked, deadpan.

Satoru tilted his head, that dangerous little smirk returning. “Oh,” he said, softly. “So you do think I’m pretty.”

Kaoru’s mind stalled. “What.”

“You’re flirting with me,” he declared, unreasonably proud of himself. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“No.” Her voice rose in pitch—offensive, mortified. “No—I didn’t—”

“You called me pretty,” he pointed out, blue eyes positively glowing. “And then straddled me to the ground. ”

Kaoru flushed, her hands clenched against the fabric of his jacket. “I was insulting you.”

“In what universe is ‘pretty’ an insult?” he laughed, chest shaking under her palm. “Hate to break it to you grandma, but if someone call you Pretty Boy, they're into you.” 

As if on cue, he tucked his arms behind his head, smug and still pinned, that look that said: yes, I like this position very much, please stay right there. 

Kaoru’s brain imploded.

From the veranda, a groan. She turned her head and—oh no. Haibara’s face was crimson, both hands over his eyes. Kusakabe had turned completely around. Uzuya was shaking with laughter. Shoko… was watching with all the enjoyment of someone who had absolutely called this outcome, while Hisanobu—poor Hisanobu looked like he was about to have a stroke.

“It meant you were—fragile and decorative—!” she panicked, already red to the ears. “I—he—used to call me that to mock me! It meant delicate! Weak! Like a—like a—” she trailed off, realizing nothing she said would help.

Satoru blinked, absolutely not helping. “You sound defensive.”

“I am not defensive!”

“Oh?” he said, utterly unfazed. “Then why are you still on top of me?”

That’s when Kaoru realized—with horror—how this looked. Her skirt had shifted, her knees planted awkwardly at his side, hand braced against his chest, and him, grinning up at her like this was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling up at her, perfectly at ease beneath her legs. “It’s okay. I also think I’m pretty.”

Kaoru stared at him, looking obscenely comfortable pinned under her. That alone made her nearly drove the bokken through his skull. Instead, she stood abruptly, more flustered than she’d like. She fixed her long skirt, composed her face pretending nothing happened, and avoided every eye in existence. Especially Hisanobu's. 

Behind her, Satoru rolled lazily onto one elbow, grinning like a bandit. “Thanks for the lesson, Kaoru-sensei,” he chirped. “This Pretty Boy learned so much!”

Kaoru marched up the veranda, refusing to acknowledge anyone. “Okay—you!” she pointed randomly at Haibara, who squeaked.  “Training!” she snapped. “Resume formation! Pair off! Practice blocking Sandanzuki—‘Nobu, demonstrate again. I—I need—”

A beat.

“Ojousama,” Hisanobu cut in with all the grace of a man rescuing a cat from a pond, “it may be… time for your afternoon rest.”

Kaoru turned to him like he’d just kicked her dog. “I do not take afternoon rests.”

“Yet,” he said, beggingly, “you look very…rest-deprived.”

Her dignity—what remained of it—curled up and died for her. “…Right,” she said stiffly. “Yes. That’s… right. Rest. I’ll… go do that.”

She dared one last glance toward the garden. Satoru dusted his pants, and caught her eye.

Waved.

Smiled.

Kaoru turned heel so fast she nearly tripped on her own pride. “Good training, everyone,” she mumbled, stiff as a board, and disappeared into the house like she was trying to walk into another century. She did not look back. She did, however, briefly consider setting him on fire.

And just like that…

Kaoru, who could not die, very much wished she could as she sank deeper into the couch cushions.

“Too many people, Pretty Boy. This isn’t a secret anymore—”

Kaoru startled awake, heart thudding against her ribs like a warning bell. The dream dissolved fast, leaving only its aftertaste. Her fingers twitched. She blinked up at the low-lit ceiling, taking in the shift of shadows. So—she’d fallen asleep, and...

Great. That dream again.

She groaned softly as the familiar words clawed their way up from her subconscious once again. Her uniform creased as she curled tighter, sleeves bunched around her knees, the long skirt half-tucked beneath her. Mame’s teeth tugged lightly on a strand of her black hair as if scolding her for sleeping in public. Her spine ached, her eyes burned, and somehow she felt more tired than before.

She blinked at the fabric pressed against her cheek—the coarse weave of the living room couch, that ridiculous woolen throw someone had surely tucked over her while she slept, probably Satoru.

Kaoru filed that thought away.

This place is going to kill me, she thought flatly.

Ever since she’d moved into his house, she hadn’t slept well. Or much.

Between training Megumi—against his will, of course—strategizing against Scarlet Mist, and cohabiting with a man who thought walls were optional and night hours were a myth, Kaoru’s sleep came in short, restless bursts. Always with that voice from the past bleeding in. Always with that low tone, dry and commanding, tinged with too much foresight.

She exhaled through her nose, pressed her forehead against her knees, maybe about to shift, maybe get up, maybe retreat to her temporary room, when voices filtered in from the hallway.

Haibara and Uzuya.

Kaoru didn’t move; she could pretend to be asleep for a little longer. It wasn’t cowardice, it was strategic avoidance; her social meter had flatlined sometime around “you called me pretty.”

“—so if you and your brother take the east stairwell, we can get to the second-floor surgical wing in under thirty seconds,” Haibara was saying, hushed but fervent. “That corridor split left and right and overlooks three key routes, and it’s open enough that if something goes wrong—”

“We can react without delay both wards,” Uzuya finished for him. “Mmh. That’s good. You’re good at reading a battlefield, Yu-kun. I’ll mention it to my brother too but you should tell that to Gojo-san.”

A beat. Then a small, awkward laugh.

“Ahaha—n-no, I mean,” Haibara chuckled, with his usual, blinding optimism, “I’m sure Gojo-senpai already thought of that. Probably has better plans anyway, y’know? I was just… thinking out loud. Not like it matters, and if something goes wrong, he’ll handle it. I mean, he's the strongest, right?” he finished with a boyish grin audible in his tone, the same way children did when they were trying not to admit fear.

Not cruelty, just... Haibara.

There was a silence after that. A brittle one.

Kaoru frowned, eyes still half-lidded. Ah, she thought dryly. I’ve just witnessed something unpleasant. 

“Still,” Uzuya said kindly, maternal and piercing at once, “you should tell him. Good intuition is rare. Don’t downplay it.”

Footsteps padded into the room, followed by the low rustle of bags being gathered, Haibara animatedly grabbing his jacket, Uzuya laughing softly. Kaoru stayed still, head down, cheek pressed against her knees.

Then—

“Oh no,” Uzuya’s bright voice called from somewhere near the low table. “Did we wake you Kaoru-san?”

Ugh. Great.

Kaoru, still curled, resisted the urge to groan aloud as she cracked an eye open, then slowly dragged herself upright, hair sticking out in rebellious tufts. “No,” she mumbled, rubbing one eye with the heel of her palm. “Already awake.” A lie, but she said it with conviction, which counted.

Mame huffed and flopped into her lap, unimpressed.

She curled back in on herself, chin tucked against her knees, still visibly half-asleep.

The light was too bright. The world too loud. Her mind still full of memories, of that half-dream half-warning, of him.

They began gathering their things in silence. Almost. Haibara whistled quietly, clearly still buzzing from some nervous energy, while Uzuya folded a woolen scarf. Kaoru stared blankly for a moment.

She should keep out of it.

Don’t get involved. It’s not your problem.

But her mouth moved anyway.

“Why don’t you tell him?” she asked suddenly.

Haibara jumped, halfway into his jacket. “Tell who what?”

Kaoru looked up at him properly now, eyes half-lidded. Her voice, as always, was too direct to be comforting. Not her fault, just a family trait. “Your idea,” she said. “It’s good. Satoru would agree. So why not tell him yourself?”

Uzuya glanced over, lips quirking. Haibara shifted from foot to foot, scratching, scratching at his cheek. “Ah, well, you know… he’s Gojo-senpai. He always knows everything already, so…” he said, with a half-laugh. “You know he's... He's the strongest and—”

Kaoru blinked, as if genuinely trying to understand. “And he doesn’t read minds?”

Haibara flinched slightly. “N-no! I mean… I’m just me. He’s him. I don’t want to waste his time when he... He always got it together,” he admitted. “Like he doesn’t need anyone else to say things out loud.”

A low unimpressed grunt came from the hallway entrance. “Gojo is Gojo,” Kusakabe muttered, stepping into view. “Always been like that, everyone just tags along after him. He could probably solo this mission if he wanted. Don’t blame the kid for feeling like a sidekick.”

His tone wasn’t cruel. Just… realism.

Kaoru's gaze dropped to her knees.  Of course that’s what people thought. That he didn’t need anyone, that nothing they offered could matter. She’d seen this pattern before; he had been the same even in the past, sometimes, not out of cruel arrogance, but out of inevitability. The unconscious pulling away from others not because you were better but because you feared what would happen if you relied on them.

Because no one understood the weight. 

Always ten steps ahead. Forgetting to look back. Forgetting that anyone even followed.

Kaoru had been no different.

Well. They at least had each other in the past. Now...

She sighed, closed her eyes briefly. Another Gojo, another masterclass in unintentional self-sabotage.

She exhaled through her nose, then opened her eyes. 

“And yet, he called for you.”

No warmth. No drama. Just the flat cadence of fact, her specialty. 

“He said you’re the ones he'd bet on. Called you his ‘dream team.’”

Three pairs of eyes stared at her, surprised, disbelieving, slightly alien, like she'd just dropped a brick. Then— 

Uzuya smiled softly at her, like they’d just passed some invisible milestone while Haibara’s entire face lit up. He nearly glowed, bounding across the room. “Kaoru-san!” he gasped. “That’s—you’re right! You’re amazing! That’s so obvious, I was being such an idiot—thank you—” He dropped to one knee beside her and seized both her hands, as if she’d just handed him the meaning of life.

She instinctively tried to yank her hands away, leaning back against the sofa with alarmed precision. “Don’t—don’t do that. Personal space—”

She pressed back into the couch like a threatened cat, but Haibara held firm, beaming. Bomb of empathy, Kaoru thought, in deep, horrified clarity. His cursed technique made too much sense. He’s like a weaponized golden retriever.

Kusakabe, who had just gathered his coat stared at her like she’d grown a second head.“Oh great,”  he muttered, trudging toward the exit. “You’re as weird as him.”

“Told you you'd love her,” Satoru’s voice rang out cheerfully, right on cue, as he strolled in like he owned the building, which, arguably, he did. His hair was still damp, curling lazily around his face. A towel draped over his neck, his shirt hung half-tucked, like it had lost the will to fight. He looked like a man who had just walked off the set of a shampoo commercial.

He paused, taking in the tableau and the silence. “…What,” he asked, tilting his head in amusement, “did I miss?”

He stopped in the doorway, eyes sweeping the room. 

Kaoru curled on the couch, flustered and frowning. Haibara kneeling too close, both hands wrapped around hers like she was about to ascend to Nirvana. Uzuya smiling like she’d orchestrated the entire thing.

His eyes fixed on Kaoru. Then on Haibara’s hands grabbing hers. One eyebrow arched, just a little too sharp. “Yu-kun,” he said brightly, wagging a warning finger, “easy with the worship. She’s shy.”

Kaoru yanked her hands free with a glare. “You’ll catch cold with your hair still wet in December.”

“Duh. Noted, grandma.”

Kusakabe passed him with a grunt, thumbing toward the couch. “She’s weird.”

“I know, right?” Satoru beamed proudly. “Isn’t it great?”

Haibara, still buzzing with joy, darted up, reaching him. “Gojo-senpai! I’m gonna give it my all against Scarlet Mist” He held up a fist for a brofist, pure sunshine.

Satoru stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the fist.“You do that,” he said eventually, bumping knuckles with the younger sorcerer, face somewhere between baffled and proud.

Haibara grinned and bolted for the hallway, dragging him along. “I have a new idea!”

Satoru followed after him, half-laughing. “Wait—what idea?”

Uzuya was the last to remain. She watched them go, then dropped unceremoniously beside Kaoru on the couch.

Kaoru startled at the sudden weight and turned to glare. “You’re heavy.”

“And you, Kaoru-san,” Uzuya said, looping her scarf around her neck with a grin, “aren’t half as heartless as you like to pretend.”

Kaoru stared, flat. “I’m not pretending. It’s just my face. Blame my father’s eyes.”

"Sure, sure," the woman chuckled as she bumped her shoulder into Kaoru’s, or tried. Mame flared subtly and the pressure stopped Uzuya’s shoulder mid-motion, hovering just short of contact, the air between them gone dense and impassable.

Infinity.

Kaoru flinched, raised a finger, and flicked Mame—who had extended Infinity on reflex from her disheveled hair like a moody cat. 

Behave. Not now, she thought tersely at the cursed comb as her breath stilled. Mame retracted its reach with an indignant pulse. Her eyes flicked to Uzuya’s face. Had she noticed? Had she recognized that technique—?

Uzuya had noticed.

Her gaze drifted from Kaoru’s expression to the wooden comb; for a moment, Kaoru saw the calculation happen. Oh no. She’s putting it together. Kaoru braced for the inevitable question, but the woman only smiled, a slow, secret smile that smile said: I see you. But also: I’ll keep your secret—for now.

Crisis averted.

She exhaled, deeply grateful as Uzuya smiled. That woman was strange. She didn’t dislike her, but she still didn’t quite know what to make of Uzuya. Warm, controlled, dangerous. The kind of woman who could read emotions the way other people read weather. And beneath it, strenght, the kind that came from protecting someone who gave you reason to become dangerous. 

Kaoru had known women like that. Mothers. Terrifying creatures. Someone who would rip a curse apart with their bare hands if it so much as looked at their children wrong.

She respected them. 

Uzuya reached into her coat and pulled out her phone. After a moment of scrolling, she turned it around proudly and a photo lit up the screen: a boy grinning like the sun, two fingers raised in victory. Blond hair sticking in every direction, a missing tooth, a Hello Kitty bandage on one cheek.

“Takeru,” Uzuya said, proud. “My pride and joy.”

Kaoru blinked at the image, then at her. “He’s got your eyes. And he’s missing a tooth.”

“Battle wound,” Uzuya said, solemn. “From toast.”

Kaoru considered that, then gave a quiet, barely-there smile. “A worthy adversary. Cute.”

Uzuya beamed like she’d just won a prize at a festival, then touched the screen briefly with her thumb like it was a treasure. “He thinks I’m a superhero, you know,” she added, tucking the phone back into her coat. “None of his classmates believe him, obviously, they just think he’s got an overactive imagination. But he always tells them anyway—‘My mama fights monsters for me.’”

Kaoru nodded and a quiet smile tugged at her lips, uninvited. She leaned her chin against her knees again and let her eyes fall half-lidded. “'Nobu was like that, at six,” she murmured, almost without thinking. “When he was six he used to idolize me like I was some kind of heroine.” A pause. “Children are... Intense and absurdly sincere.” She sighed, touching gently Mame, like patting a child's head. “Looking at him now… Ugh. I wonder what went wrong.”

She stilled. Oops. That might’ve been another misstep. Her cover was already wearing thin in front of Uzuya, and she could feel it. It was a universal law, older than any Binding Vow: you couldn’t lie to a mother for long.

Uzuya, to her credit, just smiled wider and blushed with delight, clearly pleased by the shared sentiment. “Exactly! Takeru and his father aren’t sorcerers, but even if he can’t see the curses, he knows. He knows I’m out there, doing everything I can to make the world safer for him.  That gives me the strength to do this work, when the job gets ugly.”

Kaoru squinted slightly at her. “Ah. So that’s where one of Japan’s strongest Grade 1 gets her strength.”

Uzuya lifted her chin. “Motherhood is a cursed technique all its own.”

Kaoru hummed, dry.

“They keep trying to get me to quit this job,” Uzuya continued. “My husband, and my brother. ‘It’s not worth it,’ they say. ‘Too dangerous.’”

Kaoru tilted her head. “They’re wrong.”

“They are,” Uzuya agreed. “But they’re not wrong to worry.” She rolled her shoulders. “Atsuya especially. He talks big, but really—he’s soft under that Yakuza front.”

“Like… a chocolate soufflé?” Kaoru offered, tone flat but a hint of amusement at the corners.

“Yes,” Uzuya said seriously. “Exactly like a chocolate soufflé but slightly underbaked.”

Kaoru made a small, surprised noise, almost a chuckle; it startled even her. Dangerous. Uzuya was dangerous. Warm people always were. Then, as if it had waited patiently, the silence returned, more comfortable this time, stitched through with something… familiar.

Uzuya leaned back, glancing toward the ceiling. Her voice lowered. “What you said before… about fighting for someone you love. It’s not really a choice, was it? You just do it.”

Kaoru’s smile flattened. Ah. There it was, of course, the trap. Emotional vulnerability disguised as idle chatter. She bristled on instinct. This was a trained ambush; every mother she’d ever met was a psychological marksman, and this one had lined up the shot.

“In that,” Uzuya said gently, “I think we’re very alike, Kaoru-san.”

“No,” Kaoru said flatly. Her guard was back up. “We’re not.”

“Mmm,” Uzuya tilted her head with a mildly dangerous smile. “We’ve all seen the way you look at him.”

Kaoru stared at her, expression immovable. Inside, however, she wanted to die. “I look at everyone the same.” A bald-faced lie, delivered evenly, without blinking.

Mame twitched in her hair like it knew better.

Uzuya let her stew in silence a few seconds longer, the smile on her lips growing infinitesimally smug. The kind of smile women wore when they’d already imagined your wedding reception, your child’s name, and what flower arrangement would suit the ceremony.

They held the silence like swords drawn in a standoff neither intended to lose—two grown women locked in a staring contest over an unspeakable topic.

Kaoru could feel Mame curling tighter into her hair, as if it too wished to disappear.

The standoff might have lasted hours—if not for the timely arrival of salvation.

Hisanobu entered, followed by Shoko who moved like she always did: elegant in the most disinterested way possible, as though the world owed her nothing and she owed it even less. Without looking, she presented her arms, and Hisanobu—stoic, proper, three-piece suit immaculate—held her coat aloft without question.

“Mr. Bodyguard,” Shoko said, lips curling around the pocky in her mouth. “Don’t show up so doom-and-gloom on the day of the first snow, alright? Scarlet Mist might not manifest out of sheer secondhand depression.”

Hisanobu didn’t rise to the bait. “I am not gloomy. I am professional,” he replied, tone perfectly level. “Ojousama taught me that.”

Kaoru made an involuntary sound in her throat, half cough, half laugh.

Shoko gave a long-suffering sigh as she slipped her arms through the sleeves. “You say that like it’s a good thing.” She turned on her heel and headed for the exit without another word.

The standoff between Kaoru and Uzuya finally broke. Uzuya rose, tugging her cap further down over her face like a soldier saluting a general, giving her that infuriating mother-knows-everything look. “It’s time to go,” she said, stretching her arms behind her back. “Rest well, Kaoru-san. The first snow is almost here. We’ve prepared enough.”

Kaoru nodded. “See you at the hospital.”

“Mm. I’ll bring something warm,” Uzuya echoed, already following Shoko out. From the hallway, she called, “Haibara! Sure you don’t want a ride? It’s freezing and dark.”

“Nope!” chirped Haibara, voice muffled. “I gotta stop by Asakusa first!”

And just like that, the house emptied out again and Kaoru and Hisanobu were left alone. She studied him from her place on the couch—still composed, still staring at the doorway Shoko had just exited through.

Kaoru tilted her head at him. “’Nobu,” she said gently. “Not used to having this many people around, huh?”

He said nothing at first. Then, after a pause: “No.”

She approached him, steps light. A flicker of memory old passed through her chest; six years old, clinging to her sleeve, legs too short to keep up, calling her a superhero. The boy who used to hold her hand too tight, terrified of losing her in a crowd. The one who used to cry when she left for eighteen years and say he’d grow up to fight beside her.

The guilt was a slow, predictable burn. Looking at him now—sharp suit, perfect form, scowl like a sword hilt—Kaoru couldn’t help but think: That’s my fault. She exhaled. “If it weren’t for me, you’d probably have a much quieter life. Your grandfather too. And his.” She exhaled. “You all would’ve had easier lives.”

Hisanobu didn’t turn to her. But he nodded once, solemnly. “Perhaps. But…It’s not unpleasant,” he murmured. “Just… loud.”

Kaoru huffed softly. “That woman,” she said with a flick of her chin, “seems to like you.”

He stiffened instantly, then came the glare. “Ieiri-sama is just a refined lady.”

“Oh, now she’s Ieiri-sama.” She stood on tiptoe and ruffled his hair as she had done this since he was a boy—though now it took more effort, and he pretended not to flinch. Taller. Older. Time was not fair.

His ears tinted just slightly red.

She smiled faintly, drawing her hand back. It was… nice, actually. To see him exposed to the chaos of normal life beyond loyalty, to people with no idea what his lineage really was or what they were trained to do. To let him become part of a world that didn’t orbit around her. Kaoru laughed—genuinely amused, truly glad. 

A moment passed. Then—

“Ojousama.”

“Hm?”

“…You were really pathetic earlier.”

Kaoru sighed. “Thank you, 'Nobu.”

Hisanobu inclined his head. “You’re welcome.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Haibara moved quickly through the streets of old Asakusa, weaving past shuttered stalls and darkened windows with the confidence born of habit. His breath left white ghosts in the air. It wasn’t late, not really, but winter had that effect; darkness fell early and made the world feel secretive.

He clutched the small box of mochi tighter to his chest. One corner turn. Then another. No footsteps behind him, no suspicious cursed energy signatures as he sneaked inside the Sensō-Ji.

Perfect.

He’d done this often enough to know the path by heart now; the side corridor, the wall with the chipped tile, the space just wide enough to squeeze through without catching your coat. Past the empty ablution basin. Past the statue of Jizō. His sneakers barely made a sound on the worn stone.

It wasn’t wrong, he told himself again. He wasn’t doing anything illegal; he was just visiting an old friend. A deeply misunderstood one.

“Tonight might be it,” he muttered under his breath, rallying his optimism. “I might actually get through to him.”

The idea alone made him smile.

He followed the winding path toward the deeper recesses of the temple, past the sleeping halls and guardian statues, until he reached the ceremonial graveyard behind the oldest hall of the temple. And there, leaning casually against a timeworn gravestone, was a familiar silhouette.

“Geto-senpai!” Haibara waved cheerfully, bounding forward with a grin too wide for the place.

The figure straightened, long hair catching the lamplight from a distant lantern. Suguru raised one hand lazily in return, still dressed like a wandering bonze, black hair long and tied back, expression caught somewhere between gentle irony and patient detachment.

The same as ever.

Haibara still thought the get-up was a bit much, but Suguru insisted it was the easiest way to move unseen by the higher-ups. No one questioned a monk in a cemetery either way, Haibara hadn’t, at least.

“Yu-kun,” Suguru said, soft and playful. “Do lower your voice, will you? You’ll wake the temple guards.”

Haibara chuckled, unbothered. “Your fault, Geto-senpai. You always pick the most cursed places to meet.” He approached, scarf trailing behind him, cheeks red with cold and excitement. “I brought mochi,” he said brightly, holding up the box like an offering. “Got them from that old shop by the Nakamise street. The same you used to like.”

“Mmm.” Suguru hummed, smiling, accepting the box with both hands like it was some sacred ritual. “You spoil me, Yu-kun.”

Haibara plopped down on a low stone near the gravemarker, huffing. “Ugh. These past few weeks have been intense. I’ve barely slept. We’re running simulations every day, and Kusakabe-san keeps calling it ‘an academic exercise in trauma conditioning.’”

“Oh?” Suguru chuckled opened the box, eyes flicking over the contents of sugar. “Sounds like him. Is something happening?”

A black cat with blood-red eyes appeared from the shadows, weaving around his feet before rubbing against his leg with a soft meow. He didn’t look down at the cat. Instead, he picked up a mochi, took a bite with exaggerated delight.

Haibara leaned back, exhaling toward the sky. “You could say that.” He crossed his arms. “They put us on the Scarlet Mist case.”

Suguru’s chewing slowed, even as his expression stayed warm. His tone dropped in concern. “A special-grade Vengeful Spirit... Tough case.”

Haibara nodded, arms crossed. “Yup. But this time, it’s different. This time… Gojo-senpai asked for me. Specifically.” His voice was filled with a strange, defiant pride. He turned to his friend with a determined smile. “I’m part of the team handling it, he trusts me to help stop it. We’ve been training for weeks, there’s this specialist helping us who knows everything about that vengeful spirit—she even predicted when and where it’s going to manifest again.”

Suguru went still. Very, very still. “How impressive.”

“I know, right?” He raised a fist near his face, proud. “I really think we can end it for good. After a hundred years, we’ll be the ones.”

The black cat jumped lightly onto the gravestone beside him, tail curling. Suguru stroked it once, absently. “And this specialist,” he said, voice careful. “She’s working with Satoru on this case?”

“Kind of,” Haibara replied, thinking. “She’s strong, and smart, and… weird. But in a good way.”

Suguru smiled softly. He looked at the mochi in his hand, then bit into it again without any real interest. “I hope you’re right,” he said simply. “But don’t underestimate it. Scarlet Mist didn’t survive for a century by being careless. I'd hate for you to get dragged into that mess again, after the last time.”

“I won’t,” Haibara promised. “And with Gojo-senpai leading us, we can’t lose.”

Suguru’s eyes flicked upward to the sky, as if examining the stars. “If you say so.”

Haibara’s enthusiasm dimmed slightly, but only for a moment. He looked back, eyes softening. “You should’ve seen us, Geto-senpai. Working together. You would’ve fit right in.”

A pause.

“…Hey.” His voice dropped. “You should really come back.”

A silence settled. The kind that wasn't peaceful.  Suguru didn’t move, didn't blinked.

“You could, you know,” Haibara added. “Whatever happened—it’s not too late to fix it. I know Gojo-senpai, and after he exorcise Scarlet Mist, if you turned yourself in, he’d make the higher-ups listen and reconsider. They'll have no choice, you know him—”

“Satoru would kill me where I stand,” Suguru said flatly. Haibara flinched, but then, almost instantly, his friend turned to him with a soft smile. “You know what he’s like. Don’t take it personally.”

“But…” Haibara murmured. “He’s not like that. You just… you just don’t know anymore. He’s—” He swallowed hard. What could he say? What would change anything? He wanted to say more, wanted to find the right words to pierce whatever fog was wrapped around Suguru’s mind. Instead, he stood, fists clenched. “After we stop Scarlet Mist… just promise me you'll think about it. Please? Once it’s over, I’ll talk to Gojo-senpai. I’ll make him see reason.”

Suguru looked at him for a long time. Then smiled fondly. “Thank you. I mean it, you’re too good to me, Yu-kun,” he said gently. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The cat meowed again.

Haibara smiled, already stepping back toward the path. “Okay! I’ll let you go before someone spots us. See you soon, Geto-senpai! Don’t eat all the mochi or you’ll get a stomachache!” His scarf fluttered in the wind  as he jogged back toward the gate.

Leaving Suguru alone. Well. Not quite alone.

His expression didn’t change until the boy had vanished, then the smile slid off his face like water as he spat out the piece of mochi and flicked the rest behind him like garbage. “Tch,” he muttered, brushing his fingers. “Disgusting. I hate mochi by the way.”

The cat trotted ahead a few steps and sat, tail flicking. It tilted its head and slowly deformed and began to change; its limbs twisted, its fur rippled, shadows peeled away as its form stretched upward into something humanoid. 

He looked like a boy no older than twenty, but nothing in his bearing was truly human. His eyes—still red—locked on Suguru, playful and lethal from beneath a curtain of tousled brown hair pulled into a loose short ponytail. He wore a dark kosode and hakama, with a blue haori, the wide sleeves patterned with white mountain ridges. Around his neck, a bright red scarf.

“You should really move off my grave now,” said the spirit cheerfully, almost childish, cracking his neck to one side with a soft pop. “Bad manners. Even for someone like you.”

Suguru didn’t move. He only looked at him, lips curling into a smile just as poisonous. “Why?” he said. “What’s a grave to something like you, Scarlet Mist?”

“Still—” The vengeful spirit didn’t blink his crimson eyes. He simply stepped forward with bratty nonchalance, the wooden clack of his geta echoing once on the stone.

Suguru smiled back, just as lethal buy still stepped aside.

Scarlet Mist reached the stone marker with reverence, kneeling before it in a messy squat, one knee up, elbows resting lazily on it. He blew the veil of dust with one long exhale and brushed it aside with the sleeve of his haori—playful, idle, like a boy cleaning his own toy sword. 

His fingers lingered on the etched name:

沖田 総司

Okita Sōji 

“Next time you disrespect my family,” he said, sing-song as his fingers tightened on the stone. “I’ll make sure you choke on your own blood.”

Suguru watched him, with a sly grin. “Careful, Scarlet Mist. You say that like I couldn’t exorcise you if I felt like it.”

“I’d love to see you try, monk,” came the smug reply—followed by a bratty tongue stuck out over one shoulder. He leaned forward and cradled his chin in his palms, still perched on his haunches. A pose too casual for someone whose name once ended battles by its mere mention. He swung his body idly back and forth. “Don’t forget—” he added, bright eyes flicking upward, “I agreed to help you only as long as you help me. Mutual benefit. Don’t mess it up.”

Suguru chuckled, more out of habit than humor. His gaze wandered, thoughtful, to where Haibara had vanished beyond the stone torii. That hopeful little idiot. “You heard him?” he asked without turning.

“Hnnn,” Scarlet Mist mused distractedly, drawing idle circles in the gravel with his finger. “I heard you manipulating him like the heartless bastard you are, if that’s what you mean.”

“You’re exaggerating,” the sorcerer said, unbothered.

“And you’re disgusting.” Scarlet Mist said it like a compliment. “You should let me kill him and save you the effort,” he added breezily, resting his cheek on his knee, voice muffled. “It’d be cleaner. He’s too soft, not like that woman.”

Suguru’s eyes narrowed. Scarlet Mist hadn’t moved, still crouched, still turned away, but Suguru could feel the deliberate lack of fear, the disdain. It was almost insulting. “No,” he replied, voice clipped. “Informations. He’s useful, in his foolishness.”

Scarlet Mist tilted his head just enough to glance back at him. His smirk returned. “You really are the worst,” he drawled with mock-disgust, but there was almost admiration in it. “Anyway,” the spirit shifted cheerfully, “what now?”

Suguru tucked his arms inside the folds of his robes, one foot shifting against the frost-glazed gravel. He tapped a finger once, thoughtfully, against his bicep. “That specialist Haibara mentioned, the one who predicted our target… is that the immortal woman you told me about?”

“Mhm.” Scarlet Mist sat up straighter, eyes glittering. “The annoying Zenin, the Archivist. You’d like her, I think. Thinks too much, kicks like a mule. She’s been on my tail for over a century.” His grin was toothy, smug, but even he didn’t really laugh this time at the memory. “Came this close to exorcising me in Kyoto once. And again at the Itabashi Execution Grounds. Ugh, she’s relentless.”

Suguru whistled, low. “So it’s her.” He chuckled under his breath. “Then we’ll have to be cleverer than her, won’t we?” He tilted his head toward the moonlight. “I’ve got just the perfect curse for her. Let’s see if Gojo’s little Archivist foresaw this.”

Scarlet mist exhaled a long suffered sigh. “Ugh, not the creepy kitsune again. You know,” he offered with exaggerated patience, raising a hand like a schoolboy volunteering. “You could just let me attack on schedule, full force. Stop scheming and just let me stick to the original plan. Let your idiot boy lead them straight to me. A Gojo and a Zenin in one place? You know I’d love nothing more than to off them both at once.”

“You’re not ready,” Suguru said plainly, already turning toward the exit gates. “Right now, you’d get exorcised the moment Satoru Gojo shows up with his Zenin backup. You can't stand a chance against them both and I do so enjoy your company.”

“Pfft.” Scarlet Mist tossed a pebble at his back. “Not with the new ability my naginata unlocked last year.”

“Maybe.” Suguru turned away, starting back toward the path that led through the rear of the cemetery. “But if you start improvising, you can forget my help in finding the third heirloom. You want that weapon's full power back, don’t you? For your brilliant master plan to end the three big clans?”He turned to watch the pause land with a smirk.

The spirit’s face fell just slightly, the childish expression tightening at the edges. “Yes, I remember,” he said lazily. 

“I know where it is,” Suguru added, glancing over his shoulder, tone light as air. “And unless you want another repeat of twenty years ago, when you tried to attack the Gojo estate but couldn’t even break the kekkai around the estate... You'll stick to the plan. First, the monkeys, then you can do what you please with the big three.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, he knew the answer either way. He gave a two-fingered wave, then he was gone.

For a long moment, Scarlet Mist said nothing. Still crouched, still watching the stone in front of him. Slowly, his fingers reached forward again, reverent now, brushing over the kanji once more. He tapped his name gently. Then his fingers drifted downward, brushing another name carved beside his own.

沖田 光

Okita Mitsu

The last surviving thread of what had once been his heart. The playful smirk had faded as his hands clenched around his knees.

“…Zenin,” he murmured softly. “Gojo.” And then the last name, spat like poison: “Kamo.” His fingers curled into fists. “…They’ll all pay,” he whispered.

After a long time, a small smile came back on his lips, but the childishness was gone and all that remained was blood.

“They'll all pay in their blood for what they did to us, sister.”

𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑺𝒏𝒐𝒘

Chapter Text

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟒. 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑺𝒏𝒐𝒘

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

24 December 2014, Saitama, Tokyo

Thud. A dull, tragic little thud.

That was the sound of Satoru's forehead meeting his desk with feeling.

He didn’t move for a few seconds. Just lay there, cheek mashed against the wood, willing his brain to leak out of his ears and put him out of his misery. Eventually, he tilted his head sideways, eyes squinting toward the window; outside, the sky had gone dark and flicker of Christmas lights blinked across the road like even they had better things to do.

“Shit,” he muttered.

What time was it? Definitely past dinner. Possibly past reason.

Had he even left the room today? Probably not. Time had stopped being a thing the moment Kaoru had started nesting and making his life difficult like a curse. Days bled together. He’d been waiting for first snow and Scarlet Mist, and all he had was dust and scrolls.

He peeled his face off the desk with the grace of a dying man and slumped back in his chair. His room—barely touched since they’d moved into the residential house in Saitama—looked like a library had exploded mid-exorcism; scrolls were everywhere, floor, desk, shelves, him. Especially on him.

The one under his elbow was yellowed and brittle. Edo period, probably; another dead end. He’d gone backwards, era by era, desperate to find something, anything, on Kaoru, but every entry got vaguer the further back it went, like history itself had started gaslighting him.

Damn. He was smart, genius-level, Six Eyes-tier intelligence and all that. So why did digging through jujutsu records from the past period feel like an impossible mission?

Satoru ran both hands through his hair until it stuck out in a heroic messy waves because screw it, he was allowed a breakdown.

He reached for the scroll again. The last and oldest one. Early Edo; his last hope.

It was penned by some guy named Michinobu, supposedly the first “official” head of what had once been the Edo Jujutsu Training Ground. Terrible name, honestly. What was it, a military boot camp? Possibly. Probably. He squinted; maybe it still was.

Satoru leaned forward, fingers trailing over the text again, now more curious than tired. Michinobu. Satoru frowned. No clan listed, just… Michinobu.

The first half read like a policy manifesto written by a bureaucrat with a fever dream; neutrality, education for all, bloodline transparency, blah blah clan alignment, directives from the early Jujutsu Order. Satoru snorted. Yeah, right. Four hundred years later and we’re still measuring sorcerers by the shape of their bloodline.

Further down: procurement logs, dozens of them, all addressed to the Zenin Clan.

Huh. So much for neutrality.

From the frequency of correspondence, it looked like the Zenin clan had a... generous relationship with the school. Suspiciously generous; their logistics clearly sustained the place for years.

And then—finally—tucked at the end, too tattered to fully preserve but legible enough, a fragment of what looked like a personal journal.

Michinobu’s notes on the camp origins; 1599, Keichō, Sengoku period’s last breath.

His eyes narrowed. “1599.” He read aloud, pulse quickening. “The Edo Jujutsu Training Ground was established under the order of the Daimyo Tokugawa Ieyasu, with oversight from the three great clans. Supervision assigned to the newly appointed Zenin clan head...” 

He stopped. Blinked. “Oh.” Satoru leaned in, a slow grin creeping up his face. “Oh, hello. There you are, you little antique gremlin.”

Kaoru Zenin.

He sat up straighter, legs kicked under the desk like a schoolboy discovering gossip. So, there was a Kaoru Zenin on record, four hundred years ago. A grin curled slowly across Satoru’s face, but then the next line hit. 

Kaoru Zenin, Ten Shadows prodigy, took clan leadership at nineteen. The man at the head of the Zenin clan, severed clan ties with the training ground in early 1600 and died shortly after in war against the Gojo clan head. Labeled a traitor by all three clans and the Tokugawa shogunate.

Satoru deflated. "Ugh,” he muttered, brows drawing together. “This one dude again?"

Yet again, a perfect match and a dead end. No matter how far back he dug, he always hit the same wall: the Keichō, the same dead man, a war criminal with her same name, bloodline and cursed technique.

Every. Damn. Time.

“Not my Kaoru,” he muttered. The moment the words left his mouth, he winced.

The shame was already blooming. 

Grunt.

Satoru twirled a pen absently; then, he shut the scroll a little too hard for something centuries old, slapped on his tinted glasses, and tried to dull the cursed energy leaking through the floorboards from Kaoru’s cursed basement, or maybe her cursed comb being moody again.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching until the joints cracked, fingers laced behind his head. This was ridiculous; what were the odds of a perfect homonym? “She can’t be him,” he said aloud, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer divine clarification. “Right?”

Still. The coincidences were piling up. The same name, the same technique, the same talent that scratched at the edge of memory like déjà vu? How many chances were there of a Kaoru Zenin, alive in 1600, Ten Shadows, Zenin clan and all the package? What if... Just what if it wasn’t a coincidence at all?

Could they be the same person?

“No way,” he squinted at the ceiling as if it might drop him an answer. “That would be crazy.”

But not impossible. 

She was secretive, and weird, and impossibly calm about history. And freakishly skilled. Plus, she’d said some things that didn’t line up with anyone born in the last century so she was probably older than the Meiji restoration. It would make so much sense. That would be… entertaining. Especially for the elders. He imagined the Zenin clan’s current leadership discovering that little twist of fate. 

‘By the way, the disgraced patriarch from 1600? She lives in my home now.’

It would be hilarious. He paused, a little frown creasing his brow.

No. She’s a woman. Right?

There was no way she wasn’t, he was sure of that; she was too pretty to be a man in disguise, wasn’t she? And not just in the “suspiciously immortal” kind of way, she was pretty in that quiet, lethal way that made him pay attention without meaning to. Objectively, and definitely not because he’d looked too long. He thought back to their spar, when he’d pressed her to the ground hard enough to feel... confirmations, there.

Soft ones, unmistakable confirmations, in fact.

“Not a man,” he said aloud, defensive. “Definitely not a man.”

He raised both hands in front of his face and gestured vaguely, as if reconstructing the scene would make it more scientific.

Those were two anatomical proof. Small chest, not flat, just precise and compact like the rest of her. Better that way, honestly, anything more was a nuisance in a fight. And legs. Damn, she had good legs, the kind of legs that could kick someone through a wall. Satoru liked strong legs, no shame in that. Entirely objective observations; that was also hardly adjacent his research.

His hands froze midair then slowly lowered, mortified.

A knock at the door spared him from spiraling further into his historical-gender-identity-crisis-thing.

Satoru jolted upright, hands behind his head in record time like a man caught stealing. “Come in~” he sang, already rocking on his chair.

The door creaked open just enough for a familiar face to peek in—Tsumiki. Sweet, angelic, emotionally stable Tsumiki; thirteen years old and already more adult than anyone in this house, including Kaoru, including him. She was wearing the oversized Christmas sweater he’d gifted her last year, matching ones for the whole house. A blue monstrosity featuring a duck in a Santa hat. She was the only one who wore it voluntarily; Megumi had threatened arson. 

“Tsumiki-chan!” he cried, flopping one arm toward her like a dying courtesan. “Don’t tell me Kaoru cursed the fridge or Megumi ran away. Or—wait—is this about shoes? If it’s shoes, say no more, I’ll personally take you to Shibuya and buy you the entire mall.”

She stepped inside, small and steady, hands tucked into her sleeves. “No,” she said with a soft laugh. “We made popcorn and Kaoru-san picked a movie.”

“Kaoru's pick?” Satoru’s brow arched beneath his glasses. “Is it even in color?”

“I... think so?” She squinted in thought. “Movies were in color by the ’80s, right?”

Satoru grinned. “I’ll let you find out. But if it’s black and white and silent, blink twice and I’ll stage a rescue.”

She giggled. Then, quieter: “Gojo-san?”

“Mmm?”

“How long are you planning to stay?”

That caught him off guard.

He sat up a little straighter. “Not too long,” he said, light and easy. “Just until we wrap things up, y’know the usual. Save the world, defeat the evil, restore balance, then boom, Megumi gets his room back and—” he gestured vaguely at the house “—this place can go back to being your peaceful little kingdom. Promise!”

He smiled, expected her to nod. She didn’t.

Tsumiki raised both hands quickly, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She hesitated, then said, “I meant… Usually, you drop by only once in a month but you can stay if you want. I think Megumi would like that.”

That made him pause. “…Megumin?” He gave a soft laugh, deflecting. “He calls me annoying at least twice a day.”

She looked down, fidgeting with her sleeve hem. “He won’t say it, but he does,” she added, softly. “And I do too. We like having you here. Even after everything ends… I think we’d want you to stay. This is your home too.”

That—

That landed somewhere he wasn’t braced for. Satoru blinked, letting the silence stretch. He wasn’t sure what kind of presence he thought he was for them. A provider, maybe, necessary evil, even. He’d always thought the best thing he could do for those two was not get too close—circling, not landing, like a satellite. Satoru hadn’t considered... they might want him emotionally present.  Provide money, food, gifts, protection, gave them weird sweaters for christmas... that was enough, wasn’t it?

