𝙀𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙉𝘼𝙇 | JJK

by sxftreo

Summary:

In where an unfortunate girl was born among the ranks of Zenin.

She had to maintain her status, until she met someone just as cocky as her.

GOJO SATORU X FEM READER.

Chapter 1: 部分 1

PERFECT.

You had to be perfect.

That was the only truth murmured in your ear since the moment you were born into the Zenin Household. A mantra, a command, a cage wrapped in the illusion of expectation.

You were not of the main branch—an initial relief, perhaps—but in the Zenin family, that meant servitude. A life where your worth was dictated by power, and your existence was a shadow cast beneath the towering presence of those deemed superior.

The Zenins never cared for women, least of all those born into the side family. Daughters were burdens, commodities, tools sharpened for convenience but discarded when dull. The weight of that indifference crushed many, suffocated the light from their eyes before they ever had a chance to burn.

Your mother—bless her heart—had been married into the family not for love, not even for alliance, but simply because your father needed a bride. Her bloodline was of little consequence; she hailed from an obscure lineage of sorcerers with no notable name, no legacy worth speaking of.

But the Zenins only truly hoped for one thing.

A child. A worthy one. A son who would inherit the Ten Shadows Technique—the sacred power that had not graced their bloodline in far too long. It was their golden ticket, their chance to claw their way into the main house, to elevate themselves beyond mediocrity and into legend.

You were not that child.

Your father—strict but not wholly cruel—had at least acknowledged you. That was more than many could say. But your mother had seen the rot within the family, the horrors festering beneath its name. If you were not strong, you were trash. That was the unspoken law. Women who tried to flee were dragged back, beaten, shattered into submission. There was no freedom here, only survival.

So she made a choice.

She would raise you to be perfect—flawless beyond reproach. If they could not find weakness in you, they could not destroy you.

You were born just days before the Gojo heir.

His arrival was an earthquake, a phenomenon that sent ripples through the world. Yours? A whisper in an empty hall. A few murmured congratulations from the women of the household, but the men—those who mattered—did not so much as look in your father's direction. You were a girl. A footnote in their legacy.

Still, you bore the unmistakable mark of your lineage. Dark hair—the Zenin signature. But your eyes... those were not theirs.

They were sharp, clever, unmistakably your mother's. That, perhaps, was the first and greatest warning that you were not meant to break as easily as they expected.

Zenin [Name], the name given to you by the clan's head. He named every child born into the family, claiming he was blessed with an understanding of fate, that the names he chose carried a deeper meaning. Yours was unique, meant to stand apart, but names alone held no power in a house that did not want you.

You were the firstborn of Zenin Masamune. A year later, your younger brother, Kenji, came into the world, and unlike you, his birth was met with louder congratulations. But even as a boy, he was still from a side branch, and the Zenins had no use for those who would never stand at the top.

Perfection was drilled into you from the moment you could walk, a rigid standard that left no room for weakness. You were raised to hold your head high, to never falter, to be a flawless reflection of discipline. And because of that, you believed you were perfect. It made you unbearable at times, forced to act above others, because the moment you looked lesser, they would tear you apart.

You were four years old when you first met him.

The Gojo family had come to the Zenin estate for a clan gathering, their arrival shifting the air in the household. You weren't supposed to be outside, but that never stopped you. You had made a habit of sneaking away to the koi pond in the backyard, the only place where the weight of your family's expectations felt a little lighter.

The fabric of your yukata was stiff and slightly oversized, making it difficult to walk, but you had long since learned to move carefully in restrictive clothing. Women were forbidden from wearing Western attire, so you had no choice but to grow used to the discomfort.

You sat by the water's edge, scattering small bits of food for the koi, watching the ripples distort their golden scales. It was a peaceful moment, one that shattered the second you felt a pair of eyes boring into you.

You turned, meeting a gaze that was almost unnatural in its brilliance—icy blue, startlingly vivid, the kind of eyes that demanded attention. White hair, almost too pristine, stood in stark contrast to the darkness of his uniform. There was a weight in his presence, something suffocating, something expectant. Behind him stood a servant, lingering at a respectful distance, but it was clear who held the real authority.

You recognized him immediately.

Gojo Satoru.

His name had been burned into your mind from the countless times your family spoke of him. The child of both divine techniques, the prodigy, the one meant to be untouchable. And yet, despite all that importance, he was just a boy standing in front of you, his expression twisted with disdain.

"Are you a servant too?" he asked, his voice carrying that unmistakable arrogance that only came from being told he was better than everyone else. "You're doing a horrible job maintaining the carp. The ones at my house are far better."

You blinked at him, carefully smoothing out the front of your yukata before standing. Your back straightened, chin lifting just enough to hold the kind of quiet confidence your mother had taught you. The hairpins in your dark hair jingled softly as you moved, but your expression remained neutral, measured, unwilling to let his words hold any weight.

"These are merely old," you said, your tone perfectly even. "That is why they appear this way. I assure you, I take great care of them."

Then, with a slight tilt of your head, you added, "Or perhaps, there's something wrong with your eyes."

A sharp silence followed. The servant behind him stiffened, but Gojo only stared, his expression unreadable. No one ever spoke to him like that. He had been spoiled since birth, revered as something greater, his name alone enough to make people bow. And yet, you—a girl from a lesser Zenin bloodline—had dared to insult him.

His lips pressed into a thin line, his small hands balling into fists. "My father will hear about this."

You gave a small, polite bow. "Good for you."

With that, you turned on your heel and walked away, careful not to let your steps falter, knowing any hesitation would invite trouble. But even as you left, you could still feel his eyes on you, burning into your back, watching, memorizing.

Gojo Satoru had never met someone he truly disliked before.

UNTIL NOW.

Chapter 2: 部分 2

"[NAME], STRAIGHTEN YOUR BACK. YOU'RE SLOUCHING."

Your mother's voice was soft but firm, a gentle tap against your spine correcting your posture. You obeyed without question, shoulders rolling back, chin lifting slightly. Across from you, your younger brother Kenji sat slouched over, completely unbothered. You resisted the urge to wince, knowing he wouldn't be scolded for it the way you would.

Your black hair had been combed free of knots and specks of dust, falling neatly down your back, a reflection of the discipline instilled in you. Perfection wasn't a choice—it was expected.

You were six years old now, and Kenji was five. Next week, you would begin school, not just any school, but Jujutsu Elementary School in Tokyo—the same institution that every Zenin child before you had attended.

There would be ordinary children among the students, but the teachers had been handpicked, low-grade sorcerers trained to handle clan heirs and their developing abilities. You had never been asked if you wanted to attend. It was simply what had to be done.

"[Name], have you felt your technique manifest yet?"

Your father's voice came from behind the rustling pages of his newspaper, casual yet weighted with expectation. You turned slightly in your seat, bowing your head.

"I apologize, Papa. I haven't awakened it yet," you murmured, your bangs falling forward, veiling your expression.

A sigh. Not disappointed, not angry, but thoughtful. "It's alright. At least you developed sight early. Unlike Naoya—six years old and still has barely shown it. And don't get me started on Toji boy." He let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Not a single drop of cursed energy in those eyes."

Your father was not a cruel man. Strict, yes. Distant, always. But he never raised a hand against you, never let his expectations cross into cruelty. In this house, that alone made him one of the better ones.

"School starts next week," your mother reminded, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. "I've put your uniforms in the closet."

"Yes, Mama."

You rose, instinct guiding your hands to gather the dishes, an action so ingrained it felt as natural as breathing. Every task, no matter how small, was another step toward perfection. You were training to be the ideal daughter, the ideal woman.

The others hated these chores, grumbled under their breath about their misfortune, but you? You saw them as a test. If you excelled at everything, there would be no room for anyone to call you lacking.

The kitchen was warm, the air thick with the scent of simmering broth and freshly steamed rice. Girls from the side branches moved between counters and sinks, their hushed conversations fading the moment you stepped inside. You were used to it. Some admired you. Most resented you. But their opinions never mattered.

You moved with practiced grace, a faint glow of yellow shimmering around you as you placed the plates in the sink. You had to step onto a stool to reach the faucet, but that didn't make you any less poised.

"You're Masamune's kid, huh?"

The voice was rough, edged with something unreadable.

You turned, and there he was—Zenin Toji.

Twenty years old. A man born from the main family, but to them, utterly worthless. No cursed energy. No technique. A stain on their bloodline.

You gave him a polite bow before straightening. "Yes. And you must be the no-cursed-energy homeless Toji."

Silence. Then, to your surprise, a sharp, genuine laugh. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking down at you with something close to amusement.

"You've got a lot of attitude for a kid," he mused. "Especially a girl raised in this hellhole."

You turned back to the dishes, the sound of water splashing filling the silence. Your movements were precise, careful. "Of course. I'm training to be perfect." You dried a plate with meticulous care, fingers moving methodically over the delicate porcelain. "And perfect people don't hold their tongues."

Toji watched you, his gaze steady, piercing. Something flickered in his eyes—curiosity, amusement, maybe even pity, but it was gone before you could place it. His expression settled into that same indifferent mask he always wore.

"Yeah," he muttered, almost too softly for you to hear. "We'll see about that."

He didn't leave. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his towering figure casting a long shadow across the kitchen floor. The air felt heavier under his scrutiny, the way his presence seemed to fill the room despite how casually he carried himself.

"How old are you?"

You dried your hands on a paper towel, carefully folding the edges before stepping off the stool. The tips of your toes touched the floor first, your movements measured, deliberate, trained. Even as you looked up at him, meeting his dark, sharp eyes, you kept your posture perfect. Unyielding. You both had the same unruly, spiky hair—wild and untamed. A reminder that somewhere in the tangled branches of the Zenin family tree, your blood was the same.

"Six." Your voice was steady, devoid of any tremor or hesitation. "Please excuse me. I have other duties to fulfill." You bowed once more, a motion so fluid it looked rehearsed, and straightened your back with practiced grace.

You turned to leave, your steps silent, back rigid, every movement calculated, each stride an exercise in discipline. But you could feel his eyes on you, heavy and unrelenting.

"You'll rot in this place, you know," Toji called out, his voice rough, words laced with something bitter, something old. He stretched his neck, his shoulders rolling back in lazy defiance.

You paused mid-step, head turning just enough to catch his silhouette from the corner of your eye. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was distant, unfocused, like he was looking past you, seeing something else entirely.

"Even if I do," you replied, voice quiet but firm, "I'll be fine."

Your footsteps resumed, unwavering, the echo of your movements fading into the hallway. Your back remained perfectly straight, shoulders square, head held high. Your heart was a different matter—pounding wildly against your ribcage, a rapid rhythm that refused to calm. But you wouldn't let it show. Not here. Not in this house where weakness was a death sentence.

Your mind was set on one thing: survival. You would live in this place, even if it meant becoming something unbreakable, something untouchable. Because the higher-ups would tear you apart if they saw any cracks.

"Do you want to be a sorcerer?"

The question sliced through the air, sharp and unexpected. You stopped abruptly, the fabric of your yukata whispering around your ankles. Your forehead creased, the weight of his words pressing down on you. There was more to that question than he was letting on. An implication, a challenge.

Did you want to be a sorcerer?

You stood there, frozen, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind. Duty. Family. Expectation. Survival. Each one colliding with the next, tangled and messy, until they formed a knot you couldn't untie. You wanted to answer, but the words wouldn't come out. Your mouth felt dry, your tongue heavy.

Behind you, Toji watched, arms crossed, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes held a flicker of recognition, a trace of something almost sympathetic, but it was gone before you could catch it.

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing softly against the wooden floors, fading into the dim corridors of the Zenin estate. As he made his way back to the main family's quarters, his lips curled into a smirk. You were going to be a headache for this family, just like he was. You just didn't know it yet.

The halls were cold and shadowed, ancient walls lined with the portraits of ancestors who stared down with hollow eyes, their painted faces etched with pride and cruelty. Toji barely glanced at them. He had long learned not to care for the dead or the living that worshipped them.

As he turned the corner, his ears caught the sharp, piercing sound of a tantrum echoing down the hall.

"I WANTED A BLACK YUKATA, NOT THIS UGLY BROWN ONE!" A shrill, high-pitched voice rang out, filled with anger and petulance. Toji didn't need to see him to know who it was.

A woman knelt on the tatami floor, her forehead pressed so low it nearly touched the ground. Her shoulders trembled, but she kept her posture submissive, compliant. "I'm sorry, Master Naoya. I was instructed to bring you this specific one for today's gathering." Her voice was shaky, wavering with fear.

Naoya stood above her, arms crossed over his chest, his small frame rigid with irritation. His black hair was neatly combed, but his eyes—a sharp, gleaming yellow—were narrowed with contempt. Despite his young age, there was an air of arrogance about him, a coldness that seemed too harsh for his six-year-old face.

"Pathetic." Naoya's lips curled into a sneer, his voice dripping with disdain. "This is supposed to be your talent because you're a woman. If you can't even get this right, then what good are you?" He leaned in closer, his fingers brushing against the delicate silk of the yukata as he examined it with exaggerated disgust. "Useless. Just like all the other throwaway Zenin women."

The woman flinched but didn't lift her head. Her body curled inwards, shoulders hunching as she bit back a sob.

"At least you're in the right position now," Naoya continued, his smirk widening. "On your knees, where trash like you belongs. I am the future of this clan, the heir to greatness, and you..." His voice dropped to a whisper, cruel and venomous, "...you're just here to learn how to be a good wife, nothing more."

His words hung heavy in the air, suffocating, each syllable crafted to cut deep. Naoya's eyes glowed with a malicious satisfaction as he watched the woman tremble beneath him.

Toji's lips curled in disgust. Same old Naoya. Arrogant. Vicious.

The boy's gaze finally shifted, catching sight of Toji standing at the end of the hallway. Naoya's posture straightened, his chin lifting as he tried to appear taller, more authoritative. But his eyes gleamed with hostility.

"Well, well, look who it is." Naoya's tone was mocking, his arms still crossed as he surveyed Toji with disdain. "The useless, no-cursed-energy failure of the Zenin clan." He emphasized each word, relishing the insult, his yellow eyes glinting with malice.

Toji met his gaze with a blank, almost bored expression, his shoulders relaxed as he leaned against the wall. "Don't you still wear diapers?" His voice was lazy, a drawl of indifference as his lips curled into a half-smirk.

Naoya's face turned red, his small fists clenching at his sides. "How dare you speak to me like that!" His voice wavered with anger, cracking under the strain of his fury. "I'm your superior! I'm the heir to the main family!"

Toji shrugged, pushing off the wall as he strode forward, his steps casual and unhurried. He didn't bother lowering his gaze or showing any respect. "Yeah? And yet, you're still just a brat throwing a tantrum over a piece of fabric." His eyes flicked to the yukata crumpled on the floor before locking back on Naoya's seething face. "Real impressive."

Naoya's lips twisted, his eyes blazing with humiliation. "You...!" He took a step forward, his body trembling with anger. But his words faltered, stuck in his throat as Toji's gaze hardened, the playful light in his eyes vanishing.

For just a moment, Naoya saw it—saw the cold, unyielding steel behind Toji's eyes, the silent defiance that had no place in this family. It made him hesitate, his anger wavering as a chill ran down his spine.

Toji's smirk widened. "Throw another fit if you want, kid. Doesn't change who you really are." He turned his back, his shoulders loose, head held high, exuding an effortless confidence Naoya couldn't hope to imitate. "Just a spoiled brat who thinks he's better than everyone else. Pathetic."

And with that, Toji walked away, his silhouette disappearing into the shadows of the hallway, leaving Naoya standing there, fists shaking, HIS LIPS PRESSED INTO A THIN, FURIOUS LINE.

Chapter 3: 部分 3

DID YOU WANT TO BE A SORCERER?

It was a difficult question, really. At six years old, you had the sight, but your technique—if you even had one—remained a mystery. You could feel cursed energy thrumming beneath your skin, shifting and restless, but that alone meant nothing. You weren't like Gojo, whose very existence was a declaration of power, whose technique had been carved into his being from the moment he opened his brilliant blue eyes.

Yours had yet to reveal itself.

Naoya had recently developed his father's inherited technique, and the household had rejoiced as if he were a divine blessing. A prodigy, they murmured, a true Zenin heir. But even in their celebrations, there was always that unspoken disappointment—the heavy silence that came when yet another child failed to manifest the Ten Shadows Technique.

You had seen it firsthand, the way expectation crushed those who fell short. The weight of it bent spines, turned once-proud faces downward. You saw it in your mother—how she struggled to hold her head high while navigating a family that had never truly accepted her. She took the brunt of their ridicule, their whispers and their taunts, shielding you and your brother as best as she could.

You weren't weak, nor were you the target of their scorn. Not yet. Because your mother bore it all for you.

But how long would that last?

If you became a sorcerer—if you became powerful—would that make you perfect? Would excelling at everything finally make you untouchable?

You didn't know the answer, but you did know one thing.

