Chapter Text
The tall, ancient trees loomed overhead like skeletal giants, their gnarled branches knotting together to weave a suffocating tapestry of shadow and light. Moonlight struggled to pierce the dense canopy, and what little escaped bled through in fragmented beams, scattering across the forest floor like shards of glass.
The forest stretched on without end, a labyrinth of twisted roots and tangled undergrowth, its silence so absolute it pressed against her eardrums. Only the occasional rustle hinted at unseen creatures watching, waiting.
Utahime moved cautiously through the shadows, her senses sharpened, every muscle in her body humming with alertness. She had come here to feed, but the forest felt hostile tonight, alive, aware. As if it knew her secret.
Beneath her boots, the ground yielded in patches of thick moss, slick and cold, interlaced with vines that writhed faintly underfoot. She froze, a shiver running up her spine. The way they pulsed, it was almost as if the earth itself had a heartbeat.
This was no ordinary place. It thrummed with magic and menace, a living thing that regarded her like an intruder trespassing through its veins.
With each step, the atmosphere thickened, wrapping itself around her like an invisible shroud.
The air was dank and heavy, soaked with the musk of decay and tinged with something metallic. Whatever it was, she always ignored it.
Shadows stretched too far, while pale mist wound between the gnarled roots of trees, curling upwards like grasping fingers that brushed at her legs, tugging, tempting her to sink into the earth.
She quickened her pace. And yet, despite the unease prickling her skin, her thoughts betrayed her, wandering where she least wanted them to go.
Utahime tightened her grip on the worn strap of her satchel. It was an old, stubborn habit— clutching at something ordinary whenever the truth threatened to rise too close to the surface.
Her secret. Her curse.
She had lived her entire life walking a knife-edge between two worlds, human and vampire, never fully welcomed in either. Too fragile, too soft to be truly vampire. Too stained, too tainted to ever be human again.
A bitter laugh caught in her throat, swallowed before it could escape. To them she was always one or the other, never enough, never whole.
Few knew the truth about her, and she intended to keep it that way. The thought of discovery alone sent another tremor down her spine, cold as steel against bone. Her fingers clenched tighter around the worn strap of her satchel, as if gripping harder might hold the secret inside her chest.
She hated this. Hated how the hunger dragged her out into the depths of the forest like some wretched beast, forcing her to hunt, to feed. No matter how disciplined, no matter how hard she fought against it, the craving always returned. It was a gnawing ache, relentless, curling in her belly like a claw that would never release.
Mei Mei had been the first to see through her facade. When Utahime’s restraint began to slip, when the shadows under her eyes grew darker and her hands trembled with hunger, there had been no hiding it anymore. A half-vampire who refused to drink human blood was worse than a liability.
She was a weakness.
“You’re a fool if you think you can survive on animal blood,” Mei Mei had said the first time, her tone sharp, matter-of-fact, as though she were delivering a death sentence.
Utahime had expected cruelty then, or pity. She had braced for one and dreaded the other. What she received was something far more dangerous. Mei Mei hadn’t turned her away, she had taken her in. And from that moment, every kindness came tethered to invisible strings.
And Utahime, even knowing that, had been grateful. Grateful enough that the guilt still sat heavy in her chest.
The memory of that night was etched into her mind with an almost painful clarity. She could still see the room in Mei Mei’s quarters, curtains drawn tight, walls pressing close with secrecy. Mei Mei had stood before her, a vial of blood balanced between her fingers, the liquid catching the dim lamplight like garnet fire.
“You’ll drink this,” Mei Mei had instructed, her voice as steady and uncompromising as iron. “Not enough to sate the monster, but enough to keep you alive.”
Utahime had stared at it, revulsion curling in her throat. The vial glistened like temptation itself, thick and dark, reminding her of every part of herself she wanted to deny. Her stomach knotted, nausea rising with shame.
“I don’t need it,” she had muttered, her arms crossing defensively, the words brittle against the weight of truth.
She had been fourteen then. Just a child clutching at pride she couldn’t afford.
Mei Mei’s laugh had been soft but merciless, the kind of laugh that cut deeper than anger. “Don’t kid yourself. Your weakness is already showing. How long before someone less generous than me decides to deal with it?”