But Tsumiki, sweet Tsumiki, wanted to keep it all. That little house in Saitama, the cursed basement, the mess of people; somehow, she wanted to keep it all.

She looked up at him, determined as it had been that first day when she’d faced him, asking if he was going to take Megumi away from her.  “And Kaoru-san. Megumi’s learning a lot from her, even if he pretends not to. And Kashimo-san is actually pretty helpful around the house.” 

Satoru nearly laughed at that. Helpful was certainly one word.

Tsumiki’s smile turned shy but steady. “It’s noisy now, but it feels... full. Like a real home. We could keep going, like this. After.”

Oof. Direct hit, Your Honor. That one hit straight in the soul.

He scratched at the back of his head, laughing a little too loud, lustered in a way he hadn’t been in years and all because of a thirteen yeas old too honest for her own good. “I’ll think about it,” he said, voice softening after a beat. And for once, it wasn’t just something he said to avoid hard truths. “Can’t promise anything about Kaoru or ‘Nobu. But hey—I’ll bribe them if it makes you happy princess.”

Tsumiki beamed. “Good.” She turned, but then added, almost casually, “Oh—and you should come watch the movie—”

A thud.

A heavy tremor ran through the floor beneath them, followed by a sharp pulse of cursed energy. They both stilled. Satoru’s Six Eyes snapped into focus behind his tinted lenses, as he caught the edges of the ripple bleeding up the stairs, familiar, erratic, overcompressed; Megumi's.

“…I think Megumi might need rescuing,” Tsumiki said mildly, already backing out the door with the poise of someone far too used to supernatural incidents interrupting movie night.

Satoru sighed, standing with a chuckle. “And I almost had a quiet evening.”

He grabbed his navy blue sweater—yes, the duck-in-a-Santa-hat abomination—and tugged it over his head. It matched Tsumiki’s, which she liked. And some small part of him liked matching with her.

Time to see what kind of ancient movie Kaoru thought count as appropriate Christmas entertainment.

Satoru headed for the stairs and by the time he hit the halfway mark, the house smelled of popcorn and winter spice. Outside, he could hear a soft instrumental of “Silent Night” playing from someone’s open window, and—

Thud.

Another burst of cursed energy, a more refined burst. Still Megumi. Still alive, at least.

He narrowed his eyes. “What the hell are you doing down there,” he muttered, curiosity piqued.

With his hands stuffed in his pockets and his balance barely engaged, he skipped the last few stairs like a teenager avoiding chores and turned toward the living room, already prepping a sarcastic quip—

Only to nearly walk into a finger. Kaoru, back to him, raised a single finger to his lips without even turning, in the universal sign for shut up. And he obeyed; without thinking, without protest, his mouth snapped shut like a trained dog. It annoyed him. There was something about the way she held that silence, like command came easy to her, like she expected to be obeyed.

Satoru squinted hard behind his glasses. Because—what the hell—

Kaoru stood in ridiculous blue bathhouse slippers that squeaked faintly every time she shifted weight, an oversized grey shirt hanging halfway to her knees, hair in a haphazard braid with Mame half-buried in it like a trapped cursed spirit begging for salvation. The look should’ve been ridiculous; somehow, it wasn’t. Somehow, she looked like she owned the damn house.

In her hands, reverently held, was a stopwatch.

Satoru followed her gaze.

On the couch: Megumi, sill as stone, a single bead of sweat slid down the side of his face as he stared—dissociated, determined—at the glowing TV screen, which was currently broadcasting what looked suspiciously like a historical drama. A very old one.

A bad feeling curled in Satoru’s gut. “No,” he whispered. “She didn’t. Not the NHK again.”

Kaoru raised the hand that had silenced him in slow motion. Satoru instinctively flinched, but she wasn’t aiming at him; her hand descended like a guillotine—thwack—chopping onto Megumi’s head. 

“Now,” she commanded.

“Holy—!” Megumi jolted like he’d been shot, clapped his hands slammed together in perfect form, and cursed energy surged. Thud. The Divine Dogs burst into the living room that absolutely did not have the square footage for them, knocking over a lamp and skidding on the rug.

Kaoru clicked the stopwatch. Her smirk could have outshone a battlefield general’s. “1.8 seconds,”  she declared, cool as anything she did.

Megumi, meanwhile, was massaging his scalp where she'd hit him, muttering a chain of insults that was definitely not age-appropriate. His black eyes locked on hers with the betrayed look of a war orphan.

Kaoru, unfazed, planted a hand on her hip and raised the stopwatch in front of his nose like a sacred relic. “That’s another 0.2 seconds shaved off your previous reaction time,”  Then she leaned down, teasing. “Well done. When you hit 1.5, I’ll consider letting you tame another shikigami.”  It was a terrifying expression. And yet—

Megumi made a face, an actual pout, small and brief. Satoru’s brows lifted; he was annoyed, sure, but also... a little flustered. Like he hadn’t been praised in a while and didn’t quite know what to do with it.

Well, well. Someone’s getting soft.

Apparently, Kaoru noticed too. She reached out to ruffle his hair with a smug little hum—

Megumi yelped and launched off the couch like it was on fire, the Divine Dogs vanishing into smoke as he scrambled away. “Absolutely not!”

And suddenly Kaoru was chasing him around the couch with all the grace of an older sibling dead set on ruffling his hair again, just as much Megumi was dead set on escape, yelling in half-hearted protest.

“You’re deranged!”

“You say that, but you’re grinning.”

“I’m not—!”

“You are.”

It was chaos. Warm, stupid chaos. It was—

Satoru watched them with an expression that started as mild amusement and turned into something softer. Then he stepped into the room with perfect timing, ruffled Megumi’s hair mid-sprint. “Wow. Didn’t think anyone else could get away with that but me,” he said, smug. “You two are really setting this place on fire.”

Megumi groaned like a boy who had long suffered living through tyranny. “Stop it, both of you!”” he snapped, deeply betrayed.

Kaoru grinned. Satoru grinned harder. Then he turned to her, leaned down just slightly—just enough to be annoying. “So,” he said, shoulder nudging hers, “how long’s this been going on?”

Kaoru barely glanced at him. “Couple hours,” she said, still tapping at the timer like a coach at Olympic trials. “He’s getting faster.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, gaze sweeping the air thick with Megumi’s cursed residue. “Explains why the room smells like cursed energy and trauma.” He tilted his head, smirk crooked, and leaned a little closer. “You know… one might even say you’re enjoying this.”

Kaoru’s eyes flicked away. “It’s a waste to let a Ten Shadows user be inefficient. At his age, I’d already—”

“—probably tamed four shikigami, mastered battlefield tactics, ended a dynasty,” Satoru cut in smoothly. “You terrifying woman.” And with that, he flopped down onto the couch like a spoiled cat claiming its throne, legs draped over the armrest. “So? Where’s my promised bad popcorn and ancient cinema?”

“Coming!” Tsumiki’s voice chimed from the kitchen.

She appeared with a bamboo bowl comically large for her arms, Hisanobu trailing behind like a hostage of domestic peace: black three-piece suit, pale pink apron with embroidered wisteria. It wasn’t clear who’d lost the bet.

Kaoru accepted the bowl like it was an offering at court. Satoru squinted at the apron. Hisanobu squinted at the duck on Satoru’s sweater. Neither commented as the older man took the far side of the couch and, still making eye contact, mirrored Satoru’s lounging sprawl exactly—elbows on the armrest, one leg crossed.

The unspoken tension of two men forced to share a queen-sized ego buffer radiated across the cushions.

Kaoru, entirely unaware, dropped down between them like she owned the space, taking up more space than someone her size should. Cross-legged, eyes fixed on the screen, she dug into the popcorn with the serenity of someone watching history unfold. The bowl looked enormous in her lap, yet she somehow made it dignified. 

Satoru shifted a little to the left. Hisanobu adjusted to the right. Elbow standoff resumed across Kaoru’s oblivious head as she expertly kept chewing.

“Comfy?” Satoru asked, not even hiding the irritation in his voice.

“Mhm,” she replied, utterly at peace.

Megumi flopped forward on his stomach like he’d just barely survived boot camp, limbs splayed across the floor. Tsumiki settled neatly beside him, hugging her knees, the hem of her ridiculous duck sweater bunching around her thighs. She smiled, soft and full of private joy as her gaze flickered between the screen and her brother.

The TV blared on, broadcasting the world’s grainiest recreation of the Battle of Sekigahara. Costumes that had probably been cutting-edge in 1983 paraded across the screen, and someone in full kabuto screamed, “Tokugawa-dono!!” as if the world might end if he didn’t pronounce it in all capital letters.

Satoru tossed a few kernels into his mouth, slouched farther into the couch, and exhaled with the long-suffering sigh of a man at peace with his own martyrdom. “Ah yes. Christmas Eve. Popcorn. And…” He glanced at the TV, where a samurai was currently yapping about bushidō and loyalty. “What exactly are we watching again?”

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” Kaoru answered, still watching with disturbing focus. “NHK Taiga Drama. 1983.”

He groaned into his handful of popcorn. “Of course it is.”

The next few minutes passed in what could only be described as organized chaos.

Kaoru took to tossing popcorn into her mouth with an archer's accuracy. Hisanobu picked methodically at the bowl with exactly three fingers like a man trained in royal court etiquette.  Satoru hoarded it like a raccoon, occasionally letting Tsumiki steal handfuls with a smile that could get away with murder. Megumi tried and failed to swipe some from Kaoru’s side—every time, she flicked his hand away without even looking. Mame twitched in silent approval.

Onscreen, actors in suspiciously perfect armor flung themselves across a plywood battlefield in slo-mo, over-the-top dramatic music. A banner with the Tokugawa's Mitsuba Aoi mon fluttered triumphantly  in the fake wind.

“Is that supposed to be Ishida Mitsunari?” Satoru asked, pointing incredulously at an eyeliner-heavy general delivering a war speech with too much flair.

“He was not that dramatic,” Kaoru huffed, reaching for more popcorn. “Also, the formations are wrong,” she said, voice too calm. “The Shimazu never broke from the rear like that. They had a separate understanding with Tokugawa-dono, this is just dramatization.”

“Tragic,” Satoru muttered. “You know, they say Sekigahara decided the fate of Japan—”

“—for fifteen years,” Kaoru cut in dryly. “Then came Osaka.”

Megumi, face still buried in the floor, grunted, “They reused that actor. He died two scenes ago.”

“I liked his second death scream better,” Tsumiki offered politely.

Satoru chewed slowly, then reached for another fistful of popcorn. Odd. Still warm. Too warm. “Why is this still hot?” he asked, squinting at the bowl. “It’s been like an hour.”

Kaoru grinned, lifted the oversized bowl proudly. “This,”  she announced, like that was something normal people said, “is the ceremonial rice bowl of Oda Nobunaga. It maintains the internal temperature of anything stored within. Legend says it survived the fire at Honnō-ji and it's still warm, four centuries later.”

Satoru stared at her like she’d just told him she used human teeth as teacups. “So we’re eating cursed popcorn.”

Kaoru only raised an eyebrow. “Would you rather they were cold?”

“I’d prefer not to be cursed by the angry spirit of Nobunaga,” he said, voice pitching high in mock terror. “Pretty sure he didn’t die so we could eat snacks.”

Just then, Hisanobu’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen and stood with all the urgency of a soldier reporting to his commander, bowing slightly toward Kaoru. “Forgive the interruption, Ojousama. It’s Ieiri-sama.”

Kaoru raised an eyebrow as he left with suspicious speed. “When did those two even start texting?”

Satoru leaned toward her, voice conspiratorial. “Bet you anything it’s a tactical retreat. Even he couldn’t survive another hour of NHK.”

Kaoru said nothing, just reached over, reclaimed the bowl, and returned to the screen, watching the reenactment of a battle she might very well have led. Onscreen, someone screamed “Masamune!” before dramatically falling off a wooden scaffold.

Megumi snorted, arm tossed over his eyes. Tsumiki stifled a laugh against the couch cushions. And then, slowly, they began to slump sideways; Kaoru glanced down at them with a quiet humph, then reached behind the couch for a blanket. She threw it over them both with more force than grace; still, it landed like care.

“They’ll catch a cold,” she muttered like a threat. Then she nestled herself back into the sofa, pulling her legs in again, clearly not planning to give up an inch of space even with the couch now half-empty.

Satoru watched the whole thing, head tilted. “Can’t blame them,” he said. “Probably not the top choice for kids’ holiday entertainment. Too much screaming.” On screen, Tokugawa Ieyasu stood on a fake hill, brooding dramatically into the middle distance. “...And kind of a dick.”

Kaoru hummed. “Did you know—” she began, in that about to history-nerd all over you tone.

“Oh, no.” Satoru groaned into his hand. “Not a Did you know.”

Kaoru didn’t acknowledge his suffering. “Tokugawa-dono wasn’t a jujutsu sorcerer,” she continued undeterred. “But he gained the loyalty of every major jujutsu clan by the end of the war.”

She said his name with reverence—Tokugawa-dono—like she wasn’t quoting from a documentary, but from memory, like it hadn’t been four hundred years since anyone called him that with any real weight.

Satoru blinked, then squinted at her like she’d grown a third eye. “Tokugawa-dono?” he teased, mimicking her overly formal tone. “That’s a lot of reverence, don’t tell me you actually knew him.”

Kaoru’s smile turned wry. Not smug—knowing. “Oh, you have no idea.”

That made him pause. “No way. So tell me, Miss Living Archive. What was Tokugawa-dono like?”

Kaoru’s eyes flicked over to him. “He was... Terrifying, in his own way.” She tilted her head, as if searching the past like a well-thumbed book. Her voice dropped into something quieter, a little distant. “None of us moved. Not me. Not Date Masamune. Not even the Kamo heir. No one acted until he did.” Her mouth curled faintly. “And when he did, it wasn’t some big speech. He just glanced at us from across the battlefield. That was all and... suddenly the entire field ignited.”

She stopped there. She didn’t elaborate what happened next.

Satoru frowned. It was the first time he’d seen that expression on her: haunted. Her eyes looked far away,  like she could still hear the sound of clashing steel echoing in her bones. She wasn’t bluffing; he could tell.

And just like that, it clicked; one of those puzzle pieces he’d been toying with finally slid into place. If she’d really been at Sekigahara... then she’d been alive in 1600. Already. When that other Zenin existed, the one man with her same name and background.

They were alone now; the kids asleep, Hisanobu gone. Just the two of them. The taiga drama droned on. And maybe he could just ask. So, Satoru, driven by that same dumb curiosity that had gotten him into trouble his whole life, said it.

“…Hey, Kaoru. Were you—like—a guy, four hundred years ago?”

It slipped out faster than he meant; the question hadn't sounded that ridicolous in his mind.

Kaoru didn’t react immediately. In fact, for a full second, she didn’t move at all. Her breath caught—barely—but he noticed. She turned toward him just a little too slow, like someone unsure of what she might find. She looked surprised. A little… undone. There was something behind her eyes; fear, maybe, or a hope, and for a moment, it seemed like she might ask him something instead.

Satoru held her gaze, a curiosity he didn’t know how to let go of, and that was the mistake; he was good at staring people down, he'd made grown men cry in meetings with a glance. But this? This was different. Ugh. God, it sounded dumb now.

He winced inwardly. “Never mind. Forget it,” he said quickly, eyes darting back to the screen. “Stupid question.”

But her gaze didn’t drop. He could feel it still on him, considering. He glanced back, and—

“…Does it matter?” she asked ssoftly, without judgment, just an honest question. “Who I was, four hundred years ago?”

It shouldn’t have landed like a gut-punch. He looked down, brows drawing together. Did it matter? Did it actually matter? Or was it just… that itch in the back of his skull, that need to understand her? What was he expecting to do with the answer? Congratulate her on her gender evolution? Pin down something in the past that might help him understand who she was now? He thought about the question. About the strange curiosity that had followed him for weeks. About the way he watched her. About the way he remembered her—before he’d ever met her. 

Maybe it didn’t matter.  Maybe she had her reasons for keeping quiet, maybe the past was buried for a reason, and maybe it wasn’t his right to dig it up.

Satoru realized he didn’t actually want the answer; he wanted her to trust him with it and that wasn’t the same thing.

“No,” he said finally, and with more honesty than expected. “Doesn’t matter.” 

She exhaled, softly. Almost imperceptibly but he heard it.

He shifted, arms stretching behind his head as he tilted to face her more directly. “Still curious, though, how’d you end up like this?” He gestured toward her with a half-lazy, half-deliberate sweep of his hand. “Immortal, mysterious... a tiny bit terrifying.”

Kaoru didn’t smile, not quite, but her posture changed and her eyes, when they met his again, had that same odd clarity that asked: Don’t you already know? Her eyes held his for a breath too long,  then she looked away, pulled her legs closer. “Long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

She hesitated, then—quietly, like it wasn’t a confession but simply the truth—said, “I didn’t die when I should have.” A pause. For a moment, she looked so tired, so human. “A Binding Vow,” she added. “Or a curse. Depends how poetic you feel.”

Satoru raised a brow. “So. You got stuck.”

“Mm,” she hummed, not quite denying it. “I tried breaking it. Every way you can imagine. Nothing worked.” She exhaled through her nose, the sound dry and small. “So I stopped trying. Figured I’d make myself useful. Watch the Three Heirlooms, keep them from causing more trouble, that kind of thing.”

And just like that, Satoru felt the hairs on his arms rise, the popcorn stalled halfway to his mouth.

Oh. Oh no. A cold shiver crawled down his spine; she was talking about those weapons again. The Three Heirlooms, the artifacts she mentioned during training and probably loved more than most people loved their kids.

One of which he’d blown to cursed hell twelve months ago. The Inverted Spear of Heaven. Vaporized. Kaboom.

Should he… should he drop it to her? He glanced sideways calculating the odds of survival if he told her now. She’d bury him under a thousand-year lecture and then—possibly—literally bury him with a cursed spoon.

Nope. Not tonight. No need to die before Scarlet Mist, and frankly, he liked his face. So he did what any smart man would: pivoted, hard.

Another can slapped the opposite side of her face with enough force to be legally classified as an assault. Kaoru didn’t even have to look. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Ka-o-ru,” Satoru sing-songed behind her, grinning like a menace. “Got you coffee, too. Black, obviously. I know you didn’t get your usual fourteen hours last night, so…” He gave her a shove with the can. “Figured you’d need the boost.”

She turned, narrow-eyed; his coat was open despite the cold, white bandages neat over his eyes, hair windswept from teleporting across town just to get that can of black coffee. He pushed the can against her again, twice as dramatic now, like caffeine was some sort of love declaration.

Kaoru let out a grunt, and weighed both hot cylinders in her hands like a woman questioning her too-long-life choices. “Wonderful,” she deadpanned. “You’re trying to kill me with caffeine.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, pushing his bandages up over his eyes just enough to wink at her like he hadn’t just committed a petty act of beverage-based jealousy.

Then—

“Tch. Hold this.”

The clipped voice belonged to Shoko, who strolled up without preamble, depositing her small purse into Hisanobu’s waiting hands. He accepted it with the formality of a court official receiving a sacred relic, his Moon Pride nodachi slung over his shoulder, perfectly balanced despite his tailored three-piece suit.

He watched with some interest as Shoko rifled through the purse, single-minded. She extracted a single green jade earring and inserted it into her left ear with surprising care.

Kaoru froze, lips halfway to her coffee. That shape—no, that glow—no, that memory—

“Shoko,”  she said before she could stop herself. “That earring. Where did you get it?”

The other woman glanced over, brows raised. “Hmm? Oh, just a family heirloom. My grandma’s grandma or something. I wear it on missions. Supposed to bring good luck.” She turned slightly, letting Kaoru get a better look at the jade pendant. “Cute, though.”

“It’s very refined,” Hisanobu offered blandly, still holding the bag open.

Kaoru stepped closer without realizing just as Satoru leaned in, half-hunched beside her to peer at Shoko’s ear. “You still wear that old thing? I thought you said it made you look like a shoujo villain.”

“Shut up.”

But Kaoru wasn’t listening anymore. Her eyes locked on the earring: a single jade drop, late Sengoku-period craftsmanship, authentic stone, water-carved edges, hand-polished finish. Not just familiar. Intimately familiar.

She knew that earring; she’d seen it dangling beside a certain face, framed by white hair and a crooked grin. Her breath hitched in her throat as her gaze flicked slowly to Satoru's face. He blinked at her, confused, tilting his head—that tilt, a smart man pretending to be dumb. It was the same expression. It was the same face that had once worn that earring. She’d teased him for wearing it, told him he looked like a courtesan, but secretly, she’d thought it suited him. Thought it was beautiful on him.

And later—later she remembered that same earring stained with blood, cradled in the hands of a mute child with brown hair running barefoot from the ruins of Sekigahara, crying for a man that would never rise again

Kaoru could almost see the memory overlaying the present.

“Pft,” she exhaled softly, barely a sound.

So she's that girl descendant, huh? I should’ve seen it sooner. And...

She lifted her eyes again and found Hisanobu still perfectly straight-backed beside Shoko. He met her gaze and returned it with the unmistakable grimace of a Kashimo man about to say Ojousama, you are being weird again. Please stop.

Kaoru forced a smile just enough for Shoko to notice.

The doctor tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, and stepped deliberately into Kaoru’s line of sight, so close she nearly flinched. “You can’t have it,” she warned flatly. “History nerd.”

She blinked. “I wasn’t—”

“You looked like you wanted it.”

A beat. Then Kaoru lifted an eyebrow, meeting the challenge without flinching. “Relax. I wasn’t about to snatch it off your ear.” She hesitated, just for a breath, smirking. “It’s right that it found its way to you.”

Shoko studied her for a second longer, then gave a noncommittal nod and turned, slipping the earring into place.

Kaoru moved on without another word, brushing past a confused Haibara, and she barely had time to register the warmth of Satoru falling into step beside her, his coat brushing hers.

“Okay,” he murmured, tone light, amused. “You gonna tell me what that was all about, or do I have to start guessing? You’re smiling. And you never smile when you’ve had zero sleep.”

Kaoru tilted her head. “Nothing,” she said, voice softening. “It’s just… ironic, I suppose.” She glanced back once more, toward the earring, toward Shoko, toward the man still holding the purse like his life depended on it. “Some people are just meant to find each other, one way or another,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Satoru gave her a sidelong look, teasing—soft. “Great. You’re being cryptic again.”

Snow was falling again by the time they reached the alley behind the hospital, a forgotten strip of concrete fenced in by rusted pipes and chain-link. The Kusakabe siblings were already there, hunched in matching oversized coats and a katana over their shoulders, that made them look like annoyed samurai on laundry day.

The older brother raised a hand in lazy greeting. Uzuya stood beside him, scrolling through her phone with a look of restrained panic.

“Yo,” Kusakabe greeted, sounding like it hurt.

“Yo,” Kaoru echoed, her tone matching the exhausted disdain of someone who deeply resented being awake at 2 a.m.

Satoru and Haibara moved toward Kusakabe—Haibara already babbling about Emphatic assonance activation. But Kaoru’s attention lingered on Uzuya stood to one side, face lit only by her phone screen, fingers furiously typing, erasing, typing again. She looked like she was trying not to cry or commit arson. Then—sigh. Delete. Retry.

Whatever she was typing was clearly not going well.

Kaoru tilted her head. “Uzuya,” she said quietly. “You good?”

The older woman startled, like she hadn’t noticed Kaoru at all, then tugged her beret down and offered an awkward smile. “Sorry, Kaoru-san. Just—Takeru.” Her voice wavered. “He caught a bad case of pneumonia. And... It's Christmas and I’m stuck out here instead of at his bedside.”

She tucked her phone away.

Kaoru hummed. “Children always get sick at the worst possible times. It’s one of their many supernatural talents.”

That earned a half-laugh, though worry still clung to Uzuya’s face “He’s in good hands. Tokyo Metropolitan Children’s Center and my husband’s there, but…” She trailed off. “I just… I want to be there in time for Christmas morning.”

“Then we’ll make sure you get there by morning,” Kaoru said simply.

Just then, Haibara bounded over, practically radiating sunshine. “Uzuya-san, your turn!”

Uzuya nodded, straightening her shoulders. Haibara placed his hand gently on her shoulders, cursed energy thrumming like cloth heated just right. Kaoru didn’t need the Six Eyes to feel the shift in atmosphere. Something softened in Uzuya’s posture. She exhaled like she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.

“Ooh,” she let out a surprised laugh. “It’s like… being wrapped in a heated blanket.”

Satoru leaned in, examining the effect with his Six Eyes. Snowflakes settled on his shoulders like they’d been summoned for dramatic effect. “Yep,” he confirmed. “Solid connection. You’re good.”

He pulled the white cloth from his face, hair falling in unkempt white tufts across his forehead, and turned toward the group with a spark of energy that didn’t come from any technique Kaoru had ever studied—just the sheer, absurd charisma of being him.

“All right, dream team.” Satoru snapped the collar of his uniform up, flashing Kaoru a grin that hit like an ambush. “The Anti–Scarlet Mist Operation is officially a go. Yu-kun!” he called, snapping his fingers. “How’s the connection with the Kusakabes?”

Haibara snapped upright like he was reporting for duty. “Yes! I dissolved my other connection this morning, so full focus only on them.”

He beamed, visibly proud of himself as Shoko gave him a small pat on the back.

“Nice. Kusakabe siblings,” he continued, turning to the pair. “You enter the hospital from the west wing. Blend in with the late-night visitors, don’t cause a scene and flash your passes only if necessary.  Our support team of assistants will lock the perimeter once the Red Ward triggers.”

Uzuya adjusted the weight of her katana on her back. “We’ll see you in five,” she said, too cheerfully.

“Or never,” Kusakabe mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck like a man counting down to his own funeral.

“Gee, try not to trip over your own feet, brother,” Uzuya shot back and elbowed him in the ribs.

They disappeared around the corner still bickering. Sibling chaos: natural defense against existential dread.

“Good,” Satoru nodded, turning back to the rest. “Shoko, Yu-kun, ‘Nobu. Stay by the front gate statue, nice and visible. Haibara, you ping us if anything shifts in the Kusakabes’ energy.”

“Understood,” Haibara beamed, jogging backward toward Shoko.

“‘Nobu…” Satoru squinted at him. Then grinned. A silent glance passed between the two men, bro-code levels of nonverbal communication activated: his briefly dropped his eyes to Shoko and Haibara, before flicking them back up with an impish half-smirk. “Don’t screw up your job, guard dog.”

Hisanobu did not dignify that with a response. But the twitch in his temple spoke volumes. He slowly lowered Moon Pride from his shoulder, gaze slicing between Satoru and Kaoru like he suspected this entire operation might be a cover for a poorly concealed kidnapping of his Ojousama.

“Ojousama,” he said gravely, eyes locked on hers. “Do not let this fool compromise your safety. I do not trust what kind of thoughts he’s got in that overgrown skull.”

Kaoru—exhausted, overcaffeinated, feet numb—managed a lopsided smile. “You too, ‘Nobu. Stay safe—”

She didn’t get to finish.

Satoru’s arm landed casually around her shoulders like it belonged there. Close, warm, infuriating. She blinked, thrown off balance, not physically, but emotionally, and that was worse, as he leaned into her space and waved smugly at Hisanobu, who now looked a heartbeat away from violence.

“What thoughts?” Satoru asked sweetly. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your Ojousama.”

Kaoru sighed in half exasperation, half resigned fondness, and didn’t bother shaking him off as he teleported them both in a blink of Blue. 

The city vanished and her sneakers landed solidly on the concrete of a rooftop high above the hospital. She wobbled, slightly off-balance. His arm was gone now—dropped the second they arrived—but the point had been made, theatrically, childishly, completely. 

“You really had to do the shoulder thing?” she muttered, brushing snow from her hair.

“Please,” Satoru replied, already walking toward the ledge with a swagger she wanted to trip, “I’m ninety percent sure ‘Nobu ruptured a blood vessel. Totally worth it.”

He crouched at the very edge, face turned toward the glow of the hospital windows. Kaoru followed more cautiously; she tightened Mame at the base of her ponytail and tucked her hands into her long skirt's pockets, letting the cold bite her fingers just enough to stay sharp. The snow stuck to her lashes but she barely noticed.

The wind was worse up here. Clean, biting. The view, however, was perfect; hospital in full sight, no obstructions. Far enough that Scarlet Mist wouldn’t immediately sense them. Assuming things went as planned.

Satoru pulled out his phone and tapped lazily. “Oi, Ijichi,” he said, not even bothering to check if it was ringing. “We’re in position. Once Shoko gives the signal, move the rescue teams in. I’ll track Scarlet Mist from up here.” He didn’t wait for a reply; the phone was back in his pocket by the time Kaoru came to stand beside him.

“Now,” he said, stretching dramatically, “we wait.” He threw his head back against the falling snow, and gave her a self-satisfied grin that had no right being that pretty in the middle of a Scarlet Mist mission.

Kaoru rolled her eyes, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips as she joined him at the ledge.

From here, they could see everything: the courtyard where Shoko, Haibara, and Hisanobu now loitered like an after-hours biker gang; the west entrance where the Kusakabes would be blending in among exhausted parents and nurses. Christmas lights blinking softly through the windows. 

Kaoru exhaled, slow. She had a good feeling tonight; everything was falling into place. Which, of course, was exactly when the dread hit. A sharp, involuntary jolt of unforgiving instinct—deep and old, the kind that had outlived empires.

Don't let your guard down, something in her warned. That’s when it always happens.

Her eyes slid sideways. Satoru hadn’t moved, he was watching the building with a strange stillness, a dangerous kind of focus. The kind of focus she remembered, that terrifying stillness that used to freeze the battlefield during the last years of the Sengoku. Even his cursed energy had gone still, withdrawn inward like a silent predator in a snowfall. Kaoru almost laughed; she hadn’t seen that stillness in four hundred years.

Ah. So he felt it too.

She breathed out. “Satoru.”

“Hm?”

“You sure you don’t need a connection with Haibara too?”

“Nah.” He didn’t look at her. “My RCT’s top-class.”

She blinked, surprised. “You sound confident.”

He gave a mock gasp. “And you sound suspiciously surprised.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she said under her breath, just enough for him to hear.

Time passed.

A full hour, maybe two, and the city was beginning to wake itself. Somewhere in the distance, faint strains of holiday music drifted up—tinny and optimistic. Kaoru curled her hands in her coat, just to keep them moving.

Satoru sighed, dramatically. “I’m already bored.” He dropped his head into his arms, sulking like a child on the last day of summer.

And then—

The air changed, around the hospital, it pressed inward, like a dropped curtain.

Kaoru’s head snapped up at the same moment Satoru straightened. “That’s it.”

Above the hospital, the sky rippled, barely perceptible. A shimmer, like dark glass fogging over; a vast dome slid into place, soundless, around the building. Then—pulse. The cursed energy snapped outward in a pulse the moment it finished forming a perfect sphere. Snow twisted. Lights blinked.

And just like that, the hospital was sealed.

Satoru whistled low, the edge of a grin returning to his lips. “Well. Here come the longest five minutes of our—”

He stopped cold; his whole body tensed, breath caught in his throat. His eyes narrowed, fixed on the curtain. Frowned.

Kaoru felt her stomach lurch. She followed his gaze, locking onto the curtain; all the signs were right. The timing. The snow. The building. The people. It matched her vision well. Far too well. Shoko’s hands were already on Haibara’s back, RCT flowing in a soft, steady loop. Hisanobu had drawn closer, eyes scanning for movement. The Kusakabes were inside. All pieces in place. Everything was going according to their plan.

And yet—

Something was off; 

“No,” she breathed.

“That’s not…” Satoru’s voice dropped, nothing like the man who had playfully shoved a coffee can against her cheek not an hour earlier.

Kaoru felt it. It was a curtain, yes, but not the right kind, not red, twitching and wet; not Scarlet Mist’s signature kekkai that bled death and disease. This was something else. Standard-issue. The kind designed by human sorcerers, not Vengeful Spirits.

Her instincts shrieked. “That’s not a Red Ward,” she said flatly, barely registering the sound of her own voice over the rush of her pulse.

Beside her, Satoru had gone completely still. His breath fogged the air. “Not even close,” he murmured. “That cursed energy signature is—”

Kaoru's eyes snapped to him as his lips parted. He didn’t finish the sentence, and that, more than anything, terrified her. Satoru Gojo didn’t stop mid-sentence unless something had shifted beyond what even he could spin into a joke. Kaoru studied his face; too composed, too quiet. She knew that look, the heavy silence that came only when the mind was racing faster. Something burned at the edge of her thoughts.

Her jaw clenched—not in anger, but frustration. Not now, not here. She could press him later. For now, they had to move. Standard curtain. Sorcerer’s type. Not cursed spirit work. Someone had seen through their plan, not just predicted it, anticipated it.

And that meant—

“Trap,” they both muttered. The word hit like a slap. A beat. Then—“Shit—”

They moved at once. 

Satoru clicked his tongue and yanked his hands free of his pockets  cursed energy flaring blue. Kaoru dropped low, fingers slicing through her shadow. She drew a katana in one clean arc, and before she’d even straightened fully, Satoru’s hand landed firm on her shoulder.

Blue crackled again and then the world twisted. They landed in front of the hospital gates, just meters from Shoko, Hisanobu, and Haibara, directly facing the sealed curtain. Haibara was crouched low, wide-eyed, his gaze fixed on the curtain. Shoko stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, already channeling RCT in a stabilizing loop.

Hisanobu stepped forward the instant Kaoru arrived, Moon Pride drawn. “Ojousama—”

“They played us,” Kaoru said flatly, shaking Satoru’s hand from her shoulder. “Scarlet Mist, and whoever the hell’s backing him.” She stepped toward the curtain without hesitation, black eyes narrowing. It was clean. Too clean. Standard Jujutsu curtain. Sorcerer-made. But—

Instantly Haibara’s eyes snapped toward them. Of course he noticed. He probably remembered from seven years ago. You didn’t forget something like a Red Ward, not after what it had done to your lungs.

“K-Kaoru-san!” his voice cracked. “This isn’t—!”

“I know,” she confirmed grimly. “Not a Red Ward.”

Next to her, Satoru hadn’t moved. She didn’t need to look to know he was using the Six Eyes overtime. That eerie stillness of his only meant one thing: data analysis, high-speed perception and deep, deep concentration.

“Can you see inside?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he said, immediate. “Total opacity.”

He raised a hand to touch the barrier. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, a surge of cursed energy cracked out like a whip, rejecting him with a hiss; his palm came away smoking, already healing under lazy puff of RCT.

“Definitely not friendly,” he muttered.

Kaoru stepped back instinctively as Hisanobu  stepped forward and raised Moon Pride. “Tch.” He dropped into stance, one fluid breath, then a crescent slash—Lunar Cut—a silver cursed energy arc that slipped from his blade, carving the air before crashing uselessly against the curtain. It fizzled harmlessly.

Satoru’s mouth twisted into a crooked, joyless smirk. “Clever,” he said. “It’s keyed to reject, keeps people out.”

Kaoru tilted her head, considering.  “Question is... does it also keep them in?”

Behind them, Shoko’s voice had lost its usual dryness. “You think the Kusakabes are trapped inside?”

“Possibly.” Kaoru didn’t turn. Her eyes stayed locked on the curtain. “Keep RCT steady until we know more. Haibara?”

“On it!” Eyes closed, Haibara formed the hand seal, brow furrowed in concentration. His cursed energy rolled in quiet, steady pulses, tracking, mapping, reaching his connections. “…Both Kusakabe-san and Uzuya-san are alive,” he said finally, relief blooming in his tone. “No injuries or distress. Yet.”

Kaoru exhaled through her teeth. Yet. Temporary relief that wouldn’t last. They’d been outmaneuvered, led straight into a trap and played like fools.

Behind her, she heard Satoru’s cursed energy spike before she saw it. His hand lit up with a volatile crimson sparkle, cursed energy gathering fast in his palm. “Stand back,” he said, not even asking. “I’m collapsing the whole thing.”

“No.” Kaoru extended her arm across him before she even thought to. “You’ll risk bringing the building down on everyone inside,” she said, glaring.

He didn’t argue—but his expression soured. Frustrated. Not at her, probably, at the situation, at the curtain and at whatever bastard had built it.

Kaoru turned back toward the curtain, katana still in hand. Her other thumb found her mouth—an old, unconscious habit. She bit down, tasting iron, grounding herself. She didn’t notice as Mame healed her seconds later. “Dammit. This wasn’t supposed to happen. How the hell did Scarlet Mist get ahead of us—” She cut herself off, exhaled, focused. “No. Later. We get them out first, then I find that brat and tear them apart, and deal with whoever thought this was funny.”

Without thinking, She reached forward, fully expecting to be repelled like Satoru and Hisanobu—

Her fingers slipped through it.

No burn. No pushback. No resistance at all.

She froze. “…Huh.”

Behind her, Hisanobu had stepped forward. “It’s keyed to you?” he murmured, crouching to eye the point where her hand had entered.

Satoru joined him, leaning in at the same angle, studying the point of contact. “Looks like it,” he said, too calm.

Kaoru didn’t respond right away. Something ugly bloomed in her chest as she could still feel the pressure of the curtain on her wrist, cool and unnatural. “Why would—” Her voice cut off. The answer was already forming, and she didn’t like it.

A shrill ring cut the moment. Satoru didn’t take his eyes off her. Just raised the phone and answered on speaker. “Ijichi. Bad time. We’re in the middle of—”

“G-Gojo-san—!” came the panicked reply. “Red Ward! A confirmed Red Ward just went up in West Tokyo! At the—at the Tokyo Metropolitan Children’s Center—!”

The air went dead and silence slammed into the group.

Time hiccuped. For a heartbeat, no one breathed, there was only the sound of snow falling. And then Kaoru heard Haibara’s breath catch, sharp and too loud. “That’s across the city,” he muttered, too fast.

Shoko whispered it aloud, already a bit pale. “The Children’s Center…?”

She didn’t have to finish. A children’s hospital. No. Not just any hospital. Uzuya’s son—

Kaoru’s stomach dropped, violently and she whirled to Satoru. His eyes—those brilliant, inhuman blue eyes—went wide for the briefest of seconds before narrowing again into a focused, lethal calm. He glanced down at her hand still buried in the barrier. Then back to her eyes.

One thought. The same thought. Too far. Too little time. Too late—

They were being split. Whoever was inside the curtain—whoever was working with Scarlet Mist—knew exactly what they were doing and wanted them in two places.

“Go,” Kaoru ordered. “You’re the fastest, I’ll handle this.”

For a moment, it looked like he was about to potest; she saw the flicker in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He didn’t want to leave. But then, he glanced over the building again and nodded before turning away. That alone told her how serious it was.

“Got it.” Satoru raised the phone again, apparently calm again. “Redirect every available assistant to the Children’s Center, I’ll be there in a sec.”

As he reached the center of the courtyard and turned, Kaoru watched him, mouth half-open. She didn’t say the thing in her mouth.  Be careful,  don’t do anything stupid, I know what you’re thinking, don’t underestimate what’s in there.

He nodded again, just barely, like he’d heard it anyway. Just a small acknowledgment. And then he was gone, vanished in a pulse of cursed energy.

The air stilled and the courtyard felt colder. She closed her eyes briefly; the words still sat heavy on her tongue. Foolish. As if he were the one who needed protecting; she was the one with her hand still inside the veil, still trembling slightly.

They’d been decoyed. The University Hospital was not the only target, it had only mimicked her vision close enough to bait them, to split them.

“Ojousama.” Hisanobu’s voice brought her back.

Kaoru opened her eyes. Right. Focus, Kaoru. These people depended on you now. You’re the only one who can enter.

She took a slow breath, the kind she’d learned to take before a duel. A snowflake landed cold against her cheek and melted; it startled her into motion. She reached back, tightened the base of her ponytail with one practiced tug, then turned toward the others. “Shoko, Haibara—you stay here. Keep the line open in case someone needs to be pulled out.”

Shoko nodded once, already focused. Haibara stayed kneeling, pale but steady, his cursed energy pulsing softly as he maintained his tether to the Kusakabes.

Then her gaze shifted to Hisanobu. There was no time for over-explaining. “I’m going in.”

He stepped forward instinctively. “Should I—?”

“No.” Her tone softened a fraction into something warmer. She offered a dry, war-worn smile that conveyed enough resolve to convince him. “You’re the only one I trust to keep them safe. And—” she nodded toward the curtain, “—I’m counting on you to bring that thing down.”

His grey eyes widened, face scrunching in protest. “Me? Ojousama, I already tried, it didn’t even—”

“Then start trying again,” she cut in, firmer. “There are people trapped in there; Satoru’s handling the pediatric hospital and I’m the only one who can go in. IIf anyone can break it from the outside, it’s you, 'Nobu.” She smirked—because she knew him, knew exactly where to strike. “Come on, didn’t you used to beg me to take you with me on Scarlet Mist hunts when you were a brat?”

He shut up. His ears turned red as he rolled his eyes, embarrassed, proud, six years old for one flickering second. But he squared his stance, jaw tight.  “Fine. I’ll deal with the curtain, Ojousama. But don’t do anything reckless in there.”

“Don’t worry.” Her fingers grazed the comb pinned near the base of her ponytail. “I’ve got Mame with me.”

Mame gave its usual faint hum as if to say, Leave it to me.

The moment shattered with a wet, choked gasp behind them. Both turned as blood splattered against the ground.

Shoko's voice rose just a little for the first time since Kaoru knew her. “Oi, Yu—!”

Blood dripped from Haibara’s lips; he swayed forward, a strangled breath escaping his lungs as a crimson line opened across his chest—from shoulder to rib, like a blade had slipped through him. Shoko’s hands were already increasing her RCT output, pouring into his back, knitting muscle and tendon back togheter. 

Kaoru’s mouth tightened. “Was that a redirected damage?”