You had no intention of being seen as anything less than perfect. Because perfection meant survival. And in the Zenin household, survival was everything.

><

"Alright, [Name], I'll pick you up later in the afternoon. Don't do anything to embarrass us," your cousin warned, adjusting the sleeves of her kimono with the practiced grace of someone who had long accepted her role.

She was eighteen now, educated just enough to be presentable, but never to surpass the men of the family. Her future was set—chores, childcare, and waiting to be chosen by a husband who would determine the rest of her life. It was a dull fate, but she bore it quietly. You, on the other hand, still had time before the walls of expectation fully closed in around you.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your uniform as you stared at the lively classroom ahead. You weren't the only Zenin child starting today, Naoya had probably arrived earlier. No family members had come to see you off—not your mother, not your father. They had "clan matters" to attend to.

You inhaled slowly, schooling your features into practiced indifference. Perfect children did not sulk.

"AYA, BE CAREFUL WHERE YOU'RE GOING!"

The shout barely registered before something—no, someone—crashed into you with full force, nearly knocking you to the ground. You caught yourself just in time, but the impact sent your bag skidding across the floor.

"Whoopsies!"

The first thing you noticed was her eyes—a striking blend of green and brown, wide with mischief. Her strawberry blonde hair was tied in a messy ponytail, a few strands sticking to her forehead. The second thing you noticed was that she wasn't apologizing.

She grinned at you, completely unbothered.

"Wow, you're sturdy," she said, bouncing to her feet before offering you a hand.

You stared at it for a moment, then reluctantly took it, pulling yourself up with careful precision.

Your uniform. Wrinkled. Dust clung to the pristine fabric. Unacceptable.

You immediately started brushing yourself off, jaw tightening. The first day, and you were already disheveled.

"Aya, apologize," an exasperated voice cut in.

You turned to see a woman approaching—a foreigner, by the look of her. She had light brown hair, slightly tanned skin, and dark hazel eyes that carried warmth. Her accent, though faint, was noticeable.

"I apologize for my daughter's behavior, little one," she said, bowing slightly.

You straightened your posture immediately, returning the gesture. "It's alright."

But the girl—Aya, apparently—had no intention of leaving you alone. She followed as you walked toward the classroom, hands tucked behind her head, her energy completely uncontained.

"So, what's your name?"

You hesitated before answering. "Zenin [Name]."

"Ooooh, you're from that boring Zenin family?" Aya whistled. "I've been to your house before. Never seen you, though."

You stopped walking.

"How were you in my household?" Your tone was sharp, but she only grinned.

"My dad's Japanese, my mom's Pakistani. He took his mom's surname: Naoi, cause he thought our family was full of arrogant weirdos. But he still keeps ties with them."

Your mind immediately began running through the known sorcerer bloodlines. No notable clan bore the name "Naoi." If her father rejected his family name, it had to be an old one. Prominent.

"What family—" you started, but a familiar, irritating laugh echoed through the hallway.

"Aya, who's this you're hanging out with?"

Your spine stiffened. That voice.

Slowly, you turned, black hair whipping around your face.

And there he was.

White-haired, blue-eyed, an arrogant smirk stretched across his face as if he owned the air he breathed. His uniform was pristine, his posture effortless, exuding the same ridiculous confidence he had the last time you met.

The brat who insulted your koi fish.

Aya crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Nice to see you too, cuz."

Cousin?

Your fingers twitched at your sides. You should have guessed.

Satoru's smirk faltered when his gaze landed on you. His eyes widened with something between recognition and horror.

"You!" He jabbed a finger at you, voice accusing. "You're that Zenin servant girl who said my eyes were terrible!"

Servant girl?

Your face remained impassive, but your fingers twitched.

"I never called them terrible," you corrected smoothly. "I said perhaps there was something wrong with them."

Aya snorted. Satoru looked personally offended.

"You—!"

"It was an observation," you interrupted, tilting your head. "But if you're this upset about it, maybe I struck a nerve?"

Satoru's mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.

Aya laughed.

"You just broke the Satoru," she wheezed, slapping your back. "I like you."

You blinked at her. She was strange. But her laughter was oddly infectious, and before you realized it, the corners of your lips twitched—just slightly.

Meanwhile, Satoru was furiously rambling, something about his "divine inheritance" and how "peasants wouldn't understand," but you had no intention of deciphering his nonsense. Instead, you let Aya drag you forward, stepping into the classroom.

Looks like you'd be sharing classes with the two Gojo cousins.

What a headache.

The classroom was already buzzing with the excited chatter of children, their voices overlapping like the constant hum of cicadas in the summer. Some sat properly at their desks, others stood in clusters, exchanging stories of their prestigious families or showing off small tricks of cursed energy like parlor tricks.

You felt the weight of gazes immediately. The name Zenin carried as much weight as it did scorn. You weren't from the main family, but the name alone was enough to warrant judgment. Some looked at you with thinly veiled curiosity, others with mild disinterest—until Satoru stomped in behind you.

"Listen up, everyone!" he declared, standing with his hands on his hips. "I'm Gojo Satoru, the strongest, and you should all be honored to be in my presence."

Aya groaned, already used to his dramatics. "Ignore him," she muttered to you. "He's always like this."

A boy with a bowl cut scoffed. "You talk too much, Gojo. Strongest, my ass."

Satoru gasped, clutching his chest as if he had been personally wounded. "How dare you! I should have you arrested for slander!"

You rolled your eyes and walked past the spectacle, choosing a desk by the window. Aya plopped down beside you, grinning. "I can already tell this year is gonna be fun," she said.

Fun wasn't exactly the word you would use. Exhausting, maybe.

Satoru eventually settled into the seat parallel to you both, twisting around to look at you with an exaggerated squint. "You. Zenin."

You blinked at him. "Gojo."

"Don't think I've forgotten about what you said earlier."

"Which part?" you asked, tilting your head. "When I called your eyes defective? Or when I implied your fish were inferior?"

Aya cackled.

Satoru scowled. "Both."

You simply shrugged, looking out the window. The sky was clear, and in the distance, crows perched along the school's perimeter. This wasn't the Zenin household. The air was different. Lighter. You weren't surrounded by whispers telling you to be perfect every second of the day.

Still, even if you were outside of the estate, you knew one thing: Perfection wasn't a choice. It was survival.

You exhaled slowly.

Yes. Exhausting was definitely the right word.

Aya, for all her boundless energy, had spent most of the lesson whispering beside you—about the teacher, about the other students, about her family, about how unfair it was that she wasn't allowed extra snacks before lunch. She was exhausting, but in a way that was strangely tolerable. She was loud, intrusive, and entirely too comfortable in your space. But at the very least, her presence was predictable.

Gojo Satoru, however, was not.

You hadn't noticed the way his sharp blue eyes flickered toward you, watching you carefully, assessing. He didn't like you. He had decided that the moment you insulted his koi fish. And now, with Aya practically glued to your side, his distaste had only deepened.

From the back of the classroom, he leaned against his desk, idly twirling a pencil between his fingers. Beside him sat Geto Suguru, the only person Gojo had deemed bearable despite being from a non-sorcerer family.

"She's so boring," Gojo huffed under his breath, jutting his chin in your direction. "Doesn't even fight back."

Suguru glanced at you, then back at him. "You mean the Zenin girl?"

"She just takes it. Doesn't yell, doesn't cry. What's the point?" Gojo grumbled, slouching dramatically. "Where's the fun in that?"

Suguru hummed, amused. "Maybe she just doesn't care about you."

Gojo whipped his head toward him, scandalized. "Everyone cares about me."

Suguru laughed, shaking his head.

Meanwhile, you sat at your desk, fingers idly tracing patterns on your notebook, your thoughts drifting back to Toji.

He had been right about one thing—you would rot in the Zenin household if you weren't careful. Power was the only thing that mattered here.

Maybe you would find him again. Maybe you would hear him out.

YOU HAD TO FIND OUT YOUR TECHNIQUE.

Chapter 4: 部分4

YOU WANDERED THROUGH THE dimly lit corridors of the Zenin estate, your small footsteps barely making a sound against the polished wooden floors. It was exactly midnight, the hour when the household was draped in silence, but your mind was restless. A realization had struck you earlier in the evening, sinking into your bones like cold water.

Survival in this place wasn't just about existing—it was about power. And power, in the Zenin clan, was dictated by hierarchy. You were born a woman, and that alone placed you at a disadvantage. Women in the clan were rarely given the chance to reach their full potential, no matter their strength or intelligence. They were expected to be proper, obedient, and above all, useful.

You refused to be just that. Perfection was your weapon, your shield. If you excelled at everything—if you became undeniable—maybe then, you could carve a place for yourself.

But to be perfect, you needed to understand your limits. You needed to know your technique. You needed to figure out what you could become before the clan decided for you.

That was why you were here, creeping dangerously close to the main family quarters where you weren't supposed to be unless summoned for an event or ordered to complete some chore.

Zenin Toji had been on your mind all day. He was a curiosity—a man who defied everything the clan stood for. No cursed energy, no regard for tradition, yet somehow he carried himself as if he was above them all. You wanted to know what he knew.

A voice, low and gruff, cut through the silence like a blade.

"You know, if someone caught you here, you'd be in a lot of trouble, little lady."

You stiffened. Your head snapped toward the glow of a single lantern, its flickering light casting jagged shadows over the figure leaning lazily against the doorframe. The dim illumination only sharpened the edges of his smirk, the sharp glint in his eye a mixture of amusement and something unreadable.

"Toji-sama," you greeted, instinctively bowing, your manners drilled into you from the moment you could walk.

Toji let out a quiet snort. "Hmm. Call me 'Sensei.'"

Your brows furrowed. "But I haven't even—"

"You wouldn't be here if you weren't planning to take up my offer." His smirk deepened, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. He turned on his heel, stepping past the door and out into the open-air garden, his movements fluid, effortless.

Your frown deepened. He wasn't wrong, but you weren't about to admit that.

"You can't leave the estate without permission," you pointed out, following after him despite yourself. The chilled night air brushed against your skin, rustling the fabric of your kimono, sending goosebumps up your arms.

Toji waved a dismissive hand. "I do what I want."

"You'll get caught."

"Then I'll beat them up, simple."

Your lips pressed together in frustration, but you kept walking after him, your tiny legs working to keep up with his long strides. His pace was unhurried, but the difference in your height made it feel like a race. Eventually, he stopped at the edge of the estate wall, the towering stone barricade casting an imposing shadow over the meticulously kept garden.

For a moment, he stood there, hands in his pockets, looking up at the wall as if deep in thought. Then, out of nowhere, he turned to you with a question that made your brain short-circuit.

"Ever been in love, kid?"

You blinked. "What?"

Toji tilted his head, watching your reaction with mild amusement. "Love. You know, that dumb thing that makes people do even dumber things?"

Your face scrunched up. "I'm six."

Toji exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Right, right. Forgot you were just a tiny brat."

You crossed your arms. "Why are you asking me that?"

Instead of answering, he crouched down slightly, stretching his arms. "Hey, you got money for a taxi?"

You stared at Toji, unblinking. Did he just ask a six-year-old for cab fare?

"...You're a grown man," you deadpanned.

"And?" Toji raised a brow, completely unashamed. "You're a Zenin. Shouldn't you have a stash of emergency hush money or something?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You did, actually. But that was beside the point.

"This is ridiculous," you muttered, rubbing your temples like a stressed elder, despite being six. "Why do you even need a taxi? Where are you going?"

Toji smirked, the kind of smirk that made you deeply uncomfortable. Like he was about to say something absolutely insane.

"To see a woman."

You blinked. "...What kind of woman?"

"The kind that makes a man rethink his life choices," he said, staring dramatically at the night sky. "Or at least makes 'em more interesting."

You squinted. This entire conversation was concerning.

"Wait," you held up a tiny hand, trying to piece it together. "You're sneaking out... in the middle of the night... to flirt?"

Toji scoffed, looking personally offended. "Flirt? No. I'm showing up unannounced with no money and bad intentions. That's romance, kid."

You covered your face with your hands. "This is outrageous."

"You say that now," he shrugged, "but wait 'til you get older. One day, you'll find someone who makes you wanna climb a wall in the dead of night just to see their face."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "Or... I could just write a letter like a normal person."

"Lame." Toji shook his head. "No dramatic midnight confessions? No standing outside their window like a feral cat?"

"Why would I act like a stray animal?"

"Because it works." Toji jerked a thumb at himself. "I mean, look at me. Irresistible."

You stared at him.

"To who?"

"To—" Toji froze mid-sentence, actually thinking about it. He frowned. "Y'know what? Not important."

"...Oh my god, she doesn't even like you."

"She will," he shot back, offended. "She just doesn't know it yet."

You wanted to fling yourself into the dirt. Instead, you settled for sighing like you had lived a long, weary life.

"How much money do you have?"

Toji dug into his pocket and pulled out exactly three crumpled bills.

You stared at them in horror.

"That's not even enough for a vending machine snack."

"Which is why I need your help," he said smoothly, like this was some kind of investment and not a tragic waste of resources.

"You want me to fund your terrible love life?"

"It's not terrible," Toji sniffed, shoving the sad bills back into his pocket. "It's in development."

You groaned. "No. No way. I refuse to enable you."

Toji sighed, then played his trump card. "Alright, I guess training's off the table, then."

Your eye twitched. "You haven't trained me in anything yet."

"Exactly," he smirked. "And now I won't."

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails pressing into your palms. This was emotional terrorism, plain and simple.

"...Fine," you grumbled, yanking a few crisp bills from your hidden sleeve stash and slapping them into his waiting palm. "But if you die, I want my money back."

Toji grinned like he just hit the jackpot. "Don't worry, kid. I'll make sure she writes you a check at my funeral."

He flicked through the money with practiced ease, his grin widening as a glimmer of mischief sparked in his dark eyes. Then, with the air of someone proposing a deal too good to refuse, he leaned in slightly.

"Hey, twerp, wanna come with me?"

You snorted, arms crossed. "Just because you want to get kicked out of the house doesn't mean I do. Besides, it's past curfew and everyone's asleep," you whispered, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence pressing in around you. Your heart drummed against your ribs, an anxious beat against the lure of the unknown.

Toji only smirked, the kind of smirk that spelled trouble. "It's gonna help with your lessons." He shoved his index finger in your face. "Lesson number one of being a sorcerer: learn the ways of romance."

Your eye twitched. Of all the things he could try to teach you, this? Surely sneaking out now and getting caught later would be permanently etched on your record—and your mother... oh, no. She would kill you. You could already imagine the way her disappointment would weigh on you, the way her eyes would pierce through you like a blade. You were supposed to be perfect, disciplined, everything Toji was not.

But the devil had a name, and it was Toji. And at six years old, you couldn't help but trust the adult in front of you, no matter how much your instincts screamed otherwise.

Your fingers twitched. Your pulse quickened. You took a shaky breath.

"Okay," you murmured, feeling like you were sealing your fate. "But we have to be back within two hours."

Toji just laughed, clapping you on the shoulder. "Atta kid. Now, let's go break some rules."

Before you could react, Toji grabbed you with ease, hoisting you up effortlessly as you clung to his neckline for support. This was going to end badly. You just knew it. He adjusted his grip and, with one powerful motion, lifted both of your weights over the garden wall like it was nothing. The cold night breeze struck instantly, sending a shiver down your spine as the weight of what you were doing finally settled in. What were you thinking, putting your safety in the hands of someone as reckless as Toji Zen'in?

You were going to die.

Toji landed smoothly on the other side of the wall, his stance as casual as if he had just stepped off a curb. "Hey, kid, relax a bit. You're not gonna die. You're probably gonna break way more rules when you grow up." He laughed, and your face involuntarily twitched. You had learned by now that being around Toji meant your face had developed a mind of its own.

"I don't know, I fear you might sell me to a traveling circus if you ever run out of money," you gulped.

He snorted. "Not a bad idea."

That earned him a tiny bonk on the head. He paused, rubbing the spot before looking down at you with a raised brow.

"Say, what was your name again?"

You sweatdropped. He had called you all sorts of ridiculous variations, yet now, of all times, he decided to ask?

"It's [Name]," you muttered.

Your hair whipped around your face as the night air wrapped around you. It was cold, crisp, exhilarating. You felt lighter, as if the weight of rules and expectations had momentarily lifted. The outside world at night—something you were never allowed to experience—felt so vast, so freeing. You inhaled deeply, savoring the unfamiliar sense of rebellion.

You really didn't know how to make conversation with this man. Your personalities seemed like complete opposites.

"What does she look like?" you asked, slightly curious.

"She's got spiky black hair, kinda like me. She could pass off as a Zen'in," he snorted. "Her name is Fushiguro..."

You watched his expression shift, the usual smugness fading into something softer, almost reverent. Ah, so this was what affection looked like.

"I've reduced my gambling since I met her. She doesn't like it," he admitted. "But so far, I'm just a friend. She doesn't know about all this sorcerer and clan bullshit."