The words had landed like knives, sharp with truth. Even at fourteen, Utahime had known it, Mei Mei was right. Her refusal wasn’t noble. It wasn’t strength. It was a slow, quiet suicide.
And so, with her pride crumbling, she had taken the vial.
She had expected disgust, and there was that, thick and cloying in her throat, but what came first, what overwhelmed everything else, was power. Heat unfurled in her veins like liquid fire, spreading outward in waves until her fingertips tingled and her chest rose with a breath that felt too full. Her senses sharpened to an almost unbearable clarity, the thrum of her own pulse, the faint hiss of the lamp’s flame, even the scrape of Mei Mei’s sleeve against the desk. Her body hummed with life in a way it never did otherwise. It was intoxicating. Addictive. Terrifying.
Power.
It surged through her like a firestorm, scorching and relentless, igniting every nerve until she thought she might burst apart from the force of it. For a fleeting, impossible moment, she felt untouchable. Invincible.
And then the guilt came crashing down. Not a gentle tug but a flood, cold and merciless, washing the warmth from her bones. It left her shivering in its wake, sickened by the thrill still echoing in her chest.
Month after month, Mei Mei had kept her tethered on that edge, providing just enough to keep her from collapsing, never enough to drown in it. “Moderation,” Mei Mei would say, lips curving into that sharp, amused smirk that always seemed to know too much. “You should be thanking me. I’m teaching you discipline.”
And Utahime had thanked her— in silence. Never in words; words would have earned nothing but ridicule. Instead, her gratitude was quiet obedience, her unwillingness to fight back even when her pride burned to do so.
But the hunger never truly left. It lingered beneath the surface like a dull ache, gnawing at her resolve, whispering at the edges of her thoughts no matter how she tried to smother it. Animal blood dulled it, just barely enough, though the taste was nothing but ash compared to what she despised herself for craving.
Still, she clung to it. Clung to the desperate hope that one day she would be strong enough to need nothing at all.
Now, three months past her last feeding, she could feel her restraint fraying. The ache had grown sharper, more insistent, unraveling her thread by thread until every heartbeat felt like a reminder of her weakness.
So tangled was she in that spiral, denial and desperation knotted into one, that she didn’t hear them at first. The footsteps, slow but deliberate, closing in through the undergrowth.
The grip came out of nowhere— sudden, merciless. A hand, firm as iron, clamped around her arm and wrenched her off the path. The ground shifted beneath her feet, leaves and twigs crunching under the force of her stumble as she was dragged into the suffocating shadows of the forest. She gasped, twisting against the hold, but it was like struggling against steel shackles; her efforts meant nothing.
Her senses flared. The scent was human. Familiar. Her stomach plummeted. She would never forget this scent.
“Let go of me!” she hissed, fury sharpening her words even as panic needled through her chest.
The response was silence, cold, deliberate. In one brutal motion, she was spun and pinned against the coarse bark of a tree. The impact drove the air from her lungs, bark biting into her back as she struggled for breath.
A broad hand pressed over her mouth, smothering her protests. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as the figure leaned closer, shadow eclipsing shadow. And then she saw him.
Gojo.
His face emerged from the dark, and though it was familiar, something about it made her stomach twist. The smirk she hated, infuriating and smug, was absent, replaced by an expression sharper, darker, predatory in its stillness.
“Quiet,” he murmured, his voice low, rich, and unyielding. It wasn’t a request, it was command, quiet thunder that rooted her to the spot. It left no room for disobedience anyway.
For a fleeting moment, she obeyed, breath caught in her throat under the weight of his tone. But anger followed swiftly, burning through her shock. She shoved against him, muffled words vibrating furiously against his palm.
His grip shifted, loosening just enough to let her speak, but not enough to give her even a shred of freedom. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” she spat, her voice trembling with rage, though a thin thread of unease wove through it. “Did you follow me?”
Gojo’s eyes narrowed, crystalline and merciless. The weight of his gaze alone pressed against her chest, as though he were dissecting her with nothing more than a glance.
“Tell me, Utahime,” he drawled, the words smooth as silk yet sharpened with mockery, “what’s it like being the academy’s dirty little secret?”