Shoko’s brow furrowed, focused. “Not Scarlet Mist. No sickness signs. This was a physical strike. Blade.”

Haibara coughed hard once—spitting blood into the concrete—then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Uzuya-san… Physical and mental strain.”

“Where?” Kaoru’s tone cut through the cold.  “Give me a direction, Haibara. Even a rough one.”

Haibara’s eyes slipped shut again. He inhaled deeply. “West side. Elevated but not too high. Probably second to fourth floor.” His breath evened out under Shoko’s touch. “She’s still near her brother. They're close but—” A pause, then confusion. “They’re… they’re fighting each other?” The last words were barely a question; he sounded horrified.

Kaoru’s jaw clenched. Not ideal, not even close. Whatever was in there managed to manipulate those two against each other. “Got it. Well done.” She stepped toward the veil once more; her hand passed through and she didn’t hesitate this time. “I’m going to get them out.”

With that, she walked forward, and the dark perimeter of the curtain swallowed her whole.

The shift was immediate; sound died, color bled away and the temperature dropped fast enough to bite.

The hospital interior had become a maze of shadow and fluorescent lights that flickered overhead, buzzing, like even they didn’t want to be awake. On the ground floor, it wasn’t chaos, not yet. The hour had spared them worse: only a handful of civilians wandered the corridors, dazed and disoriented but untouched. A nurse turned at the sound of her steps, eyes wide, instinctively moving to shield a young patient behind her.

Kaoru didn’t slow. “Get to the lobby,” she said, curt and clear, and moved on.

Heads turned as she passed, more startled by the sight of a woman in a sukeban uniform with a katana in hand than by the cursed energy still humming faintly around them. Not that they could really understand what was happening. 

Let them stare, so long as they weren’t dying.

West wing. Second to fourth floor.

She needed verticality.

Kaoru broke into a run, her sneakers thudding against the vinyl in steady rhythm as the halls blurred past. Her lungs didn’t burn from the sprint, it was her instincts, raw and coiled in her chest, that made breathing feel like a fight.

She had a bad feeling. No. Not now. She needed all her attention for this. She didn’t allow herself to think of Shoko, or Haibara, or Hisanobu, or—

Satoru.

The stairwell loomed up ahead. She took the steps two at a time, her grip tight on the rail and only twelve seconds later, she hit the third floor landing. It started there. Panicked footsteps echoed from above and below, too many, too frantic. Patients in gowns stumbled into the corridor, some barefoot, all terrified.

A man almost collided with her, and yelped, scrambling backward when he saw the blade. She dodged him with a half-twist. A voice behind her, breathless: “There’s a beast on the third floor!” Two more civilians rushed past, breathless, driven by panic rather than reason. The curtain wouldn’t let them out—but they didn’t know that.

Kaoru clenched her jaw. She couldn’t help them. Not yet.

She didn’t have time.

From the corner of her vision, she caught an elderly woman slumped in a wheelchair, outside a room, calling for help. Inside, a monitor beeped a slow, steady rhythm. Kaoru faltered just for a breath. Later. If Hisanobu could bring down the curtain, the medics could evacuate. Until then—

“Just hold on a little longer,” she murmured under her breath.

Then pressed forward.

The further she moved, the heavier the air grew. The sharp tang of antiseptic gave way to the iron sting of blood; it coated the floor in long, erratic streaks, smeared by dragging limbs and panicked feet. Two nurses lay collapsed in the hallway, still breathing, but unconscious.

Then she turned the corner and there...

Bodies.

Three. No, five. Sprawled across the sterile tile, limbs twisted at impossible angles. The walls were smeared with red; deep slashes split open shoulders, torsos, some with chunks of flesh torn away. Teeth marks. Messy, wide, raw. Like a wild animal had been let loose in a room of civilians

Chewed, partially, then left to rot.

“Tch.” Her grip on the katana tightened until her knuckles blanched.

West. Haibara said west. She kept moving.

Corridor after corridor blurred together. Doors on either side, some flung open, others sealed, a few with claw marks raked across them, or holes punched straight through. Then just as she quickly rounded a corner—

Light. A sudden, bright gleam. Reflective.

Kaoru reacted before her thoughts caught up; blade up, cursed energy rushing along the steel. She stopped mid-step, held her breath, eyes straining as her vision adjusted. At the end of the hall, under the fractured hum of a half-dead overhead light, stood a mirror. Round. Ornate. Gold trim laced with accents of blue. It was suspended perfectly at her eye level, held aloft by hands she hadn’t registered yet

Her eyes locked on the reflection, at her own black eyes staring back. Her reflection blinked. Frowned, just like her. And the longer she looked, the less she liked what she saw.

A sick curl of instinct twisted beneath her ribs. Off. Get away. The kind of wrong that made the hairs on her arms rise, that made her heart slow to a crawl. Don’t look. Don’t look. She stepped back once. Then twice. Turn around. Turn. Around.

But just as her gaze tore away from the mirror, a voice—that voice—came from behind her.

“Going somewhere, Pretty Boy?”

Everything in her froze.

Her blood, her thoughts, her grip.

That voice. That cadence. That stupid nickname—softened by affection, dipped in mockery, impossible to mimic.

No she couldn’t fall for this. Couldn’t let herself fall for this. It couldn’t be, it was impossible. She knew better, he was gone. He had died, and been reborn as someone else, as Satoru Gojo, who right now was halfway across the city, maybe already standing face to face with Scarlet Mist. So this couldn’t be him, she had no reason to look back.

It’s not him. Don’t look. Don’t listen. Get out of range—

But hope is a cruel thing. It carves holes through logic, digs up memories best left buried; and some voices never leave you, even after centuries.

“Zenin-dono...?”

Her breath caught at that mocking fondness in her former title, spoken aloud in that way only he could ever manager. Four hundred years; no one had called her that in four hundred years. The air grew too heavy, her skin too tight. Something uncoiled inside her—grief, maybe, or probably madness.

...What if?

She turned, slowly. Against every better instinct, against the decades of training and experience that told her not to look.

She turned and looked at the mirror, at the hands holding it. Then her gaze traveled upward—

—over the edge of a white haori, draped carelessly over broad shoulders; he never bothered to wore it properly.

—over the pale mess of white hair, tied low at the nape, strands falling like across one shoulder.

—over the jade earrings, teardrop-shaped, swinging slightly at each side of his face.

—over a smile she’d hated and loved in equal measure.

—into eyes that were exactly the same shade of winter frost she remembered so well. Looking straight into hers.

For just a second her heart betrayed her even as Mame trembled in her hair, cursed energy pulsing violently like a warning or perhaps a shared disbelief and denial.

Her knees nearly gave, lips trembling with the start of a smile. She should have run. She should have summoned a shikigami. She should have known better, but really, she never did when it came to him.

Instead, foolish as she was, she didn’t even realize her lips were moving until the word slipped out, soft and breathless and so stupidly hopeful.

“…Seijiro?”

The man, who looked like a ghost wearing his face tilted his head just so. The way only he ever had. His grin widened, affectionate, amused. Still holding the mirror. Still watching her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Kaoru,” he said, like it hadn’t been four hundred years. “Been a while.”

And she didn’t see the nine-tailed shadow flickering along the wall or the white foxfire kindling at his heels.

✦𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝑲𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝑰𝒔 𝒂 𝑳𝒊𝒂𝒓

Chapter Text

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟓. 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝑲𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝑰𝒔 𝒂 𝑳𝒊𝒂𝒓

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

25 December 2014, Tokyo Metropolitan Children's Medical Center

Satoru Gojo landed outside the Children’s Hospital in one minute and twelve seconds. Too slow, in his opinion.

He’d shortened distance as much as physics and Limitless allowed, collapsed vectors until the streets blurred into nothing. A miracle, really, that no civilian had been dragged into the distortion or pancaked into the side of a building. Normally, he’d congratulate himself if he wasn’t sucking air like he’d just run a marathon.

Unacceptable.

Whatever; lungs could complain later, because right now...

The Red Ward opened around him, swallowing the building whole. Entry was easy, the kekkai let you in; leaving was the problem. Inside, the air was thick, every breath a weight. Cute. He shoved his cursed energy output into his chest to reinforce his lungs on instinct until the burn dulled. Double the amount he had estimated he’d need.

The Six Eyes parsed the kekkai instantly: atmosphere was saturated, the contagion heavy in the air. He was standing in a living disease.

So this is a Red Ward.

Satoru tilted his head back. The dome above wasn’t black like the Curtain choking the Tokyo hospital he’d just left behind, where Kaoru—and Suguru, if he was honest with himself—waited. This one glowed crimson like a heart beating against the night skyline and the snow falling slowly. He’d dismantled more barriers than he could count, but this one? Double layered, viciously resistant. He could tear it down, sure, but the building would go down with it. Which meant Scarlet Mist would slip away while he was busy picking up rubble and explaining to his elders why there were no survivors.

Not an option.

But if the kekkai was still up, it meant Scarlet Mist was still inside.

A scarlet fog filled the hospital's corridors, wet against his skin, sour in his lungs. The dossiers hadn’t done it justice; none of them had captured the reality of it. Satoru shoved a hand through his white hair, irritated, when a stab of pain clawed his left lung. He started a RCT healing loop around his lungs, before the disease—tuberculosis, fittingly ironic—could eat at the tissue.

“So this is what flattened Yu-kun in under ten minutes, seven years ago.” His voice came out casual, echoing in the mist. “Guess he wasn’t exaggerating.”

He thought sourly: How do civilians survive even a minute of this? Then his jaw set, because the answer was obvious. They don't.

Tch.

And this wasn’t just any hospital. This was pediatrics.

The fog shifted, and suddenly the sounds found him: whimpers from nurses, ragged cries of parents, the hiccuping sobs of pain, of calling for mothers, fathers. His Six Eyes suopplied a quick calculation: six hundred and eighty-seven signatures inside. None with the distinct curve of a sorcerer’s flow; non-sorcerers, all of them.

Then another detail slotted into place. Variations in cursed energy so faint they barely registered, except he knew them. Roughly half of the hospital. His fist clenched hard enough to sting.

Children.

Suguru, you’re really doing this? You brought this down on children?

The thought sliced clean. He already knew the answer, Suguru had said it himself, years ago, as clear as any sermon. Non-sorcerers don’t matter. Kill them, the world gets better. He had argued, shouted, begged. He coulnd't stop him for leaving, but Satoru, in his arrogance, had believed—no, he’d decided—that Suguru would never drag it this far, that some invisible line existed.

And now? A mass grave of sick children waiting to happen.

Had he underestimated just how far Suguru would go? Maybe he could blame Scarlet Mist. Maybe it had twisted him; Satoru could cling to that theory if he wanted. Nice excuse. Easier than facing that Suguru didn’t need convincing.

…No.

Suguru had conviction, too much conviction, and Scarlet Mist was just the perfect partner, a Vengeful Spirit who could spin Red Wards wide enough to trap whole hospitals full of civilians. A match made in hell. And they had played them, hadn’t they? Together, they had split him and Kaoru cleanly, her toward Suguru, him toward this slaughter. He’d thought he was a step ahead;  joke’s on him.

Kaoru… is she already fighting him? Can she handle it?

A flash of irrational panic caught in his chest. Was he worried for Kaoru’s sake, or Suguru’s? He hadn’t seen Kaoru enough in a real fight to measure her against Suguru, but...  His brain tied itself into knots, every angle wrong; he didn’t like the answer.

Don’t think about that. Don’t. Focus.

Because here was the ugly truth: a part of him, the part that hadn’t been excised even after years, still didn’t want Suguru dead. Still wanted there to be something left to save. And that meant—what? Hoping Kaoru would lose this fight, dooming the Kusakabes and everyone else?

The idea tasted like bile.

He didn’t want Suguru dead yet. He didn’t want Kaoru dead either, he wanted… he wasn't sure. He should be praying Kaoru killed Suguru outright, tore the problem out by the root. Clean. Done. The higher-ups would probably throw Kaoru a parade she'd hate, the civilians would sleep safer, and it would even save him the trouble of killing his best friend with his own hands.

It should be simple.

Instead, he dreaded that she might actually succeed where he hadn’t.

What did that make him? Pathetic. 

But no matter how he spun it, he couldn’t kill the piece of him that didn’t want Suguru dead yet. And the shame of that—standing here, in a hospital full of dying kids—was enough to make bile creep up his throat.

Satoru blew out a slow breath, shoved the thought into the same locked box where he kept everything else he didn’t want to look at. Not now. Later, if later even existed.

Blue snapped under his soles and the corridor jumped forward. His Six Eyes parsed the labyrinth of cursed fog, reading density, vectors, signatures. Another Blue-blink, and another. The red mist thickened, tacky against his throat; he shoved more cursed energy into his lungs, set a quiet loop of RCT running to catch the damage before it rooted.

His throat burned anyway.

A nurse stumbled into view, a boy slung across her back; she clawed along the wall, nails dragging plaster, blood leaking from her mouth in wet gurgles. Too much blood poured from her lips, too little air went in. The boy’s arm dangled like dead weight. No breath; probably gone long before. Satoru wondered, in that detached way he had, if she even realized. Her knee gave out; she hit the tiles face-first, the boy toppling with her. Blood spread black across linoleum and neither moved again.

Satoru looked at them for a second too long, enough to burn the image into the back of his eyelids. Then he kept walking. Couldn’t stop,  couldn’t help, not even Uzuya’s son and husband somewhere in here. He could hear her voice in his head demanding why, and the answer already tasted like ash: Because if I stop, everyone else would die too. Because Scarlet Mist would escape. Because it might already be too late anyway for the boy.

Uzuya’d understand.

…Wouldn’t she?

Blue snapped again. Another hallway, more bodies piling up. A knot of kids huddled together, three too still, one barely wheezing. He Blue-blinked past them. Another floor, a door half-open, a child’s voice rasping mama mama mama until it cracked. 

Satoru shut his eyes, forced his brain until it stopped cataloguing the sound.

Another Blue-blink. Another stretch of ruined hallway. There. Dense cursed energy, warping the haze itself. The core, Scarlet Mist, and beside it, a second signature anchored, likely its weapon.

“Scarlet mist.” Satoru muttered, rolling his shoulders, cracking his knuckles like he was bored instead of furious. His smile curved bright and utterly unamused. “Found you.”

He pushed the door with two fingers; hinges squealed. The Six Eyes had already drawn the map before stepping in: four small beds, pastel animal murals on faded paint, two heartbeats still beating, half a dozen already gone.

Still, the sight managed to scrape across his nerves anyway.

Two kids half-fallen from their cots in a failed escape, and adults—parents, nurses—collapsed where they’d tried to shield them. And on the last bed, by the window, three figures; two children, alive, awake, each leaned against the shoulders of someone who absolutely had no right to be there.

A boyish silhouette.

A scarf the color of fresh blood looped around his throat, sky-blue haori slipping wide with white crest-patterns on the sleeves. Brown hair bound high, swaying with the tilt of his head as he hummed a tune under his breath, childish and off-key and a youthful face, open smile, like the boy next door greeting you over a garden wall.

Scarlet Mist. Okita Sōji, or what was left of him.

This was their terror from the reports? The cheerful ghost of a Shinsengumi prodigy with tuberculosis in his lungs and bloodlust in his grin?

This looked more like a kid playing samurai dress-up. Except his eyes gleamed crimson. Except his smile lingered too wide. Except one hand stroked a child’s hair like a doll, while the other gripped a naginata planted on the floor, haloed in scarlet cursed enegy.

The Crimson Binding Halberd. Kaoru had lectured him about it like it was her favorite bedtime story until his ears bled. He’d tuned half of it out, sure, but he remembered enough: one of the Three Heirlooms. Lovely. He’d already smashed one of those things last year, he could smash another.

The problem was the children.

Scarlet Mist finally seemed to notice him. His head jerked, eyes widening, lips parting in a delighted little ah!  “Oh! How careless of me, I didn’t notice you there,” he chirped, grin tugging dimples into his cheeks disturbingly warm—and his hand never stopped smoothing over the girl’s hair. “Satoru Gojo himself! Head of the Gojo clan! How exciting!”

The kids flinched, shrinking closer to him.

Satoru walked to the center of the room, shoes squelching blood, arms loose. He frowned, hard. “This your plan, Scarlet Mist? Hiding behind kids?” He chuckled, humorless and mocking without effort. “Didn’t think you would be this stupid. Or this boring.”

Scarlet Mist hummed thoughtfully, then, almost tenderly, he tapped the girl’s head one last time and lifted her from his shoulder;  he tucked her into the pillow. Her eyes fluttered closed, breath hitching. “Better like this, right? They won’t notice a thing while they sleep.” A sweet smile. He stretched his arms overhead, geta clacking like a bored student in detention. The naginata spun lazy arcs, crimson mist curling around it. “I always loved children.”

Satoru’s grin flattened into a line. His Six Eyes caught the girl’s chest faltering under the fog curling at her lips; he wanted to fold the room in half, crush this brat into paste where he stood and be done with it but the kids were too close. His nails dug crescents into his palms instead.

Kaoru’s voice echoed in his head: Don’t underestimate him.

Fine. Time to destabilize him, drag him away from the children. He could work with words as easily as with Limitless. 

“Loved them?” Satoru said, tone featherlight, amused in that dry way of his. “You’ve got a funny way of showing love. Tucking them in and choking them out? Guess you were a sadist even before you kicked it. Okita Sōji, right? Rough way to go for a samurai like you, dying of tuberculosis instead of a sword. Bet you hated that.”

For the first time, the boyish smile cracked. Scarlet Mist’s lips pressed thin, brows wrinkling like a sulky child denied candy. His geta scraped, naginata edge scraping sparks as he dragged it across the floor. 

“A simple arrangement,” he sang, sing-song eyes no longer matching. “I handle the … non-sorcerers.” He gestured vaguely with the weapon at the room, fingers wriggling like a child’s drawing of monsters, toward the unconscious bodies.

Non-sorcerers. Of course. Suguru’s fingerprints were all over this. As if he needed more confirmation.

“And in return,” Scarlet Mist went on, “he helps me get the last thing I need to—”

“—Destroy the Big Three Clans?” Satoru cut him off, yawning into his palm. “Yeah, heard that one before. You’re a broken record, Okita. Gotta say, for a prodigy who supposedly died young, you’re awfully fixated on history books.”

That stung. “... I'm broken?” The childish pout twisted into something sharper. Red fog hissed against the walls.

Oh. He was getting under his skin.

Satoru pressed. “Broooken~! What’s the real sob story here? To burn the jujutsu world and wipe out the clans for what?” Satoru kept twisting the knife. “Sensei didn’t clap you loud enough? A family tragedy? Or just plain didn’t like your doctor?” He gasped theatrically. “Oh wait. Don’t tell me—it’s all three!”

That landed. The naginata hissed through the air in a furious buy precise arc, cursed energy cracking the plaster. A burst of cursed energy snapped the walls, shaking dust loose from the ceiling. 

Satoru grinned wider. There it was: the crack in the mask.

“You Big Three never change,” Scarlet Mist murmured, suddengly serious. “Always above justice. Above honor. Always laughing while the world rots, leaving behind the one you labeled broken.” His voice suddenly lower, colder, face twisting between a pout and a snarl. His stance shifted sharp, naginata leveled, energy spiking. “I’ll start with you, Gojo-dono.”

Satoru smirked, not bothering to raise a guard stance though every muscle sang with tension. RCT churned quietly in his lungs, fighting the creeping infection of the fog. Keep the RCT loop running while fighting, keep Infinity humming, keep the kids alive through all this, take down the Vengeful Spirit of the strongest sorcerers in Bakumatsu. That'd be hell, but he’d done worse. He glanced briefly at the two children on the bed.

Good thing multitasking was his specialty.

A child coughed wetly. That was the bell; they moved at once.

Scarlet Mist moved first, naginata dragging across the floor, sparks spitting from the blade as he closed the distance low, in a breath. He was fast, faster than reports or his legend suggested. But Satoru Gojo was faster still; midway across the room, he Blue-blinked and reappeared behind him, finger cocked at his skull, Red blooming like a miniature sun at his fingertip.

Point-blank. He’d do it point-blank.

From this angle, the blast would rip through ceiling, and the kids might just live to scream about it.

Perfect.

“Game over, brat,” Satoru muttered.

He fired—

—or tried.

Scarlet Mist spun like a kid showing off in the dojo, naginata twisting up in an arc so fast it burned the air around it. The golden blade clipped the Red mid-birth and the light sputtered and died between his fingers.

Satoru blinked. The hell happened? He hadn't misfired a Red since he was seventeen.

“...Huh.” His smile tilted wider, but his eyes had narrowed. “So the ‘Swiftest Blade in Kyoto’ thing wasn’t a fairy tale after all.”

Okita giggled, genuinely proud at the praise. “Hehe! Did I surprise you, Gojo-dono?”

Satoru’s jaw flexed, just once. Damn cursed brat. His feet scraped back and then he slammed forward again, Blue already blooming in his palm, pull field expanding with a gravitational hum. If he couldn’t pierce him, he’d tear him apart atom by atom.

The ceiling near the door collapsed, but the Kids were still unharmed for now.

Scarlet Mist smirked feral now and shifted, elbow tucked, blade coiled low, weight behind the hip, a kata Satoru knew too well.

Sandanzuki.

Kaoru had drilled that kata into him a hundred times, smug every single damn time she explained it: the signature triple thrust that Okita Sōji, had made infamous, the fastest and deadliest strike in Kyoto. He’d joked about stabbing his ears shut just to stop hearing about it.

And now here it was, in the flesh. Cute.

Didn’t matter. Infinity was Infinity. The thrust couldn’t reach him—

Except it did. Satoru saw it. Saw the exact moment his technique slipped, erased, nullified.

The naginata blurred. Downstroke, rising arc—

“Shit—”

Steel kissed fabric, then skin just above his heart. Satoru snapped Blue up before the strike could finish the pattern to the three vital points, ripped a chunk of ceiling loose, and hurled it down with a gravity spike. The room shook, plaster raining, the wall cratering where Scarlet Mist had been. The beds rattled but didn’t collapse, dust and smoke filled the room as he Blue-blinked space apart, dragging himself out of range.

Scarlet Mist's laughter bubbled up through the haze.

Dust shifted, the slab cracked down the center and lifted and Scarlet Mist stood beneath, grinning ear to ear, patting the grit out of his hair with quick little slaps. “Ahhh, that was scary Gojo-dono! You almost messed up my precious haori!” He pouted, bottom lip jutting, then smiled wide again, cheeks smudged grey.

Satoru rolled his shoulder once, testing the joint. A superficial shallow cut, not even bleeding properly; still, he almost coughed up blood, lungs rasping like they belonged to someone dying of tubercolosis. Apparently, the infection was carried to its maximal payload in that blade, worse than all the mist choking the hospital. A small cut like that was enough to force even him to increase the output of his RCT.

Satoru swallowed it down hard; he would not give the brat the satisfaction of seeing him hack up blood like one of his mist-strangled victims. RCT blazed, flesh knitted shut, cursed energy flushing the infection back out stabilizing the lungs before it rooted. His chest still buzzed, echoes of infection crawling up his ribs, but fine. He was fine. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that the halberd had ignored Infinity. Not just cut through distance, cut through him. His Six Eyes dragged across the blade, parsing it even as blood cooled on his sleeve; he knew that ability to nullify cursed technique, had seen it first-hand.

The Inverted Spear of Heaven.

The weapon he had shattered with his own hands. 

Kaoru’s voice rang in his head, smug and nerdy as he ranted about the Three Heirlooms: Once, they were all one. Together, a god-killer, divided because it couldn’t be destroyed. Three fragments, three Heirlooms.

He remembered half-listening, yawning, calling her a history teacher with a grudge. He remembered her rolling her eyes.

“Oh,” he muttered under his breath. 

So maybe shattering that weapon hadn’t been the neat solution he thought it was. If destroying it had kicked its ability down the line to the other fragments—if he’d made the other two Heirlooms worse—then...

Congratulations, Gojo Satoru, you just upgraded your enemies.

Didn’t matter. What mattered was that this fight had just vaulted from “annoying” to “borderline catastrophic.” He didn't have the luxury of dragging the fight against a lunatic man-child with a god-slaying weapon.

Satoru wiped his bloody palm against his ruined sleeve and stood tall, grin slotting back into place like armor against the unease. “Cute trick,” he drawled, voice light. “Pretty sure your toy isn’t supposed to do that.”

Scarlet Mist swayed on his feet, sticking his tongue out like a brat about to throw a tantrum, naginata spinning before planting in the ground with too much force, cracking it. “I told you, didn’t I? I’ll erase the Three Great Clans! One, two, three—” He stomped each number with his geta, sing-song, voice breaking into a giggle. “Starting with you.”

Satoru’s jaw clenched so faintly it didn’t reach his grin. His Six Eyes flicked—once—back to the bed.

The little girl’s chest hitched once, then stopped.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

25 December 2014, Tokyo Medical University Hospital

There was nothing but silence, save for the hum of dead lights and the metallic stink of blood.

But none of it mattered. Not when those winter-blue eyes were looking back at her; eyes she had sworn she’d never see again. 

Four hundred years, and still she knew them instantly. Familiar enough to hurt, to undo her. For an instant the centuries fell away.

Kaoru’s jaw clenched until her temples throbbed, her grip on the katana’s hilt was so tight the blade trembled in her hand. Fake, she told herself, over and over, like a prayer. Fake, fake, fake. You know better than this. Don’t be an idiot.

Her body didn’t care; her legs only moved when he did. She forced her heel back a step and of course, he matched it with a step forward, lazy, careless. Seijiro Gojo, damn him, always walked as if the world could catch fire and he’d still stroll through it with a smirk.

“Kaoru—” His voice, soft.

“Oh, save it.” She cut him off before he could wrap her in whatever sweetness he thought he was playing at. The scorn came out steady. Small victories; she clung to that.

For the briefest instant he blinked, almost startled; then, his face softened into something far worse. Not the wolfish grin, not the mask he wore for his clan or his father or the world. The other smile, the soft curve of the lips he’d only ever shown her. The same one he’d worn bleeding out in an endless dusk and a starless sky, when he pushed Mame into her hair with bloodied fingers, whispering promises he had no right to break. The same one he’d used to distract her from realizing what he was planning behind her back.

And with that same look—curse him—he said the words that cracked her chest wide open.

“I’m sorry. For going first. For going somewhere you couldn’t follow me.”

Kaoru's breath shattered instantly.

Seijiro stepped closer, unhurried, confident, like he’d never left her side. The mirror in his hands reflected a pale gleam between them. Kaoru should have moved, should have raised her katana, should have done anything but stand there; but her feet rooted to the floor as he reached the last pace between them.

“I see you still wear it,” he murmured half-proud, tilting his head toward the comb buried in her black hair. “The wooden comb I made for you.”

Her hand betrayed her, lifting before she could stop it. Fingers brushed Mame, steady and solid as always. Except—not steady. Mame pulsed erratically against her scalp, warning and yearning at once, then quieted, unnervingly calm, like it recognized his creator; or thought it did.

“Mame.” Her throat scraped raw when she whispered, weak, dangerous. “It’s the only piece of you I had left.”

“You named it?” He laughed, light and careless, exactly the same as she remembered. “Ha. And I thought I was the one with terrible nicknames.”

Her mouth opened, empty of words. How many times had she dreamed this? Dreams, hallucinations, whatever passed for sleep in four centuries. Reuniting somewhere no clan, no war, no duty could touch them or tear them apart; she had only ever found him in memory.

Until now.

Except he wasn’t. Except this wasn’t now. It couldn’t be. Except—

“It wasn’t my intention to curse you like this.” His voice turned sober. “Not to make you wait forever.”

Her fingers went slack, the katana slipped from her hand and clattered against linoleum, echoing down the corridor like a death knell. Because that—that wait forever detail—no one knew. No one except her. And Hisanobu. And Seijiro.

And wasn’t that proof enough?

Her lips trembled around the question slipping out without her consent. “…Is it you? Really? Not an illusion?”

His smile sharpened at the edges, too subtle for her dazed mind to catch as he slid the mirror into the sleeve of his haori. “What? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my pretty face already.” He pouted, ridiculous, Gojo-style, the way he used to just to make her roll her eyes, the exact way Satoru had inherited.

And then he closed the last breath of distance between them.

She should’ve shoved him away, should’ve driven her blade through his chest, ended it. Instead her body gave out, a long sigh pulled from her bones after a too long time. She tilted her head back, eyes searching his like a fool, sure her own face was pitiful and pleading. She didn’t care.

“You—” The word cracked. She bit her lip hard, hands shaking as they lifted and bunched weakly in the sleeves of his haori. Drag him close? Push him off? She didn’t know and that was terrifying. “You bastard,” she muttered bitter and aching all at once. “We promised together. And you left me behind. Alone.”

Her head suddenly swam, too light; the edges of her vision smeared and Mame went disturbingly silent for the first time in four centuries.

Seijiro's expression softened, and slowly he raised his hands in return, cradling her face. She didn’t flinch, didn’t resist, let his palms settle against her cheeks. Later, she would curse herself for it, remembering how cold that touch was, too cold; icy enough to burn.

“Sshh. I know.” His thumb stroked her cheek, tender, maddening, as if trying to remember her shape. “You’ve carried it all this time... That’s never what I wanted for you. It must have been hard but you've been so strong.”

The world dulled, sound muffled, the edges of her thoughts blurred, heavy fog settling over everything until her limbs felt foreign and distant. She couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. But why would she? Seijiro was here. Her Seijiro.

Seijiro bent closer, tilting her chin up with care, as though she she was the most precious thing in the world. He had always been good at seeing her like that, too kindly, too much, like someone worth loving and saving.

His lips brushed hers, feather-light, the smallest contact, and her knees went out; her body slumped weakly against his and his arms caught her.

“Now—” Flat words, detached, as his lips lingered at hers. “—now you don't have to wait anymore. Now we can fix that mistake. Together, just as we promised.”

She barely registered the words; she was already sinking, senses sliding into a dreamlike haze. The fog around her mind was too thick, the warmth too real, every instinct quieted. Her head lolled, lashes fell heavy. The last thing she registered was how good it felt to close her eyes and stay there with him, just for a second.

Just one second.

And in that one second, the world slipped away.

When she blinked her eyes open again, time had shifted. A minute? An eternity? She couldn’t tell.

The corridor was there, ceiling and tiles, but her vision dragged past his shoulder. A single orb of foxfire floated at his back, blue and lazy. On the far wall, the shadows told the truth: not two figures, not one man and one woman, but a twisting shape crowned with nine tails.

Her stomach turned cold. Seijiro? she thought dumbly, as her sluggish mind stuttered. What—

Seijiro was no longer at her lips; he was bent lower, pressed against her neck.

She felt it before she understood, still trapped in that strange paralysis; heat and wetness sluicing down her collarbone and arm, soaking her uniform and dripping from her fingers to the floor with tiny, obscene taps.

Blood. Her blood.

Then was the pain; a white-hot, tearing agony at the crook of her neck, radiating down her shoulder, a raw nerve ripped open mixed with the sound of something tearing through flesh and muscle. Her breath came fast, panic surged where reason failed; she bit down on the inside of her cheek tasting iron on iron and slowly, her eyes shifted downward to the source of the pain.

There, she catched the jade earrings swaying where Seijiro's head rested, strands of white hair falling loose and stained where they brushed her blood; his jaw moved, teeth deep in the flesh of her neck, the pain unbearable, a raw nerve flayed open.

“Wh—what—” she gasped, broken.

At that, the head at her neck lifted just enough as if indulging her with the courtesy of seeing his face. His mouth was red, with animal fangs and blood dripped in slow trails down his chin, warm and sticky against her collarbone. The face was Seijiro’s, yes, but the expression—the blue eyes she had wanted so badly to believe in, half-drunk on her blood—belonged to no human.

And he was eating her alive.

Kaoru stared, dazed. He didn’t look alarmed in the slightest; in fact, the bastard looked satisfied, as though her shaking voice was a spice on the meat he had sunk his teeth into. “Back to sleep, Pretty Boy,” the thing crooned, parody-soft, hands still cupping her shoulders like a lover’s. “Flesh tastes sweeter when humans are dreaming sweetly.”

Her blood iced. That wasn’t him, that could never be him. Her Seijiro was long gone. Already passed into the world again, four hundred years later wearing another name but still infuriating, still bearing all the things she hated, all the things she loved. That was her Seijiro now. Not this thing.

Move. Move. 

Her body wouldn’t obey. Pain lanced through her again as the jaws ground deeper into the flesh of her shoulder, a gush of blood  splashing warm against her cheek. Her vision swam and she bit back a gasp, convulsing from neck to heel.

Think. Her mind snapped into order with the speed of survival. This thing is trying to eat me alive. What the hell is it? Her eyes rolled forward again, on the shadow cast by Seijiro. Nine tails. And that blue orb of foxfire hovering at its back, drifting as if bored...

…A kitsune?

“Oh, great,” she muttered bitterly through clenched teeth. “Of all the fucking curses, a yokai class—”

Shape-shifting. Hypnosis. Mind-leeching. Classic kitsune tricks; but this one—this one knew too much. It hadn’t just worn Seijiro’s face; the private jokes, the apology no one living should know, the exact way his thumb had once traced her cheekbone. It knew things it shouldn’t.

That mirror. The damn mirror.

Kaoru had looked, she had let herself look. That was how it had crawled into her head, rifling through centuries of scars and tearing Seijiro's memory out of them as the best bait, enough to craft a trap with the one face that undid her. Her fury flared hot enough to pierce the haze; to be undone by her own weakness, by her own heart, by something walking in Seijiro’s skin and smiling his smile—pathetic. She hissed, lips sticky with iron.

“Amateur,” she told herself.

Another bite tore deeper. Her left arm went numb, as another flood of blood ran down; she could feel which tendons snapped in real time. Her shoulder wasn’t knitting back; no Mame's automatic RCT hummed along her meridians, nothing of the constant background healing she’d never asked for but known for four hundred years.

Mame?

No answer. No no smug thrum of cursed energy, no protective Infinity around her; Mame, usually so alive when she called its name, was silent against her scalp. Her chest tightened. No. No, no—

“Wake up, you little brat,” she spat, voice muffled against the pain. “I don’t have time for this.”

Still nothing, only silence and the slap of blood hitting linoleum. Was it trapped too? The kitsune had wound its illusion around her comb as well? Mame must have believed too, believed Seijiro was here, and she was safe. If the comb had a soul—and she suspected it did, after the centuries together—its eyes were full of Seijiro and the past. Loyal and useless.

Fine. I'll do it the old way.

“You want to feed?” she muttered hoarsely, hands twitching uselessly. “Then choke on this.”

Kaoru bit down on a cry, forced her focus inward. Her own RCT, manual output. Sluggish, clumsy; she had never been good at it and centuries of outsourcing to Mame had not improved her baseline, but she shoved anyway, dragging reversed cursed energy toward the wound.

Sure it wasn't enough to quickly heal a wound like that—but to whatever curse had dared bite her? Corrosive as poison.

The reaction was instant.

The kitsune hissed, ripping back with a snarl that was not human, steam smoking from its lips where her blood scorched. He sprang away in a fox-slick arc, landing light, one arm thrown up, wiping her blood from its mouth with Seijiro’s stolen hand, licking her blood from his upper lip. “Well, well,” the kitsune drawled, still wearing that face and looking indecently pleased. “I didn’t think you’d break it so fast. Minutes only, and you were already sinking so sweetly.”

The haze fell away. Kaoru staggered upright, but her mind was racing, assembling the pieces. Minutes, she realized as sensation crashed back into her fingers and toes. Fury spiked. Minutes wasted. Minutes that belonged to the rescue of Uzuya and her brother.

“Pathetic,” she hissed.

Her right hand found the mess at her collarbone—“wound” felt generous. A bite crater where flesh had been torn out and tendon sliced; her left arm hung stupid and heavy, a dead weight attached to a living body. She swallowed down the grief of seeing Seijiro's face still standing there and forced her right hand to catch her left unmoving one, align the dead weight of those fingers into a handsign.

“Divine Dog: Totality.”

Her shadow rippled, the corridor shook as her shikigami emerged: massive, white-striped black, claws tearing the linoleum. It growled low, crouched forward nearly man-high to stand between her and the kitsune.

Across from them, he—no, it—rolled a shoulder, Seijiro’s mouth hooked wrong. The single foxfire drifted at its side, lazy and smug. “Come on, Pretty Boy,” it teased. “I gave you a perfect dream. A reunion with the man you love. Don’t pretend you didn’t want to stay there—”

“Oh, for—” Kaoru barked a humorless laugh. “Spare me. Unfortunately for you I happen to know exactly where my idiot is.” She stooped, scooping her katana up one-handed. Her eyes stayed fixed on it—on her. “Drop the act, kitsune.”

For a heartbeat, Seijiro's stolen face cracked in surprise before settling back into disdain.

Kaoru narrowed her eyes further, tone flat. “Let me guess, I'm good at this. A powerful Kitsune like you leaves a short list of names. And that strange foxfire…” She tilted her chin toward the floating foxfire. “I thought you’d been sealed again into your lovely stone few years back.” Her lips curled. “Tamamo-no-Mae.”

The smile faltered, then came the laugh, high, lilting, unmistakably feminine. Seijiro’s shape peeled apart, edges warping until it collapsed into something worse:

Long black hair spilling to the floor, tugged by a wind that didn’t exist. Layered of Heian courtesan’s silks blooming in gold, green, crimson. Bare feet gliding silent over the tiles. A face too symmetrical, too flawless, until the smile split too wide and showed fangs. Behind her, nine tails fanned wide, scattering small blue will-o’-wisps across the corridor.

“Oh…” Tamamo’s voice chimed in an archaic, courtly lilt. “So the little Scarlet Mist boy was right. You do know too much.”

Kaoru shifted her weight back, katana ready. Perfect, untouchable beauty. Too beautiful. So perfect it repelled. Maybe that was her true form, or maybe just another mask. Who could tell? The kitsune were all liars anyway.

Tamamo lifted one elegant hand, palm up; the foxfire drifted to hover mid-air above her palm, revealing what it held suspended. A black, rounded stone, not a perfect sphere, more like a river had chewed it for a century and grown bored. The fire held it aloft; she did not touch it, not even once.

When she spoke again, the accent rolled on the dialect of the Heian era. “Alas, this one suffered a fate more wretched than death or seal. This one was unfortunately bound,” the corners of her eyes lengthened slightly as she smiled, “to the will of a modern sorcerer. But he is very handsome and strong-willed, and every so often—” her tongue brushed cheerfully her painted lip, still stained with Kaoru’s blood—“he permits this one to feast. An arrangement rather agreeable, is it not?”

“Whoever he is,” Kaoru said, each syllable steady, “he should start running. When I’m done with you, I’ll make him regret having you wear the wrong dead man’s face in my presence.”

The Divine Dog gave a low growl and stepped forward. The cursed energy rolling off it and the gouges it left in the floor were proof enough: it was holding itself back waiting for her to give the command.

Kaoru let herself look at the foxfie again—no, at the stone inside it. Not likes the others foxfires at all. The blue foxfire surrounding the stone it was only a way for Tamamo to freely move it around without direct contact; she never touched it directly, not even with a nail.

Can’t or won’t? Either way: bad feeling.

Kaoru braced just as Tamamo, with a bored flick of her wrist, hurled the foxfire-stone forward; the black stone whistled across the haill like a comet.

She launched herself to the left, colliding her useless arm with the wall and pain flared; useless limb or not, she bled, staying upright by temper alone. The Divine Dog lunged to intercept, claws scything up in a arc and caught the stone dead center—

—and the stone passed through.

No impact, no weight, the foxfire-stone tore a perfect hole through the shikigami's forearm with ridicolous cleanliness and streaked on, slowing only when it reached the far end of the corridor to hang, suspended, blue flames flickering lazily as if pleased with itself.

The shikigami snarled, a sound that rattled the ceiling panels, and dropped back into a guard crouch; too much black blood poured from a circular absence the size of a baseball's ball. No regeneration there, simply missing flesh. 

Kaoru’s eyes cut from the wound to the hovering foxfire-stone, back to Tamamo, whose smile widened, showing all those fangs. Her hand remained lifted, fingers curved as if around an invisible thread to beckon the stone back.

“Sesshōseki,” Tamamo said, almost kindly. “The Killing Stone. All which touches it—” her smile brightened with girlish delight, fangs peeking, “—ceases.”

The word lingered in Kaoru’s mind. Cease?

Her gaze flicked once more to her Divine Dog’s ruined paw, to the hole that keep bleeding and would not close, to the way cursed energy simply skipped over it as though it had no anchor point. Too dangerous. And yet Tamamo didn’t touch the stone either; the fox woman kept her hand lifted, directing the stone at a distance, never letting skin meet surface.

So you’re afraid of it too, Kaoru thought, smirking despite the sting in her ribs. Not as untouchable as you’d like me to think. She smirked despite the blood trickling down her collarbone, shifting weight onto her back leg. “Fine. Let’s find out.”

She shifted her stance, katana angled and infused with cursed energy; the Divine Dog snarled low beside her, weight set, ruined paw still braced for the charge.

“Let’s see how fast you really are,” Tamamo murmured, mostly to herself as she twitched her wrist to recall the Sesshōseki. The stone screamed forward in a straight line, faster than an arrow.

The corridor became a death trap of inches; walls dented, plaster exploded, lights swayed overhead. Kaoru dove left, then sprang up, foot planting on the wall for leverage as she brought her sword down in a vicious arc. The shikigami slammed forward opposite her, ruining with its claws the opposite wall and closing in on Tamamo.

Tamamo floated back like a dancer, tails swaying with each turn. She didn’t bother blocking; the Sesshōseki streaked in to cover every gap, snapping between Kaoru’s blade and her throat, between the Dog’s claws and her body.

Each time Kaoru adjusted her swing, the stone was there first, forcing her to twist away or risk her sword—and herself—erased mid-strike.