You sat perched on his shoulder, the city lights stretching out before you. Despite taking your money for a cab fare, he had ultimately decided on walking, and something told you that money wasn't coming back anytime soon.

"You're part of the main family," you pointed out. "I'm sure you can work around the rules. It's not like you're the heir."

Toji let out a dry, humorless laugh, the sound rough against the cool Tokyo night. "You'd be surprised how little freedom we have in this hellhole," he said, quirking an eyebrow at you, a rogue spark flickering behind his tired gaze. "Isn't that brat Naoya the same age as you?"

You grimaced, your nose wrinkling instinctively at the mention of that miserable little tyrant. The young master was an unbearable thorn whenever your paths crossed—which, mercifully, wasn't often thanks to your classes being blessedly separate.

"Yeah," you muttered grimly, stuffing your hands into your pockets as you both wandered deeper into the quieter veins of the city. Tokyo still pulsed with life, but the roar of nightlife had softened into a low, drowsy hum. Toji exhaled slowly, his breath curling into the cold air as he tilted his head up to the ink-stained sky.

"Be careful with our clan," he said, voice dropping into something almost tender. "You're a good kid, err—" He clicked his fingers, squinting exaggeratedly like he'd forgotten your name already. "[Name]," he finished with a lazy roll of his eyes. His tone was playful, but buried beneath it was a somber weight, heavy and unspoken. The Zen'in clan—your so-called family—was little more than a pack of starving, snapping dogs. Your mother's lessons echoed in your heart: survive. Carve your place. Trust nothing but your own two hands.

You hummed quietly, your gaze drifting across the passing faces—strangers lost in their own tangled dreams. Though Toji's name was often spat like venom among the clan, you found yourself hoping your lessons with him would be a little different. Maybe even better.

The streets grew narrower, the neon bleeding into softer, warmer glows. Eventually, you reached a modest, unassuming apartment building tucked between the towering shadows. Toji set you down gently, and for the first time that night, you saw it—the flicker of nerves scrambling across his sharp features. How cute. The fearless rogue, scared stiff to see her.

Before either of you could gather your courage, the door swung open, revealing a woman who seemed to shine against the drakness around her. Her hair was a riot of dark spikes, kissed with a greenish hue that made you wonder if maybe she had Zen'in blood too.

"Toji," she breathed, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. Then her gaze snapped to you, and her entire face softened into a bright, mischievous grin. "Oooh, and who's this little one?" she cooed, crouching down until she was eye level with you.

You straightened your back proudly. "I'm [Name], and I'm six. I'm... a relative of his." Relative was the cleanest, least headache-inducing way to explain your tangled lineage.

"You're adorable!" she cried, scooping you into her arms like a prize she'd just won at a festival booth. She carried you inside, Toji trailing after with a grunt of mock suffering.

You shot him a cheeky thumbs-up, your eye gleaming with mischief. Toji caught it and snorted under his breath, shaking his head as he closed the door behind him. Already, you liked this woman. And if the way Toji was pretending not to stare at her was any clue, you had a sneaking suspicion she liked him too.

She peppered you with questions, each one more eager than the last, and you gladly obliged, the words tumbling out of you faster than you realized. Her laughter was contagious, lighting up the little apartment like sunshine through an open window, and before long, you found yourself giggling too—something you rarely ever did. The food she brought out was equally magical, delicious and comforting.

But even through the laughter and the warmth, a shadow touched your heart. Your smile faltered for a moment, your eyes dimming. The clan would never accept her. She was human, through and through, untouched by the cursed bloodlines that weighed you all down. And mixed with Toji, the black sheep of the Zen'in name? It would be seen as nothing but shame.

Still, when you glanced up and caught Toji's eyes, all your doubts softened. He wasn't thinking about the clan, not tonight. His gaze was fixed solely on her, filled with a tenderness so raw it made your throat ache. He loved her—deeply, helplessly—and it was only a matter of time before she would love him back just as fiercely. Love, you realized, was a strange, sweet thing. Heavy and light all at once.

It was way past your bedtime, and the exhaustion was beginning to weigh heavy on your small body. The world around you started to muffle, the voices of Toji and the woman blending into a low, soothing hum. Your head drooped, and before you could fight it, you found yourself curling up against the softness of her lap, lulled by the rhythmic cadence of her voice. The last thing you caught before sleep pulled you under was her whisper, soft and tender against the quiet,

"ME TOO, TOJI."

Chapter 5: 部分5

"OKAY TWERP, you know what your technique is?" Toji asked, slouching lazily against the wooden frame of the dojo room. The space was worn but dignified, old tatami mats creaking under the weight of history and grudges. A breeze stirred the paper screens behind him, but the heavy air—thick with the Zen'in clan's suffocating presence—barely moved.

You kicked your dangling feet, perched awkwardly on a training stool that was a little too tall for you. "I have no idea," you muttered, sharp eyes flicking to the corner where a cursed spirit—a shriveled, pathetic thing—tried to sneak away. Your gaze pinned it like a nail, and it skittered off in terror, vanishing through a crack. Toji hummed, a low, approving sound in his chest.

You wore his clothes, soft black joggers cinched at the ankles and an oversized T-shirt that smelled faintly of sweat, leather, and some vague lingering warmth. You had rolled up the sleeves clumsily, ready to move, ready to fight.

"Well, there's two types of Zen'ins," Toji drawled, one scarred hand propping up his chin. His other hand lazily tossed a loose training knife up and down. "There's the ones who can't see jack shit and have to swing around fancy cursed tools... and then there's bastards like Naobito. Born with stupid amounts of power they didn't even earn."

You furrowed your brow, jaw tightening. "I need to have a technique," you said, voice low and firm. "Otherwise, there's no point. I'm wasting my time."

Toji barked a rough laugh that echoed against the cracked wood. His grin was sharp, all teeth and dark amusement. This kid's gonna be trouble, he thought, a warm sense of wicked pride blooming in his chest. In ten years, they'll regret ever letting you into this place.

"Alright, listen up, genius," he said, sitting straighter. "Focus. Close your eyes. Feel the energy around you. It's like smoke in your lungs—grab it, mold it, spit it back out before it burns you."

You obeyed, clapping your small hands together. In the darkness behind your eyelids, you reached inward, searching for that flickering ember you'd always felt but never truly touched. It burned low and stubborn deep inside you. You fanned it, coaxed it, demanded more. More. More. Failure was not an option.

Toji's senses sharpened, his entire body alert as he felt the pressure spike. Your cursed energy—wild and untrained—flared like a newborn star. It roared up in a pulse of heat, thick and violet.

"It's purple," you whispered, breathless, cracking your eyes open.

"Purple, huh," Toji mused, tossing a scroll your way. You caught it clumsily, stumbling back a step at the unexpected weight. The scroll was thick and rough against your palms, sealed with the black crest of the Zen'in clan—so dark it almost seemed to drink the light.

"This has all the standard Zen'in techniques," he said casually, though his eyes watched you with a hawk's patience. "Go through 'em. Do the hand signs properly. I'm supervising—'cause, you know, you helped my dating life." His smirk was pure mischief.

"Glad to be such a great asset," you muttered under your breath, already scanning the list. The names blurred together: Projection Sorcery. Construction. Ratio.

You moved through the hand signs one by one. Projection Sorcery—nothing. Construction—nothing. Ratio—zilch.

Hours blurred into each other. Your small body trembled, cursed energy flickering pitifully now. Sweat dripped down your spine. Toji, for his part, had passed out with an obnoxious snore halfway through your struggle.

You stood there, panting, fists trembling at your sides.

Maybe you were like Toji. Broken. Flawed. A mistake.

"You're not done yet," Toji muttered, suddenly awake, stretching his arms lazily like a cat who'd been pretending to sleep. He pulled out another scroll—this one ancient, its paper yellowed and brittle, but preserved with loving care. The black wax seal was cracked slightly at the edges, but it still held.

You took it, your hands reverent. This scroll felt different. Heavy with meaning.

Memorizing the signs quickly, you locked your hands together—pinkies loose, the others clenched tight—and squeezed your eyes shut.

For a long moment, there was only silence. Thick, oppressive silence.

You were ready to crumple under the weight of another failure, to drown in it—

Until the ground shivered beneath you.

A great burst of cursed energy exploded from your small frame, purple as stormlight, whipping the air into a frenzy. Toji stood sharply, eyes wide for the first time in years.

And then—you heard it. A soft, sharp woof.

Blinking rapidly, you looked down—and saw them.

Two tiny puppies had manifested on the dusty floor, their forms shimmering with raw cursed energy. One was slate grey, the other deep midnight blue. They yipped joyfully, circling you like planets caught in your orbit, tails wagging so fast they became blurs.

"Did I... did I do that?" you whispered, staring at them in disbelief.

Toji exploded into raucous laughter, clapping a hand over his face as he howled. His body shook with it, true, gut-deep amusement tearing out of him like it had been locked away for years.

"HOLY FUCKKK!" Toji's voice cracked through the quiet dojo like thunder. In one swift motion, he scooped you up and tossed you onto his broad shoulders, laughing so hard it echoed off the paper walls. You barely had time to squeal before he spun you around, the world. The two shadow-born puppies barked madly at his feet, tails wagging, leaping in frantic circles as if they too were celebrating your victory.

"LOOKS LIKE WE GOT OURSELVES A NEW HEIR!" he whooped, grabbing your tiny wrist and making you dance from your high perch. His laughter was infectious, wild, alive in a way you'd never seen before — a sound that cracked through the oppressive air of the Zen'in estate like sunlight through stained glass.

The puppies yipped and whined, tripping over each other in pure joy, their tiny bodies glowing faintly with the same cursed energy that still shimmered faintly around you.

You were still frozen, breath caught halfway between awe and disbelief, your mouth slightly open as realization sank in. "Is this the..." you whispered, barely daring to finish the thought.

Toji's grin was feral, sharp enough to cut through destiny itself. "The Ten Shadows Technique," he said, voice dropping into something half-reverent, half-predatory. "In the flesh — and in the side branch, no less. Hah, I can't wait to see the looks on those bastards' faces." He smacked his thigh, laughter booming once again, your small form still perched on his shoulders like a crown.

But then, slowly, the laughter dimmed. His smirk faltered, and his gaze drifted to you — the wildness in his eyes softening, replaced by a quiet understanding that only someone who had already lived through the clan's cruelty could hold. The joy of the moment bled into something heavier.

Once they found out, once the clan knew what bloomed inside you, your freedom would vanish like smoke. The Zen'in never nurtured power — they consumed it. They would train you, mold you, crush you until all that remained was what they wanted.

"Actually... no," Toji murmured, voice low, uncharacteristically gentle. The sound of it startled even him. He lowered you carefully from his shoulders and set you down on the smooth tatami mats. The puppies immediately bounded into your lap, warm and solid, pressing their small bodies against your trembling hands.

"[Name], listen to me," he said, crouching until his eyes met yours. His tone was firm, but beneath it ran a current of something paternal, something protective. "You can't let anyone know about your technique."

You blinked at him, confusion wrinkling your small face. "But... isn't it good for my family? Won't they treat us better? They'll finally respect us, right? I'm tired, sensei. I'm tired of being treated like trash. They make me clean their rooms, run their errands. They call me names, call my mother worse. It's like we don't even exist here." Your voice cracked then, just a little, trembling like the flame of a candle in a draft.

For a long moment, Toji said nothing. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry every wound the clan had ever carved into him, he reached forward and ruffled your hair — not roughly, but with a surprising gentleness. "I know, kid," he said quietly. "I know. But the main branch? They're worse. If they find out what you can do, they won't celebrate you. They'll rip you apart and call it training."

He unclasped the necklace from around his neck — gold, engraved with 禪院 — and hung it around yours. The metal felt heavy, almost symbolic, the weight of a legacy no child should have to bear. "Be a man," Toji said, half teasing, half sincere. "Swift as the coursing river, with all the force of a great typhoon, with all the strength of a raging fire..." He paused, smirking. "And mysterious as the dark side of the moon."

You blinked at him in confusion, your tears drying up as he chuckled.

"I'll make a man out of you," he said, voice low but sure. "So you're unstoppable." The grin he gave you then was sharp — not cruel, but full of intent. In that moment, you didn't realize it, but Toji wasn't just promising to train you. He was making a vow — to turn you into the weapon that would one day destroy the Zen'in clan from within.

Before you could respond, a small, shrill voice pierced through the air. "What's going on here?"

You froze, instantly recognizing it. Toji's head turned, his expression darkening like a cloud passing over the sun. Behind him stood six-year-old Naoya Zen'in — his fine clothes spotless, his posture dripping with arrogance that seemed far too large for his small frame. Two servants flanked him like well-trained shadows, bowing deeply to Toji but sparing not even a glance for you. Of course they wouldn't. You were a girl, a side-branch nobody.

Toji groaned under his breath. "Look what the rat dragged in — a brat," he muttered, tone lazy but edged with disdain.

Naoya's nose wrinkled, the corners of his mouth twitching in irritation. "I will not entertain your nonsense," he said coldly, and turned to his servants. "What's this one's name?"

"She's Masamune's child," one of them answered softly. "Her name is [Name]."

Naoya's eyes flicked toward you, his gaze sharp and dismissive all at once. "So one without cursed energy is training another," he said, his smirk widening. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. The urge to retort burned on your tongue, but you swallowed it down. Words had consequences here — especially when thrown at the main family's golden boy.

Naoya gave a mocking little laugh. "I feel generous today," he said, turning to leave. "Continue whatever pathetic thing you were doing. You'll never surpass me anyway." He let the insult linger in the air, his laughter echoing down the hall as his servants followed like loyal ghosts.

The silence that followed felt heavy, thick with the weight of swallowed anger. Then — crack — Toji's fist slammed against the floor. The sound startled you, a sharp echo bouncing off the walls. He stayed there for a moment, knuckles pressed to the wood, shoulders trembling with restrained fury. "I've never wanted to kill a kid so badly," he muttered, voice rough. "Him and that other creepy brat from the Gojo clan." He exhaled through his nose, the fight draining from his frame, and for a second he looked older — not weaker, just worn.

You hesitated before stepping closer. The words came out smaller than you intended. "Sensei... I want to be strong."

He looked up at you then — really looked — and something in his expression shifted. Gone was the usual mocking smirk, replaced by a rare flicker of respect. Your eyes, once so tired and guarded, were bright with something new. Hope. Determination. A stubborn spark that even Naoya's sneers couldn't extinguish.

Toji leaned back, studying you quietly for a moment before his mouth curved into a slow grin. "Then we'll make you strong," he said simply. "Stronger than any of them. Strong enough that one day, they'll regret ever looking down on you."

The gold pendant at your throat gleamed faintly in the light — a symbol of a clan that didn't want you, and the promise of a man who refused to let them define you. And in that quiet, in the space between fury and resolve, SOMETHING BEGAN TO TAKE ROOT.

Chapter 6: 部分6

EVERY DAY WITH TOJI bled into the next like the steady rhythm of a bruise fading and returning again. He trained you relentlessly—unforgiving, precise, never once softening the edge of his blows simply because you were a child.

On the mornings when he wasn't out chasing his girlfriend—whose presence you secretly approved of, mostly because she sent you snacks through him—he drilled you until your body trembled from exhaustion.

Half of those snacks arrived half-eaten, the neat paper wrappings light and suspiciously empty, which told you exactly how far his self-control went when food was involved.

Even so, the routine had become its own strange comfort. Between chores you found stolen pockets of freedom, sometimes slipping away from your clan duties to train in the field behind the Zen'in estate where no prying eyes lingered.

The grass there grew wild and soft, bending easily under your feet as you practiced striking until your knuckles ached. "You have to be faster," Toji said, voice drawling, lazy grin cutting across his face as if he wasn't the one pushing you past your limits.

"I'm trying my best here," you panted, sweat dampening the strands of hair that clung to your forehead.

He only chuckled, lying back in the grass and folding his arms behind his head. "You're already better than Naoya. But you still need to move quicker, or he'll catch up."

That earned him a glare, but exhaustion won out, and you collapsed beside him. The sky stretched endlessly above you, a vast blue expanse so soft it almost hurt to look at. It felt unfair, how free it was—how far away from everything that kept you trapped.

Blue had always been one of your favorite colours; it was a kind of quiet you couldn't find anywhere else in the Zen'in household, an untouchable calm. You let yourself sink into it, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the wind.

Then, a shadow crossed your vision. "Why are you lying in the grass like that?"

You blinked up, and your breath stilled. A pair of impossibly blue eyes stared down at you—sharp, playful, far too knowing. Gojo Satoru. Of course it had to be him. His presence was like sunlight at noon: too bright, too much.

Your heart kicked hard in your chest as you sat up too quickly. "What are you doing here?" you managed, trying—and failing—to sound annoyed instead of flustered. Heat crept up your neck, and you cursed yourself for it.