Her breath stuttered. His words cut through her like a blade, striking true, peeling away the defences she clung to.
Her nails dug into his arm, meeting hard muscle beneath, as if trying to prove to herself that he was flesh and not some immovable force. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shot back, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.
He leaned in, closer, until his presence consumed her, suffocating, impossible to ignore. “Oh, don’t insult me,” he whispered, his tone edged with infuriating amusement. “Dumb isn’t your style. The whispers, the rumours… it wasn’t hard to piece together. You’re a half-blood, aren’t you?”
Her chest tightened, air catching in her throat as the truth wrapped itself around her like a noose. Of course he knew. Gojo always knew. Secrets bent under his gaze, unravelled into playthings he could toy with at will, his smirk carving them into weapons he wielded without mercy.
“You’re insane,” she snapped, venom lacing her words, though fear flickered traitorously in her eyes.
He laughed. Low, rich, infuriatingly self-assured. “Am I? Please. I knew what you were the moment you stepped foot in the academy.” He tilted his head, arrogance dripping from every syllable. “I’ve just been waiting for you to admit it.”
Her jaw clenched. “Back off,” she growled, her voice low, warning, though even she could hear how hollow it sounded.
Gojo smirked then, that infuriating curve of his lips sliding effortlessly into place, arrogant as ever. Instead of retreating, he leaned closer, eating up the sliver of space between them until there was nothing left. His presence pressed down on her like a weight, suffocating, inescapable. She felt caged, pinned in a trap she hadn’t seen coming, and fury simmered hot beneath her skin.
Her pulse stumbled when she realised what was about to happen. She jerked her arm, desperate to tear free, but his grip was unyielding, steel disguised as flesh.
Then his hand shifted. He reached for his belt with infuriating composure, drawing out a knife so polished it caught every fractured beam of moonlight. The handle was dark, smooth, and wickedly elegant, the blade gleaming like a predator’s grin.
He raised it with deliberate ease, pressing it against her throat, not crudely, not with brute force, but with a controlled precision that was somehow far more terrifying.
Utahime’s breath snagged in her chest. Her eyes flicked to the blade, searching for what it was made of, though she couldn’t quite tell. Her heartbeat quickened, pounding against the cold edge resting at her skin.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice shaking despite her desperate attempt at defiance.
“Shh.” His reply was a whisper, maddeningly casual, as if they were gossiping over something trivial. “Relax. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t need a knife.”
The words, cocky and cruel, sank under her skin. Her throat burned where the blade rested, her pulse fluttering violently against it.
“Three seconds,” he said at last, his voice calm, level, but merciless, like a judge handing down a death sentence. “Yes or no. Are you the half-blood?”
The air thickened around her. Now she understood. He wasn’t asking. He was forcing her to speak the truth aloud, stripping her of the safety of silence. He already knew; she saw it in his eyes. This wasn’t interrogation. This was entertainment. A game. He wanted to savour the moment, to watch her squirm, to hear her break and give him the satisfaction of being right.
Her nails dug deep into her palms as fury fought with fear. He wouldn’t win. He couldn’t.
“Go to hell,” she spat, her words sharp but trembling, her defiance trembling under the suffocating weight of his gaze.
Gojo’s smirk widened, slow and self-satisfied, as though her resistance amused him more than any confession ever could.
Her blood boiled, hot and bitter, until it felt as though her very veins might scald her from within. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, not of fear, but of pure frustration. Years of careful lies, of hiding in plain sight, of treading so carefully that even her own reflection sometimes doubted the truth of her nature— shattered. All that effort, all that secrecy, just to be cornered and dragged into the light by him.
By Gojo
“You really are insufferable,” she spat, her voice forward, sharp as glass.
The blade pressed harder against her throat, cold as ice, a sliver of steel that made her shudder despite herself. Her breath hitched, ragged, every heartbeat thundering so loudly it felt as though it echoed in her skull. She could feel the sting of metal kissing her skin, not the searing, corrosive burn she feared, but a clean, merciless cut that threatened all the same.
Gojo caught her flicker of relief. Of course he did. The Great Gojo Satoru sees everything.
“Calm down,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost intimate. “It’s not silver.” Then, leaning closer, his lips curled into that infuriating smirk. “I’m not that cruel.”