The shikigami growled and lunged again, jaws wide, but Tamamo slipped aside, laughing, and the Sesshōseki glazed across the side of his muzzle. His howl shook the ceiling as blood sprayed white fur, his head jerking back.

Kaoru cut low, slipped into her own shadow, and reappeared at Tamamo’s flank, katana slashing for her ribs.

Tamamo barely tilted her head. “Too slow.”

She shot her arm back and the Sesshōseki snapped back like a whip, streaking for Kaoru’s side. She twisted mid-swing, sparks hissing as her blade skimmed the stone, half her katana edge vanishing in an instant.

The Divine  Dog struck in that heartbeat, sinking inside Kaoru's shadow. From below Tamamo’s own feet, the shadows rippled and a massive white head erupted upward. The kitsune's eyes snapped downward in surprise just as the shikigami's jaws clamped onto her shoulder and dangerously close to her face from underneath. His fangs tore silk and skin, black blood spraying the wall as Tamamo screamed.

“Got you,” Kaoru hissed, pivoting, katana aimed to severe her head.

But the Sesshōseki shrieked back like a comet toward her.

Kaoru saw it too late—

The Divine Dog intercepted to shield her and the stone clipped it full across the eye. The shockwave from his howl cracked the corridor windows as one white eye vanished into nothingness, black blood pouring down his muzzle. He slammed sideways into the wall, claws carving furrows.

“Shit—”

The Sesshōseki wheeled back, already lined for his skull. No choice. Not acceptable losing a totality shikigami now. Kaoru threw herself across the path, katana raised. The impact nearly wrenched her arm out of its socket; the blade cracked as the stone grazed through her flank, carving out a half-moon from her side before streaking away.

For a moment there was nothing—no pain, no heat—just absence; then the blood came hot and heavy, flooding down her side.

Her body jolted, breath exploding out. She bit down hard, forced herself to stand, and reached instinctively for RCT—her own, Mame’s, anything—hoping it was enough to stop the bleeding as fast as possible.

She found nothing.

Kaoru knew there was a wound, could feel blood soaking her side, could smell iron sharp in her nose; logic, nerves, agony told her so, but her cursed energy? Her cursed energy slid past the wound like it didn’t exist, like her body no longer recognized it.

The Sesshōseki had erased her flesh from her own conception.

“Oh.” Her lips curled bitterly as she caught herself on her katana. “So that’s what ‘cease’ means.”

It was a total annihilation, the kind of wound only someone else—someone not caught in the erasure and absence—might be able to fix. Mame, or Shoko; either way, both unreachable and her blood loss was already too much. Her vision swam, her left arm useless from earlier; immortal or not, she could bleed herself into stillness without proper healing and collapse before she ever found the Kusakabe brothers.

She could not affoard to drag the fight.

Immortal, immortal—what does that even mean without Mame?

Her Dog limped forward anyway, half-blind and half-crippled, blood streaking the tiles, growl rumbling like an earthquake. Loyal idiot.

Tamamo, pristine silks spattered with blood, dabbed daintily at her jaw. Where the Dog’s fangs had grazed her, a thin line of blood marred her perfect face. A scratch, barely a scratch; but her smile soured

“You scarred this one's face.” She raised the Sesshōseki again; the fire around it pulsed brighter, keening like a child begging to be thrown. “Unforgivable.”

Ah. Vanity.

Kaoru spat blood onto the floor and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Don’t kid yourself, that face isn’t even yours, right? What’s wrong? Your real one too ugly to show?”

That landed. The courtesan mask cracked; cheeks warped too far, eyes stretching into a fox’s slant, fangs bared in petty fury. Her shriek rattled the glass in the windows, childish in its venom. “Wretched thing! Look at yourself! Frail little doll, chest flat, thighs like a farmer’s, skin pale as death!”

Really? We’re doing this?

The stone shrieked loose, faster than before, zigged left, zagged right, carving straight lines through plaster and steel, ricocheting back and forth so fast the corridor shook apart. 

“Let's see if I'm fast enough.” She ducked under another shriek of the Sesshōseki, plaster exploding at her shoulder.

Her katana was slick with her own blood, grip sticky, but steady as she adjusted her stance, weight rolling to her back foot, and the Dog moved in rhythm out of the way, weaving between annihilation trails, hairline grazes opening fresh wounds that bled without closing, the same void-scorched mark.

She lunged low, then sprang up, feet hitting the wall, using the buckling plaster as a springboard but Tamamo twirled back in that dancer’s float, the Sesshōseki screaming between them, burning a hole into the floor, slicing inches past her own cheek as she recalled it, almost skewering herself in the process. The mistake jolted her smugness, then fury took its place.

“Tell me—” Tamamo's grin cut sharp, “—did your Seijiro ever tell you how pitiful he thought of your legs?No wonder you had to play at being a man!

Kaoru’s eye twitched as she flicked her blade in one hand as she crouched low for the push. She did not, absolutely did not, have the bandwidth for a thousand years old kitsune spirit to be gossiping about her body mid-fight. And yet—

“Trust me,” Kaoru hissed, ducking another pass of the stone, “he had no complaints. Frankly, he liked them a little too much.”

Tamamo faltered mid-float, all nine tails lashing. The stone whipped forward again. “Lies! No man would look twice at—”

“—a kitsune who needs makeup to have a face?” Kaoru cut in, sidestepping another straight-line blast that nearly clipped her ear. She grinned, cruel. “Yeah. Thought so.”

The shriek that followed was more childish than monstrous, the tantrum of a vain girl exposed.

Perfect. Kaoru could work with petty. Rattled prey was easier prey and nothing unbalanced a Kitsune faster than vanity. Adapt or die. Play suicidal. That always worked better than it should, hell she won at Sekigahara against a man twice her size with a suicidal move. She grinned at the memory. 

The Sesshōseki screamed faster, zig-zagging in brutal straight lines. Every path she and the Dog tried to close in was immediately cut off; every attempt to press forward ended in another forced dodge, another hairline graze opening wounds that wouldn’t close. Impossible to approach. The stone was too fast, and yet Kaoru noted how it never curved. Always a straight line. When Tamamo needed a new angle, she had to recall it, redirect, fire again.

A Binding Vow? Probably. Speed beyond human reflex, paid for in rigidity; it could only fly straight, that was the trade. Fine. If the stone was a straight-line killer, she just had to gamble on when it would fire.

“Ugly little mask,” Kaoru darted forward, dropping to the floor, blood spattering tile as she slid under the Sesshōseki's next pass. “Your true face must disgust even you.”

The Divine Dog surged forward together, reckless and sprinting headfirst into the Sesshōseki’s kill-box. The shikigami lunged high in a frontal suicidal attack, every movement screaming desperation as Kaoru sank into her own shadow, disappearing from sight.

“Pathetic little insolent,” Tamamo spat, recalling the stone from behind her in a deadly straight line for the Dog’s skull. She whirled, fangs bared in triumph, seeing how Kaoru was ready to sacrifice the shikigami. Too easy, the same move as before again; Kaoru would appear behind her again, trying to box her in between blade and shikigami. She recalled the Sesshōseki, sent it screaming straight back for the Dog’s skull, already twisting in anticipation of Kaoru’s shadow-attack from behind.

Except the shadow behind her was empty. No Kaoru.

Her grin slipped a second too late.

Her head snapped forward—and Kaoru erupted from the floor right in front of hernot behind, switching places with her shikigami, katana raised, already swinging for her throat, body between Tamamo and the onrushing Sesshōseki, katana raised.

Tamamo’s eyes went wide; the Sesshōseki was already on its return path, streaking straight toward both of them—toward Kaoru’s chest, toward her own spine. If she stopped the stone, Kaoru would decapitate her, if she didn't the stone would kill them both.

“You—are you insane!?” Tamamo screamed, voice breaking shrill, scrambling to slow down the stone before it could hit them.

“Probably.” Kaoru’s lips split in a bloody feral grin, as if she had already won, in some way. As if she was just waiting to see which reaction Tamamo would pick.

The Sesshōseki slowed enough for Kaoru to react. She pivoted fast to face it, the katana in her hand lifted and flared—not cursed energy, but Domain Amplification, blooming along the edge, wrapped around her steel and her body, ready to meet the stone.

The kitsune’s voice cracked in panic. “Y-you little whore—you can cast Domain Amplification that quickly!?”

Of course I can, Kaoru thoutht smugly, feet planting deep into fractured tile. I’m fast.

 The Sesshōseki slammed into steel, and this time the katana held.

The collision roared down the corridor, sparks of cursed energy scattering white-blue as stone met steel. For one breathless instant, the Sesshōseki and Domain Amplification collided, annihilation against nullification, grinding against each other like tectonic plates.

Kaoru planted her feet deep into cracked tile, every tendon screaming, blood pouring freely from her wounds; if she let go now, the stone would pass through her blade and her skull, so she shoved harder, forcing the Domain Amplification running on her blade to eat away at the Sesshōseki’s cursed technique.

The world shook.

Then—

The katana in her hands snapped, but so did the Sesshōseki.

The corridor blew apart with the backlash; ceiling tiles caved in, one wall half-collapsed, and dust poured down in sheets. The black stone cracked down the middle, blue flames sputtering out like a candle pinched shut and the two halves clattered harmless to the floor.

Kaoru swayed, panting, hair stuck to her face with blood and sweat. Her side still bled where the Sesshōseki had carved into her, her neck still leaked from Tamamo’s bite; every muscle shook. Still, when she crouched and tapped one shard with the broken hilt—

Nothing. Just a harmless rock.

A humorless laugh broke out of her throat. “...Worth it.”

Tamamo screamed, her nine tails whipped the corridor, her body convulsing. Without the stone, her form unraveled; Heian silks sagging, cursed energy spilling out in ragged waves. For the first time she touched the ground, staggering, claws scrabbling for balance as if she’d forgotten how to stand. 

Kaoru dropped her broken weapon, smeared blood off her palms onto the long skirt of her ruined uniform and straightened, ignoring the protests of her ribs. “Oh,” she said, with slow, deliberate cruelty. “Not so beautiful now. Time to give you back the favor, don’t you think?”

Step. Blood dripped with it. Step. Another rivulet hit the tiles.

Tamamo hissed, stumbling back, summoning a panicked foxfire to her hand. The flame was unstable, flickering wildly.

Kaoru chuckled low in her throat. “Please. We both know without your stone you’re nothing worth fearing.”

Tamamo’s perfect mask cracked further and she looked human only in the robes, not in the face; the beauty slipped, her voice quivering even through the rage. “You insane monster—don’t underestimate—”

Kaoru talked right over her, cool, disinterested, as if toying with an insect. “You know, your master isn’t the only generous one. Sometimes, I let my creatures feed too.” She pressed her hands into a sign, slow enough to let Tamamo see it coming, savoring the way her eyes widened. The floor at her feet rippled.

“The Well’s Unknown Abyss. Rabbit Escape. Nue.”

Her shadow split, and the corridor filled with them.

White rabbits spilled out in dozens, then more, padding softly on little feet, twitching noses, long ears perked. Each one sprouted small feathered wings that fluttered until sparks flared across their fur. Tiny arcs of static popped in the air, light bulbs cracked overhead, the hair on Kaoru’s arms lifted with the charge. The rabbits hopped, some took clumsy little flights, lightning trailing behind. Then... their beady eyes all turned to the trembling kitsune.

Tamamo froze, terror blooming across her ruined painted lips. “Keep them—keep those little things away—”

Kaoru tilted her head, her smile turned a little feral. “Why? Don’t foxes eat rabbits?” She stepped back, letting the shikigami swarm fill the space between them. A sweet smile. “Dinner’s served.”

The first rabbit darted. Then another. Then a swarm.

Blue foxfire snapped from Tamamo’s palm, burning half a dozen into charred fur and sparks, but more kept coming, fluttering in from above, scuttling underfoot, pouncing in waves—dozens, then dozens more. Static clung to her silks, electricity climbing her arms and tails, and Tamamo shrieked.

The rabbits latched on, fur sparking, tiny teeth digging in. Dozens of little bodies clung to her frame, shocking, biting, burning with every touch. She flailed, tails whipping, trying to claw them off, but more came, swarming over her face, ears, legs. The smell of ozone and scorched fabric filled the air. 

Kaoru leaned back against the wall head light from too much blood spilled, letting her lungs drag air in raggedly, watching without pity. Her uniform clung to her in places where the Sesshōseki’s wounds had torn deep, her neck burned, her side still poured blood, but she didn’t look away.

Tamamo screamed again, pitch cracking, breaking down into sobs as the rabbits swarmed her. Her body flickered, human to fox to beast, none of them holding. Cursed energy leaked alongside blood, puddling across the floor as Rabbits fed with soft tearing sounds, white fur streaked red and black, noses wrinkling as they burrowed in.

A part of Kaoru wondered, distantly, if this would be enough. Let her remember this. Maybe next time she manifests again as an Imaginary Vengeful Spirit, she’ll choke on the fear of rabbits before she tries my face again. She almost smiled. That'd be justice enough, wasn’t it? To leave her broken and traumatized for wearing the face of the wrong man and make fun of him in her presence.

The shrieks broke off into choked sobs, then whispers, then nothing. The last sound Tamamo made was not a curse, not even a scream, it was a wet, strangled sob. Her tails writhed, collapsed, then vanished with a final puff of cursed energy. Only the smell of burned silk lingered.

Silence.

Then—

Mame pulsed against her scalp. Weak at first, then harder, erratic like it had just woken up to the wreck she was and finally registered her condition.

“Oh, you’re awake now, sleepyhead?” Kaoru muttered, her voice hoarse. With her good hand she gave the comb an affectionate tap. “Had to clean up on my own, you know.”

Mame shivered indignantly, like a child kicking its heels at being scolded, spitting cursed energy in furious bursts. The loop of RCT kicked in almost instantly, angry, as though offended by the state she was in. Kaoru smiled thinly as she felt the familiar current wash over her, looping straight into her system.

The Sesshōseki’s wounds finally started closing, sluggish but steady. Her side stopped bleeding in rivers, her neck began to stitch. Enough to stop the constant drip of blood, enough for her to breathe without tasting iron. Fingers in her left hand twitched faintly, movement returning and Kaoru let out a long, shaky exhale. “Good. So it can be healed from an outsider,” she murmured, lips quirking wry. “Good to know. Otherwise I really would have been in trouble.”

The Divine Dog, however, would not get that lucky. One eye gone, deep wounds refusing to knit. She forced herself not to wince at the thought; she was still alive, and so was the shikigami. That would have to be enough.

With care, she pushed herself off the wall; her legs held, barely but were slowing regaining their strenght as the loop of Reverse Cursed Technique continued its quiet work through Mame. Rabbits still hopped lazily around, sparks popping from their fur, whiskers twitching. They had done their work and now hopped in lazy circles, looking for all the world like harmless pets.

She was about to pass them when her Archivist’s instincts tugged. Something round gleamed under fallen plaster. A shard of light

Kaoru’s steps slowed. “Oh,” she murmured, crouching despite the ache that screamed down her thigh.

The mirror, Tamamo’s cursed artifact.

Her pulse quickened in spite of herself. Suppressing a shiver, she ripped the skirt of her uniform at the knees, tore free enough fabric, draped it carefully over the glass before she could catch her own reflection, then tied it into a makeshift bundle securing it snug against her side.

Her heart beat quicker at the weight of it against her side. Even in life-or-death, obsession had its teeth in her. “Tamamo no Mae’s mirror.” A feral little smile tugged at her lips. “Mine. You’ll look nice in my basement.”

Straightening, she dragged her sleeve across her mouth and looked toward the window at the end of the corridor. Outside, the Curtain still hung heavy, black and suffocating the hospital. Then the whole barrier shuddered. Once. Then again, more violently, silver sparkling light flashing along its seams.

Kaoru’s brows shot up. “Oh,” she murmured, lips quirking; she knew that slash.  “Lunar Cut?” A proud smile tugged despite the pain. “Look at you, Hisanobu. Good boy. Keep at it and you might actually succeed.”

He was throwing everything into it, trying to bring down the Curtain, just as she’d told him. She’d have to remember to praise him later—though in Hisanobu’s case, praise usually had to be disguised as scolding to keep him tolerable.

One heartbeat she let herself feel relief. The next, it was gone. Her frown returned, heavier and bitter.

Has Satoru reached the Children’s Hospital yet? Has he engaged Scarlet Mist already?

Mame pulsed smug reassurance against her scalp, like a child tugging insistently at the mother's sleeve. Don’t worry.

Kaoru almost laughed. Right. No point worrying over Satoru Gojo now; if anyone could dance circles around a special grade, it was him. Her job wasn’t finished here anyway;whoever had staged this, whoever thought it wise or funny to shove Seijiro’s ghost in her face, to use him like a mask, that bastard had crossed a line. Some things shouldn’t be touched.

Her eyes hardened, the rabbits at her feet, small lightning sparking from their bodies as if catching her mood.

She slapped her bloody palms across her cheeks, forcing focus back into her body, then squared her shoulders, bundle secure at her hip, tugged her ponytail tight to re-anchor Mame where he belonged.

Her lips curled, not a smile, exactly, but the ghost of a commander readying her troops. “Time to find the Kusakabe,” she muttered. “AAnd then I’ll deal with the bastard who thought they could play us.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

The breath slammed out of Uzuya’s lungs as her back hit the wall.

“Damn it.” She grunted, dust raining down as she slid half a step before forcing herself up again, katana snapping into guard just in time to catch the overhead strike screaming down at her skull.

The downward cut met her blade hard, sparks spitting, the shock rattling down her arms. She braced, bent low under the pressure, the force grinded her guard lower toward her face until the steel nicked into her shoulder.

She growled, snapped her weight forward, and shoved with every muscle in her core. The impact threw her attacker back a step as she staggered upright, blade steadying into guard again.

Uzuya flicked her eyes down where hot sting, blood poured down her shoulder; gone the next second, stolen away by Haibara’s cursed technique, siphoning the wound away, taking it upon himself.

Empathic Assonance. Good. It meant they hadn’t been abandoned, though every time steel opened her skin, she knew that boy out there was flinching in her place. Not exactly what they’d planned for. They’d braced for Scarlet Mist’s fog eating their lungs, not her brother’s sword cutting her to ribbons. She wondered if Shoko was adapting, if she was keeping up with her healings.

Her gaze snapped up and...

Atsuya Kusakabe, her brother, stood across from her, eyes cloudy, mouth twisted in his usual scowl, katana lifted with intent to kill.

Uzuya hissed through her teeth, irritation rising even over fear, forcing her stance steady. “Really? Brainless idiot, it’s me! Snap out of it, we don’t have time for this!”

Atsuya didn’t blink. His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened, katana angled toward her. “Where the hell did you hide my sister, Scarlet Mist?”

Her heart sank; he meant it, he didn’t see her at all. Whatever that damn kitsune’s mirror had done when the Curtain fell over the hospital, it had erased her face from his eyes. To him, she was the enemy. Worse—Scarlet Mist itself. Uzuya’s throat tightened. If he really believed that, he wouldn’t stop; idiot that he was, her brother would cut down anything that threatened her. Even her. For her.

Then, the chuckle came soft from behind her, a voice she wanted to carve out of existence. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was; he had been there since the whole mess began. Leaning against the wall of a waiting room, black robes neat as if he hadn’t a care, staff of crimson segments, Playful Cloud, resting loosely in his hand.

Suguru Geto.

“Brother against sister. Poetic,” he smiled innocently, tone light as paper, gesturing vaguely with a finger. “If Scarlet Mist were here, I think he’d enjoy the irony of all this.”

Uzuya shot him a glare over her shoulder. One of the most wanted curse users in the country, right there as if this were a game. Finding him here, strolling corridors littered with corpses, had been an unwelcome surprise. Realizing he was working with Scarlet Mist? Worse. And of course, he wasn’t alone—he’d come with others, already cutting down staff and patients while he lounged in the middle of it like a director on opening night.

Out of all the curse users currently infesting the hospital, Geto was the last face she’d wanted to run into. And of course, he wasn’t alone—he’d come with others, already cutting down staff and patients while he lounged in the middle of it like a director on opening night.

Not that she could focus on him, not with her brother’s stance shifting. Low guard, weight sunk, katana at his hip. She recognized it instantly.

“Ah, hell—” she muttered, snapping her own stance down to match.

Steel hissed, both blades drew as one. Batto Sword Drawing, the same New Shadow Style that had made the Kusakabe siblings feared as the storngest Grade 1 sorcerers.

The clash rang, steel on steel, a matching drawing too perfect to be anything than years of training together. Sparks flared and her arms shook under the force. She held back; he didn’t. His full force crashed down, and her blade cracked, half the steel shearing away. His katana carried through, and his cut found her abdomen, too deep into her flesh, blood spraying out painting the floor and the adjacent wall for a single heartbeat.

Haibara took it. She felt the boy’s pain echo even here, guilt biting her stomach worse than steel.

“Tch—” She staggered back, spun on her heel to reset her guard, what was left of her katana trembling in her grip.

Atsuya reset into stance, like she was nothing more than another curse in his way standing right besides Suguru now.

For his credit, Suguru, smiling like it was an experiment gone right, idly brushed Uzuya's blood from his cheek, voice smooth and maddening. “You know,” he said, almost bored, bringing a hand near his mouth as if confessing her a secret, “if you’d given that last stroke everything, I think your brother would be the one with broken steel now.”

Oh, for fuck's sake—

Uzuya’s lips twitched somewhere between a grimace and a smirk. “Shut your mouth. Once I’ve rattled some sense into him, you’re next. I’ll personally take you apart.”

“Oh, scary.” Suguru’s brows quirked upward, amused. He chuckled, like everything was perfectly normal. “But, I’m afraid until Tamamo’s little trick isn’t so easily undone. Until she’s done, even I couldn’t—”

As if summoned, the ground beneath their feet shuddered. Dust sifted from the ceiling, a tremor deep, violent shook the building. All three paused.

Suguru’s brows pinched, his eyes narrowed to slits. “…Oh. That’s unexpected.”

Uzuya narrowed her eyes, felt the energy rising from below. Familiar, like a blade she knew too well. She almost smiled despite the blood still wet on her lips. Kaoru-san. So she had cut her way through after all, she was tearing probably something or someone apart beneath them. If Tamamo was fighting her, the kitsune wouldn’t be enjoying herself for long. Maybe things weren’t as desperate as they looked.

When she looked up again, Atsuya’s scowl had changed. Confusion flashed in his eyes, then a blink, as if waking from the wrong dream. His katana was still in his hands, but his gaze finally focused on her, like seeing her for the first time.

“…Uzuya?” His voice was hoarse.

Relief loosened her chest despite everything. “Brother?”

His brows slammed down again. “Why the hell are you pointing your sword at me, you lunatic—!”

“Shut up and move! You were under a kitsune’s spell.” she barked, snapping her sword toward Suguru. “The bastard behind you is the real problem!”

Atsuya didn’t hestitate, didn't even look. He spun, katana lifted, two quick steps back to her side, glare locking onto Suguru. For the first time since this mess started, he was with her, not against her. Side by side.

Suguru only gave a little wave, fingers fluttering like a mock greeting. “Well. That’s less entertaining.”

Atsuya’s glanced once at her, at her uniform, her coat, at the stains of blood and torn fabrics where wounds had bled before vanishing. His jaw clenched, realization setting in. Those had been his cuts, his sword, his hands. Wounds he had carved into his own sister.

The look he turned on Suguru after was pure murder. “You’re already a dead man,” he growled low, sliding his blade back into stance.

Uzuya let out a sharp breath, steadied her stance, and raised what was left of her katana. The tip was jagged, half the blade sheared away; irritated more than worried, she shifted her grip and shoved her cursed energy inside the blade. “Hazy Moon.”

Her cursed energy flowed, a hazy glow knitting itself into steel; the missing half of the blade reformed in translucence, not quite solid but enough to cut. She gave the reconstructed edge a testing flick, the faint hum reassuring.

Good enough. She smirked beside her brother, angling her half-rebuilt blade low at her hip, perfect siblings again.  “Welcome back, brother.”

“Shut up, menace,” Atsuya barked, jaw tight. His eyes kept darting to the blood that still stained her coat; he hated it, she could tell. “You look like a corpse and you still smell like one.”

“You shut up, you were pathetic, sulking like I was already dead!”

He scowled harder, but his stance fell into sync with hers, feet sliding shoulder to shoulder. Always the same style, perfectly in sync as always.

Suguru finally pushed off the wall, Playful Cloud spinning once in his hand. His easy smile didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “I’ll admit—I expected more time from Tamamo. Scarlet Mist swore the Archivist would stay tangled in her little game for much longer. Minutes only? Hm.” His voice cooled, faint scorn dripping off it. “Seems he underestimated her after all.”

Uzuya’s lip curled. “Great. That makes this next part simpler.”

The siblings exhaled in unison. Enough talk; they would not let the terrorist slip away under their eyes. They struck together, twin flashes of steel, Batto Sword Drawing in unison.

Playful Cloud snapped wide, three iron lengths intercepting both strikes. The clang shook down Uzuya’s arms but she pivoted instantly, her blade cutting low for his knee while her brother swept high, aiming for the throat. Left-right rhythm, feint and cut, one pressing while the other covered, trading rhythm the way they’d done since they were younger.

Suguru spun the staff in a perfect circle, chain wrapping and redirecting both blades in a single sweep. He shoved hard, and the siblings slid back down the hall.

“Sloppy,” Atsuya muttered, breath short.

“Yours was slower than mine,” Uzuya shot back without missing rhythm. “I’ve already passed four of your hits to Haibara,” she muttered between clashes to her brother, voice low and flat. “We can't overload him more.”

“Tch. Then we can't drag this with the other curse users storming the building.” Atsuya clicked his tongue and muttered something between a curse and a prayer, adjusting his next angle without hesitation, already lunging again.

At that, Suguru’s smile twitched, just for a second, even as he never stopped moving: staff wheeling, chain tightening, stance low, footwork smooth as if he were sparring instead of fighting for his life.

Uzuya slipped under his guard, blade slicing for his ribs; he snapped the staff down to block, only to meet Atsuya’s strike at his shoulder in the same beat. His wrists twisted, the chain catching both blades, then he shoved them out wide, forcing them to stagger, until the three of them were pressed near the window at the corridor’s end, the glass rattling with every impact.

Suguru locked the staff against both their swords in a perfect X, none of them giving ground, chain taut. The strength in the deadlock shook her arms, but Uzuya held her ground. None of them moved an inch.

Suguru’s voice stayed cool as he smiled, though his breath had quickened. “It's not my intention to linger here with you. My business was with the non-sorcerers, and that’s already finished, I have no intention of harming sorcerers—”

“Then try to leave,” Uzuya snapped, pressing harder, her blade sparking against iron chains.

“Spare us the theater.” Atsuya pressed from the other side, “You won't leave before I carve your smug face off.”

Suguru sighed as if it was all a very dramatic kabuki play. “Ah. Truly, the drama between brother and sister was already the highlight. Consider yourselves… an interlude.” Finally, with a whip-crack, he forced space, knocking them both back a few steps. He straightened, raised one hand, Playful Cloud in the other, cursed energy already gathering ready to loose severals of his curses down the hall to finish the job.

And that was when Uzuya caught it. She felt it in the cursed energy beyond the window's glas, caught a flicker of motion outside. Too many white shapes. Too fast. She squinted. For a heartbeat she thought she saw ears. Rabbits? Then fluffy wings. And lightning—

Her eyes widened. Oh. That mad woman, she's gonna—

“Well,” she murmured, voice dry, “you know what? I think you just pissed off the wrong woman.”

Suguru’s brows twitched, genuine confusion breaking through his calm for the first time.

The window behind him exploded inward, glass, lightning and rabbits flooding the hall.

𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑹𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

Chapter Text

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟔. 𝑹𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

25 December 2014, Tokyo Metropolitan Children's Medical Center

Satoru didn’t move when the girl stopped breathing.

The Six Eyes tracked the diaphragm stutter; one final hitch, then flat. His grin didn't slip; only his count updated, one heartbeat, one click in his mind. Two children alive in this room; now one. He hated that the math came so easily, but his brain insisted on inventory even when he wanted it to stop.

One child in this room still breathing. Keep that number steady.

This wasn’t about a teaching license anymore; Scarlet Mist and Suguru had turned it into a war soaked in children's blood.

The boy in the scarf cocked his head toward the bed like he, too, had felt the tally drop. For a fraction of a second the childish brightness in his eyes dulled, but the red fog at his feet didn’t lift and he didn’t lower the Red Ward. He just hummed something off-key, wiggled his fingers at the remaining boy as if to say sorry, then didn’t say it.

Satoru’s jaw ached. “Spare me the act.”

He shifted his weight, foot dragging half a step, and the floor bent. Blue pinched and he was three meters left without the hallway having the chance to disagree, hand already raised with Red sparking at his fingertip.

The naginata in Scarlet Mist's hands twisted once, clean, and killed the shot mid-flight.

Fine. He didn’t need straight lines.

The Six Eyes ran the geometry; bed frames, drip stands, oxygen tanks, cribs, tiny bodies, tiny lungs. A corridor full of things he refused to turn into collateral, lives he noted, then shoved out of thought.  The angle was wrong for another direct point-blank Red—too much blow-through, too much ceiling to take with it—so he chose the uglier option: heel kick driven with cursed energy into Scarlet Mist’s ribs, Blue dragging the boy sideways into it.

The impact launched him into a cabinet. Glass spattered; Infinity caught the shards and froze them at ten centimeters from Satoru’s skin. He did not look at the way one shard missed the last living kid’s face by a hair.

Scarlet Mist popped upright like a weighted toy, grin bright and stupidly cheerful, scarf swinging and naginata snapping into guard. He sang as the blade blurred: “Ha! That’s the spirit, Gojo-dono!”

Sandanzuki. Three-points thrusts.

Satoru slid back on a millimeter of air, Infinity humming, but he felt that wrong notch again where the golden blade's edge ignored his cursed technique, the same null that had earlier clipped his shoulder. He turned the last thrust by half a hair, the blade shaving the air where his throat had been.

Blue ripped the broken cabinet loose, curved its path around Scarlet Mist’s guard and sent it back in a boomerang. At the same time he charged on his finger a bead of Red the size of a marble and launched it; it zipped around a corner, closing on the Vengeful Spirit from the other side.

Scarelt Mist’s smile twitched too bright—alarm disguised as delight—and he spun the naginata before the orb blew behind his knee. “Again, again—!”

The blast staggered him forward; Satoru seized his red scarf and haori collar, swung him down the hall, away from the surviving child. Three walls gave before Satoru stopped; not because he couldn’t hit harder, but because the fourth wall had two cribs on the other side, so he hooked a Blue sideways at the last instant, shearing off force.

Blood sprayed from Scarlet Mist’s nose and described a pretty arc against Infinity before sliding away like oil. He giggled through it, watery. “Rude.”

The naginata bit up from below in the same breath and Satoru let it reach him; Sandanzuki’s first thrust scraped Infinity wrong, kissing cloth and skin high on his chest. He twisted, the second and third thrusts shaving the field where his neck had just been. He slammed a palm into the haft, stealing the weapon’s path; Scarlet Mist went light, body lifting, and Satoru flung him hrough the doorway into the nurses’ station, against a supply cart that had once, kindly, held stuffed animals.

Satoru followed immediately, not giving him space to think, only for a nurse to stumble in his pat; one arm hooked under a boy with an IV taped to his hand. She made it two steps; she didn’t make the third. The fog clung to her mouth and nose, and her knees gave.

His lungs burned. the cursed tubercolosis was inside his lungs even with RCT looping harder, knitting alveoli again and again, just enough to keep the infection at bay. Focus he needed elsewhere bled away into that constant repair; he fed it anyway and didn't complain.

A Red orb detonated in an an upward blast under the desk in the nurses' station. The station jumped and Scarlet Mist pinwheeled and landed crouched on the other side, grinning with blood in his lips. “Careful~,” he mocked, kicking off that same desk and cut down in a vertical arc. “You almost hurt that nurse.”

Infinity flexed where the blade nullified it; Satoru Blue-blinked sideways, hard enough that the air snapped like a sheet. His fist cracked into Scarlet Mist’s nose, then flung him down the hall like garbage.

They crashed into the next ward. Six cots. Three still. One nurse on her knees weeping into the chest of a child whose eyes were open and watching nothing. Satoru fixed on Scarlet Mist. If he took in anything else, he wouldn’t be the one making decisions.

Scarlet Mist sprang from the floor, geta clacking, blade singing in a low arc and Satoru closed in; larger frame, faster entry. His forearm jammed the boy’s bicep, his Blue-infused palm drove into ribs. Crack. The boy laughed like he’d been tickled and tried to headbutt him. Satrou blinked unimpressed as Infinity held; then, Blue flung a cot sideways to pancake him. The cot bent around a naginata shaft as steel rang. It slid up through the frame as if the world were water. 

Satoru Blue-blinked again behind him, elbow slamming into his jaw. The naginata rose in a kata as perfect as any scroll, from low-guard to high in half a heartbeat, and Satoru had to spring back or lose half his face.

Scarlet Mist spun his weapon like a child showing off. “Ah-ah-ah,” he tsked, toeing a bloodied plush with a geta. “You’re holding back, Gojo-dono. That’s rude, I’m going all out here.”

“I noticed,” Satoru drawled. “I can smell the try-hard.”

In his mind, he did the math over and over; If he fought efficiently, he’d level the building, if he fought gently, they’d all be dead before he reached the stairwell.

He couldn’t fling Scarlet Mist through more walls; there were children in those rooms. He couldn’t collapse the wing. He couldn’t use his domain. Couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t. The list made a low hiss in his jaw.

“You wanna play? Fine.” He called out, breezly. He Blue-blinked to the stairwell. “Tag. You’re it.”

Scarlet Mist chased, delighted.

They tore through floors. Reds scattered like breadcrumbs, Blues redirected debris like telekinesis, but always away from the children's small signatures the Six Eyes tracked. They looped through wards, morgue, utility, then back back to a pediatric room with cartoon fish peeling off the walls.

More little bodies. One breathing, not for long. At the end of the corridor, a tiny hand reached out from under a bed; the fingers were blue-white with cold. Satoru crouched, Blue easing the bed up two centimeters, refusing dust and glass from the kid’s face.

The boy blinked at him, eyes blown black with terror, and Satoru smiled like he had all the time in the world. “Hey there,” he said brightly. “Stay put, it's going to be over in a sec.” A sound that might have been a laugh shook loose from somewhere near his ribs. It hurt, so he stopped.

Behind, Scarlet Mist tilted his head. “Tsk.” He pouted exaggeratedly. “The strongest, hiding behind—” he wiggled fingers at the beds “—promises he can't keep.”

Satoru’s neck prickled—movement—and he bent at the waist with inhuman precision just as the blade hissed where his head had been, slicing a curl off his bangs. He was about to Blue-blink away when he noticed that the trailing cut traced straight for the child’s IV bag.

He killed Blue to avoid whipping the drip stand into the boy’s face and let the blade nick him instead.

Sandanzuki’s second thrust pierced Infinity and kissed his neck. Skin parted; heat spilled; RCT snapped hard, suturing flesh in the same heartbeat but the fog poured in and for one stupid moment he tasted his own blood in his mouth.

He wiped it away and grinned wider like it didn’t matter. Slid under the next swing and came up inside Scarlet Mist's guard, countered with two body shots, elbow to temple, palm-heel to chin. The boy’s head snapped back, spitting Blood from his lips; the laugh came anyway, but it sounded cracked.

They crashed through another corridor. A family convulsed in the fog, coughing up droplets of blood that splattered and stopped an inch from Satoru’s skin. He kept not looking at the faces.

“Careful,” he sing-songed. “You’re using children as cover. That’s… what’s the technical term? Oh, right. Cowardice.”

Scarlet Mist’s smile stayed, but his eyes frosted over. The shift wasn’t loud, no tantrum, no theatrics, just silence and then a sudden dart forward, naginata blurring.

There. That was the crack.

Satoru yanked a bench sideways with Blue; the boy vaulted it, blade tip close enough that Satoru felt the air part in front of his eye. He caught the haft again and twisted; steel screeched sparks across the wall. He shoved hard, trying to pin the weapon away from the family. Scarlet Mist slipped the bind like water through fingers.

“Tell me,” Scarlet Mist sang as he pressed, “is this the Gojo Clan Head being strong? You won’t drop a ceiling because the little ones might bruise?”

Satoru didn’t answer right away because he was busy making choices.

Blue tugged a door half-off its hinges; he leaned the reality of the hallway by two degrees to keep a rolling oxygen tank from squashing a toddler. The child on the bed stirred and made a sound like a kitten.

He cut Red again, this time a pinprick dot, sent it down, under a bed, into the other room, rebounded it off an IV pole, and brought it up through the floor under Scarlet Mist’s feet, then reversed the pull. Scarlet Mist’s stance broke. One second of slack. Enough. Satoru palmed his face and hurled him against the wall for the length of the ward. Glass exploded in a starburst, shards glittering harmless against Infinity.

“If I won't drop a ceiling on you,” Satoru said, flatly, Blue-blinking at Scarlet Mist's blindspot, “It's because I said so.” 

He kicked the boy out through a window before launching after him a Red for punctuation.

Scarlet Mist went through the window like a bullet as he tried to turn the blade, but the angle was wrong and the timing was bad and Red punched his shoulder anyway, shearing cloth and flesh and pride.

They blew into the cold, into the courtyard, still inside the Red Ward, but with sky enough to breathe. The boy stumbled, rolled, came up on one knee with his haori half-burned away, breath ragged and grin too wide.

In stark contrast, Satoru landed light; he looked fine if you didn’t know what to look for. No visible wound, no blood at the throat. But his chest was a furnace and his breath was a metronome off-time, a thin misstep in his lungs the RCT loop hadn’t fully erased. Each breath tasted faintly metallic.

Every ten seconds he checked that kid in the first room; he kept breathing. He held the number with his jaw, refusing to let it change.

Scarlet Mist pushed up fast, haori flayed open across one side, one sleeve gone. Blood threaded his brown hair and painted his temple. His grin was still plastered on, but his eyes blurred a fraction, a little unfocused.

“I was a child too when they sold me to the Shogunate,” he said softly, and the softness was worse than the sing-song; an old, ugly anger that didn’t belong to the brat act. “My sister was a child when they handed her this cursed blade and told her to hold it down with her life.” He laughed once, a small, cracked sound. “The fact that we were children never mattered. The clans didn’t care about children then and they don’t care now. Wouldn't you agree?”

Satoru stepped once; Red coalesced at his fingertip. He could have said he knew something about being turned into an instrument before you finished growing. Strongest of his era; a mirror tilted wrong. He didn’t. He picked the angle that cut deepest because this wasn’t a therapy session in a courtyard full of small corpses.

“Aww,” he cooed, cruel. “Did the world hurt you? Going to cry? You want my compassion for your little sister complex?”

The smile vanished. The boy’s eyes went flat and for a second, Scarlet Mist looked his age—twenty, maybe—and too old at the same time. “...Compassion?” he whispered, and for the first time the word didn’t sound theatrical. His grip trembled on the naginata. “What do you know about it? You big clans had none for us when you left us to die as traitors. None for my family when we were carved up and discarded with no honor left. None for my sister when they used her body like a test room—” His throat closed, he coughed once but pressed on. “She deserved your compassion. Her children deserved your compassion. Yet they were all—”

The words choked. He doubled over, coughing hard, strings of blood hitting the courtyard stones. His hand clawed at his throat like it was a habit he hated.

Ah. Satoru’s grin thinned without humor. Not immune to your own Red Ward, are you? Poetic. But not enough to compensate for the dead children.

He seized the moment and Blue-blinked behind him while the cough still racked him, fingers already folding out of habit. “Domain Expansion—”

Scarlet Mist’s head whipped back, panic flashing through his playful mask. The naginata, the Crimson Binding Halberd, slammed into the ground. The world rolled as a second barrier peeled outward, thin and suffocating.

A second kekkai, nestled in the first's field.

For a dizzy second, Satoru felt as if he’d been dunked underwater. Sound muffled, cursed energy warped, the Six Eyes blind like someone had smeared grease on the lenses. His Domain stuttered on the threshold.

“Tch.” He cut the attempt, retreated with Blue by reflex, eyes grinding against mud until resolution snapped back. He’d seen this pattern; two barriers, one for slaughter, one for escape. He’d noticed the same echo at the Police HQ too.

The courtyard cleared into focus. But the spot where Scarlet Mist had been one second prior—

Empty. Scarlet Mist was gone.

The Red Ward peeled apart as if someone had slit a seam. It climbed the building and evaporated, letting in a thin thread of pale morning. Sirens finally reached full volume. The world smelled like bleach and blood and cheap disinfectant and coin.

Satoru stood in the middle of it all and rotated once, slow, scanning vectors, any trace, the tiny prints the world left when something moved too fast. Nothing. He found only noise.

No Scarlet Mist. No signature. No giggle. No nothing.

No. No no no, you don't.

He hopped, one Blue-blink straight up. Rooftops, parking lot, the city’s pulse. Still nothing. The brat had slipped the second kekkai and run, exactly like the dossier warned, leaving behind a record of dead.

He landed back hard, dust scraping his shoes, pretending very convincingly to be calm. He didn’t look back—not right away—because if he did, he knew exactly what he’d see and he needed the next ten seconds to keep the top on himself.

Somewhere across the city, Kaoru would be finishing the other half of this nightmare—with her own brand of violence and Zenin stubborness—because of course she would be. He wondered, briefly, against his better judgment, if she’d make it out against Suguru. Behind him, the hospital was a ruin of cribs and small beds and lives cut off mid-breath. A sound rose and fell from inside, low, a chorus of things that wouldn’t make it and things that might.

Satoru clicked his tongue and let the grin fall off his face. Then, flat, too loud in the silence that surrounded him:

“Damn it.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

25 December 2014, Tokyo Medical University Hospital

Glass went first.