Toji didn't even bother to look up. "Why the hell are all the kids finding me lately?" he muttered, his tone bordering on exasperated amusement. Then, as if just realizing the ridiculousness of it, he let out a sharp laugh. "If this keeps up, people are gonna start calling me a damn pedophile."

Gojo snorted, the corner of his mouth lifting into that infuriating grin that only made your embarrassment simmer hotter beneath your skin. The wind stirred the tall grass around you, carrying the warm scent of sunbaked earth as he stepped closer, his presence so bright it felt like it pushed the whole world into a sharper focus.

"I was just passing by your mansion when I sensed the two of you," he said casually, though the servant behind him coughed as if to remind him that he had an entire entourage trailing after him. Only two stood close, but the rest swarmed the edges like shadows orbiting a young god.

Toji's eyebrow twitched upward, irritation flickering through his eyes. This wasn't the first time the little prodigy had managed to detect him despite Toji's lack of cursed energy—something that should've made him invisible even to the Six Eyes. It had happened before, and every time it did, Toji's disdain deepened.

"I don't particularly like you Zen'ins," Gojo continued, bending down until eye level meant staring straight into the endless blue of his gaze. Your breath hitched—just slightly—because somehow the sky's color, your favorite shade of blue, was staring back at you through his eyes.

Not that you liked him. In fact, you absolutely did not like him. He was pretentious, annoying, smug—everything you couldn't stand—and yet the color of him made your pulse falter. "But something's changed."

His gaze swept over you like a searching light, all-knowing and impossibly sharp. He knew. Of course he knew. That stupid smirk said it all.

"No it hasn't," you shot back, flustered, rolling your eyes with more force than necessary. "Get your eyes checked."

Gojo reeled back as if you'd personally offended his entire bloodline. "That's your best insult? Really? I thought since your grades are almost as good as mine you'd be more creative."

"Unfortunately," you said coolly, "I'm busier than I let on. I'm not some privileged, pampered heir with a clan kneeling at my feet."

The words hit him harder than you intended—just for a moment, sorrow flickering behind those bright eyes like a shadow passing over the sun. His servant stepped forward, bristling. "Miss Zen'in, please mind your—"

Gojo lifted a hand, silencing him instantly.

"It's fine," he said, though his voice thinned into something brittle. "A nobody like you doesn't have much sting anyway. Your clan doesn't care about you either."

The truth of it sliced cleanly, too honest to be cruel, too accurate to deny. Your throat tightened, but the words refused to come, and Gojo turned away before you could muster even a whisper.

You watched him walk, watched his entourage follow like obedient tides, until the last flash of white disappeared into the Zen'in estate. The servant murmured something about reporting your rudeness to the clan head, and Gojo paused, his eyes flickering back toward you. He couldn't let you get punished—not with what he suspected. The Six Eyes saw too much. Knew too much. If he was right... If your technique was what he thought it was...

The generation of the Six Eyes and the Ten Shadows standing side by side. Weapons waiting to be claimed. And unlike the Zen'ins, Gojo wasn't willing to let a child be carved into a tool.

"No," he said quietly. "And if I hear even a whisper, your head is next."

He didn't mean it. Not even close. But it shut them up.

A gentle weight landed on your head—a palm warm and solid. Toji. "Don't listen to him," he muttered. "He looks like a freak anyway." Comfort was not his specialty, but somehow it was enough. Toji didn't talk down to you; he talked to you. Maybe that's why you exhaled again without realizing you were holding your breath.

"C'mon," he added, already stretching his shoulders. "Let's visit my girlfriend today, yeah?"

You looked up, the lingering ache easing as a small smile crept onto your face. "Yeah... I'll show her my puppies."

You formed the hand sign, and the two small dogs burst into existence, tumbling into your lap with excited yips. Their joy soaked into your skin, lifting your mood as you scratched behind their ears. Being around Toji was wild and loud and unpredictable—rude, blunt, sometimes infuriating—but never cruel. He was the closest thing to freedom you'd ever tasted.

"One thing, twerp," Toji said, watching the puppies circle you. "Your technique has more summons than these little mutts." His tone shifted, a warning buried beneath the lazy drawl. "But there's one you don't touch."

You blinked, fingertips pausing mid-scratch.

"The Eight-Handled Sword... something-something Mahoraga," he muttered. "That one'll kill you before you even know he's there. Only one guy ever summoned it, and he still died. So whatever you do? Don't summon him."

He leaned closer, eyes holding yours with a seriousness that made your stomach twist.

"Got it?"

And this time, you didn't just nod.
You understood.

//

"[Name], you seem down... something up?" Aya's voice floated to you with the softness of a drifting petal as you both settled onto the sun-warmed bench. Lunchtime light filtered through the trees, dappling her strawberry-pink hair as she brushed it away from her face, nibbling at her sandwich. You barely touched your rice and tamagoyaki, prodding the pieces like they were tiny burdens on a plate already too full.

Seven-year-old you was exhausted. Not the fun kind of tired kids complain about after a day of running and laughing — no, yours was the heavy, silent sort that lodged behind your ribs. School weighed on you, Toji's brutal training yanked every drop of energy from your limbs, and the quiet expectations of your clan were a constant hum you could never escape.

"I'm not down," you murmured, though your voice had that thin, trembly edge of honesty. "Just tired. I've been training my technique."

That one word lit Aya up like a lantern. Her whole face brightened, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement only children with gentle worlds can feel.

"Ooh, CAN I KNOW?!" she shouted, nearly launching off the bench, and you panicked — shoving a mouthful of rice at her before the entire courtyard turned and stared.

"You can't tell anyone," you whispered, leaning in so close the warmth of her breath tickled your cheek. "I'm hiding it from my family."

She nodded, cheeks puffed out with rice, eyes gleaming with the joy of being trusted. Aya was like that — a tiny sun, always burning with enthusiasm for even the smallest secret.

"You cut your hair shorter," she noticed suddenly, tilting her head. "It looks really pretty."

Heat flared across your cheeks. Compliments always felt like someone pressing a hand directly over your heart.

"Yeah... Sensei and his girlfriend are kinda my inspiration." You waved your hands wildly. "Don't tell anyone! If sensei found out— ugh. I'd actually die."

Aya only grinned and held out her pinky. "Okay, okay. Pinky promise."

You hesitated at the strange gesture, but curled your finger around hers anyway. It felt oddly grounding — like tethering yourself to someone who actually saw you.

Soon the bell chimed faintly in the distance, and Aya had to run to catch up on her work for next class. The courtyard emptied out around you, the sounds fading until only the soft rustling breeze remained. You packed up slowly, savoring the brief silence.

Then a shadow slipped into your peripheral vision — pale and bright all at once. Short, snowy hair that glowed under the light. Eyes... those eyes. Too blue, too open, the exact shade of sky you loved but refused to admit did something embarrassing to your heartbeat.

Gojo Satoru stood there, hands in his pockets, gaze pinned to you with unnerving clarity.

"You have the Ten Shadows technique," he said, as if greeting you.

Your fingers tightened around your skirt. "I figured you saw through me."

There was no irritation this time. Just resignation — the quiet acceptance that someone like him could unravel you with a glance.

He sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed with the movement of the bench. For once, he didn't radiate arrogance or that smug little superiority complex he seemed to breathe.

He was calm. Almost gentle. A rare, bewildering version of him you'd never witnessed.

"Understandable why you didn't tell your family," he said, voice softer than expected. "But wouldn't it be better if you did? That technique hasn't appeared in ages. They'd practically die to claim it."

You let out a thin breath. "I think that answer would be best given by you, though. And... sorry for the comment I made the other day. I was being defensive."

You looked everywhere but his eyes — anywhere but the sky he carried inside him without even trying. It frustrated you how serene they were. How free. You resented liking them. And you resented even more how they made your chest feel too warm.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Because you'd be used like a weapon. Just like me."

His jaw tensed. Not in anger — in something far more fragile.

"It's infuriating," he said, the words slipping out like something that had been caged for too long. "They're sweet to my face, respectful, even afraid... but behind my back?" He let out a breath that trembled at the edges, the kind of breath people make right before they admit something they shouldn't. "They talk about molding me. Shaping me. Using me."

His fingers curled slightly at his sides, as if even the air around him felt too tight.

"I'm seven," he whispered — and something in the way he said it made your stomach sink. Because he didn't sound proud or triumphant or special. He sounded tired. Like someone who'd spent a lifetime pretending to be invincible. "Seven, and they bow like I'm some kind of god they can leash."

His eyes drifted away from you then, staring at the ground as though it held a truth he couldn't bear to look in the face. That brilliant sky-blue gaze — usually blinding, cocky, sparkling with impossible confidence — dimmed at the edges. As if someone had taken a thumb and smudged the brightness out. For the first time you saw how heavy the Six Eyes looked on him, not a gift but chains made of light. A crown pressed onto a child's head until his neck strained beneath the weight.

"They think if they're gentle, I'll stay manageable. If they praise me enough, I'll let them shape me into something they can wield." His voice dipped lower, softer, as though saying it aloud might make it more real. "A weapon wrapped in silk. A monster they can point at their enemies."

There was no arrogance left — only that hollow ache of someone who understood too early what adults expected him to become. A boy born into brilliance and built into a cage.

His hand clenched once, then relaxed.

"All this power," he murmured, almost to himself, "and none of it feels like mine."

"So don't tell anyone about your technique." He leaned back, exhaling. "Make your own way."

He offered you a small, crooked smile — nothing dazzling or smug. Just real. And tender in a way he would deny until death.

You looked up at him then. Really looked. The wind brushed your hair aside, and his eyes caught the light just so — the same color you adored in the sky. The color you pretended wasn't your favorite, because it felt ridiculous to share that piece of yourself with someone you swore you weren't fond of.

"Why would you tell me this?" you asked softly.

"Because you're the only one who'd understand."

The world stilled. Your breath fluttered. For a moment, the two of you were nothing but tired children carrying futures far too heavy for your small chests.

The shouting of kids nearby rang, shattering the moment. Gojo stood, brushing dirt from his uniform.

Without thinking, you grabbed his hand.

"Thank you," you whispered.

He blinked, momentarily startled by the softness aimed at him.

Then he snorted, trying to rebuild his armor. "Don't get used to it. I'll be back to insulting you tomorrow."

But the warmth in his voice lingered long after he walked away — leaving you staring at the fading echo of sky-blue eyes that felt far too much like a HOME YOU REFUSED TO NAME.

Chapter 7: 部分7

GETO SUGURU HAD ALWAYS held a quiet gravity that tugged at your attention. He moved through the halls like a calm breeze slipping between louder storms, offering small courtesies and soft smiles, generous in ways that made people gravitate to him without him ever trying.

Some whispered he had more admirers than Gojo, which was saying something, considering Gojo practically radiated attention like the sun itself.

Suguru was simply... endearing, and there were moments you caught yourself watching him longer than you meant to, drawn in by the serene mystery that clung to him like a second shadow.

So when your teacher announced the partners for the group project, you felt your breath hitch in quiet disbelief when your name clicked right beside his.

"And no, Gojo, you cannot pay someone to switch teammates with you," your teacher barked from the front.

Nine-year-old Gojo threw himself back into his chair with a dramatic huff, arms crossed like a wronged prince. "Ugh, Suguru, you poor guy. Have fun with the peasant," he called across the room, and you rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own technique spark behind your skull. This was perfect—just when you were finally starting to not hate him entirely.

"I don't mind. I like [Name]. She's very nice," Geto replied, calm and sincere, and Gojo promptly choked on his water.

Aya, seated beside you, smacked your arm with the force of a gossiping demon. "Ooooh, [Name]... I didn't know you were pulling moves," she teased, wiggling her brows. You blinked at her, baffled. You'd barely exchanged five whole sentences with Suguru—how on earth did that translate to "nice"?

Still, you smoothed your features into something polite, warm. "I'm looking forward to working with you, Geto." Your smile flickered toward him before you snapped a glare at Gojo, who already had his tongue out at both you and Aya.

Aya retaliated by tugging her bottom eyelid down and giving him a dramatic thumbs-down. "Don't interrupt my ship, Satoru. Don't be salty just because girls don't like you."

You snorted, unable to help it.

"SHE LOOKS LIKE A BOY ANYWAY!" Gojo shot back, smacking his palms on the desk so loudly half the class jumped.

"EXCUSE ME?!" You shot to your feet, heat spiking up your neck.

"YOUR HAIR MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A GUY!" he snapped, as if he were delivering a divine revelation from the heavens.

"And YOU look like a girl—your face is pretty enough for it!" you fired back, and if Aya hadn't immediately tackled your mouth with her hands, you probably would've said something that got you suspended.

Suguru, ever the peacekeeper even at nine, reached out and tugged Gojo back down by the shoulder before the chaos could ignite again. The movement was so gentle it almost felt like a breeze passing, a quiet grounding touch meant to tether a storm.

Watching him calm Gojo—patient, steady, unshaken—you finally understood why people adored Geto Suguru. There was a warmth in him that didn't ask for anything in return, a softness he didn't hand out carelessly... and for reasons you didn't quite grasp yet, today he had offered a small piece of it to you.

"Okay, settle down before I have to inform your families," the teacher warned, and you sank into your seat at once. The thought of your mother hearing about you acting out made your stomach twist. Maybe Toji's influence was rubbing off on you—sharp edges, quicker retorts, a newfound boldness your clan would hate. Gojo wasn't evil, but he sure had a talent for making you lose your composure.

Once the room calmed and everyone returned to their tasks, you finally turned toward your partner.

"Sorry about Satoru," Suguru said, offering an apologetic smile that made your breath catch for reasons you refused to examine. "He gets defensive when things don't go his way."

You blinked. Forget Gojo—how had no one warned you that Suguru up close was devastating? His hair fell in soft, dark strands that brushed just past his ears with a greenish sheen when it caught the light, and his eyes were sharp but kind, like they could slice and soothe all at once. And that smile—clear, earnest—felt strangely like sunlight.

"It's alright," you said with a quick wave, trying not to show how flustered you suddenly were. "His words don't have much bite. I've heard worse, trust me."

"I don't want to pry," he said, voice dipping warm and steady, "but if you ever want to talk, I'm around." As he spoke, his gaze drifted to the gold chain around your neck—the one gleaming with the carved 坐院, the Zen'in name catching the light like a small, heavy truth.

"Oh—this?" you said, fingers brushing over it instinctively. "My sensei gave it to me. Kind of like... a family heirloom."

Your voice brightened without your permission. Even thinking about Toji did that—his rough hands, his blunt affection, the way he treated you like a person before anything else.

"He must be a very nice person to make you smile like that," Suguru replied, and his smile echoed yours, softened by something almost fond.

"Anyway, for the project..." you cleared your throat, trying to regain your balance. "It's probably better if we work at your place. Mine is... not exactly ideal for studying." Not unless he wanted to deal with clan politics, cold stares, and Naoya's smug, slug-like face. The thought alone made you shiver.

Suguru nodded easily. "That's fine with me."

You both began gathering your notes, slipping into a quiet, comfortable rhythm. Somewhere behind you, Gojo shot a glance in your direction—just one quick look at the way you and Suguru seemed to fall into step so naturally—before turning back to his own desk, strangely silent.

//

"MARRIAGE?" Your voice cracked through the midnight air like a spell gone wrong, sharp enough that a cluster of squirrels launched themselves off the garden stones and vanished into the hedges.

You stood in the dewy dark behind the Zen'in mansion, moonlight dripping down your stunned face as you stared at Toji with all the awe of someone witnessing the universe glitch.

He didn't even flinch. Of course he didn't. Toji stood there with that infuriating, self-satisfied smirk — the kind that looked carved into his mouth by every bad decision he'd ever proudly made.

"Pipe down," he muttered, waving his hand lazily as though that would somehow tuck your panic back into your ribs. "You're gonna wake everyone up."

Your jaw stayed exactly where he'd knocked it — on the ground — as your mind spun like a cursed gear. "Wait—wait, wait, hold on, I'm trying to figure this out." You pressed both palms to your temples, pacing in frantic circles around the stone lantern.

"The clan will never accept this. Never. Toji, they barely acknowledge you exist—this is crazy, the elders will have an aneurysm. They'll say you're unfit, they'll say I'm unfit, they'll—"

"Who says I'm asking their permission?"

Your steps faltered, and for a moment you weren't sure whether you were standing on solid earth or sinking straight through it. You blinked at him, slow, disbelieving, and then simply collapsed backward onto the grass, hoping the universe would take the hint and wake you from this fever dream. "Running away? Toji, that's— that's treason. You won't be allowed within one foot of the palace ever again. Your parents, your family — they'll turn their backs on you."

The moonlight softened as he crouched beside you, and the usual sharpness in his gaze melted into something almost painful in its gentleness — a softness he reserved for exactly one person on earth.