Her eyes snapped up to his, fury blazing bright. That smug tone, that unbearable arrogance, he wore it like armour, like a crown. “Oh, how considerate of you,” she hissed back, her words steeped in venom. “Forgive me for not showering you with gratitude while you’ve got a knife at my throat.” Utahime shoved against his chest, her fists curling tight, knuckles brushing against the hard outline of muscle beneath his clothes. It only made her angrier, how unmovable he felt, how utterly strong he was.
He didn’t so much as flinch. If anything, his grip tightened, holding her with the kind of casual dominance that mocked her every effort. He leaned closer still, the air between them charged, suffocating. “Careful,” he whispered, velvet and dangerous, a purr that chilled her to the bone. “Struggling might make me slip.”
Her jaw clenched as she glared, lips pressed into a thin line to hold back the tremor of her anger. “If you don’t get off me right now—”
“What?” he cut in smoothly, tilting his head as though amused by her rage. His mouth twisted into a mock pout. “You’ll fight me? With what strength, exactly?”
Her pride burned hotter than the knife’s edge. She shoved harder, twisting, fighting even though she knew it was pointless. His smirk only deepened, as though her defiance fuelled him, as though this was nothing more than sport.
“Feisty,” he mused, almost lazily, his eyes gleaming in the low light. The blade in his hand never wavered.
Utahime finally sagged against his hold, her fury folding into exhaustion, her breaths sharp and shallow. “What do you want?” she snapped, her voice raw, trembling with anger. “You already know what I am! What else do you want from me?!” She was so tired, tired of the hunger, tired of the shame, tired of him.
“I want to hear you say it.”
Her heart faltered. “Say what?!”
“Admit it.” His words cut sharper than the steel ever could.
Her chest constricted, her jaw aching as she ground her teeth. “You did all this just to hear it out of my mouth,” she muttered, the bitterness of it burning her tongue.
The blade pressed deeper, biting now, enough to draw a thin, hot trickle of blood that slid down her throat. Her breath hitched, fear spiking despite herself. “Fine!” she cried, her voice cracking as the fury in her chest gave way to raw panic. “Alright, fine! Yes, I am a half-blood! Are you happy now?”
The words hung between them, thick and heavy, poisoned with truth she could never take back. The silence that followed was worse than the threat. Then, slowly, the knife withdrew. His smirk did not. That smug satisfaction on his lips struck harder than the blade had.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he drawled, his tone light, teasing, as though they hadn’t just crossed a boundary that could never be undone. “You’re such an asshole,” Utahime snapped, her voice trembling with rage and something dangerously close to despair.
He stepped back at last, his grip loosening as though releasing her had been a deliberate choice rather than mercy. His lips curved into that infuriating smirk. “You’re surprisingly weak for a vampire,” he remarked, tilting his head as though genuinely puzzled, though his tone dripped with mockery.
Her nails dug into her palms, fists trembling at her sides. “I’m half human,” she bit out, the words sharper than she intended. “And for your information, I don’t drink human blood. Haven’t in years.”
“Figured,” he said casually, almost dismissive, though the glint in his eye betrayed his interest. He let his gaze drop to her throat. “Still. You are weak.”
Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t answer. She felt the sting fade as the cut began to seal itself, the wound knitting back together with agonising slowness. Too slow. Her refusal to drink what she craved left her hollow, her body struggling to keep pace. Every second the healing dragged on felt like another crack in the armour she’d fought so hard to maintain.
Gojo noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes lingered on the wound longer than they should have, the smug amusement softening into something else, curiosity, intrigue, maybe even wonder. She felt exposed under that gaze, as though he were stripping away not just her secrets but her very skin.
“Impressive,” he murmured, almost to himself, leaning in slightly, his voice low enough that it didn’t sound like a taunt this time.
The sound unsettled her more than his knife had. His fascination was disarming, as though he were seeing her not as a quarry or a foe, but as something rare. Something worth studying.
Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard, a flicker of unease sparking in her chest. She wanted to tell him to stop staring, to step back, to give her room to breathe, anything, but before she could gather the words, he moved.