White shapes—dozens of them—punched through the window; Kaoru’s rabbits, wings fluttering uselessly fast and sparking with electricity, filled the corridor like a cheerful storm. Light bulbs popped one by one.

Kaoru, hair tangled from the wind outside, swung in after them, one-handed on the twisted mullion with her good arm; she dropped light, and landed in the middle of the storm in a soft puff. Static prickled along her skin. A rabbit bumped clumsily into her shoulder; she patted it once without looking.

“Good entrance,” she said, eyes scanning through the settling grit.

There. Down the hall, past drooping cables and a slab of half-fallen ceiling, something human-sized lay where her “air force” had hit. Her mouth tipped into a small, satisfied line. Good. She’d hit the bastard square in the back and dragged him away from Uzuya and Atsuya.

“Kaoru-san?” Uzuya’s voice, winded, steady, pulled her focus left.

The Kusakabe siblings came in from a side corridor, both braced for a fight. Uzuya looked like a fight wrapped in a person: hair sticking up, coat torn where cuts had chewed deep, katana cracked nearly in half. The uniform told Kaoru everything she needed to know about what kind of beating she’d taken, and how much of it Haibara had swallowed for her through his Empathic Assonance.

But Uzuya’s eyes—maternal fury on a timer—were still bright.

Good enough.

Atsuya hovered close, less battered, scowl already loading. “Seriously? You crash through the window with an army of… sparking flying rabbits?” he muttered, eyeing a rabbit that drifted overhead, whiskers sparking. “Absolutely subtle. Completely comforting.” Which clearly meant not comforting.

Kaoru tilted her head, noncommittal. Her gaze slid back to Uzuya, just a shade softer. Neither of them had any idea what was happening across the city, about the other hospital and the real target of Scarlet Mist that Satoru was dealing with.

Not the moment to tell them, not when even thinking “children’s hospital” put heat behind her skull; she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to sting.

“You good?” Kaoru asked, already looking down the corridor where her rabbits had punted the target.

Uzuya wasted no words. “When the curtain dropped, curse users flooded the hospital, slashing anyone in reach. We got hit with a kitsune as soon as we entered—mirror, hypnosis, the whole show, and Atsuya—”

“—Tamamo-no-Mae,” Kaoru cut in with the faintest smile. “She won’t be a problem for… a few decades.”

Surprise crossed Uzuya’s face as she took in Kaoru properly: half-stitched neck, a sealed gouge at the flank, skirt torn to the knees, a bundle tied at her hip. “You really… stopped pretending, huh?” Uzuya said, half a laugh, half a wince, falling into guard beside her.

Though his mouth didn’t stop, Atsuya did the same because annoyance did not preclude survival. “Tamamo-no-Mae?” He made a noise that might have been a disbelieving laugh. “Sure. Standard ‘Fukuoka Branch Grade 2,’ material. Next you’ll tell me you stopped Shuten-dōji on your way here too?”

Kaoru rolled her eyes, but her smirk was tight.

The rubble at the far end shifted, and all three stiffened. Kaoru’s rabbits went still, ears pricking.

Playful Cloud’s iron links clinked as Suguru Geto stepped out of the dust, dark robes neat, beads unscuffed; only the powder in his hair and a split sleeve conceded he’d been introduced to a window. He lifted one palm to brush dust away from his bangs in a gentle, almost sheepish gesture like it had been his idea.

“Yare yare,” he sighed, strolling forward until the distance felt safe to him. He clocked the exits, the collapsed sections, the ridicolous rabbits. His smile deepened on the little winged herd. “So Tamamo really was defeated. Hm.” The smile thinned as his eyes narrowed on Kaoru. “Do you know the trouble it took to subdue her?”

Kaoru’s lips curved a millimeter. Ah. So you’re the sick bastard behind all this.

The civilians massacred. Uzuya nearly carved apart if not for Haibara outside eating her wounds. A Red Ward over a children’s hospital for the grand finale. Satoru dragged away to face Scarlet Mist alone. A fox wearing Seijiro's face against her.

And worst of all, Uzuya’s boy weighed  as an acceptable cost of leverage.

Just seeing his face made her teeth grind in instant, chemical hate. She considered ten different ways to make him suffer before killing him. None of them particularly moral or ethical. All were satisfying.

Uzuya, misreading, or maybe desperately trying to redirect, cut in quickly before Kaoru detonated. “Kaoru-san, that’s Suguru Geto. Special grade and high-priority curse user, multiple massacres, ex—”

“I don’t care,” Kaoru said, eyes never leaving him.

A crisp click as Uzuya’s mouth shut.

Suguru’s smile said he thought that was cute. Or he was testing her patience, which considering was a bad idea.  He folded his arms, Playful Cloud balanced easy in the crook of his elbow, monk for the tourists. Petty covered under the calm; he liked feeling central to the room and hated being dismissed.

Kaoru kept her voice mild, almost courteous, and let her Zenin glare do the work. “I don’t care who you think you are, or what fairytail you tell yourself to make yourself believe you are important. All I see is nothing more than an insect that thinks itself clever and mistakes cruelty for power. The only reason you’re upright is because I haven’t decided yet how to get rid of you.”

Silence stretched.

Atsuya blinked, half oh no she did not just say that, half stifled laugh. Uzuya didn’t bother stifling hers; a short, startled sound punched out.

Something cramped at the corner of Suguru’s mouth; the warmth bled from his smile and for a heartbeat he looked young and offended, a pout tugging the line of his lips. Then the mask slid back. “Huh.” He muttered like he might complain about tone. “I suppose that makes you the Archivist Scarlet Mist keeps fretting over. Sharp tongue for someone I expected… taller.”

Kaoru’s right eyelid twitched. Four rabbits zipped off kamikaze-style down the corridor on principle.

“Mm,” Suguru murmured. Playful Cloud blurred; chain sang. He knocked two aside, slipped the third, and the fourth detonated behind his ankle. The far wall coughed dust and then failed, static snapping so hard Kaoru’s bangs lifted.

“Breathe.” She forced herself to breathe. “Anger makes you sloppy. Sloppiness gets you killed.”

“Completely out of your damn mind,” Atsuya muttered, ducking a rabbit that chose violence on principle.

Uzuya, more pragmatic, ignored the insult volley. “Kaoru-san. Plan? What's the situation outside?”

Kaoru listened again to the Curtain hum beyond the window; another Lunar Cut from outside, Hisanobu being stubborn and perfect. “You two sweep curse users scattered through the building. Don’t let any reach the others, outside. Nobu will break the Curtain; it’s a question of minutes now.”

“And you?” Atsuya asked, already knowing.

Kaoru’s eyes cut back to Suguru, her tone flat. “I’ll take this one.” She didn’t raise her chin; she looked down the bridge of her nose at Suguru like he’d tracked mud into her house.

Suguru straightened, dusting his shoulder, a shade less patient now; the frown he turned on her this time wasn’t masked with mock-politeness. “Hey,” he said, finally irritated, “was the lightning necessary?”

“Yes,” Kaoru said, toneless.

“Brother,” Uzuya said, eyes never leaving Suguru.

Atsuya grunted assent. Because he was Atsuya, he added, “Don’t get stabbed.”

“You stabbed me,” Uzuya hissed, scandalized.

“Under illusion,” he snapped.

“Still stabbed.”

“Children,” Kaoru said, not looking away from Suguru. “Go.”

They traded a look over her head and split, sprinting opposite ways without another word.

Suguru watched them go with a patient little hum, then turned back to Kaoru like a host indulging a rude guest. “Jujutsu sorcerers. Always frantic and fussing over small matters.” He gestured toward the hall they’d taken, voice reasonable, the salesman for genocide. “As I said, killing sorcerers is not our objective, so maybe keep your priorities straight, hn? You’ll lose fewer if you let me walk away—”

“Ah. Thank you.”

The words cut him off, leaving him blinking at the air in frustration for being dismissed once again.

Cursed energy rose off Kaoru in a steady halo. No flare, no theatrics, just pressure. Fury showed nowhere except the faint lift of her shoulders and the hairline crack she put in a tile under her heel. “And here I was, worried I’d have to invent some reason to shut your mouth,” she said, almost polite.  

She slid into her preferred low profile for when space was tight and bystanders civilians were a concern: weight low, forearm high at her cheek, other hand open to catch or break. Mame pulsed once at her crown.

“I advise you to choose your next words very carefully, Suguru Geto.” Kaoru said, the quiet kind of angry that made smart men leave rooms. “Don’t mistake this for a negotiation. It isn’t.”

His smile stayed ut his eyes narrowed just enough to admit he’d heard her. His knuckles went white on Playful Cloud. “Likewise.”

The first exchange was nothing but testing ground, gauging patience.

Kaoru cut through her own shadow, reappearing at Suguru’s blind side. Using her smaller frame, she blurred forward to slip past Suguru’s guard, cursed energy tight around her fist as it drove for his ribs. Playful Cloud’s chain snapped down, sparks biting as iron deflected knuckle.

Suguru only chuckled as the staff spun again, striking high; Kaoru slipped under, heel sweeping his ankle. The chain curled around her leg, yanking; she rolled with it, shadow catching her weight. Annoying, he was faster than he looked.

One of her rabbits fluttered in to intercept, tiny arcs snapping in the air. Suguru swatted it aside like an insect. Smoke hissed where the chain struck.

Kaoru slid again, vanishing into the dark underfoot and bursting up behind him with an upward kick and a rabbit of crackling static bursting with her. The chain snagged her shikigami mid-hop, tearing it apart before it could land. Dust rained down between them.

“You’re fast,” he observed, almost polite.

“You’re slow,” she replied flatly as she flipped back, landing in a crouch. .

The corner of his mouth tugged up like he’d expected the insult.

A rabbit zipped low between them, wings fluttering clumsily, fur bristling with blue static. Suguru had to jerk back as it discharged against his ankle, robes smoking faintly. Kaoru had barely landed from her last dodge when she heard them. Screams. Her head snapped past him. At the far end of the corridor, civilians stumbled out: three adults, two doctors, staggering under plaster dust.

Damn. Wrong place, wrong time.

Suguru’s gaze followed, softening with a parody of pity. His grip reversed on Playful Cloud. Cursed energy thrummed up the chain; the ceiling cracked, plaster slabs starting to break loose, aimed perfectly for the fleeing humans.

Kaoru moved without thinking, cutting across his line, her shadows dragging her into position. Rabbits swarmed into a barrier wall, their sparks crawling across the ceiling and detonating the first wave of debris before it reached the civilians. Debris showered past her shoulders. A shard almost sliced her cheek; she didn’t blink.

The civilians didn’t scream—they just ran. Good. She didn’t turn her head to check if they made it.

Suguru watched it all, almost amused. “There it is,” he murmured, almost priestly. “You’ll break yourself on their behalf, and for what?”

She could barely hear his words; her skin prickled with the urge to crush his throat just to end the sound of his voice entirely. “Why hasn’t someone killed you already?” she muttered, sliding inside his guard. Her elbow drove for his jaw.

He blocked, chain whirling against her cursed energy as their next clash rattled the corridor.

“To restrain yourself? To keep walls standing?” He went on as if she hadn't speak at all, soft, almost affectionate. “To save a handful of—” he leaned close, staff pressing harder against her guard. “—useless monkeys?”

“…Monkeys?” Kaoru echoed, flat.

Her heel struck for his gut. He caught it, redirected. Chain cracked against her guard, the sound rang down the corridor.

“Non-sorcerers,” he clarified smoothly, voice warmed by his madness. “The scum who’d spit on you if given the chance.”

Kaoru almost rolled her eyes; she parried, ducked, and slipped back. “Oh, you think I haven’t heard this before? Funny. Half the strongest in my generation followed a man with no cursed energy into battle. We bled for him, died for him. Built a fragile balance between clans. And yet, he spared us no pity.” Her eyes narrowed, Seijiro’s shadow flickering behind her lids. Yeah, she could't really argue with that. But then she thought of Tsumiki. “Don’t mistake me for your mirror. I already know what happens if we stop serving the weak.”

Suguru’s smile thinned, the warmth peeling away. “Serving the weak? How noble. I call it slavery.” His staff dragged sparks from the floor as he lowered into stance. He smiled. “Scarlet Mist said you were ruthless, but I see it now, you’re really not so different from Satoru.” He spat the name like he wanted it to hurt.

Her jaw tightened. “Satoru?” she muttered.

He saw it, smirk widened. “Sa-to-ru,” he repeated, savoring every syllable, watching her eyes tighten. “Shackling yourselves to livestock. Pretending you’re above the rotten system, but chained to it all the same. Same leash, same bristle when you realize it.” His smirk dropped. “Pathetic.”

Kaoru’s teeth ground. Not because of his logic—she’d heard worse from drunken men with prettier diction—but because of the way he said that name. Like ownership, like intimacy; itcrawled under her skin, itchy, unbearable, wrong in a way she didn’t bother to analyze, making her want to claw the sound out of his throat.

Pathetic?

She could take any insinuation at her own expense, she could even take being toyed with, but that, for some reason—no. There were lines you did not cross, and Suguru had crossed all of them in a single night. 

“You know nothing,” she said, voice flat enough to split bone.

Playful Cloud whipped overhead but she caught his chain barehanded, cursed energy flooding her palm; she planted her feet, cracking the gound and dragging him closer, forward. For an instant they locked in a contest of raw force that Kaoru had no illusion of winning. His knee shot for her stomach—should’ve folded her in half and hurled her through the plaster—until it froze inches away.

It never landed.

The impact stopped inches from her body. Suguru blinked; his knee hovered, suspended as though the air itself refused him entry.

Suguru blinked almost comically, first honest fracture of calm. “…Infinity?”

Kaoru exhaled, centering herself. Mame pulsed smugly at her crown as if to say see, look how good I can be, expanding the field just enough to turn Suguru’s force back into his own missed momentum. She twisted her stance, and with the aid of Infinity’s field the floor cracked as Suguru went flying, smashed through the wall.

Debris thundered as he vanished through the wall and into the next corridor.

For a breath, silence.

Then rubble shifted, and he rose again, blood streaking his temple, grin too sharp to be genuine. He dusted plaster from his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Well,” he said hoarsely, “Scarlet Mist may have forgotten a detail or two.” He spat a handful of blood to the ground. “Honest mistake, I hope.”

Kaoru’s eyes narrowed. “Or maybe your partnership isn’t as equal as you think.” She braced to finish it, finish him; shadows pooling at her feet, she prepared the hand signs—

Suguru cut her short with a bitter laugh. “You’re exhausting.” His cursed energy spiked, rattling the corridor, light fixtures swaying. “And yet…” His voice lowered suddenly flat, almost pitying. “All this time, what have you done to make our world less rotten?”

Kaoru’s stomach dropped, her hands stilled mid–hand seal. The hit landed because it was close to true, not because he deserved to say it.

What had she done? Died. She had already died once.

Correction: Kaoru Zenin had died once, four centuries ago as head of her clan; for peace, for the balance among the three big clans, to keep her family alive in a war started by a non-sorcerer. She had paid in her blood, paid in Seijiro’s blood.

She had the blood of the man she loved on her hands; that should have been enough. That had to be enough.

And yet what had she really done in the four centuries since? Nothing, not really. Just watched, interfered only when the Three Heirlooms were at risk, told herself it wasn’t her concern, that she had earned the right to stop.

But was that just a story she told herself to cover the truth? That Seijiro had cursed—or blessed—her with eternity and she had done nothing with it. The thought staggered her, her stance faltered.

Hypocrite.

“Shut up,” she said, voice steady even as her fingers trembled.

Suguru saw the flicker and pressed. “That’s what I thought. I really didn’t want to risk another one after losing Tamamo. But you—”

His palm came up; a vortex opened behind him, warped heat distorting the air; pressure spiked, making Kaoru’s ears ring. The tiles underfoot cracked as the temperature climbed, and her stomach knotted. Whatever he was summoning, she couldn’t let it loose inside the hospital.

“You leave me no luxury of underestimation.”

Fine. She didn’t need it either.

Her seal snapped into place and the floor beneath her darkened, shadows swelling. “Max Elephant Totality— Ittō Ryōran.”

Opposite her, he answered in the same breath as the vortex bloomed into fire. “Kagutsuchi.”

They arrived like falling hammers.

From Kaoru’s shadow, the towering humanoid colossus form surged, standing three meters tall; horns like a war god’s crown, hide like molten stone, a katana of water condensed to lethal density rising from its spine. Mist poured from its maw as it drew the katana free, out of its own spine.

From Suguru’s vortex, towering at the same height of her shikigami, a dragon-human hybrid charred colossus stepped through with furnace-slit veins and horns that curled like smoke pillars from its skull. In its chest, a katana of fire was lodged, smoldering. Kagutsuchi gripped it with both hands and drew, every inch sliding out in a spray of sparks.

Flame blade against water blade; the building couldn’t take both.

Ceilings went before walls; two floors ripped open in violent implosion, then the floors above and below. A side wing peeled outward and fell in slow motion, then fast in a landslide of stone and rebar.

Water-edge met fire-edge as the two beasts met in the heart of the building and the first contact detonated into steam. Micro-explosions walked down the blade lock like percussion, concrete and steel shredded as vapor blasted outward.

Kaoru and Suguru both kicked back off the buckling floor, backflipped through the half-collapsed wing of the hospital, and hit the courtyard hard, skidding to the Curtain’s inner edge. Dust mushroomed behind them as half the wing of the hospital caved; screams rippled faint, and worse than screams, silence bled out from certain corners.

The two giants thudded down behind them. Kagutsuchi dragged its blade like a burning plow; Ittō Ryōran leveled its hydroblade, water dense enough to chip stone by standing near it. They pivoted and surged again; as they met, the courtyard answered, steam billowed, the shock shattered every last pane of glass in the courtyard, raining down across the asphalt.

Kaoru’s lungs burned from output, cursed energy dripping from her body; summoning Ittō Ryōran always dug deep. Suguru wiped blood from his chin with his thumb and managed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He glanced at the sagging wing, at the thin, awful pockets of silence.

“Ah.” A soft sigh, then louder, almost cheerful: “I’d wager plenty of monkeys just died. You are completely ruthless after all, when pissed off.”

He said it like she’d chosen it, like the collateral was her fault. Kaoru’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt as she followed his gaze. Yes, she’d brought Ittō Ryōran. Yes, the building collapsed with their clash. But Suguru had brought a volcano with a sword and now wanted to lay the bodies at her feet.

Sloppy, she cursed herself. She had been incautious, worse, arrogant. You assumed Tamamo-no-Mae was his only ace. You were wrong. She hadn’t expected another special grade like Kagutsuchi. And if he had this one chained, how many others? She didn’t know. Uzuya’s intel had been scraps in the rush, and ignorance was the worse disadvantage on any battlefield.

And now civilians were inside a fight that had shifted into a scale too dangerous, too destructive, scaled for gods. Exactly what she’d sworn not to let happen.

Her mind betrayed her for half a second, flicking back to Satoru, rigid when he’d first read the Curtain’s cursed energy, muttering something under his breath she hadn’t caught. To Suguru speaking of him with that familiarity. And to a month ago, to that damning sense that Satoru already knew something she didn’t.

No. Not now. She couldn’t spiral now, not when Suguru looked perfectly willing to tear the whole hospital down if it bought him an exit; she couldn’t allow him to loose Kagutsuchi on what was left of the hospital.

This had to end fast.

Kagutsuchi moved first, one long stride, flame edge flaring out into a great sweep that warped the air like a mirage. Ittō Ryōran stepped across Kaoru before it could reach her and met it, fire and water colliding so violently that steam rippled down the contact point.

The impact was catastrophic.

The instant fire kissed water, sublimation tore the air apart; micro-explosions, sharp cracks, bursts of violent steam. The shockwave flattened the courtyard grass and buckled the nearest wall still standing.

Kaoru’s hair whipped across her face as steam rolled outward, swallowing the yard in blinding fog. Good. She could use that.

She dropped, sliding into her own shadow; Mame pulsed once, Infinity field up, and she shot out behind Suguru in the fog. With no hesitation her heel cut low and fast, cursed energy reinforced along muscle and bone.

Playful Cloud whipped back on instinct, but he was a breath late; her sweep took both his legs. He caught his fall on his palms, smart—then grabbed her ankle on the recoil and yanked; her balance staggered. Kaoru let the pull carry her, rotated with the drag, and dropped from the turn—heel down, cursed energy stacked through hip and knee.

Infinity shimmered as her kick connected and hammered his jaw.

Ugly sound. Beautiful result, in Kaoru's opinion.

Bone threatened to dislocate, teeth cracking. Suguru’s smile tore, and his head snapped to the side, blood sprayed. He hit shoulder-first, Playful Cloud whipping out wild just to steady; his smirk vanished in the ugly twist of a man forcing his face back into composure.

Kaoru stepped in, one hand open, one fist cocked, the dry, contemptuous tilt of a Zenin stamped across her face. “On your knees already?” Her smile was almost kind. “Stay. It suits you.”

He rolled up to a knee, jaw hanging wrong, then wrenched it back into place with a crack that made even Kaoru’s stomach clench. He couldn’t afford to drag the fight anymore; he was on the defensive, and he knew it.

For once, the smile didn’t come. His eyes went flat. He surged from the kneel, too fast to be clean. She didn’t give ground. Another detonation of steam rolled over them as Kagutsuchi and Ittō Ryōran slammed together again, both titans dragged back in recoil. Fire flared, water burst, and the resulting steam cloud swallowed the courtyard.

In the wash, Kaoru slid in her shadows and burst out at Suguru’s blind flank with hands already set into a seal. Fingers aligned in a seal. Pinkies entwined, index fingers raised skyward.

“Domain Expansion—”

Suguru whipped his head around, blood in one eye, the first honest edge of panic showing. Playful Cloud snapped out, links singing in a desperate attempt to break her rhythm before she sealed the world around them. She was faster. Even Seijiro’s timing had never beaten hers when it came to Domains, and she was about to bury Suguru in it—

Silver light tore the world apart.

The Curtain fractured, then burst in a sheet of silver. The shockwave of silver brilliance exploded outward and flooded the courtyard, blinding; Kaoru flinched at the violent explosion of cursed energy, hand up against the glare as her forming Domain's barrier unraveled and bled off into the air uncontrolled.

She knew that cut. She knew that silver cursed energy.

“Nobu?” she breathed. “You did it?” 

Even the two giants faltered like they, too, were stunned by the silver light. Kagutsuchi’s blade guttered; Ittō Ryōran lowered its own. And as Kaoru's vision cleared, blurry against the afterimage of the curtain that was now gone, three figures came into focus beyond the fallen perimeter: Shoko, steady hands on Haibara’s shoulders. Nobu, Moon Pride down, chest heaving. Haibara, pale but upright.

Relief cracked into her ribs—

—and died in the same breath.

Because Suguru saw them too. A smear of blood ran from his hairline down his cheek as his smirk came back in full force, head tilting that fraction that meant he’d picked a new line; he looked at her, then past her. It didn’t take Six Eyes to read the choice. She knew what he was thinking, what he was about to do.

Oh, shit—

She saw it a split second before he moved, the tilt of his body backward, the staff rising defensively, his lips moving in a whisper, almost gentle: “Kagutsuchi. Let's withdraw.”

Kagutsuchi pivoted, blade still hot enough to shimmer as it lifted one palm up, a small miniature sun blooming over it.

Kaoru sprinted sideways, shadow already spreading under her feet to catch up with her feet as she cut the angle for the only interception lane left. Withdraw? Like hell. The bastard wasn’t retreating; he was aiming.

And the target was not her.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Hisanobu’s lungs burned; the cold bit hard enough to sting.

The Curtain trembled again under a silver flash that made his teeth buzz; another Lunar Cut. He wiped sweat from his temple with the back of his hand and tightened his grip with both hands on the nodachi. Moon Pride felt heavier than it should. Or maybe his reserves were just running low. Probably both.

How many Lunar Cuts was that—five? Six? He’d lost count somewhere after “this hurts my soul and also my shoulder.” Not ideal weather either; low cloud, lazy snow, the moon smothered somewhere above. Not ideal, for his cursed technique.

Hisanobu rolled a shirt sleeve with his teeth and one hand, graceless and stubborn; the overcoat had been discarded two Lunar Cuts ago in favor of reach and speed, and now the winter air needled through his clothes.

Since Satoru Gojo had blinked away, the perimeter had filled with jujutsu assistants, medics, rescue trucks, and more were racing toward the Children’s Hospital. A useless army pressed to a bubble, shouting orders, then un-shouting them when the Curtain refused to care.

The whole ring of them felt like eyes pointed at his back, waiting for him to pull off a damn miracle, to magically shatter a barrier designed to keep even the strongest sorcerer out.

Break it, Kashimo. Perform a Christmas' miracle.

Heat crawled up his ears in a very undignified way; he could feel their expectation the way a man feels a blade at his spine.

He wasn’t worried about Ojousama—exactly. Kaoru was strong. Kaoru was… well, Kaoru. But her “special condition” had a way of turning plans into: leap, scream, win. Immortality, Mame’s obsessive healing loop and that smug Infinity did not translate to “can’t feel pain.” He’d seen her take hits most people filed under “suicidal” and he was already sure he wouldn’t like the state she’d be in when she came out.

Hisanobu squinted at the Curtain. From here: nothing. No sense of what she was facing, no hint of the scale or how bad it had gotten. Unacceptable. A Kashimo belongs at her side, not playing siege engine outside.

A few minutes earlier, her voice; calm, that battlefield warmth she’d already decided the line would hold just because she said so.

“No.” Softer than a command, kinder than advice. Then the smile he resented for how it always worked. “You’re the only one I trust to keep them safe. And—” a nod at the Curtain “—I’m counting on you to bring that thing down.”

His eyes had gone wide, face scrunching. “Me? Ojousama, I already tried, it didn’t even—”

“Then start trying again. People are trapped. Satoru’s handling the pediatric hospital; I go inside. If anyone can break it from the outside, it’s you, ’Nobu.” And then she’d smirked, wicked little curve because she knew him too well. “Didn’t you use to beg me to take you on Scarlet Mist hunts when you were a brat?”

 

Tch. Kaoru and her faith in him; infuriating, and somehow oxygen. Ojousama, please. You overestimate me, as usual. He wrinkled his nose.

No; she was always right. If she said he could carve a moon through that thing, then the world would simply have to rearrange itself until he could. That was the math he lived by.

He raised Moon Pride again and flooded the steel with cursed energy until it sang; weight slid to his back foot as he drew the blade back over his shoulder. The silver crescent gathered along the edge.

Lunar Cut.

The crescent tore free with a bright intake of silver cursed energy, growing mid-flight into a scythe of light that kissed the Curtain and detonated into glitter starburst that made onlookers gasp. The recoil chewed his stance; his shoulder barked; he skidded three steps, boots plowing trenches in the frost.

The Curtain didn’t scuff.

“Damn it!” he said, voice flat as the blade he jammed into the earth to brace, clutching his shoulder.

He shouldn’t treat it like that; Kaoru had gifted him Moon Pride when he was six and shaking, the first time she’d said “my apprentice” without laughing. He still remembered her palm on his hair. He’d decided then to spend a life making that hand proud and safe.

You don’t slam Ojousama’s gifts into the ground. Even when the ground deserves it.

A wet gasp snapped his head around. Haibara folded, hand to his abdomen as a deep horizontal slash opened from nowhere and poured blood onto asphalt. Hisanobu reached him in two strides; Shoko was already swearing under her breath, her hands glowing with blue cursed energy as she shoved more RCT into the boy.

“What the hell is going on in there,” she muttered, too low for anyone but him to hear, too controlled to be called panicked, but her usual cynicism had hairline fractures.

The cut knitted shut in a rush of pale cursed energy.

Haibara dragged air back into his lungs, face paper-white, hair mushrooming worse than usual in distress; he forced a smile he did not have the blood volume to support. “For the fourth time, always Uzuya-san,” he said hoarsely. “Still fighting.” He straightened too fast; he looked nauseous. And then, because he was Haibara and stupidly brave, he added: “Don't worry, I’m fine.”

He was not fine.

Shoko's work was fast, but realitystill had to cycle through a heartbeat: a wound existed; blood left a body; the world decided whether to keep the body. 

Hisanobu tallied automatically—abdomen, shoulder, flank, temple. Four redirected cuts so far. The Curtain had been up eight minutes forty-five. He was counting too many things: seconds, failed arcs, lives inside, the syllables of his own uselessness.

Ojousama, what do you want me to—

“Hey.”

Shoko’s glare cut that thought in half. She hooked two fingers into his hair—“hooked” was generous; she grabbed his stupidly long ponytail like a leash—and hauled his tall frame down until he found himself bent in half, nose-to-nose with her. He yelped, dignity making a brief, valiant effort.

“Drama king,” she said flat. “Stop sulking.”

“I am not—”

She slapped a palm to his shoulder; RCT snapped the joint home with the kind of gentle brutality only doctors could justify. A very undignified sound escaped him as her impatient stare held him there.

She didn’t release his hair. Tug. The jade earring swung wildly, indignity upon indignity, as she scowled up at him. “You’re the bodyguard. So bodyguard. Plant yourself in front of us and do your job,” she said, cool and lethal. “Three of ours are still in there, including your precious Ojousama. And Haibara can’t keep eating Uzuya’s steel forever.”

Haibara opened his mouth to defend him, then clocked the flex of Shoko’s hands and pivoted to a solidarity wince that said: I am with you in spirit, not in front of her.

Shoko concluded, sugar-coated: “If you spend one more second mourning your pride, the next thing I reset won’t be your shoulder.”

They hung there a beat; her scowl, his sheepishness, that traitorous warmth tapping his ears for reasons unrelated to pain. He reviewed his life choices; every path featured a terrifying woman telling him to do better, Kaoru, Shoko.

He nodded so fast it probably looked like bowing to avoid provoking further medical violence. “I—yes. Of course,” he said, voice embarrassingly earnest. She was right; he had nothing to say because she was right. Also terrifying.

Then the world did him a small favor; a band of moonlight that fell straight across their little triangle. It knifed through cloud, a pale silver line slanting across the courtyard and the snow.

Shoko and Hisanobu both paused, heads tilting up; the sky had opened a seam, the snow stopped and the moon peered through, indifferent and whole. The world had the decency to align with his delusions at the strangest times.

Full moon.

Ah. That’ll do.

“Uzuya-san and her brother are moving,” Haibara blurted, hope leaking into the words, eyes glowing and unfocused in that way Empathic Assonance gave him. “They’re not engaged anymore. They’re—” He exhaled. “They’re okay.”

Hisanobu’s gaze locked on the moon, then again on Shoko. “Right. Sailor Jupiter wouldn’t give up,” he murmured, fingers brushing the green pin at his collar.

Shoko squinted at him like he’d started speaking Martian but she finally released his hair. “We’re doing Sailor Moon now?”

He stepped in front of them, let the silver settle on his shoulders. The cold bit less. The moon bit more. “Don’t worry, Ieiri-san.” He raised Moon Pride, angling toward the Curtain again. “It's a full moon. I can break it.”

“Nobu—” Shoko hesitated, alarm crept under her monotone. “Wait—are you—”

Haibara to his credit, eyed the moonbeam, then Hisanobu’s now-dramatic aura, and gave an extremely nervous laugh that said this is fine and this is not fine at the same time. “’Nobu, you’re—uh—you’re—”

Shoko moved fast out of the way to flank Haibara. “Wait, you’re glowing—”

Hisanobu planted his feet, power pouring, more, then more, until the nodachi hummed and he felt something in his chest lock into place, as if the night had turned a key.

“Maximum—” he breathed, grey eyes sliding shut.

“—you’re sparkling like a magical girl!” Haibara squeaked.

“—Technique,” Hisanobu finished, eyes opening, iris rimmed in silver.

Silver cursed energy burned and the moonlight took shape around him, around the blade, around his body, as if the moon had decided to pick him as a champion. He inhaled once the way Kaoru had taught him when he was small and shaking and the world was too big. Picture a circle. A clean crescent cutting black sky, brighter, brighter still. Pose shamelessly if it helps. He pictured sailor senshi doing absolutely unnecessary posing in defiance of gods.

He slashed.

“Silver Crystal Judgement.”

The arc that left his blade dwarfed his earlier attempts; a crescent swelling mid-flight into a rolling tide of silver light that surged across the courtyard, climbed the Curtain and detonated, pulverized into ash-bright fragments that blasted outward. The shock wave hit the perimeter like a wall; medics staggered; trucks rocked on their shocks.

Hisanobu slammed the nodachi point-first into the asphalt like a pillar, body a wall for Shoko and Haibara behind him, one arm thrown up to shield his eyes as the world went white with dust.

“You’re kidding me,” Shoko cursed somewhere behind him, finally sounding impressed. “Does your technique actually scale with lunar phases?!”

“Of course,” he said, perfectly flat, because some truths required no flourish.

The wind died. Dust fell in slow curtains and his lungs did that thing where they asked him to sit down now. Hisanobu did not sit down. 

“Don’t,” Shoko said evenly behind him, as if reading his posture. “If you fall over, I refuse to pick you up.”

He swallowed, reset his grip. “Understood.” He squinted through the settling grit at the building beyond—

—and his gut went cold.

An entire wing of the hospital had folded in on itself, orange fire gnawing along the ripped-open flank. Some sections howled, some lay in a quiet that meant inventory first, grief later. The courtyard had become a mouth. And in the mouth—

Two figures, no—four. Two human. Two giants.

One carried a blade of water; even at distance, even through steam, he knew that shikigami. Ittō Ryōran? Ojousama… She had only ever described it with that dry, reluctant pride that meant it was something close to a last resort. Seeing it now told him too much about whatever was happening inside.

“You did it, ’Nobu!” Haibara bumped his shoulder, voice high with relief. He clapped him on the back and stood on tiptoe to see. “You knocked it down—”

He broke off when the other colossus lifted a palm and his brain filed the image under: oh hell. A sphere of flame gathered above the fire-giant's raised palm, a small sun condensing out of heat and flames.

The ball of fire brightened until the air around it shimmered. And it was aiming straight at them.

Hisanobu felt his eyebrows crisp just looking at it. “Ah,” he said conversationally, and smiled without humor.

Shoko stepped up beside him, squinting. “That’s—”

“—about to throw a small sun at us!” Haibara provided helpfully, practical panic crammed into six words. He clutched Hisanobu’s sleeve. “'Nobu! Put the Curtain back up! Un-break it! Ctrl+Z!”

“Like hell I can,” Hisanobu muttered, a little higher-pitched than he preferred but still very polite for a man staring at a small star.

“Bodyguard, do something,” Shoko added, which was both unhelpful and perfectly fair. She braced behind him, RCT already gathering at her hands in case there was anything left of him to heal in ten seconds.

The sun launched, and for one deranged heartbeat Hisanobu had two thoughts: If I die in front of Ieiri-sama I will never forgive myself. And: What would Usagi do?

He measured the arc with a swordsman’s eye; too fast to outrun, too big to dodge. “Hold on,” he said, not looking back. “Both of you.”

He didn’t have a barrier technique but he invented one anyway.

Moon Pride scraped sparks as he ripped it free and slammed it back down, hands snapping through a rough half-formed seal. Silver light peeled off his shoulders in concentric rings and locked around the three of them in a dome. It wasn’t perfect, too thin at the seams, too much of his own cursed energy bleeding through the welds, but the full moon hung above them and the moonlight feeded his cursed technique bright, stupid, perfect.

“Moon Citadel.”

After all, naming things made them work better.

Impact turned the world to sound and heat; light flooded white; the barrier sang and spiderwebbed with fractures; Haibara made a noise he never wanted to hear again while Shoko grabbed a fistful of his jacket from behind and fed him RCT, flattening her body against his back to push more stability into his bones.

The dome held and for a moment Hisanobu thought they might live on purpose rather than by accident. 

The world burned for a long five seconds. Five seconds of annihilation.

Then a drop.

Sound bled back: flames, distant shouts, the ringing in his teeth. Hisanobu opened an eye; the dome was gone. He was upright by stubbornness, Shoko’s hand, and one terrified young man gripping his sleeve. He did a quick idiot-check: tapped both shoulders. Still present. Good.

A fourth figure stood in front of them, smaller, hair in black disarray, uniform torn to ribbons and clotted with blood. She tipped her head back a fraction, as if judging whether they needed scolding.

“Sorry,” Kaoru said, in a dry voice, the tone she saved for when she was angrier than anyone else by a factor of ten. “No Kashimo dies under my watch.” She scanned the ruin, clicked her tongue. “Tch. Coward. He ran.”

Hisanobu followed her gaze. No fire titan now; only Ittō Ryōran, water blade low as if guarding the hole it had made. Whatever had been about to turn them to ash had withdrawn into the chaos.

One breath and Kaoru reassembled herself into “standing,” as Mame pulsed once at her crown in a smug little halo like a small child raising and waving a tiny hello to Hisanobu. She dusted her hands like an errand done and turned to them.

Her eyes found his; black, bright, yet narrowed with that particular focus she wore in bad hours. For a second they just looked—him with the slack relief of a man who had been holding his breath for nine minutes and forty seconds, her with the infinite patience of someone who had been alive long enough to be tired of almost everything. 

Infinity shimmered around her in the heat-haze way that made stones reconsider their trajectories. Her body wall coupled with his fading Moon Citadel, it explained why they were not ash.

She smirked that tiny, infuriating smirk: look at you, was the drama necessary?

His knees disagreed, remembered they could fail; he sank against Moon Pride and let an undignified laugh out he’d deny later. “Ojousama,” he breathed.

To his left, Shoko peeled herself off his back, irritation alive even in survival, like a cat dumped in a puddle.

Haibara staggered forward, eyes bloodshot, pale as paper. He dropped to his knees in front of Kaoru, half-bowing, half-ready to kiss the shredded hem of her uniform. “We’re alive we’re alive we’re alive—” The words fell over each other in desperate feudal gratitude. “Kaoru-san you saved me again thank you thank you—”

Kaoru stepped neatly aside. He caught only air and blinked at the pavement, still kneeling.

Hisanobu let himself drop to one knee too, beside his sword, sighing out everything ugly in his chest. Over. Somehow, it's over. A hand ruffled his hair. He grimaced before he even looked up; he knew that hand but didn’t have the energy to swat it away. He scowled up at her purely on principle.

“See?” Kaoru said, tone infuriatingly mild. “Told you you could break it, ’Nobu. Good job.”

Ridiculous how one compliment from her could reset his spine. He swallowed the smile that wanted out. “You knew it was full moon.”

“Obviously.” A corner of her mouth ticked. “You good?”

“He’s good,” Shoko answered, tucking hair behind one ear with a hand that pretended not to shake. “I made sure he didn’t fold under a miniature sun.” She gave him a look that promised: you owe me coffee for ten years. “Try not to need that again.”

Hisanobu straightened, slow enough to hide the wobble in his legs. Out of habit, he checked Kaoru the way he’d check a blade: two deep wounds sealed, a dozen small ones still seeping, dried blood in sheets, bruise blooming under her collarbone, Fukuoka Branch sukeban uniform ruined beyond recognition, Mame’s RCT loop settling down with one last angry thrum. She stood straight anyway, chin level, as if posture alone could bully the world back into order.

He’d called it; he hated being right. He kept his voice flat so it would land as affection. “You’re reduced to a mess, Ojousama.”

“Mm.” She flicked dust off her sleeve, gaze already past him, already on the collapsed wing, the smoke-choked windows, the sirens closing in now that the Curtain was gone.

Dawn bled through the clouds at last, turning smoke into gauze and now the world caught up with them. The cries came thin; the silences worse. A muscle in her jaw ticked once and went still.

Hisanobu moved to her side as she signed, calling Ittō Ryōran back into shadow; the water giant sank like a mountain disappearing into a lake.

Rescue teams spilled through the new gaps in the wall; jujutsu assistants ran the usual script with first responders. The public would hear “gas leak explosion.” That was fine; let the civilians sleep easier, but they—sorcerers—would be the ones choking on the truth.

He slid Moon Pride back into its sheath with more care than when he’d drawn it. “Did you find who was behind this?”

Kaoru inclined her head. When she finally looked at him, Mame gave one last proud pulse and quieted. “Multiple curse users, Kagutsuchi,” her hand brushed the cloth bundle tied at her hip, “Tamamo-no-Mae.”

Hisanobu glanced at it once and wisely didn’t ask. Antique, cursed, or both. The line blurred too easily in her hands; best to file it under Don’t Touch.

“And Suguru Geto,” she added, almost absently, tapping her chin as she paced half a step. “Working with Scarlet Mist.”

Hisanobu tilted his head. A name he didn’t know. “Suguru Geto,” he repeated, following.

His eye twitched at the state of her unraveled ponytail, the one he’d tied himself before battle; four centuries and she still couldn’t keep her hair straight. He stepped in without asking, untied it, reset Mame where it belonged, and remade it tighter. He nodded once, satisfied; a Kashimo’s duty.

Kaoru kept talking. She barely noticed when he fussed with her hair; she rarely did. “Uzuya-san said he’s a high-priority curse user and terrorist, top of every list—” She broke off, eyes landing on something behind him.

Hisanobu followed her gaze and blinked.

Shoko’s face had gone flat, hard in that way that meant she cared enough to pretend she didn’t. Haibara, though—Haibara had gone chalk-white, sweat cold on his brow. He looked like someone had just put a knife to his ribs; his throat worked, once, twice, no words coming out. His eyes refused to meet anyone’s, hand pressed tight against his thigh, trembling hard enough to shake.

What the—? Hisanobu frowned as he glanced back to Kaoru, that mirrored his frown.

“Haibara. You good?” Genuine concern, the kind she tried to hide by being brisk.

The boy flinched like she’d struck him and didn’t get any less pale. “No—I mean—yes! Totally fine!” His hands fluttered, his grin forced. “Just, uh, head rush, blood loss, you know…” He laughed, brittle, and rubbed the back of his neck. His grin was carved on, stiff, wrong.

Shoko’s side-eye said you’re terrible at lying.

Hisanobu’s gut prickled; they knew something, something neither he nor Kaoru did.