"Kid," he said, voice low, rough, warmer than you deserved, "I don't care about them." He scooped you up before you could argue, lifting you effortlessly and settling you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing more than a stubborn thought. "They can all die for all I care."

His hand steadied you, large and warm at your waist, grounding you in the trembling moment.

"There's only one person I give a damn about in that entire rotten family."

He shifted you down into his arms so you were eye-level with him, so close you could feel his breath on your cheeks, feel the steady, unshakeable conviction radiating off him.

"And that's you."

The words hit like a strike straight to the heart — not violent, but overwhelming in their sincerity, blooming through your chest until your breath stuttered. Tears welled hot and fast, blurring the silver garden into watercolor. Your lower lip trembled once... twice... and then you simply broke.

You threw your arms around his neck, clinging tight enough that your small fingers trembled against his skin. Your tears soaked through his shirt as though you could anchor yourself there, as though holding him hard enough might slow time, or stop it, or beg it to let you keep him a little longer. It was insane — absurd, reckless, Toji-level insane — but in this enormous, suffocating household, he was the one person who actually saw you.

And losing that felt like plunging headfirst into a cage that would lock behind you forever.

"You know this isn't goodbye, right?" he murmured, settling you back on your feet with a gentleness so at odds with the sharp edges of his reputation. He ruffled your hair, softening the moment with the kind of affection that made your heart ache all over again. "You still have your training sessions. They'll just be near my girlfriend's place. I'll always be around. Send me a letter, call, scream my name into the void, I'll hear you."

You sniffed, rubbing your eyes with the palms of your tiny hands. "Yeah... of course. I'm really happy for you," you mumbled, voice still wobbling like a loose thread. Then, because you were you, and he was him, you added with a snort, "But has she gone insane marrying someone like you?"

He sweatdropped so hard even the moon seemed amused. "One minute you're crying like I died, the next you're roasting me alive," he muttered, a reluctant laugh slipping out. He dropped onto the grass beside you, the earth dipping under his weight. "You're unbelievable, kid."

He leaned back on his arms, staring at the sky as though it was confessing secrets. "I'm gonna propose today. If it goes well... I'll move in with her. Find a good job. Settle down. Maybe have a kid or two." His voice softened until it glowed. "I really love her. She fixes me. Grounds me. Loves me for everything I am, not for whatever the clan decided I should've been. When I'm with her, I feel like... like I'm enough. And I wanna spend the rest of my life protecting that."

You had never seen him like this, balanced between hope and certainty, bathed in a gentleness that didn't belong to the Toji you knew but to the man he was becoming. It was intoxicating, almost too lovely for a nine-year-old heart to understand, but you understood enough to feel its grandeur.

"I'm twenty-four," he continued, voice lighter now. "Feels like the right time." Then he glanced at you sideways, grin tugging at his lips. "And don't worry. I won't forget you. Actually... this might sound early. Maybe I'm drunk on love or whatever. But when we do have a kid... would you be their godmother?"

Your gasp was so loud you slapped your hands over your mouth as though trying to shove the surprise back in. "Godmother...?" you whispered, staring down at the grass as your thoughts exploded into a thousand tiny lights. "Are you sure? I don't even know if I can protect myself, let alone, Toji, I'm nine. My brain is... still soup."

He barked out a laugh. "They'll love you. I already decided. You're their godmother — and you'll be strong enough. Stronger than that fraud Gojo, actually." He winked as he stood, offering his hand. "Because you've got something most people don't. Humility. Heart. The stuff that actually matters. Don't underestimate yourself, kid."

You took his hand, letting him pull you up into the night breeze. You dusted off your yukata as the moon spilled white fire across the garden, painting everything with quiet promise.

"Now come on," he said, eyes shining with a rare, hopeful spark. "Let's go propose. I want you there. You're already like our kid anyway; she won't stop asking about you."

Unbeknownst to either of you, a small silhouette lingered just beyond the lamplight — still as a statue, sharp as a thorn. Naoya. His thin frame pressed against the wood of a veranda pillar, his eyes glinting with the smug amusement of a cat who had just cornered something fragile and precious.

He hadn't meant to find you. He'd only slipped outside, annoyed and thirsty, planning to bully the nearest servant into fetching him water since everyone had apparently vanished into thin air. But then he saw Toji — towering, rebellious, breaking every rule the clan suffocated him with — and beside him, you, small and trembling and glowing with childish loyalty.

It was delicious.

A secret blooming wide open in the night like a forbidden flower. A weakness. A weapon.

Naoya smirked, slow and serpentine, the kind of smile that curled like smoke and promised nothing kind.

"HOW ENTERTAINING"

Chapter 8: 部分8

THE PROPOSAL FELT LIKE stepping into a dream you weren't prepared for — a world painted in softer colors, warm and shimmering, where love wasn't something whispered behind doors or traded like currency, but something real enough to make your chest ache.

Toji had gone down on one knee with a diamond ring that glittered like a stolen star, and the look he shared with his girlfriend... gods, it was blinding. It was the first time you'd ever seen love not as theory, nor duty, nor a clan-bound obligation — but as something so full and whole it seemed to breathe on its own.

You found yourself watching them with your heart in your throat, a strange stirring blooming in your small chest. A wish. A quiet, trembling yearning. Would someone ever look at you like that? Would someone ever see you — truly see you — beyond your clan name, beyond expectations, beyond power and lineage? Would anyone ever hold you like you were an entire world instead of a weapon waiting to be forged?

You didn't dare say it aloud, but the longing settled in you like a tender bruise.

When his girlfriend asked where the ring came from, Toji answered with the casual arrogance of a man completely at ease with his own chaos: embezzled from the clan funds. You couldn't tell whether to applaud, faint, or report him — but the joy on his face was so profound that you decided, quietly, that maybe happiness sometimes outweighed morality. Just a little.

She was beautiful, too — soft where he was sharp, gentle where he was rough. And when they kissed, you turned away quickly, cheeks warming, giving them privacy because it felt wrong to intrude on something so intimate, so sacred. Yet still... your chest tightened with that small, impossible wish again.

When they finally pulled apart, she bent down to your level and hugged you, her arms warm, her scent floral and comforting. Toji ruffled your hair with a tenderness he'd never show another soul.

"Keep yourself safe in that hellhole, kid," he murmured, thumb brushing your temple. "You'll always be welcome here."

For a moment, you believed him — believed in the foreverness of their love, believed that maybe, just maybe, the universe wasn't as cruel as the Zenin walls made it feel.

He walked you back through the cool night air, moonlight silvering the path to the mansion. Just before you reached the gates, he placed a folded letter into your hands — a letter heavy with finality, with rebellion, with his choice to never return.

"Drop this off near the security quarters," he said, voice low. "And sleep well. By morning... everything will be chaos."

You nodded, gripping the letter tightly, your heart both soaring and sinking.

Moving like a shadow, you slipped through hallways you'd known since infancy, your bare feet silent on polished floors, your breath held tight in your lungs. You eased the letter into place by the guard station, and for a heartbeat, you stood there in the dim light — a child holding the weight of a man's goodbye.

Then you retreated to your chambers, closing the sliding doors with a soft whisper.

You lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling, knowing dawn would bring a storm that would shake the clan... and knowing Toji had chosen love over all of it.

//

"Welcome—oh!" A warm voice greeted you before you even finished knocking. A woman with long, sea-green hair tucked partly into a loose bun stood in the doorway, an apron tied neatly around her waist and a ladle still in her hand. Her smile was the kind that made even the smallest, shyest part of you unclench — gentle, genuine, soft around the edges.

You couldn't help thinking she might be the kindest person you'd ever seen. "Suguru's been waiting for you," she said with a knowing grin, opening the door wider so you could step inside.

Behind you, your assigned escort bowed stiffly. "Miss [Name], I will be off now. I shall return in a few hours." Her voice held that formal tilt all Zen'in servants had, the kind that reminded you you were watched everywhere — even here.

You bowed politely to Geto's mother, then slipped off your shoes and tucked them neatly to the side, trying not to look too nervous even though your heart beat just a little too quickly.

Soft footsteps padded down the hallway, and when you lifted your head, Suguru appeared — bright-eyed, smiling widely, like seeing you genuinely made him happy. Your sweet little heart thumped loud enough that you were sure both his ancestors and yours heard it.

"[Name]! You made it!" he said, raising his hand for a high-five, and you slapped it back with a grin. His house was small, humble, but warm in a way your sprawling mansion never was — the kind of home that felt lived in, held together by love rather than formality.

"I like your house," you said honestly, looking around at the cozy living room with its soft lights and faint smell of simmering broth. "It's really nice."

Before Suguru could reply, another set of footsteps approached — heavier, more dramatic — and your soul shriveled on instinct.

"Ugh. You're here," Gojo Satoru announced, his face twisting as if he'd just bitten into a lemon. You briefly considered sprinting back home without your escort, braving the streets rather than suffering one more second of Gojo's existence.

"Geto," you said through a suspiciously serene smile, refusing to even glance at the white-haired menace, "why is he here?"

"Well..." Suguru scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. "He, um... wanted to do his project here too. With his partner."

As if summoned, a familiar girl stepped into view, raising a lazy hand in greeting. "Yo," she said simply, a lollipop tucked between her lips. Short brown hair, sharp eyes, and a mole under one — Ieiri Shoko, the girl whose curse technique was so efficient even your teachers whispered about it.

"[Name], ignore this idiot," Shoko said, grabbing Gojo by the ear with the brutality of someone who'd been immune to his nonsense since birth. "We'll do our project in the living room. You two can use Suguru's room."

"OW—Shoko, let go—OW—" Gojo whined dramatically as she dragged him away like a misbehaving puppy, his limbs flailing just enough to make you snicker behind one hand.

Suguru laughed softly at the spectacle, then turned back to you with that gentle, sunset-warm smile that made your heartbeat stutter again. "Come on," he said, gesturing for you to follow him down the hallway. "My room's this way."

You shot Gojo one final, triumphant tongue-out before slipping out of sight, and the way his eye twitched nearly made you cackle. Victory.

Suguru's room was humble, almost tender in the way it held pieces of him. Clean tatami floor, a soft carpet, a few toys neatly set aside, books arranged with a care that spoke of quiet habits rather than wealth. It felt lived in. Safe. Like a place where secrets wouldn't echo.

You settled on the floor, your knees brushing the low table as Suguru sat across from you. His neatly stacked books stared at you from the shelf—of course he was the type to organize by height or color, the kind of boy who took pride in gentle order.

"So," he began, pulling out a hilariously large pouch of colored markers and stationery that made you blink in awe, "our topic is inherited techniques from the major clans."

He spread everything out like a little rainbow arsenal, and you couldn't help but nod, impressed.

"Well, lucky us," you said, rummaging through your papers. "The Zenin clan basically drills this into our brains from the moment we can walk."

Your hand brushed one sheet at the same time his reached for it, and the brief touch of his fingers made you jolt. You coughed, yanked your hand back, and he only smiled like he'd noticed—and found it endearing.

"I can talk about my technique too," Suguru added. "Cursed Spirit Manipulation. After I defeat a curse, I can absorb it. Use it later."

You stared at him, eyes wide. "That's... ridiculously cool."

He laughed softly, the sound warm enough to melt winter. "Thanks. But I bet your technique is even better."

You snorted, but your cheeks warmed anyway. "It's kinda cool, I guess."

Your fingers moved through familiar signs, the motions flowing like water. With a soft shimmer of cursed energy, your two demon dogs appeared — gray and blue, their foreheads marked, their tails wagging wildly at the sight of you.

They tackled you in greeting, their weight comforting, familiar. Then, suddenly, their ears perked—detecting kindness, no doubt—and they launched themselves toward Suguru.

"Whoa!" he laughed as the puppies shoved against him, tails slapping, tongues out. His laughter was light, genuine, the kind that seeped into your bones and made something in you loosen.

"Wow," he breathed, running gentle fingers along their heads. "These two... they're adorable."

He stroked the gray dog behind the ears, fingers slow and careful. "They really like you," you said, surprised at how... warm your voice sounded.

He glanced up, and for a moment his eyes met yours fully—soft brown, steady, warm like tea in winter. "I think," he said, giving a tiny smile, "they trust people who feel safe to you."

That shouldn't have made your heart skip. It did anyway.

You cleared your throat and looked at your notes as if they might save you from drowning in whatever this was. "A-Anyway," you mumbled, tapping the paper, "we should, um—actually start the project."

"Right. Clan techniques." He pulled a notebook toward him, but the smile lingered on his lips, like he hadn't quite let go of the moment either.

"Hey," he said suddenly, not looking up, "can you show me another of your summons later? Only if you want to."

"Sure," you said, the word coming out softer than intended. "But only if you show me one of the curses you've absorbed."

He lifted his head, a slow smile blooming. "Deal."

You opened your mouth to answer, but—

The door SLAMMED open so violently your puppies jumped and instantly tried to murder the intruder with yaps and baby snarls.

"That's MY cue to enter!" Gojo Satoru announced like a man convinced the universe existed purely to host his theatrics. "Did you kids miss me? Of course you did."

You didn't look up. "You also bring migraines."

"I bring joy, [Name]. Something that you clearly lack," Gojo corrected, stepping inside and immediately kicking over a stack of books he definitely saw. "Anyway! Whatcha doing? Studying? Bonding? Falling in forbidden, youthful love?"

You choked. Suguru dropped his pen.

Gojo gasped theatrically. "OH. MY. GOD." He pointed at you both like he'd caught you committing treason. "YOU ARE bonding."

"Get out," Suguru said, a vein in his forehead appearing like a war declaration.

But Gojo only sauntered in further, dropping to the floor beside you with the dramatics of a man collapsing onto a fainting couch. "No, no, no. I must PREVENT academic burnout. Shoko said I need to 'stop being annoying for five seconds' but like—why start now?"

"SATORU!"
Shoko stormed in like divine retribution, a pillow flying from her hand with sniper precision. It bounced uselessly off his Infinity, and he cackled, delighted.

Geto shot you a long-suffering look—one that failed miserably at hiding how much he adored these idiots. "See? This is my daily suffering."

"Oh my god. Puppies," Gojo gasped dramatically as your demon dogs edged toward him with the stiff politeness of creatures sensing chaos incarnate.

You raised a brow. "They don't like you."

"Whatever," he huffed. "I like cats better anyway."

You snorted, and Shoko plopped down beside you with a sigh. "Honestly, if he annoys you again, just smack him. He still flickers his Infinity on and off like a toddler with a light switch." She dug into her pocket, produced a fistful of lollipops, and handed you one like a peace offering.

The four of you ended up merging your projects: Geto's gentle leadership, your patient scribbling, Shoko's dry remarks, and Gojo's running commentary all weaving into a strangely warm quiet. Your dogs barked at Gojo every time he leaned too close, which only encouraged him to test how close he could get.

Eventually, Geto's mother called for him and Shoko to help in the kitchen, and they slipped away together, leaving you and Gojo in a silence that wasn't quite comfortable but not hostile either, more like something holding its breath, waiting for a choice.

You could feel his presence, bold and bright, like a flame trying not to notice the oxygen drawn to it. After a moment, you turned to him with a small spark of mischief flickering in your thoughts.

"Can I test your Infinity?"

He blinked as if startled awake, head tilting in that absurd way of his, yet he straightened proudly. "Of course. Prepare to be amazed." Rolling your eyes, you leaned forward, closing the space inch by inch until the air between you grew taut with a quiet tension.

You raised your hand. He raised his. Your palms hovered impossibly close, so close you could feel the warmth beneath his skin even though your fingertips never touched. The gap felt like a whisper—thin, trembling, almost tender.

Then you made the mistake of meeting his gaze. Blue. That same infuriating blue you hated admitting was your favorite, not because of him but because fate clearly enjoyed mocking you. The words slipped out before you could stop them, soft and embarrassingly sincere: "Your eyes... are really pretty."

For the first time, Gojo didn't have a comeback.

Colour rushed across his cheeks in a helpless bloom, his breath hitched, and his Infinity faltered—just for a heartbeat, just long enough for your hand to slip through and your palm to meet his. The touch was warm, startling, painfully human.

His fingers twitched against yours, then curled, tentative and unsure, as if even he didn't understand why he was holding your hand instead of pulling away. The room seemed to blur, gravity tilting into that small space between your entwined fingers, his wide-open eyes drinking in something he had never bothered to see in you before.

For the first time, he wasn't looking at you—

he was looking into you.

And just when the silence became unbearably delicate, the door slid open and Shoko and Geto reappeared with snacks, the spell breaking like a ripple through water.

You jerked your hand back quicker than lightning, heat flooding your face as Shoko tackled you with a hug and Geto's gentle eyes flicked between you and Gojo with quiet curiosity he didn't voice.

Your escort arrived soon after, bowing politely as you gathered your things, and the room filled again with the familiar hum of voices. Shoko waving her lollipop like a flag, Geto smiling with that warm patience that made you feel seen, and Gojo sitting unusually still, fingers flexing subtly as if remembering the shape of your hand.