His hand lifted with quiet certainty, fingers warm against her chilled skin. The contact was startling in its gentleness. Deliberate. His touch ghosted over her throat, his thumb brushing against the faint trace of the wound, tracing where the blood had been.
Her breath hitched. Every muscle tensed, yet her body betrayed her, her pulse thrummed wildly beneath his touch, quickening as though trying to leap into his palm. There was nothing rough in the way he touched her now; gone was the cruel restraint, the cutting precision of moments ago. This was something else entirely. Too careful. Too intimate.
“Gojo,” she managed, her voice hushed, frayed at the edges. She wanted it to sound steady, commanding, but it wavered, trembling under the weight of his closeness.
He didn’t stop. If anything, his thumb lingered, a deliberate weight against her skin, firm enough to remind her that he held control, yet unnervingly tender, a contradiction that made her chest twist with confusion. His gaze remained fixed on her throat, on the faintly closed wound, as though fascinated by the fragile proof of what she was.
Slowly, almost reverently, his thumb traced the line of the mark, dragging over it as though he meant to commit its shape to memory. The touch was deceptively gentle, yet it burned; her delicate skin seemed to smart under the measured pressure, every brush sparking with heat. The air thickened, charged with something unspoken, something that left her restless and suffocated all at once.
The forest had gone silent around them, or perhaps she could no longer hear it. The only sound she could register was the faint rasp of his thumb stroking across her neck, steady and unhurried, as though he sought to erase the mark entirely. When he finally stilled, his thumb resting in place against her newly healed flesh, the pause was almost worse than the touch itself.
Pathetically, helplessly, her eyes flicked up to his face. The contact left her flushed, heat blooming across her cheeks at the intimacy of it, shame pooling deep in her chest. She hated that she was affected at all, hated that his calm scrutiny made her feel cornered and small.
Her gaze darted away, desperate to reclaim some control, but the closeness of him left no escape. Her eyes caught on the bend of his neck.
That was her mistake.
The scent hit her like a violent storm. Sweet, warm, threaded with spice, but with something sharper beneath, something wholly, undeniably his. It filled her lungs, smothering her reason, dragging her instincts to the surface. Her fangs ached in her gums, sharp and eager, betraying the hunger she had fought so long to bury.
Moonlight caught on the faint sheen of sweat at his throat, turning it to silver. Her gaze lingered on the steady pulse beating at the juncture of his neck, hypnotic, insistent, every beat hammering at her self-control.
Her hunger rose like a tide, merciless and raw. It scraped at the walls she had built within herself, her instincts sharpening every sense, every nuance. She could hear the blood rushing through his veins, feel the warmth radiating from his skin. The urge clawed at her, threatening to undo her entirely.
And he was still there, closer than he should be, thumb pressed against her throat, watching her, as if daring her to lose control.
For a fleeting second her vision faltered, edges blurring like water smeared across glass. Then, suddenly, the world was consumed by a blistering scarlet. Vivid, merciless. It bled into everything, trees, shadows, even him, until it seemed as though molten fire had been poured directly into her eyes.
A vicious pressure coiled behind her sockets, sharp and unbearable, a relentless pounding that made her skull feel too tight. Something inside her shifted grotesquely, veins crawling like dark, writhing roots from the corners of her eyes, bulging as though her own skin could barely contain the volatile power straining beneath. They throbbed with every erratic beat of her heart, each pulse sending searing heat racing through her face.
Shit. The first stage of a starving vampire.
Utahime fought back against it with desperate force, clenching her fists so hard that her nails dug crescent wounds into her palms. Pain bit into her flesh, but it wasn’t enough. She tried to anchor herself to the ordinary— the whisper of leaves overhead, the far-off chirping of unseen creatures, the cool wind brushing against her overheated skin, but it all fell away, meaningless against the single, overwhelming truth.
Him.
Everything in her narrowed to that. To Gojo.
Her throat burned as if scalded, parched and raw, each swallow a torment. Her gaze betrayed her again, flicking back to the line of his throat, to the steady, hypnotic pulse beneath his skin. The scent hit harder this time, thick and intoxicating, curling through her lungs and binding itself to her. It was maddening, an irresistible blend of warmth and spice that teased the edges of her reason.