Kaoru’s gaze narrowed, scalpel-sharp, studying Haibara like she was dissecting a cursed object. Hisanobu recognized that look, the three-second countdown before she started pulling truth out with more force than grace. Sure enough, Haibara looked away in panic.

Before Kaoru could press, Shoko cut in, slipping between Kaoru and Haibara with a slouchy grace that was half shield, half irritation aimed at the whole damned situation. Hands buried in her coat, gaze half-lidded. The posture said uninterested; the eyes said over my dead body.

“Don’t hold it against him, hn? she muttered, chin tilting toward Haibara, who scratched his head sheepishly behind her. “Was his senpai once. Not easy, finding out your senpai’s a terrorist. He’s still... processing.”

For a moment, Hisanobu wasn’t sure she meant Haibara. He filed it under away for later, in the same drawer as the bundle at Kaoru’s hip; both labeled tread lightly.

Kaoru stared a beat longer like she might push anyway; she didn’t like being kept out of the loop, especially on anything tactically useful, and she liked it even less when it involved her people bleeding.

Then she huffed, lips tugged into that melancholy almost-smile she wore when she let herself be soft. “Doesn’t matter.” Her head turned south-west, eyes narrowing at something none of them could see; the other hospital, across the city. “We’ve got more urgent problems.”

Shoko followed her line of sight, folded her arms. “Right. Ask Satoru later. He’ll tell you if it’s you. Probably after breaking a wall, though.” The smug curve of her lips said she knew exactly what she was implying.

Kaoru wrinkled her nose, and to Hisanobu’s horror, her ears flushed faint red. He looked at the ground and prayed for lightning. Women, he thought grimly. Terrifying. Lucky for him, it hadn't  came to a fight between them; he wasn’t sure whose side he’d pick if it did—Ojousama’s, obviously. Always Ojousama’s. He could feel generations of Kashimo glaring at him for even hesitating.

“Hey!” Uzuya’s voice cut across the courtyard as she trotted up with her brother in tow, both looking like they’d brawled through a scrapyard and won on a technicality. Katana hilts peered over both hips.

Kaoru stiffened. Shoko looked away. Haibara paled again. Ah. Of course. Uzuya didn’t know.

Atsuya stripped off a coat that was more blood than fabric and made Shoko raise a brow. “...Whose?”

Atsuya’s scowl deepened like it was his job. “Not mine,” he muttered, scrubbing blood from his hair. ““Bastard curse-user popped like a melon—”

He launched into details no one asked for. Hisanobu tuned the gore out as Uzuya beelined to Haibara, hands bracketing the boy’s shoulders, fussing with maternal ferocity. “Are you hurt? I’m sorry—four blade wounds, that’s on me—” Her hands turned him this way and that.

“I’m fine!” Haibara forced the words, grin too wide. “Shoko-senpai fixed me.”

Once the fuss settled, Atsuya straightened, glanced over the ruined wing, then back. “Of the twelve curse users inside, four went down to us; the rest scattered when the wall…” He gestured at the new daylight. Flames licked, metal groaned. Everyone followed his gaze, everyone except Kaoru, who kept hers stubbornly pinned to the ground.

And then Atsuya asked the question no one wanted. “Where’s Gojo?”

Hisanobu saw Kaoru flinch. Saw her fist tighten. Saw her bite her lip.

“Wait,” Uzuya frowned. “Wasn’t he inside?”

Silence fell the way ceilings fall. Heavy, total.

Haibara bit his lip and his eyes slid to Shoko. Shoko’s slid to Kaoru’s back. Kaoru kept her gaze on the ground, fists closing, trembling lip caught between teeth.

Hisanobu exhaled through his nose.

Everyone assumed immortality meant detachment, that she was numb to loss by now.

They didn’t know her at all; he did.

She wasn’t built for detachment, she cared too much, she cared in ways that didn’t make any sense until you realized she’d seen everyone she ever loved die and chose to care anyway, benath it all. 

He remembered being a much shorter six years old boy; Kaoru's hand cool on his head; Kaoru laughing as she corrected his grip; Kaoru explaining the difference between cursed antiques like bedtime stories; Kaoru handing him senbei and making the world feel like it had rules.

To his eyes, Kaoru was the strongest, the funniest when she bothered, the warmest when she forgot herself. She made the world feel safer just by existing in it and always smiled like everything was fine. That smile never made it to the place behind her eyes. Always looking half a step past the present, always waiting for something—or someone—that never came back. And stubborn enough to pretend none of it cost her.

Delivering this kind of news was what people expected of Kaoru.

But right now, she couldn’t say it.

So he did what he’d sworn as a boy he’d always do to the ghosts of a hundred Kashimo before him: stand between her and the world when she needed the seconds to breathe.

He stepped forward, put himself in Uzuya’s line of sight, masked every scrap of softness behind cold delivery, the way one delivers a mission report. “Gojo-san,” he said evenly, “moved to intercept a Red Ward manifestation.”

Behind him, he felt the sharp intake of air from Kaoru. In front, Uzuya’s face drained; the realization closed her mouth before it opened. Hisanobu didn’t look away from her as her expression collapsed when he gave the last blow, flat and merciless:

“To the Tokyo Metropolitan Children’s Medical Center.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

25 December 2014, Tokyo Metropolitan Children's Medical Center

By the time they reached the Children’s Medical Center, the Red Ward was gone.

No fog, no crimson dome, just winter light and the ugly busyness of morning after; the city had already started pretending it didn’t see the crater it was standing in. No snow remained, only sirens, boots, and the clatter of gurneys over cracked tile; someone shouted for saline, someone else for a ventilator.

Christmas had been replaced by triage.

Uzuya hadn’t spoken since they’d left the other hospital, leaving Haibara in charge of the rescue team. She moved in a straight line because moving in a straight line hurt less; the only proof she still inhabited her body was the way her fingers kept finding the hilt of her katana and then remembering to let it go.

Shoko had folded into her coat with the expression of a doctor about to be asked for too many miracles.

Atsuya had tried to fill the silence by cursing everything in creation and then, apparently unsatisfied, had kicked apart a curb stop.

Hisanobu had set his jaw in the dutiful way that meant he was counting things—victims, minutes, options—and blaming himself for each tally even though none of this sat at his feet. Kaoru saw the way he’d gone quiet after delivering the news she should have said herself.

Hope circled them like a stray dog: maybe Satoru had made it in time; maybe Scarlet Mist had failed; maybe, maybe, maybe.

Kaoru knew better than to let herself hope; a Red Ward was math and sick children started in debt. Hoping was for people younger than she was.

She stared at the hospital glass doors until the edges of her vision pricked, then she blinked hard and the pricking went away, letting the noise pass through her like wind through an empty hall.

The Children’s Medical Center rose intact except for a rash of broken windows; Satoru had been surgical. Of course he had. For all the myths about him leveling mountains, he could thread a needle through a hurricane when he wanted, which was more than she could say about herself tonight. 

The man who four hundred years ago used to level hills like dandelions now tiptoed around beds; he had changed. That was good. And annoying.

And me?

Her mind offered her the line again, in Suguru Geto’s pleasant voice: All this time… what have you done to make our world less rotten?

A question that sounded like accusation because it was.

Four centuries of being tired had calcified into policy. She could argue it wasn’t her policy, but every choice she hadn’t made was still a choice. Watching Uzuya lift her chin at nothing, Kaoru bit the inside of her cheek and admitted the thing: she had done almost nothing. She’d let the world be someone else’s problem for too long. She’d told herself the wars were over and so was she.

And now—

Now Uzuya stood there like a statue, waiting to find out where her son’s body lay.

Pathetic, Kaoru thought. She was pathetic. Suguru Geto had been right, and the only thing worse than his voice in her head was agreeing with it.

A hand settled on her shoulder, firm, grounding. “Ojousama, my coat,” Hisanobu said quietly, already shrugging one arm free of his jacket. 

She tilted a look up at him, at those earnest gray eyes that had followed her from childhood to now, and remembered again that he was thirty-one, not a boy. But compared to her? Still a child. A child she’d dragged into this mess.

The boy she had raised into a man was shaking off fatigue and hiding it badly; he had sweat dried pale at his hairline and ash gray on his cuffs, and he still thought about her comfort.

Fool. Good fool.

“I’m fine, ’Nobu.” she said, and found a smile from some old drawer. “Keep it. You’re the one who’s cold.”

He looked like he wanted to argue and chose survival.

Shoko shuffled up beside them, hood up, only a strip of bangs and two crescents of under-eye shadows visible. A gust of breath smudged white in front of her. “What a mess,” she said to the air, then tipped her chin toward the entrance. “And there’s Satoru.”

Kaoru followed the gesture and for a violent beat—Seijiro’s outline replaced him. The same unearned steadiness, the same weight. Kaoru’s hands trembled.

If it had been Seijiro who survived Sekigahara—if he had been the one with a stolen century in his pocket—would the world be less rotten now? What would he have built with the time she’d spent pretending hers was on loan?

For one mean second she thought: the wrong person walked out of that battle.

She slapped herself so hard that Hisanobu jumped. 

No. Seijiro hadn’t made his choice so she could sit here feeling sorry for herself. He made it so the work would continue. And—irony likes neat circles—Seijiro’s ideals were alive anyway, wearing a different name and a bad attitude. Satoru was out there trying to build the version of their world Seijiro wanted. The least she could do was stop pretending she wasn’t in the story.

Suguru’s question was not a question, but it could be an answer: start now.

Kaoru exhaled loudly and forced herself to focus on him.

There he was, Satoru Gojo, hands in pockets, head cocked like a delinquent waiting for detention, speaking to a slender assistant in a black coat who looked two seconds from keeling over. Satoru’s uniform was irritatingly intact, too spotless for the day. Except… the hair at his temple was damp with sweat, a scuff at the shoulder, a thin smear of dried red at his neck. His eyes were the tell; bright and flat at the edges, like glass about to decide it’s had enough.

Satoru noticed them without looking, of course he did; Six Eyes made privacy obsolete. When he finally lifted his gaze, it went straight to her and held. She catalogued automatically: posture steady; RCT looping; lungs strained but holding; left trapezius tight. Alive.

Relief unhooked something under her ribs; inappropriate, immediate relief.

Then—deliberate—he looked past her. He raked a hand through his hair, said something that made the assistant wobble, and headed straight for Uzuya, as a man goes to a verdict he despises but will deliver anyway.

Hisanobu hovered in the space of someone trying to be three places at once as Shoko peeled off toward the paramedics. “You are about to conduct the world’s worst debrief,” she told the air. “Don’t do it in a doorway. If either of you starts bleeding again, do it out of my sight.”

Kaoru watched Satoru stop and said it without hesitation, whatever sentence puts a hole through a life, leaving nothing standing. She saw as he stood still while a mother collapsed in front of him. Saw as Uzuya’s spine fold just enough to mean the words had landed, hands falling open at her sides. Saw Atsuya’s shoulders go violent and then sullenly still.

She turned her eyes away, throat closing. She could stare down curses. She had just fed a fox-goddess to rabbits. She could not watch a mother hear it; for all her age and carefully cultivated composure, she had not found the width to do what he had just done.

She should have been the one to say it earlier, not Hisanobu. She had ducked the moment like a coward, and now Satoru hadn’t flinched.

That was all the difference.

A quaver pulled her back. “K-Kaoru-san? From the Fukuoka branch?”

She turned. The assistant who’d been with Satoru stood there, a young man vibrating like a struck string. He adjusted his glasses three times in two seconds.

Kaoru stared. Blinked once. “Yes. Kaoru Zenin,” she said, flat.

It felt like setting something free.

“Z—Zenin?” The young man blanched, as he double checked the paper. “I—so—uh—per the—” He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief that should have given up an hour ago, flipped a page, jabbed a finger at something full of numbers. “Per the Disaster Response Directive 13-C, operational authority on site for sorcerers ranked Grade 2 and below, consolidates under the Assistant Manager on site.” He swallowed, eyes shining desperate behind his glasses. “Which is—” he tried a smile, immediately regretted it “—me. Ijichi... Kiyotaka.”

She kept staring. Hard. The slight frown arrived uninvited.

“So technically, uh,” he stammered, “you’d be reporting to me. For… logistics. If you could please…follow me...”

He trailed off because she was looking at him. Not glare, not disdain. Merely… flat. She hadn’t meant to, that was just her resting face, a kind of blank Zenin patience that every Zenin head had used to make officials forget their names: you are wasting my time.

Inherited from her father, unfortunately.

Hisanobu’s stare joined hers like a second blade sliding free.

He wilted visibly. “Or—not. I mean—forget I—said that. You’re obviously—busy—Sorry to disturb you, I will stop talking now.” He bowed. Bowed. Nearly lost his clipboard, recovered, and fled with a squeak of shoes, muttering about insubordinate sorcerers with scary eyes and their collective contempt for clipboards.

Behind her, Hisanobu coughed into his fist—too close to a laugh.

“It wasn’t a glare,” Kaoru murmured.

“It was absolutely a glare, Ojousama.”

“Mm.” She didn’t smile. She wished she could.

A sword hit concrete with a too loud and flat clank. Uzuya walked past Satoru without looking, as if sight itself might hurt her, headed for the doors bare-handed. Atsuya watched her sword fall and stayed planted, arms crossed, then dragged a hand through his hair hard enough it must have hurt. He looked at the ground as if considering punching it into the next prefecture and vibrated with the kind of rage that can’t find a target big enough.

Kaoru took a step and Hisanobu moved to follow; she lifted a hand and, without turning. “I'm fine. Help Shoko,” she told him softly.

He hesitated—because stubbornness was the Kashimo family crest—then bowed once and went.

She stepped up beside Satoru, eyes on Uzuya’s receding back. A thought slipped out before she could catch it, because saying nothing would kill her, and saying something might also, but at least then she’d be the one to choose where the knife went. “Someone should go with her—”

That was when Atsuya pivoted—two long stomps as he shouldered past Satoru on purpose, a petty contact meant to bruise. Infinity didn’t gave, and Satoru didn’t move, just stood as if brushed by a moth. He turned his head just enough to watch him go.

“Oh, I’ll go,” Atsuya snapped over his shoulder, voice flat. He didn’t look at either of them. “You two stay here and do what strong and powerful people always do. Keeping your secrets, playing gods. Decide for the rest of us.”

He stalked after his sister.

Kaoru’s jaw tightened as she took it; she had earned that, she supposed. It didn’t change the physics: in some disasters there are no right words. People need a container for their fury and today apparently she was a container. Fine. She’d been worse things.

She looked at Satoru that looked like a statue of himself; if statues could blame themselves. Kaoru wondered—unpleasantly—if that calm was held together by the same stubborn thread she was using. Was he blaming himself? Of course he was. If she had to guess, she would say he was rerunning the fight a dozen ways, looking for a branch where he made a different choice and saved a different child, saved more.

That would make two of them.

She lifted her hand, hovered, then touched his sleeve. No hum of Infinity to keep the world at distance; that startled her more than it should have.

He looked down at her hand, blue eyes skimming the wreck of her uniform and the dried blood at her collarbone. Mame, nestled at the base of her ponytail, gave one proud pulse, as if to say: look at me, I did this. Her uniform still looked like it had lost an argument with a threshing floor but she pretended not to notice.

Satoru held her gaze for a breath. The smile he produced was so fake she wanted to break his nose, if only Infinity wasn't a thing. “We should head back,” he said lightly, as if this were about errands. “Megumin and Tsumiki-chan will be worried.”

She didn’t smile back, and the stare-down that followed was almost absurd.

Kaoru held his eyes and let him see the insistence she rarely showed anyone. The look he gave her was amusement welded to avoidance; she didn’t budge. Then his grin tilted dared her to drop it; she refused. Then a twitch of his mouth that was halfway to mockery and halfway to plea; she still did not drop her eyes.

Neither blinked. They could have stood there a century, playing that game.

Kaoru Zenin had time for it.

Kaoru Zenin decided she had run out of patience for watching and pretending the world wasn’t her problem.

Kaoru Zenin had decided to step back into the narrative.

“We need to talk.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

The incidents at the two Tokyo hospitals on December 25th were officially attributed to gas leaks and subsequent explosions. The Jujutsu higher-ups would install a neat, bloodless narrative and declare the matter contained. With the Metropolitan Police HQ attack still fresh, Tokyo found itself with three critical infrastructures crippled in the span of weeks. A temporary state of emergency was declared.

In the “Christmas Hospital Incident,” one of the worst disasters of modern Jujutsu history, over 760 civilians lost their lives; countless more were injured; dozens missing. The majority, children from the pediatric hospital.

Among the victims: Uzuya’s husband.

And her young son, Takeru.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆-𝑯𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎

Chapter Text

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟕. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆-𝑯𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒔 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒎

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

“We need to talk.”

Kaoru should have known better; four centuries on this earth, and she still hadn’t learned that those words, delivered with what her face apparently did on its own, were less an invitation and more a guaranteed way to send even the strongest sorcerer alive running for cover.

Not that Satoru Gojo ever visibly panicked, no, that would have been too dignified. He preferred his favorite coping mechanism: refusing to deal with things and dodging the conversation by every possible means.

First, he sacrificed that trembling assistant with the glasses—Ijichi, apparently?—into her path like a human shield. Then he’d made himself very busy, telling her to “head home and warm up”  and vanished claiming he had to “coordinate logistics,” which, sure, sounded noble until you remembered who he was.

Kaoru knew better; she’d been alive long enough to spot an evasion tactic ten moves before it was played, especially one executed by a white-haired Gojo with Six Eyes.

So Kaoru had waited.

And waited.

She had waited through wars, treaties, centuries, could wait a few hours outside Tokyo Metropolitan Children’s Medical Center in the freezing air, watching rescue crews swarm and sunrise turn into full Christmas morning. She’d even sent Hisanobu back home to check on the kids, because she didn’t believe in dragging apprentices to watch her suffer through interpersonal hell.

Two hours later, Satoru finally emerged… sipping fruit juice from a carton. Fruit juice. As if Uzuya wasn’t still inside with her son’s body.

He spotted her instantly, sighed like she was ruining his day by existing, and dropped that fake picture-perfect grin that clearly meant: Oh no. She’s still here, persistent little thing. Like she was the problem.

It was a miracle she hadn’t broken his jaw on the spot right there in front of the rescue teams. Instead, she took a breath, and tried again: “We need to talk.”

This time, Satoru had sighed like a martyr, grin widening like she should thank him for even considering the suggestion. “Of course we need to talk.” 

“Then let’s—” She opened her mouth—finally, finally—

He strolled right past her, tying that stupid white bandages back over his eyes. Because yes, apparently the natural reaction to being asked for an honest conversation was to blind yourself and make eye contact physically impossible.

“Later,” he intoned, utterly insincere, as he headed out of the wreckage, hands in pockets, all casual arrogance.

“Later when?” she demanded, lengthening her stride to keep up.

“Laaaaa~teeeeer~” he sang, waving a hand without looking back, like she was an annoying tax collector.

His pace picked up.

So began the most humiliating pursuit through Tokyo of her immortal life.

Satoru Gojo, current head of the Gojo clan, slipping through streets like a smug eel; Kaoru Zenin, former head of the Zenin clan, shadow-jumping every few blocks just to keep up with the strongest sorcerer in the world who had apparently decided their serious talk could wait until… never.

The “conversation” detoured first through Shibuya.

“Oh look,” Satoru said innocently, pointing out a vending machine. “Canned soup. Tsumiki-chan will love this trash.” Then: “Oh, Megumi likes these curry crackers as backup snacks.” A bag sailed at Kaoru’s head before she could object. Then: “Strawberry mochi! You like strawberry, right?”

And then, insult to injury, he tossed her a canned hot coffee as if bribery would shut her up. She caught it on reflex and drank it anyway out of sheer pride, too fast, and regretted it instantly.

A businessman passing them had stopped to gawk at her blood-stained sukeban-style uniform and the dried blood on her face. “Are you... filming something?” he asked, half-concerned, half-curious.

Kaoru nearly executed him on the spot with a glare, and of course Satoru had laughed too loud until he choked, telling her to “stop traumatizing civilians, they’re fragile.”

Finally she snapped: “Or we could stop this ridiculous chase and talk right now!”

“Christmas morning, Ka-o-ru~” he crooned. “Can’t show up to the kids empty-handed! What kind of guardian would that make me?”

Which somehow segued into him dragging her into a toy shop, where he emerged burdened with two massive plushies the size of toddlers, dog for Megumi, cat for Tsumiki.

And, because he wanted to die, slipped a headband with plush white rabbit ears who twitched mechanically onto her head. Kaoru glared up at him from beneath the fluffy ears while he crouched to inspect his handiwork, smirking from a head and a half above her. “Oh yes,” he declared proud, chin in hand. “Perfect.”

Then walked off, leaving her scowling, ears twitching, looking like the angriest white rabbit in existence. 

If she survived this day, it would be a miracle. 

She followed anyway, because she was Kaoru Zenin, and she did not quit. 

“Gojo Satoru,” she hissed again, stomping after him with bunny ears still perched indignantly on her head. “We are going to talk now.”

“Geez,” he groaned, as ifshe was being unreasonable, turning into an alley. “You’re relentless. Don’t you ever let go?”

He stopped so abruptly she almost ran into him, and she thought, finally, finally he was giving in. Now they could—

“Well,” he said cheerfully, saluting her with one hand, “see you at home, Kaoru!”

And with that, he Blue-blinked out of existence.

She stood there in the alley, twitching ears still flopping on her head, Zenin blood pressure climbing.

That bastard actually left me here.

Exhausted. Bloody. Sleep-deprived. And now humiliated.

The scream that crawled up her throat she managed to choke back, substituting instead a furious gesture at the air and, for punctuation, headbutting the nearest wall.

Mame, scandalized, pulsed a petulant burst of RCT across her skull, deeply offended and with opinions about her self-hurting.

“Coward,” she muttered, stalking off. “Stupid, insufferable, smug, stupid, pretty—” She cut herself off, angrier. “He actually ditched me.”

By the time she shadow-jumped her way to Saitama, the clock was pushing noon and her patience was dust. She slammed the door hard enough to shake the frame and kicked her shoes into the genkan like she was declaring war.

Inside: a perfectly normal Christmas lunch.

Satoru at the table, toast hanging from his mouth like some parody of innocence, turning toward her like, Oh, finally. Took you long enough. 

Tsumiki, angel incarnate, hugged her new cat plush. Megumi, stared at everyone like they’d lost their minds, his dog plush abandoned on the floor. Hisanobu, still soot-stained and rumpled from the night before, seated like he hadn’t just spent hours throwing Lunar Cuts at a Curtain, trying to eat breakfast like this was a normal holiday morning instead of the aftermath of a disaster.

The silence was brutal. Megumi and Hisanobu both blinked at her in disbelief, difficult to say whether at the blood, the fury, or the rabbit ears

“Kaoru-san!” Tsumiki, blessed child, beamed and held out toast. If she noticed the bloodstained uniform, she decided to say nothing. “Merry Christmas! We made lunch, do you want some?”

Kaoru deflated a fraction. “...Merry Christmas,” she muttered.

She snatched the bread, starving and furious, bit off half in one go, and advanced on Satoru without breaking eye contact. He smiled around his bread like an idiot who didn’t understand the concept of survival, like she wasn’t radiating homicide toward his way. Hisanobu shifted like a man preparing to evacuate children before the house exploded.

“I said—” she growled, looming over Satoru, chewing aggressively.

His grin wobbled; maybe he didn’t realize he’d leaned back ever so slightly, as if distance could save him.

“—we need to talk.”

Finally, Satoru snapped too. “And I said,” he mimicked, standing too fast, chair scraping. “We’ll talk later. Later, Kaoru, is a time period between not now and possibly never.”

Hands stuffed in pockets, grin tightening around the edges, Satoru slipped around the table in opposite way. Kaoru followed. They circled once, twice, thrice.

Around the fourth time, Megumi’s glare sharpened into what is my life; he shoved his chair back with a dignified Zenin scowl. “I’ll be in the yard,” he muttered, storming out. “Training. Or whatever. Away from this.”

Tsumiki rose nervously, dragging Hisanobu up by the sleeve. “I’ll... We’ll wash dishes! With Hisanobu-san!”

“Dishes,” Hisanobu agreed like his life depended on it, already half-standing, face broadcasting please don’t kill each other in front of the children.

Which left only the two of them circling a Christmas table like two predators too stubborn to admit they were in the same cage.

Satoru gave Kaoru a smug little smirk as if to say, look, you ruined Christmas, and that was somehow his personal victory in their little war, then grabbed the dog plush and bolted for the stairs.

“Later, Kaoru. I said later, kami help me,” he called over his shoulder, bounding up the stairs two at a time.

“I swear, Gojo,” she hissed, storming after him, “if you close that door—”

He reached his room, yanked the door open, and glanced back with a smirk, plush tucked under one arm like a shield. “What, you gonna kick it down? You don’t look very scary with those bunny ears on.”

The door slammed in her face. The corridor shook with the force.

Kaoru stared for three full seconds; then the Zenin blood in her flared because sometimes rage needed out. She seized the handle, flooded cursed energy through it, and ripped. The hinges gave, wood cracked, and the entire door collapsed inward with a groan of surrender.

The corridor shook with the force again.

On the other side, Satoru froze mid-motion: undershirt half over his head, blindfold discarded on the bed, arms caught awkwardly. He blinked at her, then at the dead door, then back at her, blue eyes stunned, mouth falling open caught between did she really and yes, she really did.

She stared harder. Then, she stepped over the corpse of the door, handle splintering in her hand and Mame sulking in her hair.

Satoru yanked the shirt back down, ran a hand through his hair, and scowled properly for once. “...Kaoru. From the bottom of my heart—the hell?” He gestured at the fallen door. “There was no need to kill the door, it wasn’t even locked.”

She tossed the handle aside, squared her shoulders and repeated slower, deliberately. “We need to talk.” Every word a footstep.

The math was simple: the only way out now was a window or her corpse and while she did not rule out either option, she was not letting him even consider them without a fight first. He knew it. She knew it. Or he could try to vault her over the bed like the arrogant stunt he was and wind up receiving an unladylike elbow to the face.

Satoru made a face and retrieved the giant plush from the bed, then flopped down, clutching it to his chest like a toddler clutching a security blanket. “Fine, fine.” He made a small, offended pout. Kami, it was a reflex he had not managed to shed in four centuries. “You win. Let’s have our deep Christmas chat.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Not mocking. Look—” he shook the plush’s floppy ear at her—“this is my serious face.”

The words were soft enough to suggest he would rather discuss plumbing.

A small, pathetic part of her wanted to smash the plush into confetti on principle; the rest of her—annoyingly larger, and far more dangerous—remembered exactly how those puppy-dog eyes had once made her forgive the same man who had cursed her to eternity. Proof, if ever she needed it, that some things in the world were not allowed to grow up.

She crossed the room, arms folded, and loomed over him and the room shrunk to the distance between his crossed legs and her glare; an immortal Zenin lecturing the head of the Gojo clan with a stuffed mascot between them.

Absurd. Terrifyingly so. But absurdity doesn’t absolve responsibility.

“So?” He sank his chin into the plush and refused to look away; it was a petty thing that felt like warfare. “Talk. Make it quick.”

Yes. He felt guilty.

The thought pinched and Kaoru deliberately softened her shoulders. Guilt looked like self-control masquerading as indifference; she had seen it before. Saints wore different faces, sinners wore white hair and blue eyes.

“It’s not your fault,” that was her entry gambit, because the first thing people wanted to do when a disaster folded children into silence was wrap it in absolutes.

Satoru rolled his eyes; the movement said he had already filed that particular phrase sixty ways, none of them sincere. “I never said it was.” He wagged a hand, cheerfully dismissive.

Kaoru narrowed her eyes. He mirrored her and smirked probably thinking he'd won a stare battle. Letting him break eye contact would be conceding the smallest field so she didn't. 

“It is,” she said more carefully. “Scarlet Mist's and Suguru Geto's. The Red Ward. Children dead on Christmas morning.”

She watched for the small tick at the corner of his mouth, and surely fast enough that little smirk froze; the plush sagged by degrees, his attention snagged on the syllables. For once he did not hide behind antics as the little line between his brows tightened before he squashed it back down. He was very good at the Squash.

That was all the confirmation she needed.

“You already knew that,” Kaoru said, not a question, attempting not to sound like she’d been bitten. She failed. “I won’t give you a lecture about how stupid it was not to tell me—”

“—I didn’t say it because I didn’t need to,” he cut in, too breezy. He lifted the plush’s floppy ear to his mouth like a bad prop. “You all panic when I overshare.”

Kaoru’s eyes narrowed until his face looked painted. Gojo men. Always thinking they can hold the whole bloody world in a fist.

“Don’t play with me, I—” She opened her mouth to scold him only to have him cut in with the same blunt, dangerous kindness he always woke with.

“You hurt?” Satoru asked, sudden. “Suguru gave you a hard time?” 

The name, spoken with too much fondness, stopped her cold. She stared. “...No? No, I gave him a hard time—”

“Then did you kill him?” His voice dropped and slid into something flat and direct.

She blinked, genuinely thrown. “What? No—no, I was about to but he got away before I could—”

“I see. Good,” Satoru rose with a weight that made the room feel thinner, reaching the door like someone moving out of an argument, plush still clutched to his chest. “Then he’s alive to deal with.”

...Good? That hit her sideways. She hadn't anticipated he would sound like that: untroubled relief at the idea that Suguru Geto had been spared.

She reached him faster than he expected and slammed a palm flat to the wall beside the exit, planting herself like a barricade. He halted, gave her a look that was half bafflement, half exasperated.

“Really?” he said, wordless.

She leaned into his personal space. “Good? Good, Satoru—what the hell? What's good about it? What's between you and Suguru Geto?”

Satoru blinked down at her, calm, unflinching. “He is my best friend.”

Said like it wasn’t complicated. Like the present tense was the only grammar that mattered. Is. Not: was. Not: used to be. 

Kaoru studied him carefully by the standards of 400-year-old knowledges. He looked tired. Not theatrical-martyr tired, but the kind of exhaustion you get when your options have names and weights and the calculus never ends.

Satoru did not answer; he looked at her like she might be trying to find a flaw inside a diamond; pointless and pointless in the most polite way. He meant it. Deeply.

Her hands scrabbled in her black hair. Breathe, Kaoru, she told herself. Do not snap at him. Sort the facts like you sort files.

“Your best friend,” she repeated slowly, the words sour in her mouth. “Slaughtered children. Hundreds are dead because he thought it was a good idea. Children, Uzuya’s—” Her breath caught. “Next time there won’t be a next time, I won't let him leave alive—”

“I disagree,” he said, flat.

A dozen responses piled into the back of her throat, none polite. “We’re not talking about policy! I’m not asking if it’s allowed. I’m telling you—”

“You’re banned from killing him, Ka-o-ru.” He dragged her name out, sing-song but joyless.

It nearly made her laugh, because the audacity was so perfectly his. “You’re going to put a no-killing ban on me?”

“I just did.” He shrugged and leaned his hip against the doorframe, putting distance between them. “I’m banning you from it.” 

Kaoru let a slow, incredulous smile work its way across her face. Of all the things—“That is not something you get to decide—”

“I’ll do it.” He said without shame, no theatrical murder-curse pledge in it. The tilt of the plush dog’s head made him look like a ridiculous general. “You’re on probation. I’ll do the killing.”

Kaoru had half a mind to rip his arms off, but the other half of her mind—the faster, crueler, tired—began to catalog; kill the one he still called his best friend? Then what, drag the body into sunlight and gloat?

“You'll… kill him?” she asked to parse the contradiction.

Satoru’s smirk returned, brighter, the one that meant he’d already run through every option. “See? Dramatics was unnecessary, I made a mistake—fine, I’ll fix it.” He shrugged, mock light. “I don’t trust anybody else to do it properly. So, no killing, Kaoru. That’s final.”

The old habits of interrogation—the Zenin head’s bad manners—settled around her and Kaoru smashed her palm again against the wall, closing the space until his shoulders brushed the plaster. 

Satoru frowned down at her, the kind of soft frown that said: really? wall-pinning?

“No.” She snapped. “I'm the one putting a no-killing ban on you.”

There was a slow, small thing that softened the edges of his face, an irritation that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with himself.  “Oh?” A flash of irony. “So now you don’t want him dead?”

“I said you won’t be the one to do it.” If she’d been less tired she might have roared. “I will—”

“—Do nothing,” he snapped louder than he meant to. “I said I will—”

“—Make a mistake!” Kaoru nearly shouted, her throat burned. “Why won't you just listen for once—”

“—Oh that's rich,” Satoru chuckled. “Because it look like you are the one not listening—” 

The dam gave because she had been holding the flood for centuries.

“My name is Kaoru Zenin.” 

The words rang out before she could stop them.

Satoru stilled, eyes widened, then narrowed. He didn’t speak.

“Four hundred years ago,” she forced, “I was head of the Zenin clan. I led them at Sekigahara. History wrote me down as a traitor who died facing the wrong way. I killed—” She stopped. The image that came with that sentence was a jag of memory so violent it tasted bile in her mouth, “—the only man I ever loved because I thought I had no choice. It wasn’t noble, it wasn’t clean, It wasn’t meant to happen but it doesn’t matter, the result is the same. For four hundred years I have been living with his blood on my hands. There is not a day I do not wake with that stain and the guilt—”

Her voice broke on the last line and she hated the traitor inside her throat that suddenly wanted to apologize for the confessional she'd never planned to deliver. She’d meant to say this in a thousand smaller, safer ways, but maybe, if she stripped it bare enough, if he saw how ugly it was to live with your loved ones blood on your hands, he’d understand why she couldn’t let him do it.

“Enough of you behaving like some kami-damned idiot. When the time comes, I'll be the one to deal with him.”

Silence. Just the two of them breathing, and the weight of her words bleeding into the air.

Satoru’s smirk faltered, then dissolved as he let her have the whole, messy thing. He didn’t rush in with a joke, didn’t even smirk. He studied her like if he stared long enough he’d see where she cracked.

It was unbearable. And then—

“Ah. I knew it,” he said finally, brow furrowing. “So you really were a man.”

Kaoru’s whole body jolted in frustration. “I bare my soul for the first time in four hundred years and that’s the line you go with?!”

Satoru turned the plush so it faced her as if to offer it as a diplomatic envoy. “Look,” he drawled, lips twitching, “—you could’ve led with the part where you didn’t want me carrying the guilt. That’s clearer.”

Her breath caught again, heat rushing to her face. Damn him for seeing through her; damn him for being right.

“...Why?” he asked finally, softer.

Kaoru let the images rise and fall, like muscle memory: the field of Sekigahara, the eternal dusk inside her domain, the word “traitor” spat at her by people who never thought to look at the blood on their own hands. If she had been a less stable woman, she would have left the room to take a nap and avoid the existential crisis.

Why, she thought. Because if you had my time, you’d do something. Because I won’t let you live with blood like that on your hands if I can help it.

“Because I’m tired of standing at the sidelines and watching the world decide. So, use me. Against Suguru Geto. Against the Big Three. Against the higher-ups. I don't care, ask me anything.”

The words hung between them. Too raw, too much. She bit back the urge to take them back, to laugh it off.

“…And also,” she added quickly, averting her gaze, “you promised to help with the binding vow.”

Satoru blinked, like a man waking from a joke that wasn’t funny. For a long, long beat he did not speak, the plush still between them like a ridiculous peace treaty. Then Satoru exhaled like a man who’d been forced to admit he’d been wrong.

Finally he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes closing in real, weary exasperation. “Ugh. Fine, you maddening woman.” He tossed the plush at her chest. “Let me breathe, don’t smother me.”

She caught it automatically, clutching it to her chest, pulse still uneven.

Satoru dropped his shoulders, arms crossed and grin crawling back like sunlight after rain. “Still a no-killing ban on you,” he said, fake-bright.

Kaoru glared up from the stuffed animal. “Don’t you dare—”

“Temporarily,” he cut in fast. “For now. We’re not spending Christmas plotting murder while you pin me to a wall. And—” a pause, just enough to matter, “—I’ll think about it. Promise.” He raised two fingers in a childish oath.

Something loosened in her chest despite everything. She tried to scowl, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “…Fine.” A proper, involuntary smile threatened the corner of her mouth. “I'll keep my hands off for now. But don’t hide strategy from me again,” she muttered, safer behind logistics than feelings.

“Deal,” he said, pleased, pretending not to be. “And you, don’t throw doors at me ever again. It’s sloppy.” Then, because he couldn’t resist, he bared a grin that was almost, infuriatingly, genuine: “Also, for the record, you delivered that whole tragic monologue with rabbit ears on. Very unconvincing.”

Heat flooded her face. Kaoru—mortified, then furious—tore the headband off and hurled it. It bounced harmlessly off Infinity with  thwak and dropped to the floor between them. Satoru blinked once, then grinned, blasphemous, bright, and for once, faintly honest.

The moment was cleanly executed by the universe. A sharp intake of breath snapped the moment, and two heads appeared in the doorway’s wreckage.

Tsumiki, pink-cheeked, wide-eyed with the dawning horror of a professional eavesdropper caught mid-career. Megumi, arms folded, unimpressed, because apparently overhearing his guardian and… whatever Kaoru was ranked somewhere below brushing his teeth.

Both in tracksuits and both clearly regretting stepping into this scene.

Kaoru tried for composure and landed on a sputter. “How long—since when—”

“Basically from the start,” Satoru answered cheerfully, slouching off the wall, hands in his pockets like a delinquent. Six Eyes. Of course he’d noticed them minutes ago and just let her keep being dramatic.

Tsumiki tip-toed over the broken door and offered a neat bundle of folded clothes with both hands, like tribute to an irritable shrine god. “We weren’t trying to listen! It’s just—I brought you a clean change, Kaoru-san, and then we heard a crash and—” Her eyes ping-ponged from hinges to stuffed dog in Kaoru’s arms. “—also, Megumi has something to say!”

Megumi’s glare at his sister could have felled an ox. “…No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” Her smile tightened dangerously as she gently shoved her younger brother into the room with the unassailable optimism of a saint. 

He scowled at Kaoru, then at Satoru, clearly calculating which adult was responsible for the architectural homicide. “Are you done trying to kill each other, or are you having a moment—”

A chop to the back of his head. “Not that, Megumi,” Tsumiki hissed mortified. “The other thing! The thing you told me, and I pretended to understand out of politeness!”

Satoru snorted. Kaoru realized she was still hugging a dog the size of a second child and very deliberately tucked it under one arm like she’d meant to all along.

Megumi rubbed the back of his head, outrage tamped down to simmer, and flicked his eyes to Kaoru. Then he fished in his pocket and produced the same stopwatch she’d used last night to time his shikigami summoning.

The metal face caught the light. He flipped it toward her like damning evidence, thumb tapping the side once.

1.5 seconds.

Oh. Oh.

Kaoru tilted her head, studying the numbers; her mouth betrayed her with the smallest grin, a small one, proud, irritatingly fond, before she caught it. Megumi saw it, naturally; he scowled deeper, compensating for his satisfaction.

“You said—” he recited, blinking fast, “—one-point-five seconds and you’d let me tame another shikigami.” A beat; then, because he was twelve and in the prime of his brat era, added: “Don't go back on your word, old hag.”

The plush squeaked as Kaoru flicked her knuckles into his forehead on reflex. Not hard, but enough.

“Ow,” he muttered with dignity, palm to brow, glowering.

“Oooh, not bad. 1.5 huh?” Kaoru grinned, slipping into chaotic mentor she never wanted to admit she was becoming, leaning down to needle him. “Look at you. Indignant, mouthy, but still following orders. This old hag must be doing something right.”

She feinted another flick; he ducked out of reach with a hiss, glaring, as Tsumiki clapped her hands helplessly trying to mediate.

Satoru’s satisfied laugh came low, the kind he pretended he didn’t have. “Hey, hey.” He ruffled Tsumiki’s hair like she was a sunflower to check for growth. She giggled, leaning into it with serene patience. “See? Chaos. That’s what Christmas morning should be.”

“Mm!” Tsumiki agreed brightly, making the whole room feel less like an interrogation chamber and more like—well. Something that resembled a family. “It’s perfect,” she declared, smoothing her hair even as Satoru ruined it again. “Kaoru-san really should change, though. You’re all… um…” She made a delicate circle at her own collar where Kaoru’s uniform still held the memory of fire and fox-teeth, then asked in the smallest voice. “...Is that real blood...?”

Kaoru caught the glance and felt Mame hum in assent at her crown like a prim auntie: yes, do that. “Later,” she said, and Tsumiki, being a good girl, accepted “later” as if it were legally binding. 

A second attempted forehead-flick followed. Megumi dodged again and Kaoru threatened to escalate into a headlock.

Satoru decided it was time to restore “order,” which for him meant: escalate. One arm hooked Megumi, ignoring his flailing. The other scooped Tsumiki under the elbows, her squeak dissolving into laughter.

Kaoru realized too late she was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had precisely half a breath before the white-haired menace swept her in too, and suddenly she was pressed between them all in a crushing, catastrophic group hug. Abduction, really.

Three pairs of feet left the ground, the stuffed animal nearly squashed flat, resistance futile.

“What—!”

“Now now, chaos troops, assemble!” Satoru declared, spinning them half a circle as if carrying laundry, only louder. “This house's not a zoo. Geez, if I didn’t keep you all civilized, the mature and responsible guardian.”

Tsumiki squealed a giggle clutching his sleeve. Megumi twisted like a cat trying to escape a bath and glared. Kaoru produced the same glare, genetically compatible,but the heat rising to her face betrayed her.

And yet.

She would never admit it—even under binding vow—but suspended there, spine pressed to his forearm, Tsumiki’s warmth tucked against her ribs, Megumi’s shoulder thunking into hers in shared indignation, Satoru laughing against her scalp… some small, disobedient muscle under her sternum unclenched.

A family portrait from hell.

When she risked a glance up—damn her timing—she found Satoru looking down at her at the same time too bright. Their eyes caught. His grin slipped, not all the way, just enough to let a spark of recognition peek through.