The moment you stepped through the clan's gates, the warmth of Geto's home evaporated like breath in winter. The Zenin compound pulsed with a frantic, animal kind of chaos—voices layered over one another, servants scurrying, elders demanding answers, the air thick with accusation and fear.

But none of that mattered, not when your gaze was pulled—magnetized—to him.

Naoya stood perfectly still amid the storm, untouched by the hysteria swirling around him. His posture calm. His hands folded neatly behind his back.

His expression carved into that familiar, razor-thin smile that never reached his eyes. And those eyes... sharp, glinting, gleefully poisonous... locked onto you the moment you entered the hall.

He didn't move, didn't blink, didn't speak.
He simply watched you like a predator who had suddenly discovered a secret worth savoring.

THIS WASN'T GOOD.

Chapter 9: 部分 9

"LOOK AT WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN," he purred, eyes glinting like polished blades as the doors of the estate thudded shut behind you.

The chaos of the clan still roared through the halls—shouting elders, panicked servants, the echo of footsteps—but somehow his words sliced through the noise, sharp enough to make your shoulders tense. He stepped closer, the faintest hum of satisfaction woven into every syllable.

"You know," he mused, tilting his head as if admiring a painting, "I'm truly shocked at the clan's new policies for women. Imagine that—you, wandering off to another man's house without a proper guardian. Almost disgraceful, isn't it?"

Your eye twitched. Your knuckles whitened around your schoolbag. But you forced the sweetest, most poisonous smile you could muster.

"I was doing a school project, your highness," you snapped, the title dripping like acid as you stepped past him.

But his hand was faster. His fingers circled your wrist, cold and clammy, halting your escape. The hallway seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with tension. His grip wasn't bruising—no, Naoya never needed force. His words were enough to suffocate.

He leaned in, breath brushing your ear like winter's chill.

"You let Toji escape."

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the suffocating quiet that followed his accusation. Every sound in the hallway—the rustle of robes, the distant clatter of hurried footsteps, even the low hum of clan gossip—seemed to dissolve into a muted haze, as if the entire Zenin estate paused to watch you balance on the sharp edge of Naoya's words.

"That," he whispered, savoring each syllable as though it were a rare delicacy meant only for him, "is aiding in treason."

A shiver slid down your spine. You forced your jaw tight, willed your lungs to work, and snapped your wrist free from his grip with a sharp twist.

"I have no clue what you're talking about," you said, steady but simmering. "Toji left without informing me. I have nothing to do with a traitor."

He watched the motion of your retreat with leisurely cruelty, eyes dragging over you slow enough to make your skin itch. "Your family would be in huge trouble if the elders found out about your... involvement. And they'll believe my word over yours." That smile again—thin, poisonous, blooming into something worse as he tilted his head. He was imagining something already. Designing it.

Your chest tightened. "You want something from me," you said, the words pushed out on a cold breath as the wind threaded through your hair, lifting the strands like some ominous omen.

"Yeah," he laughed, airy and delighted, like oppression were a game. "I'll ask something of you—and you'll agree to it. Whether now or in the future." His voice curled downward, dismissive, dripping with the casual misogyny the clan seemed to cultivate and crown. Naoya was every rotten tradition, every cruel expectation, every suffocating rule condensed into a single smirking man.

Your face twisted despite you. Whatever he wanted—whatever he planned—it churned your stomach, but even that felt safer than the horrors the elders would unleash if he opened his mouth in the wrong room.

Before you could speak again, a booming voice crashed through the hallway like a drunken thunderclap.

"Naoya! What are you doing here? The clan is deciding Toji's fate if that bastard ever decides to show his pathetic face again!"

Naobito entered with the authority of a man who had never once questioned his own dominance. The clan's head. The ruler. Zenin Naobito, and unfortunately for you, the father of the viper still standing far too close.

You dropped instantly. The cold stone kissed your forehead as you bowed, spine curving in practiced submission, hands stiff at your sides. It was customary—mandatory—for everyone to fold themselves to him like this. You could feel Naoya smirk above you, smug at seeing you forced lower than his own shadow.

"Ahh," Naobito hummed, swaying slightly with the bottle clutched in his hand, "you're the kid who's doing so well in school. Quite impressive for a girl. Shame you haven't developed your cursed technique yet—but you've got some remarkable cursed energy. Even with all this booze, I can still see it."

He barked a laugh, loud and careless, sloshing the alcohol. Naoya exhaled sharply beside him, the irritation clear even through his attempt at composure.

"YOU KNOW WHAT—" Naobito suddenly hollered, a burst of sound so violent you jolted upright in shock. Even Naoya flinched, eyes widening.

"You should join us in the meeting about Toji's little escape!" Naobito beamed like he'd just discovered a new party trick. "It'll be hilarious seeing you there. The rest of the elders will be fuming, but they won't be able to say a damn thing!"

He laughed, delighted by the chaos he was about to unleash.

But beside him, Naoya's protest split the air, sharp and urgent, a jarring crack in his usual silk-smooth arrogance, as though even he sensed something slipping out of his grasp. His composure wavered, the edges of his certainty fraying.

"[Name], return to your chambers."

The voice cut like a cold blade—steady, practiced, unyielding. Your father. Zenin Masamune. You lifted your gaze and found him standing just behind Naobito, face carved into that familiar stonewall calm. His eyes flickered to you for only a heartbeat—quiet, assessing, something almost soft buried beneath layers of duty and resignation.

"Sire," he continued, addressing Naobito with measured respect, "with all due respect, we've reached a conclusion regarding Toji. We need to finalize the statement and present it to the elders."

A clever diversion. A lifeline disguised as formality. But your father was never a man of grand gestures—his affection had always existed in the half-second hesitations, the tiniest reroutings of danger.

His hands were tied as firmly as yours, bound by centuries of tradition and expectation, by a clan that choked its own members in the name of legacy. He couldn't defy them for you... but he could shift the spotlight away before it burned you alive.

Naobito blinked, then burst into another booming laugh. "Right, right! Business before fun, I suppose." He waved his hand lazily, herding his son and Masamune down the corridor like unruly cattle.

They moved past you, the air warm with their presence, smelling of alcohol and old power. You stayed perfectly still, perfectly silent, your heartbeat thundering in your ears as you whispered a prayer into the quiet—one the walls would never dare carry.

But Naoya... Naoya didn't go quietly.

He looked back over his shoulder, eyes hooking into yours like barbs dipped in honey. A slow, syrup-thick smile curved his mouth—patient, poisonous. Then, with a single finger pressed to his lips, he offered a mockery of secrecy, a whispered promise only the wicked could enjoy.

Your breath hitched.

You tore your gaze from him before the panic could claim your face, telling yourself—begging yourself—that maybe, maybe Naoya would ask for something simple. Something petty. Something survivable. You tried to believe there might be a sliver of goodness left in him, a mercy somewhere beneath the rot.

Even the wind seemed to scoff as it curled through your hair.

But you couldn't linger in the thought.

You had to leave.
You had training waiting for you—training at Toji's place, far from the suffocating walls of your own clan. You tried to focus on that instead.

You had just unlocked the fourth shadow curse: the great serpent, Orochi. A creature ancient enough to taste the marrow of the earth the moment it rose. You still had to subdue it, force it to kneel to your will before it would obey. The others had come easier, bending beneath your touch with the clumsy eagerness of power newly awakened.

Your body ached, bruises pulsing like small, sharp stars beneath your skin. Yet you pushed on—because every time your strength faltered, your mother's face flickered across your mind like a lantern swinging in the dark.

If you hadn't been born into this clan, life would have been easier.
If you had been born a boy, maybe they would've celebrated you instead of weighing you down with their expectations.

And sometimes, when exhaustion carved itself too deeply inside you, you wondered if not being born at all would've been the gentler fate.

//

"Satoru-sama."

His name drifted through the air like a prayer, a plea, a reverence whispered to a god who never asked to be worshipped. The entire Gojo clan knelt on the polished floor—even his grandfather, the official head of the family. But titles meant nothing when a child was born harboring both the Six Eyes and Limitless. Power reordered the universe around him.

Power pinned even old men to their knees.

Gojo sat alone in the high seat, slouched with one cheek resting on his palm, the picture of a boy bored out of his mind. He was supposed to be in his room right now, glued to his new Bokemon game, losing himself in color and fantasy. Instead, he had been dragged here, forced into yet another suffocating clan meeting dressed as "tradition."

"Upon our intel," the clan head began, voice trembling with both dread and awe, "a member of the Zenin clan has awakened the Ten Shadows technique."

Satoru's stomach plummeted.
They knew. Or they were close enough that knowing was only a breath away.

"We have not yet identified who possesses it," the clan head continued. "In truth, it is likely the Zenin themselves are unaware of the awakening."

The room erupted into frantic whispers. Elder after elder exchanged panicked looks, their gazes sharp with fear. Because if fate had truly woven a world where a Six Eyes Limitless user and

Ten Shadows user bloomed in the same era...
It could only mean calamity.

The kind of history that would be carved in blood and inevitability.

Only the Ten Shadows could stand toe-to-toe with the unstoppable force of the Gojo clan. That was the reason peace existed—because someone always held an advantage, and everyone else trembled politely around it.

"One of our sensory-type members detected the technique being used," Satoru's grandfather said, voice taut. "The signature was faint, but unmistakable."

Satoru felt his pulse thunder in his throat.
That sensor had been with him—out near the Zenin compound—when he'd stumbled upon you in the courtyard, training relentlessly with that quiet, intimidating man who wielded no cursed energy at all.

They must have sensed something then. Not enough to pinpoint, not enough to raise alarms—just enough to paint a shadow of possibility.

"This makes no sense," a clan member muttered, panic sharpening every word. "If the Zenin had a Ten Shadows user, they'd be celebrating it in our faces. They'd be bragging until the heavens begged for silence."

"But they haven't," someone murmured, the words slipping into the air like a dark omen drifting through still water, and the room seemed to tighten around the truth of it. "Which means something is being hidden. And anything the Zenin hide is dangerous."

Conversations simmered beneath the surface, a low, uneasy ripple, until another voice rose to pierce the quiet, asking what should be done—though the question felt hollow, because every gaze had already drifted toward the one seated above them all.

Satoru straightened as if pulled up by invisible strings, the lazy curve of his spine unfolding, the indifference on his face carefully smoothed into something alert. The clan head watched him with a weight that felt older than any of the walls surrounding them.

"We must prepare for the worst," an elder finally said, his tone trembling with dread he dared not name. "Satoru-sama... your training must be increased for the safety of our clan." Heads dipped in agreement, not reverent but fearful, as if acknowledging a shrine built from necessity, not devotion.

Of course. A weapon. That was what he was—what he had always been. Wrapped in honorifics, gilded with worship, polished with expectations until he gleamed too brightly to be seen as a child at all. They called him their treasure, their miracle, their heavenly eye... but the truth sat cold in his chest: a miracle is only adored so long as it protects the ones who demand its existence.

"There's no Ten Shadows user," he said, voice light, airy, almost bored, as if the entire discussion were a tedious rumor. "I would've sensed it. I see through everything. They aren't going to attack as long as I'm alive." The lie dripped from his tongue like honey masking a tremor, a thin veil cast over the panic curling deep inside him. His leash was tightening, and he could feel it.

"Regardless," another elder intoned, his stare sharp as a blade's edge, "your protection must increase. And your training... is inevitable." The room shifted, the air thickening with plans they had already begun weaving around him—fortifying him, drilling him, molding him into something that could never fall out of their control.

They wanted answers from the Zenin. They wanted confrontation. They wanted war if necessary. And Satoru knew, with a chill threading through his veins, that if they kept digging, they would find you.

As much as he fought it—your stubbornness, your sharp tongue, your way of getting under his skin—he couldn't bear the thought of you being handled the way they handled him. Bent. Weaponized. Owned.

His grandfather's voice slithered into the moment, soft as silk and twice as dangerous. "After all," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting in gentle cruelty, "you wouldn't want a massacre of a clan who has done nothing wrong... would you, Satoru?" The sweetness in his tone curdled, revealing the manipulation beneath, a pressure disguised as affection. Satoru felt the faint twitch in his eye, the smallest crack in the porcelain mask they had carved onto him since birth.

Maybe he really should train harder.

Not for them, not for the clan that saw him only as a shield carved into human form—but for himself. For the faint, distant possibility of tearing free from the elders who crafted him into something unbreakable only so they could shackle him tighter. For the hope that one day he might be strong enough to kill the hands that dared to shape him.

Power was the only language they taught him.
Perhaps it was time he spoke it back.

So that was why he stood here now, barred from the Zenin mansion like some ghost pressing its face to a temple gate. This—climbing their walls under moonlight—was Satoru Gojo's version of rebellion. That, and the inconvenient truth that he had come for you. To warn you. To... see you.

He didn't like the feeling that twisted in his stomach as he stared up at the towering stone. Queasy, restless. Wrong. It made him irritated simply because he didn't understand it—and Satoru Gojo despised anything he couldn't understand.

He didn't want blood on anyone's hands. Not the Zenin. Not the Gojos. Not yours. And so he'd dragged himself here, skipping past ten lifetimes of political etiquette to trespass like some stray god who refused to stay in his shrine.

Every clan kept one of Sukuna's fingers tucked away like a cursed insurance policy. The rest slept in the vaults of Tokyo Jujutsu High. No clan dared awaken the King of Curses—because to do so would guarantee their annihilation. Should Sukuna return, the only possible victory lay in a joint effort of all clans, their proudest techniques braided together like a desperate prayer. Gojo assumed such a day would never come in his lifetime, but the thought hovered like a shadow behind every elder's fear.

He shrugged the notion aside. Catastrophes were always the worries of old men. Night belonged to children like him—reckless, stubborn, too brilliant for their own good.

Barely ten years old and already climbing the Zenin walls with practiced ease, he let his technique expand like a soft blue bloom behind his eyes, sensing every movement, every particle, every breath around him. The constant clarity made his skull throb. Seeing through people—down to their atoms—was less a gift and more a headache stitched into his brainstem.

If he remembered correctly, your room was somewhere near the sad little koi pond that looked like its fish prayed for death. He followed the faint silver-blue thread of your cursed energy until he reached a sliding door more worn than the rest of the estate, touched by neglect.

He eased it open. Darkness pooled inside. The moon barely reached you, leaving your silhouette curled in sleep. And beside you, a small figure—another cursed energy signature, softer, younger. A brother, he guessed.

Satoru crouched low, crawling across the tatami because the boards betrayed even the quietest footsteps.

"[Name]," he whispered, shaking your shoulder.

"No, sensei, I don't have money... go away..." you mumbled, face buried in your pillow.

Satoru twitched.

"Oi, idiot—wake up."

You shot upright instantly, hair sticking out like you'd fought a typhoon, dropping into a fighting stance before your vision even cleared.

"Shh, it's me—me," Gojo hissed, clapping a hand over your mouth as you nearly shrieked. Moonlight spilled behind him, turning his pale lashes into silver threads and casting him in a glow too soft for someone like him. For a moment, it almost made him look gentle.

Your eyes widened. Then narrowed.

"This is a nightmare," you grumbled, smacking his hand away. "Obviously. Why else would Gojo Satoru be in my room, at this unholy hour, inside the Zenin compound, where you could literally be executed for trespassing?"

You turned away as if to lie back down.

Gojo grabbed your wrist, scandalized. "I'm offended you think your pathetic clan stands a chance against me."

You gaped at him. "Are you insane? Actually—don't answer that. Of course you are. You've lost every brain cell you ever had."

He stared at you, jaw tightening. "Okay, now I feel extra stupid for coming here to give you advice."

You snorted, covering your mouth so your brother wouldn't wake. "Look, Gojo, I'm flattered, but I don't have a crush on you like your fangirls. So why are you here?"

His hands twitched. He looked seconds away from throttling you for the sake of peace in the universe.

"Because, my good friend," he drawled, each word dipped in pure sarcasm, "your technique is about to incite a war between clans if I don't keep you out of sight."

Your amusement cracked.

"What?"

He shrugged, but his eyes carried a weight that made your stomach drop.

"There's a rumor. A dangerous one. Someone sensed Ten Shadows being used. And if they find out it's you—"

You felt your heart still.

Satoru leaned in just enough for his whisper to brush your ear.

"—you're dead. And so is everyone around you."

Your breath snagged—caught somewhere between disbelief and a fear so sharp it felt like a glass thread pulled taut beneath your ribs.

"Dead?" you whispered, because the word tasted different when spoken in the dark, when a sleeping little brother lay only a few feet away, unaware that his entire world could crumble before morning.

Gojo didn't flinch. He didn't soften. But something flickered behind his eyes—an unspoken understanding, a quiet admission that he had lived with such threats since his first breath.

"Yeah," he murmured, gaze steady on you as if daring you to fall apart. "Dead. And I'm really not in the mood to attend a funeral tonight, so would you please focus?"