She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted iron, willing the sharp tang of her own blood to ground her, to dull the hunger clawing inside her. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was.
His scent was the kind that clung long after its source had gone, the kind that haunted memory and dream alike. It was unbearable. It was exquisite. And it was pulling her apart, piece by piece.
Her instincts screamed at her, vicious and insistent: lean closer. Give in. Taste him.
Her throat burned hotter, her body restless, trembling with restraint. And all the while, he stood there, too close, too human, too tempting, like a flame she could not look away from.
“Utahime.”
Her name slipped from his lips, quiet but weighted, a low murmur that dragged her attention back like a tether. He had noticed. Of course he had. He always noticed.
And just like that, she snapped out of it. The crimson haze receded, the throbbing veins retreating until her reflection, human enough, at least, returned.
Her eyes darted back to his face, breath shaky in her throat, only to be met by that look. Sharp, knowing. Assessing. His gaze pinned her like a blade, peeling back the armour she had worked so hard to construct, exposing every raw crack, every weakness.
And her humiliation deepened, hot and suffocating, because he had seen it all.
For a long, suspended moment neither of them moved. The forest seemed to hold its breath with them, the tension stretched thin, taut like a wire ready to snap. Then, as if sensing the delicate balance of the moment, Gojo drew in a slow, deliberate breath and stepped back.
The sudden loss of his hand against her neck was jarring. The absence left her skin cooler, a hollow ache where his warmth had pressed, yet the aftershocks of his touch lingered, thrumming through her veins. Her throat still burned, raw and thirsty, and her heartbeat hammered in protest.
“If you’re done playing your little game, I’m leaving,” she said, her voice icy, sharp as shattered glass, as she pivoted and strode forward, every step deliberate.
He said nothing, only nodded stiffly, eyes following her every movement with that maddening ease.
Utahime led, her expression taut with focus, though her irritation simmered beneath the surface, boiling hotter with every uninvited step he took behind her. Danger might have lurked in the forest, but it was nothing compared to the infuriating presence of the man who refused to leave.
“Why the hell are you still following me?” she snapped, spinning on her heel so quickly her hair whipped across her shoulder. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Someone else to bother?”
Gojo tilted his head, mock contemplation painting his features. “Hmm. I could leave,” he drawled, voice lazy and teasing, “but then who would make sure you don’t wander straight into your doom?”
Her fists clenched, nails biting into her palms as frustration flared. “I’m hunting. Nothing can go wrong,” she bit out, pivoting sharply and pressing onward, determination masking the flare of nerves beneath.
He let the silence stretch, then fell into step behind her with unhurried ease, hands shoved casually into his pockets, like the world itself waited for him. “You’re stomping around like some eminence of centaurs,” he remarked lightly, amusement threaded through the words. “Good luck catching anything.”
Utahime whirled to face him, her glare razor-sharp. “If you keep talking, I’ll start hunting you instead.”
Gojo’s grin widened, unbothered, infuriating in its arrogance. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing. I hear I taste pretty good.”
A groan of exasperation tore from her throat. “For the love of— just stay quiet. You’re going to scare everything off.”
“Scaring things off might be better than whatever it is you’re planning,” he countered lightly, his tone almost playful, though there was an undercurrent of weight she couldn’t ignore.
Utahime skidded to a halt, pivoting sharply to glare at him, frustration curling through her chest like a coiled spring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Gojo didn’t answer immediately. Instead, the corner of his mouth quirked into a smirk, his focus shifting elsewhere. “You know, for someone so determined to lead, you’re remarkably oblivious to—”
“It’s my food!” she snapped, the desperation in her voice cracking like a whip, demanding silence.
His expression flickered, eyes narrowing as something caught his attention, pulling him sharply out of his teasing tone.
“Utahime, stop!” he barked, voice sharper than she had ever heard from him.
But the warning came too late.
The ground beneath her feet split apart in an instant, jagged and unrelenting, sending her stomach flipping as gravity betrayed her. The forest blurred around her, a whirl of dark trunks and fractured moonlight as she plummeted.
Before she could even scream, an arm shot around her waist, yanking her back against an unyielding chest. The sudden contact made her catch her breath, the solidity of him both terrifying and maddeningly grounding.