Her scowl faltered just a fraction.

Uh.

Her stomach did an unhelpful flip for all the wrong reasons. She told herself it was relief; relief that he looked lighter, for once, less burdened, and that was the only reason why she allowing this assault to proceed. That was it. Not because hos grin softened around the edges as she caught the shaping of a silent thank you. Definitely not because they were nose-to-nose in a forced group hug. 

Then his grin snapped back, obnoxious and dazzling. 

“Put me down!” Megumi snarled.

“Put me down!” Kaoru hissed.

“No, keep us!” Tsumiki said loyally.

“Look at us!” Satoru crowed, squeezing tighter just to be petty, rocking them side to side. “Nobody would ever guess we were plotting homicides ten minutes ago.”

Kaoru hid behind the plush like a shield, cheeks hot. It was the kids’ hug. Obviously. She just had the bad luck of being collateral and being caught in the middle, nothing more.

Mame pulsed smugly at her crown. Yes, more hugging!

“Traitor,” she muttered.

Satoru tilted his head closer, grin hovering an inch from her scowl, like he’d love to point out how pink her ears had gone. Instead, he just murmured, “See? Better.”

For once, he didn’t tease. Which was worse. Which was not a thought she wanted to examine. 

A ceramic crack detonated at the doorway.

All four heads turned.

Hisanobu stood in the threshold, hands raised like a man encountering a wildlife documentary at close range. At his feet: the remains of a teacup giving up its soul to the floor. On his face: flat disbelief, silently screaming I did not sign up for this. His gaze flicked to her, to his Ojousama dangling in Gojo Satoru’s ridiculous octopus embrace.

Their gazes met, a little horrified.

Don’t ask, her eyes begged, ignoring how her heart insisted on sprinting.

Hisanobu’s head shook slowly. His eyes said: I wasn’t going to. I did not see this. None of us are here.

Satoru did not release his captives; he craned his head around instead, grin turning wolfish “‘Nobu! Wanna join the family hug?”

That earned him a dry Kashimo glare and one syllabe: “No.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Haibara didn’t run.

He moved the way people who have been taught not to panic move: fast, quiet, head down, body threaded through dawn crowds. His uniform was torn where his cursed technique had eaten Uzuya’s wounds; dried blood cracked at every step, dust flaked from his sleeves, and he smelled like smoke and iron.

Asakusa was waking. Shrine stalls clacked open. A cyclist cursed when he shouldered past; Haibara muttered an apology he didn’t mean and didn’t dare look. If he met anyone’s eyes, something inside would shake loose.

Suguru Geto. Working with Scarlet Mist.

Kaoru’s voice looped, matter-of-fact as a diagnosis. He pressed his palm to his mouth as bile rose. No. Maybe she was wrong—no, Kaoru wasn’t wrong. Maybe… maybe Scarlet Mist had lied to Suguru—no, that was worse. Maybe—

Maybe this was his fault.

Because he had wanted to believe there was still something left in Suguru worth saving.

Because he had met him in secret behind Satoru’s back and told himself it was compassion, not stupidity.

Because Scarlet Mist had been there, somehow, laughing and knowing their plans too well.

Children, he thought, and his mind kindly filled in the word: bodies. The word after that: Uzuya. Then: Takeru.

Yu Haibara, the team's bottle of glue who said “we can do this” because the alternative was to put your head down and drown. He had dragged wounds off other people like it was easy, he had told a mother not to worry and then watched her world end anyway.

Now he cut through Nakamise-dori’s stalls and slipped along the shadow of Sensō-ji’s outer gate, avoiding the security tape and the bored guard rubbing sleep from his eyes. He ducked under a half-lowered chain and padded through the main hall’s side path into the neat gravel of the ceremonial cemetery.

He told himself he had a reason for coming here: find Suguru, get things right before he did the obvious, which was to walk up to Satoru Gojo and say I betrayed you all.

But then, voices leaked through the cedars; he froze behind a red pillar, breath held.

“—Infinity, huh.” Suguru’s voice, light, controlled, and annoyed in the way he got when a plan met an unexpected corner. “I am going to hope you didn’t know and chose to omit vital information about the Archivist, Vengeful Spirit. I almost died in there.”

Laughter answered him. Warm, delighted, horribly wrong—like a child who’d learned to mimic joy. “Now, now, are you implying I’d knowingly throw my only ally into mortal danger?” Scarlet Mist cooed. “Perish the thought, jujutsu sorcerer. If Satoru Gojo and the Archivist wish to play with Infinity, let them. Once the Void-Severing Shaft is destroyed too, nothing won’t matter for this—”

Metal sang: a blade catching air.

Haibara’s stomach dropped. He didn’t remember much of his first Red Ward, but he remembered the laughter. 

So Kaoru hadn’t been wrong; Suguru was really working with Scarlet Mist. They were talking about the Three Heirlooms like recipes. He swallowed. Okay. Okay. No more mistakes. He would back out the way he came, find a quiet spot, call Satoru, and—well, get yelled at, then arrested, then maybe executed.

Fine. He deserved it.

He would make sure they knew about the Void-Severing Shaft first—

“Yo.”

The voice landed behind him, close enough to count heartbeats against it; Haibara flinched so hard his heel scraped gravel. He spun and jumped back on instinct, cursed energy snapping to his fingertips in gold threads.

Scarlet Mist stood there with a naginata balanced casual between hand and shoulder, geta clicking on stone. Red scarf, Shinsengumi haori, brown hair caught in a lazy tail. He waggled his free hand in greeting like a cat stretching. “Told you,” he called over Haibara’s shoulder, without looking away. “You should’ve let me deal with this one months ago.”

Footfalls soft as sweeping leaves: Suguru, sleeves still wrinkled dusted and bloodied, hands tucked away as if he had all the time in the world. “Mm. Don’t be hard on him,.” His gaze flicked over Haibara’s ripped uniform, the bloodstains. An imperceptible frown tugged. “Eavesdropping is rude, Yu-kun. Even in your condition.”

Haibara set his feet and lowered his center, fists up, threads peeling from his fingertips in shining arcs. He had no illusions, he couldn’t beat one of them, let alone both. Empathic Assonance wasn’t meant to kill, but if they thouhght he was defendeless? They were wrong.

“Geto-senpai,” he managed, aiming for steady and landing somewhere around braced.

Suguru inclined his head like a gentleman. “Yu-kun.”

A silence long enough for Haibara to remember how to breathe. Scarlet Mist bounced on his toes, amused, eyes flipping between them delighted like a boy at a puppet show.

The first part came out smaller than Haibara liked. “What… are you doing?” His throat tightened. “Do you understand—do you even understand what happened? All those—” He choked on the word again. Children. “Uzuya-san’s son—Takeru—” His voice rucked up and split. He forced it back down with both hands.

“Monkeys,” Suguru corrected gently, the syllables flat.

Something in Haibara’s face broke as he stared. And stared again. He searched Suguru’s eyes for something human and found a soft, cool pity that was for him, not for the children.

“…Monkeys,” Haibara repeated, as he snapped sideways into laughter. Right. He shook his head once, like flinging water out of his ears, and the threads of cursed energy brightened. “Okay. Then I’m going to inform Gojo-senpai.”

He drew breath; dozens of gold filaments braided around his wrists and orbit. Scarlet Mist stepped forward because he enjoyed the part where things moved fast. Suguru raised a palm, stopping him without taking his eyes off Haibara.

“So?” he invited. “Go on. Tell him.”

Haibara didn’t move; he waited for the catch. Tell him? Did Suguru… intended to let him go?

“Tell Satoru,” Suguru confirmed, mild. “I’m sure he’ll listen. And when he realizes that, thanks to you, their neat little plan turned into a tragedy, he’ll kill you on the spot.” A small shrug. “Or worse, hand you to the higher-ups.”

Scarlet Mist snorted laughter into his scarf, wiping tears with the back of his hand. The gold threads around Haibara’s hands hiccuped and a drop of sweat slid coldly down his neck.

Kill me? Gojo-senpai? No. He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t— Not— He's ridiculous, obnoxious, the strongest and kind when no one's looking. He—

He wouldn’t, right?

“No,” Haibara said aloud, and set his jaw because if he didn’t he’d rattle apart. “So what? People died because of me. If, after I confess, execution is appropriate, then—so be it.”

Suguru blinked as if briefly, honestly amused, then clapped, once, ironically sincere. “Yu-kun, you are the perfect distillation of everything wrong with jujutsu society! You, Satoru, that tiny Archivist—all of you. It’s adorable, really.” He smiled wider. “Go die then.” He turned the smile, knife-bright. “Leave your little sister behind.”

Haibara’s cursed energy spasmed and the gold threads unraveled, flickered, died. He forgot how to breathe for exactly one, two, three seconds.

Suguru saw it land and tilted his head, benign. “Ena-chan, wasn’t it? You’ve worked so hard to keep her away from the ugliness—” he gestured lazily at the graveyard, at the world, “—despite her… potential.”His eyes softened with the cruelty of men who can afford it. “Imagine how the higher-ups will describe her, once they’re angry enough with you.”

“I—” Haibara’s voice fell out of his mouth in pieces. “I don’t—Ena—she—she doesn’t—”

“Little sister, huh.” Scarlet Mist’s tone slipped sideways, fond and bitter. He crossed his forearms over the naginata’s shaft and drifted closer.

Haibara took a step back; the Vengeful Spirit's cursed energy pressed down and stilled him like a hand over a birdcage.

“We should always protect our sisters,” Scarlet Mist mused, stopping at Haibara’s shoulder, breath warm with winter. “Don’t you think? Terrible things happen when we are not around to… supervise.”

From the pillar, Suguru whistled low. “Maybe tell him what happens to defenseless girls left behind. Who better than you?”

Haibara flinched as Scarlet Mist’s shadow leaned in close to his ear, voice dipping.

“I had a sister,” he said simply. “Mitsu. Older and kind. The most selfless person I knew.” His mouth smiled but the word didn’t. “Unfortunately, not gifted in jujutsu like me, but born with perfect affinity for the Calamity-Binding Halberd. The Kamo clan’s sacred heirloom.” He spun the shaft once and set its butt on stone. “Onee-sama was the only person of our time who could wield it worth a damn. So they entrusted it to her when she was still small enough to think power was our duty as a Kamo cadet branch.”

He straightened and walked past Haibara, conversational as a tour guide. Haibara exhaled shakily and pivoted with him, unwilling to put the Vengeful Spirit at his back.

“It didn’t take long,” Scarlet Mist went on, voice gradually acquiring anger. “A few years with this—” he tapped the golden blade, “—and Onee-sama's body changed. This weapon's curse nested in her womb, made it a little barrier of its own. A womb for cursed fetuses.” The word cracked a little, then smoothed. “We didn’t know, of course we didn’t. That Kamo bastard did.” His smile fell off. “Couldn’t get near her while I was around. I was strong, you know?” He looked at Haibara like a boy half-wanting praise. “The strongest of my time!”

He wasn’t bragging; the facts landed without flourish. Haibara believed him and hated that he did.

“I would have killed for Onee-sama,” Scarlet Mist said, calm again. “So, first they sent me away to serve the Shogunate. Then waited for my cursed technique to eat my lungs from the inside out.” A small laugh, tight. “I died as a traitor, not even on a battlefield.”

He was suddenly there again, breath against Haibara’s other ear, voice sweet as poison. “Do you want to know what happened to Onee-sama after I left? After I died and every single one of the Big Three looked away?” A pause, like hunger enjoying itself. “Come on, I’m reaaaally dying to tell you!”

Haibara forced his tongue to work. “What… what happened to her?” Barely a sound.

“Tell him,” Suguru sang softly.

Scarlet Mist’s smile went soft. “They used her body,” he said, and the naginata's presence swelled until it squeezed tears into Haibara’s eyes. “Nine times. They grew cursed fetuses in her and cut them out early so they could start again. Again, again and again. Each cycle took a piece of her until there was nothing left to take and when her body finally failed, they dropped her like a broken tool, left to die on herself.”

The cemetery forgot how to make sounds; even Suguru’s whistling stopped.

Haibara imagined Ena’s smile; he couldn’t breathe. He tasted metal realizing too late he was biting his own lips too hard; the gold of his technique coiled and collapsed entirely.

“A tragedy,” Suguru said with a little puff, as if rating a play.

“A tragedy,” Scarlet Mist agreed. Then he turned back into a boy, grin sugared, naginata cocked over one shoulder. “So go confess, Yuu-kuuun. Die a traitor. I can’t wait to see what the Big Three invent this time for your little sister.” He patted Haibara’s shoulder, friendly as a big brother. “Now now,” he sang. “Go.”

Haibara jerked as if struck. His body decided for him. He bolted, scraping past Suguru, boots chewing gravel, breath high and ugly in his throat. Behind him, voices as light as leaves crossing water.

“There was no need to terrify him that much,” Suguru observed.

“I just told him the truth,” Scarlet Mist replied, and laughed.

Haibara didn’t hear the rest. He kept to the temple’s shadow, climbed a useless fence that snagged his coat for no reason except to remind him he was clumsy, stumbled into the street, and ran until Asakusa smeared into watercolor.

His thoughts tried lining up; he shoved them out of order by force. Kaoru-san. Satoru. Void-Severing Shaft. Ena. Ena first. No—information first—No, Ena! The higher-ups would—Gojo-senpai would never—

Suguru’s voice: will kill you.

No, he wouldn’t. The elders—

He buckled around a street corner and braced a hand against a vending machine, gulping air. He almost laughed; then almost threw up.

Phone, phone, phone—he fumbled it out with fingers that couldn’t decide on a shape. The screen jittered, his thumb missed, he failed the passcode twice like an idiot. Ena’s name hovered there, too bright, too easy. He swallowed and—

Hands seized his collar, dragged him up in a corner, and slammed him into brick hard enough to paint sparks across the edges of his vision. The world snapped small as the pressure on his throat pinned air halfway down.

He blinked one eye open, already apologizing. “I—”

Shoko glared at him over the stick of a lollipop; she looked exactly like someone who had slept zero minutes, stitched thirty people, argued with five assistants, and was ready to fistfight a vending machine for looking at her wrong. Coat buttoned, hair yanked into a small ponytail, the clinical neatness of her uniform at odds with the raw irritation in her gaze.

“What the hell, Haibara,” she said, voice flat, hands uncompromising at his collarbone. “I clocked you being weird earlier with Kaoru, but tell me this is not what it looks like.”

“It’s— it’s not—” He pushed at her wrists, shame catching under his fingernails. “It isn’t—”

Her forearms set, pressure increased by one precise degree. “I don’t care if you can’t accept that your beloved senpai has gone psychotic, there is a limit to stupidity! You nearly got us all killed and now Uzuya’s boy is—”

“I know!” The word tore out louder than he intended.

It bounced off the alley walls, made the quiet morning flinch. Shoko went very still. She didn’t let go, but she didn’t push, either.

“I know,” Haibara repeated, smaller. His eyes stung and he hated that. “I know, I know, I know—” He pressed the heels of his palms against his sockets and sucked a breath through his teeth that shuddered on entry. “I should have just died before I compromised us.”

The hands at his collar loosened, not much but enough. Shoko watched him like a doctor, stern, bored, furious because she cared.

“I can’t pretend this didn’t happen,” she said, voice calmer and somehow worse for being gentle. “I have to inform Satoru of this.”

“No!” He flinched, brought his hands down, tried to shape words that didn’t come out panicked. “No, please— Shoko-senpai, don’t tell Gojo-senpai. Not yet. I’ll— I’ll tell him. I promise. Just— let me do something right first, before I’m— you know.” He flapped a hand because saying executed out loud made his throat close.

Her brows kicked up, unimpressed, as she released him. He slid down the wall in an inelegant kneel, breathing hard. He arranged his hands on his thighs because posture helped when your soul felt hollow.

“Do something right,” Shoko repeated, dry. She paced two steps, turned, a planet with a very narrow orbit. “Haibara, there is no ‘do something right’ after last night.”

“I know what they’re after!” he blurted, looking up fast enough to make the world tilt. “Scarlet Mist and Geto-senpai. The Void-Severing Shaft— you remember? One of the Three Heirlooms Kaoru-san kept nerding out about.” His mouth went dry. “They’re hunting it, I heard them. I don’t know why yet, but we can get ahead. We can— we could—”

Shoko stared like he’d suggested they perform heart surgery with chopsticks. “We can?” she echoed. “Sorry, no. There is no ‘we.’ I am not getting dragged into—”

“If we find it first,” Haibara said too fast, voice overlapping hers on desperation, “we can give Gojo-senpai and Kaoru-san a lead or at least deny Scarlet Mist— deny him leverage. There has to be a trace in the Tokyo Jujutsu High archives about its location, something, a burial registry, a transfer ledger, a curse storage record, an unhinged Kamo footnote—” He caught himself spiraling. “I just want to help. Please.” His voice went embarrassingly soft on the last word. He hated that, too.

They held there; Shoko’s gaze searched his face for the useful kind of stupid. He tried not to flinch, tried to look determined instead of pathetic. It probably read as both.

She sighed at last and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ugh. Fine. Fine.” She took the lollipop out like a cigarette and pointed it at his head. “This is idiotic. You’re idiotic. But I won’t tell Satoru for now.” Her finger stabbed the space between his brows. “I'll help you, but the second things go even microscopically sideways, I report to the higher-ups and sell you out. Understood, mushroom-boy?”

Relief hit so fast it made him dizzy. He folded forward, forehead almost touching the ground, then yanked himself back before she could kick him. “Understood! Thank you. Thank you, Shoko-senpai.”

“Don’t thank me,” she muttered. “Thank my lack of sleep, I make questionable choices when I’m exhausted.”

A thin strip of silence edged between them. The early sun turned the alley gold at the rim. Somewhere, a delivery truck beeped like the universe reminding them it didn’t care.

Shoko chewed the lollipop, thinking aloud. “We both are not front-liners,” she said. “We need offense. We need someone who can hit something that deserves it while we look for that cured weapon.”

Haibara swallowed. “Hisanobu-san?”

“No,” she said, immediately and with feeling. “The moment we say ‘Void-Severing Shaft’ he will glue himself to Kaoru and declare eminent domain over the investigation and also your life, which—” she flicked him a look that said: you won’t like that step “—not helpful yet.”

He couldn’t argue.

“Someone discreet,” Shoko went on. “Strong, in Tokyo, loyal and marginally tolerant of nonsense.” She tapped the lollipop against her canine like a metronome. “And ideally not currently wanted for crimes.”

Haibara winced. “Low bar.”

She stared past him, thinking in clean lines, then her eyes narrowed. 

“Ehi, Haibara,” she said.

“Mm?”

“Do you think Nanami is back from that mission of his yet?”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

…

…

I am Mame.

…

I wasn’t always Mame. In a less interesting century, I was just a comb.

…

I was nobody’s favorite, cheap wood, red camellias painted on my spine. Then Father picked me up, turned me over in his hand, and said: This will do.

And suddenly, I was something.

Father did not name me, he did not need to, but if curses can love—and they can—then I loved him, just as he loved Mother.

Keep her alive. That was all he thought about. So I learned. The smallest thing at first—a stubborn little circle, coin-sized Infinity, hardly more than a halo, but enough.

Why? Because he wanted me to, even if he never said it.

Then a battlefield. Father slid me into her hair mid-fight, clumsy, tender, doomed. He smiled and expected me to understand. I did; I liked her immediately!

Ah, I thought. So it’s you. Kaoru Zenin. Mother.

His energy woven into mine, then hers, and because humans are reckless, they spoke the wrong words at the worst time:

“I’ll find you.”
“I’ll wait.”

Binding Vows are nosy. Cursed energy listens when you mean it. Keep her alive. Let her wait until he finds her. Too literal and unintended.

Father died that day. Mother tried to follow him. I did not permit it.

I did what I was made to do. Infinity: activated. Reverse Cursed Technique: forced loop. I cracked her meridians open, rewrote decay, stapled entropy shut. No consent, no choice. She hasn’t aged a second since. I am only a comb, but I am very stubborn and Father asked me to keep her alive.

And just like that, years piled and centuries made a nest.

We stole cursed antiques because they made her breathe a little freer. Mother calls it “archiving.” I call it hoarding but I like her curiosity; happy Mother, happy me. We hunted Scarlet Mist across eras. We raised Kashimos one after another, and every time one of them died, she bit down on her grief until it bled through her cursed energy, and I pretended not to notice.

Four hundred years I have been her crown, her parasite, her shield, her child. Somewhere along the way—maybe a hundred years in, maybe two—she tapped my spine and gave me a name.

“Mame,” she said, as if that nonsense wird had weight.

Bean. The exact size of me. Small and stubborn and necessary in soups. I glowed so hard my lacquer cracked. Naming is magic; even curses want to be called. Being named means someone thought you mattered.

Mame. Mame Mame Mame. Yes.

Every year on October 21, her energy slips away. Father is louder that day. I can’t stop grief. All I can do is keep her warm and safe. When I wrap her in Infinity, it's like father's huging her again; that makes her happy, for a short time.

I am patient. I can be patient for a thousand years if I must, but Father, hurry up and find us already!

And then—finally—he walked into the shop.

Not Father, the shape of Father. The scent of his cursed energy, rethreaded thinner, faster, bluer; eyes like morning sky and a mouth that lied for fun.

Satoru Gojo. 

He didn’t recognize me. Didn’t recognize her. Reincarnation is cruel like that.

I pulsed anyway so hard. Father father father! Look—I’ve been good! I kept her alive, just like you asked! See? She’s right here!

Mother’s heart misfired so violently I had to slap the loop; then she remembered how to breathe and pretended not to shake. But then he said her name. Her name, and not a guess; Kaoru. It echoed right in the place where his old self used to keep it close.

For three breaths I tasted hope; Father was in there. Of course he was! Souls are slow but not foolish.

Fate stuffed them back together on a job. Mother is very skilled at pretending not to be terrified. Father is very skilled at pretending nothing can touch him. Between the two of them there is enough denial to build a shrine.

I say this with love.

I like the two children that live with them, and Mother liked them with the kind of dry competence that fools think is indifference.

I am jealous of all of them! I thought—oh, this is unfair! I want hands and legs too, imagine the possibilities! I want to clap, I want to grab Father's sleeve and hug Mother and run with the children and laugh with them.

Tsumiki smells like soap and resolve. She pats Mother’s sleeve and thanks the kettle for boiling. Approved. Megumi… hm. Megumi scowls like a Zenin and listens like one too, which is to say: only if he asked the question first. He sits near Mother like the room makes more sense at that angle. He reminds me of Mother in embarrassing ways that make my Infinity twitch wider, like I should be covering him too.

I’m not saying he’s mine, but if anyone told me he was, I’d believe it.

Hisanobu calls Mother Ojousama and would leap into a blender if she told him; he has a moon blade I respect. The mushroom boy—Haibara?—worships Mother like a shrine; he is not a Kashimo, but he has the same adoration problem. Hands off, fungus; Mother is Father’s.

Uzuya is worse; calm as winter, seeing too much. Mother admires her; Mother is also afraid of what Uzuya sees in her, so I tightened my Infinity around us whenever Uzuya was near. Not because she would hurt Mother, but because Mother hates being seen through.

Then Father picked me up, held me in his palm, Six Eyes burning the world to math and my wood nearly split with happiness. “You keep the oni away?” he asked, light, careless.

Yes! Like you taught me!

He promised to help fix Mother’s binding vow and Mother’s energy hiccuped with a hope I felt in my wood. He did not remember her, but he did not need to. The shape of him had not changed: point at a problem; grin like a dare; promise too big and then keep it anyway. I pulsed approval until he flicked my tooth with a fingertip.

I practice flaring my Infinity field wider when he leans too close because his Infinity and mine talk.

Then the hospital.

Tamamo-no-Mae is a liar; she wore Father’s first face and Mother forgot how to be suspicious for a minute. So did I. I deserve scolding for that, but Father’s face, his energy, perfectly counterfeited... I loosened the field because I wanted, desperately, to believe it was him.

I reached for him like a child and said—you’re back!

When I came back to myself, Mother was bleeding enough to paint the corridor and watched her feed a myth to rabbits. Delightful. Petty. I really hate foxes. I threw the loop open.

Heal. Heal. Heal. 

Suguru Geto is not approved.

The way he looked at Mother, like she was the problem, the way he said “monkeys” and “rotten” and “pathetic,” or the way his words slid toward Father’s name. Disliked deeply. He is not allowed to think in her direction without my permission, and iff he does again, I will show him what a my teeths are for.

Father did not build me to be polite.

The curtain fell, and no one was happy after. But no one I love died.

I do not care who kills whom as long as Mother and Father are alive and together.

Mother banged the door off, but Father said that if killing must be done, he would do it himself. Mother’s heart flinched and mine did too. I do not want Father to learn what it feels like to carry a loved one’s blood on your hands forever. I do not want Mother to watch him do it!

She dropped four centuries of stone at his feet by accident and said, Use me. No more secrets. She meant it! Mother would raze fortresses if he asked. She would break apart the three clans and rebuild them into something else if he said please. She would kill Suguru Geto for him.

Father does not see it yet but he will. He offered a promise, ridiculous and binding enough to satisfy me, and said, “Thanks,” too softly. He still threw a plush at her face and then thanked her too softly for anybody else to hear.

I do not understand why humans insist on building barricades out of jokes and then leaving the gates unlocked. But I don’t need to, I only need to keep the circle from breaking.

And now, somehow, the house contain five people, me, a cursed comb, and an amount of noise that would drown gods.

Group hug! I pulsed so bright I squeaked. Family, he said. Family.

Does that include me?

I cannot do joy like humans, but I can be a lantern of cursed energy even when Mother pretends to hate it. And when he looked down at her the grin slipped, and I saw it again: that same wild, gentle wonder from four centuries ago when he slid me into her hair.

I glowed and glowed and glowed.

I am very tired and I am also very happy. Both can be true. I am a cursed object; we specialize in contradictions.

Tonight, when the house goes quiet, I'll hum and use Infinity when Mother sleeps because she rests better when I do and I will hope that Father dreams of camellias and remembers the comb he chose and the woman he loved and the vow he never meant to make, and wakes up annoyed because he cannot remember why that makes his chest hurt.

Good. Let it hurt; it will guide him home.

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

“I’m the clan head now,”

The voice was his and not his; deeper, steadier, the register he only used when he was performing for a room that needed to believe him.

The courtyard was familiar in a way that made his stomach tip. Kyoto. The Gojo estate. He knew the paving by heart; he’d crossed it a hundred times in daylight. But now—

Stone lanterns slick with blood. The inner engawa circling the square full of bodies folded where they fell, too many of them. When he looked down, the white of his haori was red to the elbows with someone else’s blood.. His hands—why his hands?—dripped with a wet shine that meant it was fresh.

An absurd thought cut through: this is going to be hell to wash out.

He lifted his gaze. Kaoru stood at the foot of the steps, pale in a crimson kosode, trembling in a way that wasn’t weakness so much as unspent fury. Blood streaked her cheekbone; there was dried red beneath her nails.

Her eyes tracked his sleeves, then his fingers. Something brittle in her face cracked. “Ah,” she said, almost a laugh. “So that’s how it is. You couldn’t even leave me that.” Her chin came up. “His life wasn’t yours to claim.”

He didn’t flinch, though some small sane part of him wanted to. The answer left his mouth flat as a corpse, like he’d read it off a scroll. “The moment he made this war personal, the moment he used our name to feed his grudge, he betrayed all of us. It was my duty as his heir to stop him.”

Duty, sure, Satoru thought. And under it, something uglier. The words dragged from his mouth were flat, scripted, like he was playing a part in someone else’s tragedy.

Metal flashed at the edge of his vision. His wrist flicked; a spear skittered across the stone with a bright ring, its blade tapping to a stop against Kaoru’s boots. The pulse that rolled off the weapon lit up his Six Eyes in a way he knew too well. He’d felt that hum last night in Scarlet Mist’s hands, and once before in the Inverted Spear of Heaven.

“This,” he heard himself say, voice emptied out, “belongs to the Zenin. I’ve no interest in keeping a weapon bought with innocent lives.”

Kaoru didn’t look down. Her cursed energy rasped across his skin, jagged, coiled. Aimed at... him. That was the strangest part: the target was him. The thought landed unpleasantly.

She took two quiet steps, crossed over the spear without a glance, and stopped at the base of the stairs. What lived on her face was more than anger and not yet grief.

“Innocents?” she spat. “What about you, Seijiro?”

Seijiro.

Not his name, and somehow exactly his. The syllables struck at a fault line; he felt his mask slip a millimeter. Felt the place where he should be human and wasn’t letting himself. The courtyard seemed to lean in, the boards of the engawa listening, even the dead waiting for his answer.

“Do you remember the day of the council?” she pressed. The cadence was the same cut she’d used the night before, truth that refused to be pretty. “When my father was butchered in front of us all? You looked me in the eye,” her voice shook, “and you swore you knew nothing.”

Silence wedged between them. He felt his shoulders lower, like setting down a weight he’d been pretending wasn’t there, and with it went a piece of pride so old he hadn’t noticed it until it fell.

“Right,” he said softly. “I suppose I’m not so innocent after all.”

Guilt dragged like a net. The scene tilted—

—and he jerked awake to a heavy thud from downstairs.

Probably a cup, but his brain, generous, supplied the ring of a spear on stone.

Satoru sat up too fast, breath tripped and sweat cooled on his neck.

Morning split the curtains in a clean line, and for one stupid second he braced for the copper reek of blood. None, unless you counted the one rusty dot on his collar Tsumiki had fussed about before he’d bullied her into bed.

Not a dream; felt like a memory. Which was annoying, because he didn’t own that memory. What bothered him wasn’t the blood; he could wade oceans. It was the look on Kaoru's face: a hate intimate enough to ache in his ribs.

Okay. Fine. The mind runs scenarios when you feed it new data and his mind—brilliant, traitorous—loved running reruns it hadn’t licensed. But that courtyard had been too lived-in. Too… his.

Gojo estate, he thought. Seijiro.

Easy to blame her. She had said, too steadily to be a lie: I killed the only man I ever loved because I thought I had no choice. It wasn’t noble, it wasn’t clean, It wasn’t meant to happen but it doesn’t matter, the result is the same. For four hundred years I have been living with his blood on my hands. There is not a day I do not wake with that stain and the guilt—

Who the hell was he even? Was he the one Kaoru was talking about, the one she loved and killed?

No way; in his dream, or vision, or whatever that was, the two looked at opposites.

He flopped back, stared at the ceiling, flopped forward again immediately. Restless. “Tch. Damn it, Kaoru. Damn it, Seijiro.” He pressed a palm over his eyes and groaned.

No.

He was not about to get rattled by an immortal’s tragic backstory, and he was certainly not going to be irrationally jealous of some random man four centuries dead. He was curious. Professionally. The way one is about a cursed object that meows.

Right? Whatever.

“Stop it,” he told his brain because that always worked. “As if.”

Satoru scrubbed both hands through his hair until it stood worse than usual and breathed around the weight on his chest. The list lined up like good little soldiers: Scarlet Mist, Suguru, higher-ups hungry for a scapegoat, two kids who deserved pancakes instead of politics. And a certain immortal menace currently on a no-kill ban she would gleefully violate if he blinked wrong.

Use me. Ask me anything.

He should not be even a little pleased by that. He was, slightly, and he resented himself for it. Worse, it was suddenly easy to picture her on his left, the same way Suguru used to be on his right once. The shape at his shoulder that meant he didn’t have to hold the sky alone. The feeling like someone had quietly stepped into a space he’d long ago decided would stay empty. He didn't really think to deserve it, after the bad decisions he had made and had led to the hospital incidents, but he was going to accept it anyway.

“Breakfast,” he declared to no one, and hauled himself up.

The smell that drifted up the stairs was suspiciously edible. Good sign. He padded downstairs in pajama pants emblazoned with baby pandas because he was a man of taste, announcing, “Gooood mor—” He stopped halfway into the living room.

On the couch: Tsumiki, in kitten pajamas and wool socks, hair a frizzy halo; and Hisanobu, already in a crisp shirt and a painfully formal long ponytail like last night hadn’t happened; both upright, hands folded, watching the TV with religious devotion. Sailor Moon Crystal, rerun. Transformation music sparkled through the room.

Satoru leaned on the back of the couch. “My two favorite upstanding citizens,” he said. “Lesson one: we stan champions of love and justice.”

They didn’t even look over.

“Yes,” Hisanobu answered, patting Satoru's hand and perfectly flat, which meant he was emotionally compromised. “The world requires them.”

Tsumiki pointed delicately with the remote. “Usagi-chan is about to do the speech.” She lowered her voice as though in a shrine. “Shh.”

Satoru blinked, twice, then smiled. Okay, that was cute. Family, he’d joked last night to needle Kaoru. Standing there with the idiot warmth creeping up anyway, it almost felt true. “Wait,” he said, sudden dread. “If you two are here… who’s cooking?”

Tsumiki turned, beaming. “Kaoru-san is making breakfast!”

A fragile silence fell. Transformation glitter swelled cheerfully.

“Kaoru,” Satoru repeated, voice thin. “Is… cooking.” He studied Hisanobu with great seriousness. “Oi, ’Nobu. Am I about to die?”

The man hesitated. Hesitated. Then forced a very polite, very brittle smile. “Ojousama's very… dedicated. And skilled. Her cuisine is—” he began, his eye twitched. “—unique.”

“So, poison,” Satoru translated. “Great. Cuts my paperwork in half.”

The front door banged and a heap of sweat and adolescent misery limped into the genkan. Megumi, sweating through a tracksuit like a tiny demon had chased him eight blocks. He collapsed like a shot deer onto the genkan tile, starfished.

“I’m—dying,” he declared to the ceiling. “Tsumiki… you can have my eraser collection.”

Satoru wandered over, bent down, amused. “What’s this? Little Megumin already tapping out? Don’t tell me Kaoru put you back on military regime. It’s been one day since Christmas.”

“Of course.” Kaoru’s voice carried from the kitchen, unmerciful. “Consistency is how you get results.”

She appeared in the kitchen doorway in an apron—an apron, gods save them—over a fitted tracksuit, hair pulled into her high tail, and Mame tucked imperial at the crown. The comb pulsed a bright good morning, I am judging you.

Satoru’s grin faltered. She was… glowing. Nothing good ever followed that.

Her black eyes narrowed on Megumi. “How many laps?”

Megumi tilted his head back to glare at her upside down. “Five.”

“I said ten,” she said, nose wrinkling.

“I said I’m dying,” he deadpanned. “The load is insane. Reduce it, old witch.”

Satoru’s eyebrows slid up. “Load?”

“Rocks from the garden,” Kaoru replied, like noting cloud cover.

Silence. He took in Megumi’s pallor, the sweat darkening his collar, the way—for once—the boy looked at Satoru like the least deranged adult in the room. Then Kaoru’s completely bland expression. The dots connected.

“You put rocks in his shadow storage and made him run intervals,” he summarized.

“A Ten Shadows user can store weapons in their shadow so long as they can carry the weight,” Kaoru said, as if outlining basic arithmetic. “So, rocks and cardio. It builds endurance and stamina. He’ll thank me when he lives through his first real fight.” She pivoted back toward the kitchen; the faintest blush climbed the tips of her ears.

Satoru watched her profile, delighted by the contradiction; warlord diction, soft center. The way she tried not to look at anyone, broadcasting do not notice that I care. For a heartbeat, the Kaoru from his dream with blood on her hands and hate in her eyes, overlaid the one wielding a murder ladle and an apron.

Then the image broke, and he saw what was truly there: an immortal woman trying not to care too visibly about a kid who had inherited a lot of her angles.

Pathetic, he thought with fond contempt. This is the woman who told me to use her like a weapon? Please.

“What?” she snapped defensively when he kept looking, as if he’d accused her of kindness. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing. You’re insane,” he said, cheerfully mussing Megumi’s sweat-matted hair.

“You both are,” Megumi announced to the ceiling.

Kaoru leveled the ladle at her victim. “Up. Hydrate. Then two more laps.”

Megumi made a sound that translated neatly to I hope your tea curdles. He staggered up, camelled a whole glass, and stomped toward the yard with the affronted dignity of a wronged prince.

“And stop heel-striking,” Kaoru called after. “We are not barbarians.”

“Yes, General,” he muttered, but fixed his form on the spot.

Satoru watched her watch him go, mouth trying hard not to soften; something inside his chest did that annoying warm lurch he refused to name. Kaoru Zenin, huh. He’d always known, but last night was the first time she’d said it herself. Great. This was going to get interesting.

He leaned down, shameless, until his breath stirred the stray strands at her ear. “Careful,” he murmured, lazy and close. “The terrifying Zenin warlord act cracks if you smile.”

Kaoru startled—just a flinch—color shooting up her ears as she whirled, clearly ready to brain him with the ladle.

He was already gone.

“Ka-o-ru~,” he sing-songed from the kitchen.

She arrived two beats later in indignation, apron string bow swishing.

The kitchen looked like a minor god had lost a fight: every cabinet stood open. A cutting board bled kimchi onto a mound of burdock root. A bowl of eggs sweated next to a jar of miso, which was fraternizing with dried shiitake, goji berries, and… pickled plums? A grinder of sanshō lay toppled like a war casualty, dusting everything in citrus-pepper snow. A whole kelp sheet sagged off the counter. On the flame, a heavy pot burbled a suspicious, reddish-brown vortex.

Satoru folded his arms against the opposite counter and let the smirk happen, watching her pretend not to care that he was watching her. The tip of her ear was still pink. “Okay, genuine question,” he said. “What, exactly, were you attempting to summon?”

Kaoru wrinkled her nose and turned to stir. “Kōyō no Shōyu-jiru, Edo winter variant,” she declared proudly. “Broth base from kelp and dried fish shavings, reduced with kudzu slurry, fortified with miso, garlic, and ginger to stimulate circulation, finished with burdock and goji to tonify blood. Old temple kitchens swore by it for children during flu season.” A beat. “Mild spice to open the lungs.”

He peered into the pot. The pot peered back. “Mild,” he echoed, bravely.

If this was a recipe, it had thirteen authors and none of them had met, but He decided his will to live precluded further comment.

Satoru let the counter hold him up and gave her his best theatrical sigh. “So. Kaoru Zenin.” He laid unnecessary weight on it.

Her face made the I regret last night shape. “Mm.”

“That’s going to earn me a very fun appointment with the fossils upstairs. So many explanations to prepare about last night, about the Archivist coincidentally being a bitter old Zenin clan head from the Keichō era’ whom history insists was a man.” He gestured broadly at her with two fingers. “You.”

She exhaled through her nose, frustration, not denial. “As long as you don’t drag ’Nobu into the formal report.”

Satoru snorted, crossed at the ankles, then tilted his head, mock-solemn. “Please. If I can avoid paperwork, I will.” He drummed his fingers once. “Speaking of mild catastrophes. Scarlet Mist.” He let the grin drain off his face. “We should rethink the plan.”

Her ladle paused mid-circle, the line of her shoulders hardening. “After last night, they’ll avoid a spotlight for a while,” she said, voice flattening. “Predicting their next step will be… inconvenient.” The ladle moved again, methodical. “But not impossible.”

“Mmm.” Satoru replayed the Children’s Center in his head, stopping on each moment infinity had been not infinity. He could still feel the wrong notch where the world forgot him; there was, unfortunately, no way to soften this next part. He defaulted to light, because he was cowardly about exactly two things: Tsumiki’s puppy eyes and Kaoru’s reverence for cursed antiques. “Scarlet Mist’s fancy toy.”

“Toy,” she echoed dryly.

“The Crimson Binding Halberd,” he corrected, deceptively light. “It slipped my Infinity. Clean. Null.”

Kaoru frowned, but she didn’t look rattled; her hand kept circling the pot. “Impossible.” Her voice went didactic: “The Calamity-Binding Halberd amplifies and stabilizes kekkai and barriers. The Inverted Spear of Heaven cancels cursed techniques. The Void-Severing Shaft cuts through any barriers. They were separated properly, the Binding Vow was flawless. Kamo work, annoyingly precise. There is no cross-contamination.” She gave him a side-eye. “Maybe something external tampered with your cursed technique?”

“Mm,” Satoru smiled like a man stepping in front of a train.

Right. The Three Heirlooms. Once one single weapon. She practically prayed at that altar.

A single sweat bead ticked down his neck.

Don’t hide vital strategy from me ever again, she had said.

Ugh. Fine.

“Oi, Kaoru…” he said, and even he could hear the guilty edge. “Promise you won’t get mad if I tell you a thing?”

She smiled at him, one eyebrow lifted in do I look mentally unstable to you? “Promised.”

He cleared his throat. Faced curses, Yaga, and paperwork; he could do this. “Any chance the fact that I… destroyed the Inverted Spear of Heaven about a year ago is relevant?”

The broth gave a rude little burp.

Her smile froze in place; then she chuckled, and it was terrifying. “Don’t be ridiculous. The Heirlooms are indestructible.”

He chuckled back and it sounded like a man laughing at his own funeral. “I assure you, it went kaboom.”

More silence. She did not blink. The ladle stopped.

Three long seconds later, he Blue-blinked left on reflex as the ladle—now humming with her cursed energy—came down like a judge’s gavel where his head had been. The wooden bowl split clean along the grain. Infinity would have held but his survival instinct outran math.

“You what?!”

“You promised not to be mad!” he protested from the sink, already flicking to the far side of the island as she shadow-jumped behind him with zero mercy, apron and righteous fury manifesting like a domain expansion in a  four square meters kitchen.

“Gojo Satoru.” She stalked him with the broken handle like a short sword. “Who gave you the right to annihilate a third of a weapon older than your bloodline?”

“In my defense,” hand up, palm out, “I didn’t know what it was at the time. And I didn’t predict the side effect would be—” he twirled a hand, grimacing, “—donating traits back to Scarlet Mist’s favorite stick.”