There it was—his personality peeking through the cracks, absurdly misplaced and somehow reassuring.

You stared at him, half horrified, half wanting to smack him.

"You couldn't have led with something gentler?" you hissed.

"I did," he whispered back indignantly. "I said 'advice.' That's gentle."

You almost choked. "Advice is telling me to study harder. Not 'hey, you might trigger a clan war.'"

He rolled his eyes so hard the moonlight practically reflected off them. "Drama queen. You're worse than Shoko."

Despite yourself—despite the fear clinging to your throat like smoke—you snorted. The sound was soft, barely there, but it broke the tension for one fragile heartbeat.

And Satoru froze.
You didn't notice, but the smallest, most dangerous part of him noticed the way your laughter settled into his bones like an echo he didn't know he'd been missing.

He cleared his throat loudly.

"Look," he said, leaning back on his hands, posture lazy but voice threaded with an urgency that betrayed him, "someone in my clan sensed the Ten Shadows. They don't know it's you. Yet. But they're not stupid. They're suspicious. And suspicious adults do whatever they want, even if it means leveling a whole family."

Your stomach twisted. "They'd... really start a war over a child?"

He didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted over your small, dim room—the cracked wooden beams, the old tatami mats, the thin blanket you'd wrapped around yourself like armor. Everything about this place screamed vulnerability. Powerless. Overlooked.

He hated it.
He didn't know why he hated it—but he did.

"Gojo," you repeated softly. "Would they?"

He sighed, long and slow, as though pulling the truth from a place he didn't want to look at too closely.

"Yes," he said at last, voice barely above a murmur. "If they think it protects our clan. If they think it protects me."

Something inside you wilted and coiled at the same time.

Of course.
Of course they would risk everything over him—the chosen one, the miracle child, the limitless blue miracle the world whispered about behind locked doors.

And then his voice cut through your spiraling thoughts, sharp and unexpectedly earnest.

"But I'm not going to let them."

You blinked.

He looked straight at you—really looked at you—with the kind of intensity that made your chest feel too small.

"You're annoying," he continued matter-of-factly. "And rude. And you act like you're eight feet tall when you're barely half my height"

You glared.

"—but," he went on, ignoring you, "you're not a weapon. You're a kid. And I'm not letting anyone turn you into something like me."

Your breath trembled.

He said it so casually, like someone tossing a secret onto the floor just to see what shape it made. But nothing about his tone was casual. It held an ache. A truth. A weight far too heavy for a child his age to carry.

"Gojo..." you whispered.

He shook his head sharply. "Don't get mushy. I regret saying it already."

But his ears were pink.

And you didn't have the heart to tell him they glowed.

Silence wrapped around you both, thick but not suffocating, warmer than the thin blanket over your lap.

"What do we do?" you finally asked.

He lifted a brow as if insulted you hadn't already figured this out. "Simple. You don't use your technique for a while. Not outside this room. Not outside your head. Not even a little flare."

Your jaw clenched. "But Toji—my training—"

He cut you off with a flick of his wrist. "I don't care what that muscle-brained weirdo taught you. Do you want to stay alive or not?"

You hated how much sense he made.
You hated that he knew it.

But mostly you hated how terrified you suddenly were.

Satoru saw the fear slip through your composure like a dripping crack. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly, something tight and reluctant settling over his features before he reached out and flicked your forehead.

You blinked in outrage. "What was that for—"

"To make you stop worrying," he said simply. "And because your face looked stupid."

"YOU—!"

"Shhh," he hissed, covering your mouth with his palm again. "Do you want your entire clan to hear us and drag me out by the ankles?"

You sputtered under his hand, and for the first time in your short, complicated life, fear didn't feel so suffocating.
Not with him kneeling in front of you like a guardian angel with terrible manners.

When he finally pulled his hand away, you whispered:

"Thank you."

Gojo stared at you like the words were some foreign spell he wasn't sure he believed in.

Then he stood, dusted off his pants, and muttered, "Yeah, yeah... don't make it weird."

But as he reached the door, he paused.

And the moonlight caught on the faintest, SMALLEST SMILE TUGGING AT HIS LIPS.

Chapter 10: 部分 10

"ARE YOU FUCKING with me right now?" he snapped, voice echoing through the living room like a thrown knife. His wife didn't even flinch—she simply drove her elbow into his ribs with the casual precision of someone who'd been doing it for years.

"Toji. Language," she warned lightly, though her smile softened when she turned to you. She placed another plate of treats on the table—warm cookies, golden and soft in the center, their sweetness filling the room like a gentle spell.

You sat cross-legged on their couch, letting the warmth and the scent and the rare quiet of their home settle into the cracks of you. Orochi curled around your arm, its tiny shadowy body swishing contentedly as it nibbled on the fish his wife had lovingly prepared for it.

"Tell that brat to stay the hell away from her," Toji grumbled, jabbing a finger vaguely toward your forehead as if you were somehow responsible for Gojo's existence.

You blinked at him, utterly lost. Of all the reactions you expected today, this wasn't even on the list.

"I—I'll just keep my technique sealed in the clan grounds and avoid anyone with blue eyes," you muttered, half to yourself. Orochi flicked its tail in agreement, unbothered by the storm of human drama around it.

Toji stared at you like the heavens themselves had betrayed him. "Are you seeing this?" he demanded.

"Oh, absolutely," his wife replied, laughter dancing in her voice. "That boy sneaking into her room like he's already planning the wedding."

You nearly choked on air. "No."

"Not happening," Toji added flatly.

His wife snickered. "I'm just saying, it's nice seeing her get attention. Maybe she finally has a boyfriend—"

"NO!" you and Toji barked in perfect sync, horror bonding you like blood.

"Anyway," Toji said, waving the thought away like an annoying fly, "fuck that kid. You're training. End of discussion." He leaned back into his seat, all sharp angles settling back into lazy strength, until a question tugged at you hard enough to pull your voice out.

"You told me never to summon Mahoraga," you said softly, counting the name out on your fingers as if it were a curse. "Why? Isn't that the key to becoming stronger?"

His entire posture shifted, humor gone, laziness gone, replaced by a gravity that settled heavy in your chest. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eyes locked on yours with the kind of intensity he didn't often show.

"Mahoraga isn't strength," he said quietly. "It's the final card you only play if you want to die with style." His voice dropped further, almost reverent. "It adapts. Three attacks, and it learns. After that... not even you stand a chance. No one ever has."

A cold ache curled through your ribs. The clan wanting you to unlock it suddenly felt even more like a noose.

"That's why you learn everything else first," Toji continued, gaze unwavering. "Every shadow. Every technique. You master them until they're carved into your bones. And one day—one day when you're ready, I'll help you take on Mahoraga myself." He leaned back with a familiar grin, wicked and smug. "Naturally, I'll charge you for the service. One hundred million yen."

"Toji." His wife's tone was a warning, laced with fond exasperation.

"Hey, talent like mine doesn't come cheap," he said, shrugging.

You stood, brushing crumbs from your clothes as though they were tiny weights dragging you down, exhaustion tugging at your bones, affection lingering like a reluctant warmth in your chest. "Yeah, I'm leaving before you start charging me for breathing."

"TELL THE ZENIN THAT IT'S FUSHIGURO TOJI FROM NOW ON!" he hollered after you, laughter booming through the small home. Beside him, his wife let out a musical giggle—the kind of soft, honest sound that made the whole room glow. Ugh. They were so disgustingly in love that it made something in you simultaneously ache and gag. Toji, the rough-edged beast of a man, melted into something embarrassingly gentle whenever she smiled at him.

"TELL IT YOURSELF, OLD MAN!" you yelled back as you cracked open the door.

"BRAT!"

"FARTFACE!" You slammed it shut before he could one-up you again.

Inside, Toji watched the door tremble in its frame, a slow amused smile unfurling across his face.

"You know..." his wife murmured as she began clearing the plates, a soft hum beneath her words, "...sometimes I think you two are actual siblings, not cousins."

Toji snorted, a rare softness glinting in his eyes. "More like my stubborn kid."

He stood, stretching lazily before wandering over to her. His rough hand settled instinctively on her belly, the gesture so tender it almost didn't match the man he was. She was only two months along, still early, still delicate; but Toji looked at her like she carried the sun. The man who'd clawed his way through blood and bitterness was finally building something warm and fragile and his own. A family. A beginning. And you: loud, irritating, beloved you, would always be a part of it.

You stepped out into the Tokyo evening with a sigh, the air cool enough to kiss the heat from your cheeks. Streetlights flickered awake overhead as you wandered, letting your thoughts drift until your body moved on instinct alone. That's when you collided into something solid, human, equally startled.

Your forehead throbbed; the stranger hissed and rubbed their own with the same bewildered energy.

"Who the hell—?" you snapped, pointing at the twelve-year-old girl in front of you just as he pointed back at you.

Before either of you could continue, a shriek erupted beside you.

"MY LOLLIPOP!!" A kecil little brown-haired girl stared mournfully at the treat now splattered on the pavement.

You blinked. She blinked.

"...Shoko?" you murmured, leaning forward as if your eyes alone could pull her into focus.

Her frown softened, sliding into something bright and entirely unexpected. "[Name]?" she echoed, and the way your name lifted from her voice felt like sunlight slipping into a dusty room.

"I was just about to go to your house," she announced, scooping the fallen lollipop from the ground and tossing it dramatically into a trashcan like she was sending off a hero in some tragic play.

You made a face immediately, scrunching your nose. "Why would you want to go there?" Even saying there made your soul cringe inward. The Zenin estate was, on its best days, a mausoleum with opinions.

"Because you're there." She looped your arm through hers without hesitation, tugging you forward with the easy confidence of someone who had already decided she liked you and therefore the world must accept it. "And the boys ditched me to go hang out and be idiots, so congratulations—you're my new entertainment."

Your heart flickered with something warm, small, and startlingly pleasant. Friends weren't something you'd had the luxury of assuming into your life. But Shoko—Shoko slid into your orbit like she'd always been there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Shoko, your technique is reverse cursed energy, right?" you asked, curious.

"Mhm." She lifted her chin. "I'll probably be a doctor or something. But I really don't want to go through actual medical school, so I'm thinking I'll just forge a license."

She said it with such lazy confidence that your jaw dropped.

"That's illegal," you pointed out weakly.

She gave you a big sparkly thumbs-up. "Yep."

You sighed. The kind of sigh that carried both resignation and fondness. But a question had been burning in you since you'd met her.

"...Can you teach me?" you asked quietly.

Her eyes lit up like a festival lantern, and before you could react she seized both of your hands. "ABSOLUTELY. Let's start immediately!"

Which was concerning, because you were very sure she didn't know where you lived.

By the time you reached the front gates of the Zenin compound, you exhaled deeply and whispered, "Before we go in, please understand my clan is... dysfunctional."

The guard opened the gate.

And the universe, in its comedic timing, decided to show Shoko exactly what you meant.

"TWINS!" Naobito roared in the courtyard, laughter booming and sharp. "BOTH GIRLS! AND—oh this is rich—ONE WITH NO CURSED ENERGY!" He slapped his thigh like he'd just watched a comedy show instead of the implosion of his own bloodline.

Ogi stood rigid before him, face twisted in humiliation so deep it looked carved into his skull. His fists were balled, knuckles trembling, as if he were holding back the urge to rip the entire estate apart board by board. He had waited months—years, even—for an heir powerful enough to elevate him above Naobito. A legacy. A weapon. A symbol.

Instead he had been handed two newborn daughters. One with no cursed energy.

Shoko stared at the unfolding chaos with wide, delighted eyes. "Wow. Your clan is like... a reality show."

You grabbed her wrist and yanked her to the shadows of a distant corner. "This is not good," you whispered, barely daring to breathe. "Ogi's wife was due any day and he was certain he'd get a prodigy. He thought a strong heir would let him overthrow Naobito."

"And instead he got..." Shoko gestured vaguely toward the wailing newborns being shown off like defective merchandise.

"Two girls," you whispered, heart sinking. "And the clan won't be gentle with them. Or their mother."

You watched as Ogi's wife, pale and trembling, was carried back inside. Watched Ogi's jaw clench so hard it could've cracked bone. Watched Naobito grin like a wolf savoring another's downfall.

And for the first time that night, you wished Shoko hadn't seen this place—not because you were ashamed, but because she was seeing the cage you'd been raised in, bars gleaming in the morning sun.

Shoko brushed your arm gently. "Hey," she murmured, voice softer than you ever heard it. "I get it now."

You swallowed, throat tight.

"Welcome to the Zenin clan," you whispered, and your voice carried the quiet ache of someone who had been born into a story they never chose.

Naobito's laughter rolled through the courtyard like a cracked drum, too loud, too cruel, echoing off the stone walls that had seen generations of pride and pettiness. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, gasping for breath as if the very concept of twin daughters was the funniest thing he'd ever encountered.

"Oh, Ogi... Ogi, Ogi, Ogi," he wheezed, leaning back with theatrical delight. "Two girls! And one doesn't even have cursed energy? What are we supposed to do with that?" He slapped his thigh, a man thoroughly entertained by another's downfall.

Ogi's jaw twitched—barely, but enough to betray the storm simmering beneath his skin. His knuckles were white, tendons straining like they wanted to snap free of his hands. You had never seen a man clench his pride so hard it nearly shattered.

Naobito tilted his head, mischief curling his lips. "Well, brother, what shall we call these... precious blessings?" His tone dripped with honey far too sweet to be genuine. "Go on, choose something grand. Something fitting for your little... hiccup in legacy."

"I will not," Ogi hissed, chest rising and falling sharply. "I refuse to name such a—such a disappointment. I'll not attach my honor to"

"Oh? Shameful, is it?" Naobito's grin sharpened. "Then perhaps I should do the honors, since someone must. Hmm..." He tapped his chin thoughtfully, eyes gleaming with a wicked twinkle. "Two little burdens... two bright reminders that not even your bloodline can save you from mediocrity."

Shoko leaned toward you and whispered, "He's enjoying this way too much."

You nodded, unable to look away from the spiraling disaster.

Naobito snapped his fingers. "Ah! I've got it." He spread his arms wide, as if gifting the clan with a revelation. "Let them be called Maki and Mai. Simple. Short. The kind of names that don't carry too much expectation. Wouldn't want to overburden fragile futures, hm?"

The clan murmured. Ogi's face blazed red. You swore you could feel the temperature drop.

"Perfect names for girls who won't amount to much," Naobito added with faux cheer, and the crowd rippled with uncomfortable silence.

You winced. Shoko winced. Even the guards winced.

Chaos breathed through the halls like a restless spirit, curling along the lacquered floors and seeping into every corner: humiliation simmering, pride cracking, the fragile moment of two newborn girls trembling beneath the weight of a clan that measured worth in strength alone. You felt it humming through your bones, the same old poison with a new vessel.

Beside you, Shoko's whisper brushed your ear, half-laugh, half-hiss. "Your family really knows how to throw a welcome party."

You huffed a laugh that felt a little too tired for your age. "Yeah, well... here, girls are only good for arranging alliances or popping out the next strong heir." Your eyes lifted toward the elders, who already whispered future strategies as if the babies were chess pieces instead of children. "Same script every time."

Shoko's gaze softened, something warm and fiercely loyal flickering in her eyes. "Then I hate them for wasting someone like you on their outdated nonsense." She nudged your shoulder gently. "They'll regret it. I'll make sure of it."

Her words tugged a small smile from you; just a faint thing, barely a curve, but she lit up like she'd discovered a rare specimen.

"You should do that more often," she declared with the confidence of someone already plotting three steps ahead.

"What? Smile?" you raised a brow.

She nodded firmly, though her mind was clearly elsewhere. Because Shoko, sweet Shoko, was already stirring the pot. She was tired of the same dull routine, and the tension between you and Gojo was like a shiny button begging to be pushed. She was also twelve, reckless, and motivated by the hundred yen bet she'd made with Aya: whether you'd end up liking Gojo or Geto someday. A stupid bet, childish and bold but she believed in her choices. And in money.

"C'mon," you murmured, tugging her toward the quieter wing of the compound. "Let's get away before someone tries to drag us into the drama."

"Drama? You mean family tradition?" she quipped.

You shot her a side-eye before she continued, voice dipping softer. "You know... you really are more than a Zenin woman. I wish you knew how obvious that is to people who aren't stuck in your family's dusty mindset."

Your steps faltered. Her words lingered like a warm hand against cold skin. "Thank you," you whispered, a gentle breath of sincerity before you rallied again. "Now I need you to teach me reverse cursed technique. Toji's a bum, so he's useless for this. And all the theory sounds like someone explaining math with ghosts."

Shoko snorted loudly. "Why are you asking me? I'm like... not even sure how it works. Negative times negative equals positive or something." She wiggled her fingers, waggling them like she was summoning equations from thin air.

You sighed so dramatically she cackled. "It's going to be a long day."