Air tore past them, cold and biting, as they fell together into the shadowed void. Her pulse raced, hammering erratically in her ears, each breath a ragged gasp. “Hold on,” Gojo commanded, his voice unnervingly steady, almost casual despite the chaos swirling around them.
Instinctively, she buried her face against the base of his neck, squeezing her eyes shut as if that alone could anchor her sanity. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something to hold, something to prevent her from plummeting into the earth.
The strength of his arms around her was undeniable, solid, unwavering, but it only made her frustration grow. Why did he always have to be so infuriatingly capable? Her teeth clenched as she struggled against the rising tide of panic and fury alike.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice smooth and maddeningly calm. “I’ve got you.”
She wanted to scream at him, to tell him that nothing about this was fine, that she didn’t need his help, that she could manage perfectly well without being hauled around like a helpless child, but the words lodged in her throat. Instead, she clung tighter, shivering against him as the ground hurtled toward them.
With a twist that made her stomach churn, Gojo positioned himself beneath her, landing with them both in a tangled heap on the mossy floor. The impact stole her breath, forcing her eyes shut, heart racing against his steady rhythm beneath her hands.
“Fuck,” he cursed, the single word breaking the tension like a knife.
She shoved herself off him with more force than necessary, her temper sparking, and he hissed in pain. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he drawled, voice casual, infuriating. “Saved your life and everything.”
Utahime’s hands curled into fists, trembling with anger, humiliation, and something she couldn’t name. “If you hadn’t been distracting me—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted, cutting her off with that infuriating ease, eyes locking on hers like he could read every thought. “Keep telling yourself that. But next time you walk into a trap, maybe don’t pretend you’ve got it all under control.”
“No, Gojo! This is all your fault!” she shouted, her voice raw, echoing her frustration with the situation, and with him. Every muscle in her body tensed, burning with indignation. Her chest heaved with anger, but beneath it all, something hotter simmered, a shameful, reluctant awareness that part of her relied on him.
He scoffed, rolling his eyes in that infuriating, arrogant way he always did, as if her outrage were a petty inconvenience rather than the truth of her fury. “Oh, sure. Blame me for you not paying attention. Makes total sense.”
Her fists tightened, nails biting into her palms, each breath coming in short, sharp bursts. She wanted to lash out, to strike him in return for the constant infuriation, for the way he dominated everything, even her emotions. And yet, beneath the anger, beneath the humiliation of being so utterly exposed in his presence, the hunger— the hunger— gnawed at her veins, hot and unrelenting.
Her body betrayed her resolve, trembling not just with adrenaline but with something more primal, something she hated herself for feeling. Gojo, infuriating, maddening, unstoppable Gojo, had this uncanny way of making her feel small, weak, and yet painfully alive all at once.
And still, the pull of him lingered, his proximity, his strength, his infuriating arrogance, a knot of tension that refused to untangle no matter how much she wanted it to. It made everything worse, intensified every emotion, every irritation until they swirled together in a tempest that threatened to consume her.
“Stop acting like this is some kind of joke!” she hissed, her voice trembling as she forced herself to stay upright, to hold together the fragile control she’d fought to maintain. Each word scraped against her throat, raw and biting, a desperate attempt to keep from collapsing into a chaos she wasn’t ready to face.
Gojo straightened slowly, brushing dirt from his shirt with that infuriatingly casual air, as though nothing mattered. The sheer nonchalance of it made her stomach twist, and worse, the oppressive weight of his silence settled over them like a thick, smothering blanket. She hated it. Hated how powerful it made him seem. Hated how powerless it made her feel.
She knew better, though. Rare as his silences were, they carried more force than his words ever could. With just the tilt of his head or the narrowing of his eyes, he could make her feel invisible, guilty, insignificant, as though she were the one to blame for everything that went wrong.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said at last, voice slow, deliberate, dripping with mocking sarcasm. “Did you want me to cry about it? Perhaps write an apology in blood, hmm? Because you do seem rather theatrical tonight.”
Her stomach turned, bile rising with the bitter taste of frustration. The burn in her throat twisted, and the tension coiling around her chest grew tighter, almost unbearable. She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Instead, she pivoted sharply, turning her back to him, swallowing down the sharpness of her fury and embarrassment alike.