Kaoru cut a path across the tile, pacing tight, thumb at her lip, the nervous tick he pretended not to notice but filed away anyway. “It shouldn’t be possible,” she muttered, thinking aloud because fury sharpened her logic. “The three separated pieces should only keep one ability each, plus indestructibility as a baseline. Unless—” She froze mid-stride, eyes narrowing. “Unless they can be destroyed, but that destruction forces the traits back into whichever piece holds primacy. But why would primacy rest with—no. Of course. Of course.”

“Of course what?” Satoru leaned against the counter, intrigued enough to risk imminent ladle homicide.

Kaoru kicked a chair. “That old fox,” she hissed. “The Kamo patriarch staged the whole Binding Vow. Of course he baked in a failsafe so if any piece shattered, the Calamity-Binding Halberd would inherit the power, his clan’s piece. Probably the plan from day one.” Her mouth tightened. “Consolidating power dressed up as balance, as usual.”

The look she threw him said congratulations, you just upended centuries of equilibrium.

Satoru rubbed his chin, gears aligning to save face. “So right now, the halberd has at least two of the original Hiten traits.” He remembered Scarlet Mist’s red eyes and sweet smile, replayed his last gloating.

The click arrived.

“He said he was ‘working with Suguru’ because there was something he wanted.”

Kaoru turned in the same instant. Their eyes met on the same unwelcome realization.

“He wants to reassemble Hiten,” she said, low. “He’s after the Void-Severing Shaft.”

“With all three properties back in one spine, he could open a war on the Big Three and actually mean it,” Satoru finished.

Their eyes held. Shared calculus. Shared annoyance.

He blew out a breath. “The Void-Severing Shaft—which clan had it at the time?”

She gave him a please look, the kind that implied the answer was written on the wall in blood.

A beat.

“Oh, come on,” he snorted, already grimacing. “If that thing were in the Gojo clan armory, I’d know. I’m the clan head.”

“It isn’t,” she said, crossing her arms, the broken ladle handle still hooked in her fingers. “All three were declared ‘lost’ by the end of Edo period.” A narrow glance. “Which means if there’s a lead, it’s buried with your ancestors and their paperwork. But if a lead exists—”

“—then it’s buried in Kyoto. In the Gojo estate records.” Satoru grinned; it was not a safe grin.

Kaoru went still, her gaze dropped. “Kyoto,” she nodded slowly. “The Gojo residence.”

Something tightened behind her eyes. Instinct said back off; habit said poke it with a stick. Satoru felt his mouth curve before the thought fully formed; he leaned forward and planted his palms on the counter, deliberately caging her in, not touching and very much in the way,  because tormenting her was his favorite language even if he’d never use those words.

Her back straightened, her eyes flicked up, the slightest heat climbing her face.

“Looks like we don’t have a choice,” he murmured, teasing his voice into something warm. “Family trip to Kyoto. You, me, the kids, ’Nobu. If there’s a hint on the last shard of Hiten, it’ll be rotting in some of my ancestor’s ledger. We’ll dig it out.”

Kaoru hesitated; she never hesitated. It was fascinating, Satoru liked it more than was probably healthy.

“Nothing good ever comes of me in Kyoto,” she muttered at last, very honest. “It's Gojo's and Kamo's territory and last time I went there to hunt Scarlet Mist I was—”

“—Oh, don’t worry.” His grin turned bright and careless. “After I craft a lovely story for the higher-ups about your… special situation, the Gojo estate will be the safest place you can be. Very hospitable, you’ll love the inner courtyard,” he added, too much cheer, and immediately regretted it when her eyes flared in alarm.

In retrospect, given the dream he’d woken from set in that exact courtyard, it was a dumb thing to say.

Her eyes widened a fraction, mouth opened, then closed. She bit the corner of her mouth and frowned defensive. “So now you think I need to be kept safe?”

Satoru tilted further in, deliberately smug “Safe? No, duh. I think the world needs to be kept safe from you.”

Kaoru leaned back a fraction, searching for space that he denied with an innocent tilt forward, delighted by how she tipped back so that she had to tip her chin up or headbutt him.

Standoff.

He hovered there very much waiting for her to explode or combust; he could see as her pulse thudded at her throat and Mame gave a smug, delighted little pulse from her hair as if he’d just won a game they were all playing.

“So?” he asked, closer still. “Deal? Family trip?”

Another standoff.

Kaoru leaned back a fraction against the counter, ears pinking like a guilty cherry blossom.

They stared. He watched the calculations run behind her eyes; watched pride and something softer wrestle it out.

“Oh, fine! Deal.” She snapped the words, whipping so fast her ponytail smacked him in the cheek trying to escape the geometry he’d made of his arms

Satoru stayed where he was, heroically judging her retreat, until she pivoted back and leveled the ladle at his face, a hand cupped beneath it to catch the drip, chin tilted with the dangerous pride of a woman who had done something domestic.

“Ah. Open,” she ordered. The exact tone she used to tell enemies to kneel before dying.

Satoru stared at the steaming surface like it might be sentient. Every neuron he owned screamed no, the thing on the spoon had the color of sin and the viscosity of regret. He wanted to say this will kill me and then we won’t have to deal with Kyoto. He opened his mouth to make a joke about weaponized liquids, then caught her expression.

Kaoru was waiting. Just a little bit hopeful, which was unfair. Her eyes didn’t soften, exactly, but the anticipation sat there, unguarded, and—ugh—he could feel Mame’s tiny smug pulse from her ponytail like the comb was also watching to see if he would behave.

Satoru realized with deep personal offense that he did not want to disappoint her; when had he become this much of a sucker? Dangerous.

He sighed, surrendered, and took the bite.

Immediate regret.

Heat detonated, fire straight down his lungs. His soul tried to exit through his nose. He coughed twice, vision blurring, dignity detonating.

Kaoru waited. Not laughing, not gloating, watching him, like his verdict mattered. Satoru swallowed, and his soul reentered his body by force.

“Spicy,” he announced, dignity dying a heroic death, eyes watering. “Kids will love it.”

Kaoru’s mouth curved minutely in a small satisfied smile, and the little flare of victory that bloomed in her cursed energy was ridiculous and warm and—gods help him—he thought it was the prettiest thing he’d seen all week.

“Kyoto it is,” she said softly. “Family trip.”

𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑶𝒍𝒅 𝑮𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅

Chapter Text

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝟖. 𝑶𝒍𝒅 𝑮𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

15 January 2015, Saitama, Tokyo

By mid-January, Satoru had developed rituals for surviving Kaoru’s basement.

Step one: sunglasses on before he even touched the doorknob. It never helped against the mess of cursed energy crawling out of that room, but at least it gave him a symbolic shield.

Step two: deep breath, braced shoulders.

Step three: turn the knob to Megumi’s former bedroom.

Predictably, as the door creaked open a wave of cursed energy and mildew slapped him in the face.

“Morning to you too,” he muttered to the darkness, perfectly polite.

The room greeted back by leaking more cursed energy.

He stepped through the hanging strip of cloth Kaoru insisted on calling the Jinmu’s Purifying Mantle. A glorified curtain, except the first time he’d walked through with Infinity active, it had gone up in flames and taken a month for the artifact to regrow like a lizard. Kaoru had scolded him enough and he had learned his lesson, so he deactivated Infinity.

A dozen steps down, and there it was: her “archive.” Which, to any sane person, meant “basement of horrors.”

To his right: a glass case so dusty it looked like it had been sealed since the Edo period because it probably was. Inside, an odachi far too big for a sane man, snapped neatly at mid-spine. Above it, in Kaoru’s neat, unreasonable calligraphy: Lady Sakura.

“Morning, Lady Sakura,” Satoru said dryly.

To his left: a much newer case holding a little round mirror rimmed in blue enamel and gold. A tag dangled off it, equally neat: Do Not Look.

Satoru immediately looked away. “You’re new,” he told the wall beside it.

At the center: Kaoru’s desk, cluttered with cursed bric-a-brac and her favorite warning sign: Ryouma Sakamoto’s kiseru balanced like a trap. She had repeated Do Not Touch on it so many times Satoru now knew to his soul.

“...Kaoru?” he tried, addressing the pile of nonsense. “We’re late.”

Something clinked; a broken cursed arrowhead rolled across the desk and spun, and pointed like a compass needle… behind the desk.

“Oh?” He arched a brow. “Back there?” He leaned over, peering. Sure enough—

Kaoru Zenin.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the desk, back to him, perfectly still, her sukeban jujutsu uniform now intact and spotless again, black hair down her back, breath too slow and unnatural.

“Kaoru?” he tried, easy.

No answer. Only a warning pulse from Mame in her hair, like a territorial cat. Satoru frowned. Great. Either mid-demon-summoning, mid-nap, or mid-death; hard to tell with her.

Satoru circled around—and winced.

Oh, no.

The damned Murasaki Shikibu mask suspended on her face; blood was already dripping from under it, streaming down her chin and onto the towel in her lap. A massive nosebleed. Again.

“Oh, for—” he hissed, irritation covering the tug in his chest. In two strides he was beside her, dropping to a knee. He caught the mask with two fingers—

A flash, by now irritaitingly familiar, as if someone had snapped a camera inside his skull—

—Kaoru in a soft peach kimono, smiling faintly. “You want us to fall like camellias?” A voice answering—his, but not. “Together,”—

—Satoru blinked it away, snarled under his breath and flung the mask  over his shoulder and across the room; it cracked against the wall in a contained burst of cursed energy, offended as hell.

“Hell, Kaoru, hold still,” he muttered, catching her by the shoulder just as she inhaled sharp, surfacing like from underwater.

Blood streamed; he grabbed the towel, pressed it too firmly against her face because annoyance demanded it. She muffled a protest into the cloth.

“Can we not do this thing where you hemorrhage alone in a basement?” he snapped.

Kaoru made a sound that meant: stop helping me incorrectly. Satoru ignored it for the two seconds it took for Mame to run RCT through her sinuses, and just like that, the bleeding slowed. Mame hummed smugly. She swatted his wrist away with a muffled growl and took over the pressure herself, glaring at him from behind the red-soaked fabric, pale as paper.

“Did you just throw a Heian-period artifact at a wall?” she accused nasally and somehow still very Kaoru.

Flick.

Satoru snapped his finger against her forehead. She didn’t budge, only glared harder.

“Yeah?” he said sweetly, “Then maybe next time leave a note when you plan to bleed out in a corner.”

He rocked back on his heels, pushed his sunglasses up to his hair, planted his chin in his palm, and looked at her with all the inconvenience of his eyes. He wanted her to see that he was mad. Not worried. Mad. She was immortal with the most efficient RCT he’d ever seen wrapped around her skull in the form of Mame; she could probably outlive a cockroach. He was definitely not worried.

Still. His chest didn’t get the memo.

“So?” Satoru asked breezily once Mame’s glow faded and her nose stopped leaking. “Did this episode of Heian blood sacrifice show you anything useful?”

Kaoru dabbed her face, eyes black and unreadable. “No. Maybe Scarlet Mist and Suguru Geto haven’t decided their next move yet. Or maybe…” The last line quieted a notch, as if she’d meant only to think it. “Maybe my thoughts are too unsettled after the last time to see clearly.” 

Unsettled.

Clearly, the word didn’t love living in her mouth. Satoru tilted his head, curious despite himself. Unsettled by what? The civilians, sure. Her instant hatred of Suguru, obvious. But… unsettled? He squinted hard on an absurd thought: is she unsettled by me? His Six Eyes twitched; he probably had what happened? written all over his face, because she tilted her chin toward the new case across the room, and the mirror inside it.

“That?” he asked. “You had time to loot another cursed toy while fighting Suguru?”

“The Mirror of Tamamo no Mae,” Kaoru said lightly, rising to her feet and brushing dust off her knees. She tapped her temple. “Digs around the brains of whoever’s reflected. It showed me memories I’d... rather not revisit. Don’t stare at it too long.”

He side-eyed the mirror anyway. ...Memories, huh.  He filed it next to dumb ideas I will absolutely try when no one’s watching, because he was not letting someone else’s memories squat in his skull rent-free.

“Come on,” he said, hands in pockets. “We’re late. The fossils already want my head for the hospital mess; let’s not give them ‘tardiness’ as a bonus pretext. We do the song and dance, smile for the elders, and then—Kyoto.”

Kyoto hovered at the edge of his plan. First: survive the council. Then: pack the circus, invade the Gojo clan ancestral home, and charm the Gojo Matriarch into not starting a coup on him for the fifteenth time.

Behind him, Kaoru’s cursed energy rippled like fireworks. He didn’t need Six Eyes to sense it—her excitement was practically audible. He turned just enough to catch the expression on her face: that gremlin grin. The last time he’d seen it was when holding Musashi Miyamoto’s manuscript; that smile never led anywhere sane.

“What,” he asked, already bracing for impact. “Why the gremlin smile.”

“Who, me?” she said sweetly, which was an admission of guilt if he’d ever heard one. “Nothing. I just haven’t set foot in that place in four hundred years.”

Satoru arched an eyebrow, mouth twitching. Of course she was happy. “Ah, so this is nostalgia! Tokyo Jujutsu High used to be the Edo Training Ground, right?” he said, a little smug about it. “Founded under the Tokugawa shogunate by you, technically.”

Right. Then had the Zenin cut ties with it and the place mutates into what is now Tokyo Jujutsu High. Why she walked wasn’t on any scroll. Maybe it had something to do with the memories she was talking about? Maybe with the man she claimed to have killed? He’d ask. Later. Preferably when the answer wouldn’t derail the meeting.

She blinked, surprised. “You actually know that?”

“Believe it or not, Kaoru, some of us know how to read.” He leaned back against the stair rail, enjoying this far too much. Lost in history—because she’d infected him—he watched as Kaoru snagged Ryouma Sakamoto’s kiseru with a cloth, tucked it into a bag, humming.

“And that,” he asked, nodding toward the bag, “is for…?”

“Contingencies,” Kaoru offered the world’s most unconvincing smile. “Always have an escape plan.”

Satoru really, really wanted to ask how a rebellious samurai’s kiseru was an escape plan in a school visit and simultaneously was also, against his better judgment, looking forward to finding out.

“Ojousama?” Hisanobu’s voice floated down the stairwell. He appeared on the last steps wearing cursed-energy containment gloves and the severe expression of a man resigned to wrangling gods. Around his neck: a tailor’s measuring tape as a weapon

Kaoru groaned. “No, ‘Nobu. We already discussed this—”

“Ojousama,” he repeared, as he descended with the gravity of a very loyal, very tired retainer. “Your stay at Kyoto will be your first audience with a Big Three in four centuries. You will not attend in tracksuit.” He snapped the tape free with an alarming thwap. “Permit me to tailor a proper formal kimono—”

“Please,” she rolled her eyes, shouldering the bag. “I’m not oblivious to etiquette. I have suitable attire.”

Satoru tilted his head in sympathy, then betrayed her without shame. “Exactly that is what he’s afraid of.”

“I must insist,” Hisanobu said, advancing.

Kaoru glared and took a defensive step backward.

Satoru, because he was a decent person maybe thirty percent of the time, tossed the poor retainer a line. “He’s not wrong, you know,” he said, amused. “The Gojo matriarch’s… difficult audience. Having her on your side would make your stay in Kyoto less of a headache, especially considering you are—” he circled a finger at the totality of Kaoru Zenin— “a former Zenin head. The optics are… hmm.” He grimaced in sympathy. “Not great.”

Kaoru’s brow furrowed. “Matriarch?”

He exhaled and gave her the abridged version. “The Gojo clan has two top figures. Me, the Clan Head, and the Matriarch, the one who actually keeps everything from falling apart. She runs the elder council, handles diplomacy, manages the politics. They all prefer her in the room because she does what I refuse to: compromise, flatter, attend meetings without trying to make people cry.” He smirked faintly. “She handles diplomacy. I handle everything else.”

Kaoru’s expression changed. Her eyes went a little distant, which he decided to ignore for now, because for once, he was the one who could recite history to her.

“Did you know? It seems way back—like, Meiji-before-Meiji back—some Gojo head decided he could play god and wiped out half a Zenin branch. The aftermath nearly dragged the Gojo into extinction. Since then, the elders installed the matriarch system as insurance, someone to counterbalance the Clan Head, to keep them from doing anything… catastrophic.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking away. “The Matriarch and I work for the same goal, technically allies, but half her job is making sure I don’t become a historical scandal.” He paused, reconsidered, and added wryly, “It’s not working.”

He said it lightly, half-grinning, but Kaoru’s reaction wasn’t light.

She stilled.

Not the stillness of surprise, recognition. “I see.” She blinked once, slow, then smiled, a dry, almost sad little curve curved her lips. “You sound like you actually respect her.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he said, grinning. “But if anyone can can out-talk any fossil in that room it's her. I vaguely briefed her about our plans; if we’re lucky, she’ll be in a charitable mood and send someone to today's councils. She also,” he added, “considers etiquette a religion. You breathe wrong, she’ll notice—”

“—Oh, please.” Kaoru waved a hand and climbed two steps past both of them, then pivoted to face them with the particular offended pride of a warlord. “You think I can’t behave among nobility? I have led the Zenin in an era when the penalty for misstep was seppuku, not a scolding.” She planted one foot dramatically on the next step and turned back, proud and a little infuriating. “And for that time, I did not follow the standards; I set them.” She tipped her chin, satisfied, and continued up. “Now move or we’ll be late. I’m very curious to see what four hundred years did to my training ground.”

Satoru and Hisanobu stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the bottom of the stairs, unified in the universal silence of men who knew better.

“This will be a disaster, won’t it?” Satoru asked, cheerful.

Hisanobu’s sigh answered yes in fluent retainer. “Unquestionably,” he said. “But I will have her presentable.”

Presentable, huh? Satoru almost followed her up, then Hisanobu’s last line replayed in his head—presentable—and something deeply unhelpful clicked behind his skull.

Wait. A tailored formal kimono?

Satoru’s mouth curved on instinct. Oh. Kimono meant Kaoru in silk. He slung an arm companionably around Hisanobu’s shoulders in a way that was both friendly and unlawful. The retainer went rigid, half a second from wriggling free.

“Now, now, my friend—”

“We are not friends,” Hisanobu said, looking personally insulted by the contact.

Satoru increased the friendly squeeze by 12% just to be a menace. “Semantics. Let this humble Clan Head rescue a loyal retainer in his noble quest.”

“Rescue,” Hisanobu repeated, incredulous.

“Rescue!” Satoru confirmed, bright. “For once, our goals align. She cannot, in good conscience, walk into my ancestral home and present herself to the Gojo Matriarch in a tracksuit. As the Clan Head, I simply cannot permit it. So, let’s collaborate.”

Hisanobu narrowed his grey eyes, but he stopped struggling. “Collaborate how?”

“You want to commission a formal kimono for her. She won’t give you measurements. I,” Satoru touched two fingers to his temple, innocent as a crime, “have measurements.”

A noise escaped Hisanobu that sounded like he wanted to strangle him with the measuring tape. Satoru hurried, palms up. “Six Eyes. Not… whatever you’re imagining. Come on, tell me what you need.”

A beat. Then—

“Money,” Hisanobu said, far too fast.

“Approved,” Satoru replied, faster. “Next.”

“Bust.”

Satoru’s gaze flicked up the stairs. “Seventy-eight.”

Hisanobu’s pen—where had the pen come from—did not hesitate. “Hips.”

“Eighty-five.”

“Waist.”

“Sixty. Maybe Sixty-one if she’s eaten.”

“Height.”

“One fifty-four.” Then, he added almost proud, “And she carries it like one eighty.”

“Shoulder.”

“Thirty-six across.”

Hisanobu paused, glanced up, and then, regrettably impressed, kept writing. “Leg length.”

“Inseam seventy-eight,” Satoru’s hand drew an absent line in the air, mapping what he wasn’t thinking about. “Long for her height; build the hem to show it if she moves.”

Hisanobu slanted a look up at Satoru that managed to be both impressed and disgusted, a Zenin retainer and a Gojo clan head momentarily allied under a single sacred banner: she will look good and no one will arrest her for it.

“I will have it ready within two days, in time for departure,” he said at last, wrenching out of Satoru’s arm, the scowl he left behind nearly ceremonial. He tucked the notes away like contraband and gave a curt nod, then hesitated at the first step, where his pride lost a duel with duty on his face. “And...How should it be?” he asked tightly, visibly pained to have to ask him that.

Satoru actually thought about it; how should it be was a dangerous door, but something in him remembered about the memories he refused to call memories.

“...Soft peach,” he said, suddenly less flippant. “With cranes. Obi to sit high, here—” his hands visually shaped the curve of her waist without meaning to, “—Under it, a white haneri so the collar frames her throat. Keep the line not too loud so it follows her—” He stopped, realized realized his hands were still hovering in the outline of Kaoru’s waist and dropped them very innocent. “—geometry. She'd hate loud.”

Silence stretched. The other man stared at him like staring into a moral sinkhole.

“What? It’ll suit her,” Satoru offered, brilliantly, sunglasses sliding into place to hide the grin that wouldn’t die.

“Please,” Hisanobu said, turning on his heel with lethal politeness, “do not ever look in her direction again.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Kaoru tipped her head back over the chair, crossed one leg over the other in her sukeban uniform, and stared at the ceiling upside down.

The plaster did not blink back. It also did not care that four centuries ago, with Tokugawa’s seal still wet and her signature still arrogant, she’d named this place Edo Jujutsu Training Ground and believed so earnestly it now embarrassed her, that the title “Zenin clan head” was the sum of her life.

“…Well. That was a lifetime ago,” she told the ceiling, then rolled her eyes at the rest of the room.

Faculty lounge, Satoru had said, dropping her off with an infuriatingly gentle behave smile, before trotting off to charm the higher-ups into a collective aneurysm.

Which room did this used to be on the old layout? Her cousin’s quarters? Or were those two buildings south? Too much had shifted. Still, there were ghosts she recognized: the way the light cut across the tatami, the stupid angle of a supporting beam she’d once yelled about. She felt, against her will, both proud and a little mournful.

Four hundred years, and her training ground still stood. Not bad. She wanted so much to walk the grounds, count beams, point at ghosts, and infodump Hisanobu into a coma.

“Ojousama. Please don’t slouch,” Hisanobu murmured at her shoulder, respectful with Moon Pride at his hip and his hands linked behind his back. He radiated this is my Ojousama formal reappearance and I will not let her embarrass herself in calm, oppressive waves toward her.

Kaoru slumped farther into the chair out of principle. “Mercy, ’Nobu? I have waited four hundred years to see this place and instead I’m being held hostage for three hours by—” a vague gesture at the two men across from her “—these. Why must we sit here in silence?”

These were two first-grade sorcerers Satoru introduced to her, both arranged at angles that suggested they came pre-installed with back pain.

Both looked at her like a time bomb.

The older one in the black uniform, beard, square shoulders, dark lenses, carved frown, did not bother to hide his exhale; Satoru had introduced as Yaga-sensei. The younger one in the neat suit, tired blonde hair, tired tie, tired soul, did not bother to pretend he wanted to be anywhere else; Nanamin, Satoru had cheerfully called him. He occasionally glanced at Hisanobu’s black tie with the grave, mysterious respect of a man who recognized another man’s suffering. Hisanobu returned it to Nanami’s leopard-spotted yellow tie. A silent handshake of ugly ties.

“Believe me,” Nanami said, scowl deepening, “I’m asking myself the same question over and over.”

“Because,” Yaga grunted, “after the mess you helped Gojo create, you don’t wander my school until the higher-ups are done chewing on it.”

Great. Enough cursed energy in the room to crack the plaster, and not nearly enough trust to keep the ceiling on if somebody sneezed. Yaga-sensei and Nanamin. She could use the nicknames.

Kaoru returned them a perfectly flat, unimpressed line and straightened a fraction. “My school?” she echoed mildly. “I’ll grant you ‘current headmaster,’ Yaga-sensei, but my school's bold claim for someone who can’t probably name the founding year or first headmaster of my training ground.”

“Michinobu—” Yaga began, already scowling deeper.

“Wrong,” Kaoru cut in, too quick. “Second. And whatever you’re thinking about me—”

“—is that you crashed the balance of the jujutsu world, added the word ‘Zenin’ to an already volatile equation, and let Satoru drag you here like a stray cat,” Yaga snapped over her, faster. “A Gojo is a problem; a Gojo and a Zenin together is a… multiplication. And now Scarlet Mist, the two hospitals, collateral, and—surprise—somehow it’s my problem because this is my school.”

Silence.

Yaga kneaded his temple and leaned forward, elbows on knees like he was about to stand and flip the table. “I should’ve known this was a trap the second Satoru dumped you here and said don't worry you'll get along.”

Nanami didn’t bother to sit up. “Why is this my job,” he said, without a question mark, mostly to the air.

Kaoru blinked at the accuracy, then let a small smirk show. “Wow. Okay, yes, that’s a clean summary. For the record, Nanamin, I did not request this hostage exchange.” She stood—more weight than grace—and smoothed her long skirt; Mame hummed at her crown like a fussy aunt. “I told Satoru I could manage myself and behave.” 

“Which,” Hisanobu said gently, one eyebrow climbing, “is precisely why Gojo-sama posted guards.”

Traitor, she told him with her eyes, wandering toward the door anyway. One step more and—“I’ll take a quick look—”

“Don’t,” Yaga snapped, pinning her in place without a cursed technique.

Kaoru looked back over her shoulder, temper flaring. She had one braincell left for obedience. “Four hundred years ago I laid the first beam of this very building after buying it with my father’s blood,” she said, too sweet. “I think I’ve earned the right to look at my training ground without a boy telling me what I can and can’t do.”

Freeze-frame.

Hisanobu produced the longest suffering sigh in the registry of sighs. Translation: Ojousama, we discussed the immortality reveal, we really discussed it.

Nanami didn’t move, but the tilt of his mouth said: She did not actually say that. He crossed an ankle over a knee with surgical neatness. “…Right,” he said at last, like a man negotiating with reality. “Let’s all pretend that was normal and proceed.”

Yaga sat up straight, slow, then slower. Even behind the sunglasses she could feel the widen of his stare. “Why,” he asked nobody, “why, why, why does Satoru always collect people worse than himself and drop them on my desk?”

A vein flexed in his temple. They stared each other down; Kaoru met his glare with the kind of bored Zenin reproach designed to drive men up walls.

“Ojousama—” Hisanobu’s hand lifted, hovering, ready to physically remove his Ojousama from a fistfight with the principal of Tokyo Jujutsu High if this slid into stupid.

A truly unfortunate ringtone—cheery pop, painfully out of place—began to trill from Nanami’s pocket. He let it sing rudely for five heartbeats as ambiance, then sighed, fished it out and checked the screen. He clicked his tongue. “Ieiri.”

Hisanobu’s ears did something that, for him, qualified as perking up.

“Excuse me,” Nanami said, already halfway to the door and grateful for the exit. He answered as he stepped out: “Ieiri. You and Haibara—are you here already? If so, save me from this—”

The door clicked shut. Hisanobu’s gaze followed it, returned to Kaoru, to the door, back to Kaoru. “Ieiri-san… is here?” he murmured, more to his pulse than to the room.

Oh. That, Kaoru heard the question he wasn’t asking and, because she was a generous guardian, filed it under Dreams I Can Enable. What kind of guardian would she be if she didn't indulge her retainers occasionally? Also, the room bored her to tears. 

Her mouth curved, dangerously kind. Time to commit a small crime. “Yaga-sensei,” she said sweetly, switching to an apology bow that could’ve fooled a monk. “I think we started on the wrong foot. Allow me to show gratitude for your hospitality and the chance to clarify my stance.”

Arms folded, Yaga did not bite. He stared down the slope of his nose like height could win arguments.

As if.

She slid the canvas bag off her shoulder and offered it out. “A gift for your school's archives,” she said, sunny. “A relic from a late-Edo period headmaster of this very Edo Jujutsu Training Ground. Sakamoto Ryōma. A name I’m certain a distinguished principal knows, along with the school’s circumstances then. Did you know?” She patted the bag. “His revolutionary thinking shaped an entire generation of young jujutsu sorcerers who safeguarded the Jujutsu Society through the Meiji transition and—”

“Of course I know who Sakamoto Ryōma is,” Yaga snorted, snatching the bag like she’d insulted his diploma. “Do you think I don’t know the history of my school?”

Kaoru didn’t flinch when he ripped it from her hand. She merely sharpened the smile a hair. “Please. For your collection,” she said, airy, and flicked a hand: go on, open it.

He held out a second longer—pride wrestling curiosity—then lost, because all scholars do.

He unwrapped the metal length inside with care he probably didn’t admit to, and when the kiseru hit the light he went very still. His fingers, Kaoru noted, became unconsciously careful; a man who respected history, if not people. Then, he made contact with the relic.

Nothing happened. Then everything did.

Yaga’s face shifted like a man receiving a radio signal from a century ago. His jaw set; his spine squared; his focus went somewhere middle distance. “The Tokugawa shogunate’s collapse is inevitable,” he inhaled like a man filling his lungs. “Clinging to isolation will turn us into relics. We need routes—trade—language—rail. Open the ports, modernize our corps of jujutsu sorcerers and stop calling children ‘tools.’ None of this hereditary nonsense is helping our mission against curses, we should stop letting the elders launder their cowardice as tradition—” He pivoted, gesturing with the kiseru like it was a baton at Kaoru who looked honestly amused, then swung toward Hisanobu and, before Moon Pride could object, gripped the retainer’s shoulders earnestly. “Do you understand? If we accept the revolution's winds, we survive. If we cling to shogunate theatrics, we die. Think of it, cooperation with the West's useful, not this paranoid rot. A shared registry of cursed tools, not refusing reform while expecting fewer and fewer children to hold back more and more curses.”

Hisanobu blinked up at him, baffled, then down at the kiseru, then at Kaoru.

Kaoru did not grin on the outside. She absolutely grinned inside. “Those are strong positions, Yaga-sensei, you're so right” she said, solemn. “I think you should present these reforms to the higher-ups. Immediately. In person.”

Yaga blinked once, weighed it. “I should,” he nodded, knighted by his own certainty. “If not now, when? If they understood projected birth rates under the current apprenticeship model—” he marched for the door mid-rant “—and if one more elder says ‘we’ve always done it this way’ I’ll make them eat the budget—”

The door swung shut on his manifesto; his voice continued down the corridor, gathering speed, like a very angry train.

Hisanobu blinked, baffled, then turned slowly to his mistress. “Ojousama, what in—”

“The kiseru of Sakamoto Ryōma,” Kaoru said, as if that cleared the weather. She headed for the hall with a spring that felt indecent, eyes bright. “It lends people his revolutionary convictions for… mm, twelve to fifteen minutes, depending on lung capacity and CE reserves.” She flicked her fingers: come on. 

“Fifteen—” Hisanobu exhaled, horror and admiration equally weighted, glancing at the door Yaga had taken, then at Kaoru, torn between diplomatic catastrophe and I want to see her. Duty won for exactly one second; then he nodded, decisive. 

Kaoru palmed the handle and grinned, unable to help it. The hall smelled the same—old paper, camellias, steel—only with brighter lights. “Let's go, ’Nobu,” she said, slipping out. “There are a few things I want to show you before we find Shoko.”

.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.

Kaoru moved like a small, determined storm along the the inner engawa of the main building.

Her steps knew where to creak and where not to; old muscle memory, older house. Every beam, every joint—catalogued. Every change—tsked at fondly like that might keep the grin from leaking out. It didn’t

Four centuries and the bones are the same, she thought, giddy in a way she refused to narrate out loud.

“Ojousama,” Hisanobu hissed, lengthening his pace to keep up, a hand steadying Moon Pride at his hip. For a man who out-topped her by thirty centimeters, it felt unfair. “We should remain discreet. Being seen would be—”

“—Counterproductive, mm. Do you see the joinery on that lintel?” Kaoru cut in, ignoring discretion as an offensive invention. “Late-Edo period repair, then a Meiji splice—ah, and there—”

Then she stopped so abruptly that Hisanobu’s chest almost met her shoulders only to be checked by a prim, bean-sized field Infinity flaring from Mame. Hisanobu aimed a withering look at the comb. The comb pulsed back: do not fall on Mother please and thank you!

“That,” Kaoru said, pointing past the engawa to a square of beaten earth now hosting stone lanterns and a small shrine. 

Hisanobu followed her finger to… dirt.

“For a patch of ordinary ground,” he said, dry, “you have strong feelings.”

“It’s a special patch of ground,” Her voice softened without her permission. “After the Kamo and Gojo clans signed off and Tokugawa-dono scrawled his blessing, I baptized Edo Jujutsu Training Ground right here. When the Zenin ancestral home burned in Nagoya-gō, for a while this became… home. For me. And for those who—” Her gaze slid sideways. “—remained.”

She moved on, slower now, memory pacing beside her.

Hisanobu fell in a step behind, the way he had as a boy when she told him stories he tried not to like too much. “Those who... remained?” he prompted, careful.

Kaoru’s mouth tipped as she ignored the question. “There.” She gestured along the veranda. “Did you know? We only had two official cadets back then. A boy whose cursed energy ran like lightning, barefoot, chronically insubordinate but very talented. My first true ward.” A breath of laughter. “And Yoshinobu.”

She turned, walking backward a few steps so she could study Hisanobu’s face, the angle of his cheekbones, the stubborn line of his mouth, as if searching for an ancestor in a mirror.

Hisanobu pinked at the ears and nearly tripped on his own dignity. “Yoshinobu-dono… trained here?” he asked in awe.

Everyone in the Kashimo line knew the Patriarch’s name, the first Kashimo to have walk beside Kaoru and her immortality, his manual lived in Hisanobu’s head: How to Survive Ojousama and Ensure She Survives You.

“Constantly. He and the thunderbrat terrorized this very engawa,” Kaoru said, pleased with the continuity as they reached the main courtyard. “This part’s nearly unchanged,” Kaoru murmured, fingers ghosting the rail. “And—oh! There used to be a well down there.” She pointed toward the front court, where red torii framed the stone stairway cutting down the hill. “Harunobu always sent Yoshinobu and the thunder-brat to haul water whenever they fought during sword drill.”

Her eyes stayed there long after her finger lowered, and the world tilted toward another winter, another year.

Harunobu.

How long had she not said the name? She hadn’t let it surface in centuries, never told any of the Kashimo about him, not properly. The past pressed a thumb to her sternum.

Hisanobu dipped into her line of sight until she focused on his gray eyes. “Harunobu...?” he asked, baffled.

Ah, she thought, absurdly fond and a little tired. You most of all look like him when you frown. 

Hisanobu squinted harder, in that careful way that meant: is Ojousama dissociating?

“Nothing, nothing,” she waved it away, closing the door on the ache and restarting her feet toward the main hall.

“Who is Harunobu?” he persisted, frown small. “I don’t recall that name in the genealogy.”

Of course he didn’t know; the line, for them, began where it needed to, with Yoshinobu, and branched forward toward him. Good, she thought. Let it stay that way. Let Yoshinobu be the first and Harunobu be only what he wanted to be. Kaoru didn’t look back; she allowed herself the smallest smile and let the word choose its own size.

“No one,” she said lightly, eyes forward. “Just my father.”

A beat. She didn’t let it grow heavy. Instead she threw a hand toward the building at the courtyard’s far end. “Oh—this. This you have to see!”

They crouched at the outer threshold of the great hall and peered inside like two burglars. Wooden illars, tatami, a raised dais at the far end crowned by a discreet plaque: Headmaster.

Kaoru’s smile sharpened; history begged to be narrated. “Did you know?” she whispered the fatal words, already in lecture cadence. “This was the first building we raised; most teaching happened here. Few students, but this—this is where we planned expansion, argued blueprints, received Tokugawa-dono’s envoys—”

“Ojousama—” Hisanobu attempted, doomed to fail.

“—and my quarters were behind it for a time. I was in that life phase where work ate sleep and I counted coin until dawn, bullying lumber prices and convincing allied clans into sponsoring the ground. I was insufferable,” she admitted, almost fondly. “But I believed this was the future of sorcery: a neutral field, free of clan politics and blood feuds, where young talent could grow without clan hands around their throats. We both did—”

She cut herself off before the grammar of both could wander someplace inconvenient.

“Anyway!” She pivoted, recovered altitude. “Tokugawa-dono backed the project and even Date Masamune himself inspected the site, ridiculous crescent helmet and all.” She brightened, turning to him. “Did you know? The Date and Zenin clans sealed an alliance between their clans by a political marriage in 1605—”

Rescue arrived in the form of laughter; voices somewhere deeper in the compound, young, too loud in the good way. Kaoru tipped her head, listening.

“Students,” Hisanobu breathed, alarmed, and tugged her by the sleeve, physically steering her away from the open view like a very respectful kidnapper. They tucked themselves into a narrow alley between the main hall and a brick wall, crouching like criminals hiding from a constable.

Kaoru, delighted by the stealth, caught a plaque on the wall at eye level. She wriggled free and crab-walked toward it, delighted. “Look, ’Nobu.” She tapped the carved wood. “Headmasters. All of them, from founding to present.”

Hisanobu squinted, then mouthed the kanji. His finger traced backward. “Ojousama.” He tilted his head. “You made a mistake. Principal Yaga was right, earlier; it states Michinobu quite plainly as the first headmaster.”

“I am not wrong about my training ground,” Kaoru said, prim as a cat, folding her arms over her knees. “Michinobu was the second. The first I appointed with my own hand was a woman named Miyako. Mother of Michinobu and Yoshinobu.”

He looked back at the wood, frown deepening. “Then… why isn’t she listed?”

Kaoru’s mouth tugged sideways, irritated at the centuries. “Women rarely make it all the way into books. Miyako wasn’t the first to be erased and won’t be the last.”

Hisanobu hummed, then froze a beat later. “Wait—the mother of Yoshinobu?”

Her grin went properly smug. “Mm. If I named you headmaster here and now, no one could contradict the bloodline,” she teased to watch him panic.

He panicked nobly. “Please don’t. I have no interest in headmastering anything but your life, Ojousama, and that is already exhausting.”

Kaoru snorted, soft, and scrubbed a hand through his hair on principle.

He tolerated it the way a soldier tolerates rain. “Then, when it’s time, retire from this job, marry, find a quiet home, pass the manual to the next Kashimo in line, and stop carrying Moon Pride in public.” 

Kaoru smiled softer than she liked, then faced the plaque again, eyes distant. If she closed them, she could still see Miyako; gentle smile, baby Michinobu in her arms as Kaoru bowed to her and appointed her headmaster of Edo Jujutsu Training Ground.

“Did you know…,” she began, voice low, “when Tokugawa called banners for the final campaign of the war, I named Miyako Headmaster, then ordered her to abandon the Kashimo name and sever ties with the Zenin.” Her gaze slid along the wall, past centuries. “Cruel at the time, maybe. She’d already lost so much and I kept Yoshinobu with me—”

Footsteps, voices, closer now on the other side of the brick.

“Geez, Nanami-san is really the best!” a boy’s voice declared, full of aggrieved devotion. “Come on, you two! He’s around the school today and I’m not missing my chance to greet him!”

“Ino, for fuck’s sake,” a girl panted, “He’s your idol, not mine—slow down—”

Another boy, bored: “I heard he was in the inner yard with Ieiri-san…”

Hisanobu vibrated one imperceptible millimeter upward. “Ieiri-san is nearby,” he murmured, and then—in a very un-Hisanobu move—he slipped away following the voices.

Kaoru kept talking to a Hisanobu-shaped absence. “—and I didn’t want to leave her alone with little Michinobu, but Miyako was strong; it was the only way to keep her outside the war, and by then I no longer believed I could finish the dream we—” She turned her head to finish the thought to Hisanobu.

She blinked at air. Then the faint drift of the student voices fading down the path. 

“…’Nobu?” came out smaller than intended.

Silence answered. 

A beat. Then, flatly: “Oh, come on,” she stood, dusted off her skirt, and dragged a hand through her hair until her fingers bumped Mame as if it could explain a disobedient Kashimo who had just broken his own rule about keeping a low profile; the comb hummed a jaunty go fetch like this was a game.

“Fine,” Kaoru said, rolling her eyes at her own sentimentality. “Now I have to find him.”

She turned out of the alley—

—and almost collided with someone. She would have nose-dived into a chest if Mame hadn’t flashed a coin of Infinity; the near-impact turned into a bounce.

The someone yelped, hopped back, and in doing so shed an avalanche of old books and paper scrolls that hit the boards with the collective insult of a small library.

Kaoru stared down at the sprawl. “Oh.” Then, flatter: “Oh no.”

Old paper. Ancient bindings on wood. A silk-wrapped spine. A ledger with the old Kamo stitch. Her archivist soul flinched. She crouched fast, hands already gathering, even as the other pair of hands—flustered, apologizing to the air—scrabbled in from the opposite side.

“Oh no oh no oh no. They said these had to be handled carefully—Ieiri-senpai will kill me—I mean, she won’t really—well, maybe—”

Their fingers met on the same book.

Kaoru lifted her eyes. “Ah,” she said, flat. “Yu-kun.”

Haibara blinked back at her, mushroom-cut bobbing, smile bright enough to be illegal. “Kaoru-san!” Then, almost immediately, it dimmed. “Ah. Kaoru-san,” he tried again, softer, hands going for a second book as if it might deflect attention. “We, um. Long time. Since—”

“—The hospital incidents,” she supplied, tipping her head. “Yes. What are you doing here?”

“Me?” he said, pointing at himself as if that helped. “Oh, I—uh—I basically live here? When I’m not on official missions or visiting my family this is… home.”

“... Home.” Kaoru flicked a glance down the engawa, filing away which wing might be dormitory. “So it’s grown into a full residence for on-duty sorcerers as well as school.” Her mouth made a stubborn, pleased line. “Things have changed more than I thought since I founded this place.”

“You—” Haibara inhaled like a kettle going to boil. “Kaoru-san, you founded Tokyo Jujutsu High?!”

She lifted an index finger. “Edo Jujutsu Training Ground,” she corrected, solemn.