"Yep," she chirped. "But at least I'm fun."

Meanwhile,

"Oi, Suguru," Gojo groaned, sprawled on his stomach across his bed, his Gamechild Advanced glowing in his hands. The tinny sound effects of Bokemon chirped through the room. Suguru lay on the floor with a comic book over his face, absorbed until Gojo's voice intruded.

"Yes, Satoru?" he replied, not looking up yet, his bangs swaying with the slightest tilt of his head.

"Do you like someone?"

Suguru's entire soul nearly evacuated his body.

He choked on air, the comic slapping down onto his chest as he coughed dramatically. "Why—why would you ask that?"

Gojo rolled over, propping his chin in his palms, his crystalline gaze glowing with amusement. "Just curious."

Suguru didn't glare so much as sink into stillness, one long, patient exhale leaving him like he'd been training for sainthood just to survive conversations like this.

"No," he murmured at last, voice soft enough to fold into the quiet between them. "Not right now."

But a faint pink crept along his cheekbones, the kind that gave him away even when he pretended it didn't.

"I did once," he admitted, looking past Gojo as if memory lived somewhere above the ceiling. "Years ago. So young it barely counts."

Gojo's grin curved slow and wicked, the kind that always foretold disaster. "Years ago like... last year ago?"

Suguru's pillow sailed with the power of a fully-formed curse, thudding into Gojo's shoulder with a satisfying whump.

Gojo wheezed dramatically, sprawling backward. "Bro violence?? I'm asking a NORMAL QUESTION—"

Suguru lifted his chin, regal even while sitting on the floor.

"She handed me a napkin," he said quietly, fingers drifting in a small, reflective gesture. "I'd fallen. Got dirt on my face. She wiped it for me. Smiled once. Then vanished." His eyes softened, touched by something gentle. "Just... made the world feel still for a moment."

For once, Gojo didn't immediately have a smart remark ready. "Huh," he breathed, blinking slowly. "That's... kind of nice." Then he ruined it by adding, "Corny, but nice."

Suguru's lips twitched. "Why? Do you like someone?"

Gojo recoiled like he'd been stabbed. "No. Absolutely not. Negative infinity."

Suguru tilted his head, curiosity sparking. "Shoko?"

Gojo made a noise—not human, not dignified—somewhere between disgust and horror.
"EW. Suguru. She's basically my sibling. What is WRONG with you?"

Suguru hummed, unconvinced, and began casually listing names.
Each one was swatted away with a flat, stubborn

"No."
"No."
"No."

"NO, Suguru stop naming the entire class—"

Finally, Suguru gasped dramatically. "Hold on. HOLD ON. It's not... [Name], is it?"

Gojo's Gamechild slipped from his fingers as if gravity had personally chosen that moment to betray him. They both stared at it lying on the floor, the silence stretching taut as thread.

Finally, Gojo swallowed hard. "I know that looked bad but I don't."

Suguru stared.

"I DON'T," Gojo repeated, louder, panicked. "I JUST DON'T HATE HER AS MUCH ANYMORE, OKAY?!"

Suguru began pacing, muttering to himself like a man who'd just realized his best friend was emotionally illiterate.

"She's ugly anyway!" Gojo blurted, ears red. "And she probably likes you more. Every time she talks to me she looks either bored or homicidal. With you she actually smiles—SMILES, Suguru. I've never seen her do that with me. I DIDN'T EVEN DO ANYTHING TO HER!"

Suguru stopped mid-step. "Me?"

"Yes YOU," Gojo snapped. "She lights up. With me she looks like I'm a chronic disappointment."

Suguru blinked, suddenly gentle. "I think you're mistaken, Satoru."

Gojo made a strangled noise and flopped dramatically onto his back. "Whatever. I don't care. I just wanted to know what falling in love feels like because I—"
He dug under his pillow and whipped out a glossy magazine like a magician finishing a sad trick. "—am in love with WAKA INOUE, HOT NEW INCOMING MODEL."

Suguru collapsed backward, arms over his face. "God, you're hopeless."

"Hopelessly HOT," Gojo corrected, waggling his eyebrows.

"Hopelessly STUPID," Suguru muttered.

Gojo shot finger guns. "Same thing."

Suguru wondered, not for the first time, how someone with Six Eyes could still be so incredibly, MAGNIFICIENTLY BLIND.

Chapter 11: 部分11

"GET UP"

Toji's voice cracked through the air like a whip, sharp enough to sting even before it reached you. You lay sprawled against the dirt, lungs burning, chest heaving as if your ribs were trying to claw their way out. Sweat soaked your clothes, darkened the ground beneath you, glued stray strands of hair to your temples. Time had dissolved into ache—minutes, hours, maybe an entire lifetime spent here, pressed into the earth and told to rise again.

From the porch behind him came a softer sound, concern laced with warmth. "Honey... maybe ease up a little." His wife stood slowly, one hand instinctively cradling the curve of her stomach, round and heavy with a life that would arrive far too soon. Eight months now. She watched you the way a mother watches a storm—worried, helpless, loving despite it all.

You dragged yourself upright anyway.

Your legs trembled, your arms screamed, but your eyes burned with something unextinguished. Fire, stubborn and feral. You tightened the tie in your hair with shaking fingers and lifted your gaze to your sensei. You weren't here to be spared. You were here because you refused to remain small, because you wanted strength so undeniable that no one would ever look down on you again.

"She needs to be better," Toji said flatly, already moving.

The cursed inventory spirit slithered into existence at his side, grotesque and purple, its body folding unnaturally around itself like an overgrown infant made wrong by the universe. You hated looking at it. Always had. But you swallowed that discomfort the way you swallowed everything else.

From its depths, Toji drew a sword.

A katana—long, elegant, quiet with menace. The sheath gleamed dully in the sunlight, barely imbued with cursed energy, but you felt its weight even from where you stood. Potential hummed beneath the steel, waiting.

"This will be your weapon," he said, voice even. "Permanent. But you don't get it for free." His eyes met yours, merciless. "Bind it with blood."

The motion was quick. Too quick.

Pain exploded white-hot as the blade sliced clean through your pinky. For a heartbeat, you couldn't even scream—your mind lagged behind the reality of it, staring stupidly as blood spilled freely, splattering the dirt and streaking down the steel.

"HONEY!" his wife cried, rushing forward, terror cracking her composure.

Your own breath came out broken, panic clawing up your throat as you clutched your hand, vision blurring. But Toji didn't flinch. Didn't soften.

"Summon Round," he commanded. "Now."

You sucked in a shuddering breath and slammed your fist into the shadow beneath you. The air shifted, darkened—and the massive deer rose behind you, serene and otherworldly. Its antlers stretched high, eyes calm as they regarded you, its master, without judgment.

"Heal."

Reverse cursed technique bloomed into motion—negative folding into negative until it became something whole again. You pressed your trembling hand to the deer's nose, warmth spreading through you, knitting flesh and bone together as if they had never been torn apart. Your pinky reformed. The pain receded, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

You barely had time to steady yourself.

"Again."

This time the blade took your hand.

The scream tore out of you before you could stop it, raw and animal, echoing across the yard. His wife gasped, hands flying to her mouth—but she stayed where she was. Because she knew. Because this was your choice.

Your cursed energy flared wildly as you summoned the deer once more, fingers shaking as you pressed against its nose. Healing rushed through you, greedy and draining, leaving you swaying on your feet as your hand returned, whole and aching.

You didn't look away. You didn't beg. You stayed standing.

Blood, sweat, and shadow clung to you like a second skin—but beneath it all, you were still burning.

Toji clicked his tongue, then laughed, low and rough. "Good job, kid. Your self-healing and shikigami control are better than before." He shot you a sharp grin. "Keep that hatred nice and warm. Save it for the Zenin."

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel as you took the bottle of water his wife offered, gulping it down greedily, the cool liquid grounding you back into your body. She watched you with that same soft concern, pride hidden beneath worry, like she always did.

"What if," you said between breaths, eyes narrowing as a thought sparked, "I find a way to store cursed energy?"

Toji hummed, thoughtful for once, eyes glinting. "That'd solve a lot, wouldn't it? If something like that exists." He tilted his head, studying you. "Wouldn't be surprised if you're the one to figure it out."

You went quiet after that, gaze unfocused, mind already spiraling into possibilities. Toji noticed—of course he did. He always did. Midnight crept up on you before you realized, exhaustion finally settling deep into your bones. You bid them both goodbye, earning a fond wave and a gruff dismissal, and headed out alone.

The city streets were quieter now, lanterns dim, the air cool against your overheated skin. You walked with a banana milk in one hand, idly swinging it as the katana—now bound to you—rested securely at your side, its presence oddly comforting. The path home forced you past the Gojo estate, old and imposing, its walls looming like a silent warning.

You quickened your pace.

You didn't want to be detected, didn't want questions, didn't want him. But fate, as usual, had other plans.

A sharp grunt cut through the night.

You froze.

Footsteps—uneven, hurried—then a body stumbled into the path behind you. Instinct took over. Your hand flew to your sword, blade flashing free in one smooth motion, its tip hovering dangerously close to a throat—only to stop dead against an invisible barrier.

Infinity.

"...Gojo?" Your eyes adjusted to the dark, catching the unmistakable mess of white hair, the glow of blue eyes wide with shock mirroring your own.

"[Name]?" he echoed, breathless.

You scoffed softly, sheathing your katana. "Idiot."

"What the hell are you doing out this late?" you hissed.

"Escaping, don't ask." He dropped his infinity and grabbed your wrist, tugging you away from the estate with surprising urgency. "What are you doing here?"

"I live this way," you snapped, then paused, scowling.

"And I told you not to wander around like this," he shot back, though his grip loosened as he stopped beneath a broad tree, moonlight spilling through its branches. Only then did he release you.

"Escaping?" you repeated once you were safely out of earshot.

He laughed bitterly. "Exactly what it sounds like. I'm sick of this place. The rules. The eyes." He glanced down at his yukata like it had personally betrayed him. "Running away in this is humiliating, by the way."

You huffed despite yourself. "Don't you love the attention?"

The words landed wrong.

You saw it—the flicker of hurt that crossed his face before he could mask it. He turned away, sliding down the tree until he sat against it, knees drawn up, hair falling forward to hide his eyes.

"You don't know what it's like," he muttered.

Something in your chest shifted, uneasy and unfamiliar. You hesitated, then sat beside him, the grass cool beneath you.

"I don't," you admitted quietly. "But if you're going to run like this... at least let someone hear why."

Gojo stilled.

Slowly, he turned his head, eyes catching the moonlight—and then catching you. The sharp lines of your profile softened in the glow, exhaustion etched into you like proof of survival. His heart stumbled, cheeks warming despite the cool night air.

He doesn't say it at first. Gojo never does—words have always felt like cages, and he's lived his entire life behind gilded bars disguised as praise.

Instead, he leans his head back against the tree, white hair brushing bark, throat bobbing once as if swallowing something bitter. The moon crowns him like a saint, like the boy everyone kneels to, the boy they sharpen into something lethal and then call divine. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the silence between you stretching, not awkward but heavy, saturated with things neither of you have ever been allowed to want.

"They look at me," he says finally, voice low, stripped of its usual careless lilt, "and they don't see me." A humorless breath leaves him. "They see what I can do. What I can kill. What I can end." His fingers curl into the grass as if grounding himself. "If I fail, it's unforgivable. If I succeed, it was expected. Either way, I'm... useful."

The word tastes foul in his mouth.

You understand it in a way that makes your chest ache, not because your lives are the same, but because they are cruel mirrors. Where he is lifted until he suffocates under reverence, you are pressed down until breathing feels like rebellion. Idolized weapon. Discarded one. Two sides of the same rotten coin.

"They worship you," you say quietly, not unkind, just honest. "The Zenin barely tolerate me." A pause. Then, softer, edged with something old and sharp. "Being born strong is a blessing. Being born a girl is a sin."

He turns to look at you then—really look. Not the rival he snaps at in class, but you, sitting there with dried blood beneath your nails and exhaustion carved into your bones like scripture. You, who trains until pain becomes language because no one ever promised you protection.

"That's insane," he mutters, anger flaring bright and fast. "You're—" He stops himself, jaw tightening. "They're blind," he settles on instead, stubborn and fierce.

You snort softly. "Tell that to the elders. Or better yet, don't. I'd rather not be disowned before dinner."

That gets him—a quiet huff of laughter, surprised and helpless, like the sound slips out before he can stop it. He glances away quickly, ears pinking, as if embarrassed by his own softness. It's almost funny. Almost.

You meet his gaze, unflinching. "Sounds like we're both disappointing our clans."

A beat.

Then he grins—not the cocky, infuriating one, but something quieter, warmer, like mischief shared in confidence. "Guess that makes us compatible criminals."

Something settles between you then. Not love—not yet—but recognition. The kind that lingers. The kind that makes the night feel charged, like the universe is holding its breath. Two children shaped into opposites by cruelty, each secretly yearning for what the other has been denied. To be seen without being used. To be strong without being worshipped. To be wanted not as a symbol, but as a person.

You stand first, dusting off your clothes, offering him a hand without thinking. He stares at it for half a second too long before taking it, his grip warm, grounding.

"Don't run too far, Gojo," you say, voice light, teasing. "The world would be boring without you."

He smirks, squeezing your hand once before letting go. "Careful," he shoots back. "That almost sounded like you'd miss me."

You pause after only a few steps, something tugging at you from behind the ribs, insistent and soft in a way that makes you scowl at yourself before you turn back.

"Gojo," you say, quieter now.

He looks up, half-lidded and curious, moonlight caught in those impossible eyes that never seem to rest, not even when he does. "Yeah?" The word comes easy, careless out of habit, but there's a fatigue beneath it.

"...do your eyes hurt?" you ask.

The question lands differently than an insult ever could. He blinks once. Then again. Caught off guard, naked in a way he isn't used to being.

"...yeah," he admits instead, voice lower, almost sheepish. "All the time." A pause, then a crooked smile he doesn't quite commit to. "Kinda hard when you see through everything. People, walls, curses... expectations." He taps his temple. "It never really shuts up."

Your chest tightens. Of course it doesn't.

You don't say anything. You just step closer.

Before he can ask what you're doing, your fingers are already working at the sleeve of your yukata, tugging at the fabric with practiced decisiveness. There's a soft rip as you tear a long strip free, like a decision made without permission. Gojo jolts upright.

"Hey...what are you—"

"Sit still," you murmur, and somehow that's enough.

You fold the cloth once, twice, smoothing it between your fingers, then gently, so gently it startles him, you lift his chin just enough to reach. His breath stutters when you step into his space, when the world narrows to the space between you, when your hands come up and the moonlight disappears behind soft fabric.

You tie the strip around his eyes, careful not to pull too tight, your knuckles brushing his temples, your fingertips warm against his skin. The blindfold settles into place, muting the glow, dimming the endless noise of sight into something quieter, kinder.

"There," you say softly. "You don't always have to see everything."

For a moment, Gojo says nothing.

Then his shoulders drop, just a fraction, but enough that you notice. Enough that it feels like a secret. "Huh," he exhales, stunned. "That's... actually really nice."

You step back before the moment can trap you, heat creeping up your neck despite yourself. "Don't get used to it," you add quickly, the teasing edge returning like armor. "I'm not making you accessories on a regular basis."

He laughs, breathy and genuine, reaching up to touch the cloth like it might disappear if he doesn't. "Wow," he says. "First you threaten me with a sword, now you're taking care of me. Mixed signals, Zenin."

"Dream on, Gojo."

You turn to leave again, but this time, he calls after you—gentler than before.

"...hey. Thanks."

His voice follows you anyway, gentler than anything he's ever aimed at you before, stripped of bravado, unguarded in a way that almost makes you stumble. You don't turn back. You can't. If you did, he'd see the curve of your mouth, the way the smile sneaks in like a secret you don't want to explain.

Behind you, Gojo shifts, drawing his knees up to his chest, fingers curling loosely in the fabric of the blindfold as if afraid the relief might slip away if he doesn't hold it there. The night feels different like this—quieter, softer, no longer screaming at him in a thousand layers of light and truth and expectation. For once, the moon isn't a spotlight. It's just the moon.

"It's not fair if you do this," he murmurs to no one in particular, words dissolving into the cool air. Not fair that you see him when everyone else only looks. Not fair that you treat him like a person instead of a prophecy, a weapon. Not fair that you, of all people, is the one who offers him rest.

His ears burn, the heat unmistakable now, creeping down his neck as something unfamiliar settles into his chest. Slow. Warm. Embarrassingly sincere. Oh. So this is what they meant. Crushes. Girls. This stupid, lopsided feeling that makes his heart trip over itself and his thoughts turn traitor.

Under the tree, Gojo Satoru sits blindfolded and smiling to himself, relaxed for the first time he can remember, the world blissfully dim and mercifully quiet—wondering when exactly you became the one thing he didn't want to SEE THROUGH AT ALL.