But the room had other plans.
A sudden pulse of faint, unnatural light surged through the space, halting time itself. For a heartbeat, everything hung suspended in a surreal, liminal stillness, the oppressive quiet shattered only by a low, steady thrum of magic that seemed to echo from the very walls.
The walls, previously dark and foreboding, now shimmered with an iridescent glow, an oily, unsettling gleam that twisted in the corners of her vision like something alive. Shadows warped, reflecting her tension back at her, magnifying it, mocking her helplessness.
Utahime turned in a slow, deliberate circle, chest tight, lungs straining as her wide eyes absorbed the unnatural light. Every muscle in her body tensed, coiled like a spring ready to snap, each breath a struggle against the suffocating atmosphere.
It wasn’t the magic or the barriers that gnawed at her nerves, though, they were mere distractions. It was the sense that the room itself was alive, watching, waiting, pressing in from all sides, as if it were aware of her vulnerability and relishing it.
And, inevitably, she found herself blaming him again. Of course it’s him. Why else would everything feel this suffocating? Why else would I feel this exposed, this trapped?
The air thickened further, curling around her like invisible tendrils of smoke, sticky and suffocating, carrying with it a quiet, malevolent weight. Her skin prickled, her heart raced, and yet through it all, the maddening, infuriating thought persisted: Gojo is at the centre of this. As always.
Gojo caught the sharp edge in her gaze and smirked, eyes glinting with a cruel, predatory gleam that made her stomach twist. His amusement was a blade against her nerves. “Good,” he said, voice low, biting, each word sharp enough to draw blood. “Because clearly, all you’ve got is a talent for pointing fingers.”
The room offered no relief. No doors, no windows, just endless, undulating walls that seemed alive, shifting subtly whenever she dared stare too long. It was like being trapped inside a living creature, every pulse of the glowing surface echoing through her chest. The thought sent shivers crawling down her spine.
Gojo let out a slow, whistling sound, rapping a knuckle against the wall. “Damn,” he said, eyes scanning the room, a mock reverence in his tone. “Whoever built this really wanted to make sure no one left alive.”
The walls obeyed some cruel whim, rearranging themselves like a puzzle designed to torment them. The faint hum of magic thrummed through the air, wrapping around her like tendrils of smoke. They were trapped here, and worse, she was trapped with him. Her chest tightened, pulse quickening with the realisation, and a bitter, helpless knot coiled in her stomach.
“You’re the one who dragged me into this!” she snapped, words jagged and raw, clawing at the air between them. “If you’d just stayed out of my way—”
“Stayed out of your way?” His laugh cut through her like ice, bitter and scornful. “You were about to walk headfirst into a death trap, Utahime. Forgive me for not letting you kill yourself through sheer idiocy.” Her anger ignited, scorching her chest. “I don’t need saving— least of all from you!” she shouted, voice echoing off the pulsating walls, sharp enough to cut glass.
Gojo stepped closer, an unmovable, suffocating presence. The dim, dull glow of the walls cast harsh, jagged shadows across his face, carving out every sharp angle. His eyes bore into hers, calm but lethal, like a predator studying prey.
“Yeah, well,” he said quietly, voice deceptively soft, “you’ve got a funny way of showing it. If you didn’t need saving, we wouldn’t be here, would we?”
“Yeah? And how do I show it, then?” she shot back, stepping closer, defiance flaring in her chest, even as the pounding of her heart betrayed a flicker of fear.
He didn’t answer. His gaze drifted over her, slow and deliberate, coldly assessing, before he shook his head and looked away. “Forget it,” he muttered, quieter than usual.
Her jaw tightened. No, she thought fiercely. I won’t let him— not now, not when everything else in her life felt as if it were unraveling. “You think you’re perfect, don’t you?” she spat, each word sharp, slicing through the charged air. “Always acting like you’re untouchable, above everyone else. Guess what, Gojo? You’re just as flawed as the rest of us.”
The word hung heavy between them, thick with accusation and unspoken truth. But she didn’t stop there, her voice rising, trembling with a bitterness that had long festered. “No, scratch that, you’re useless! Just like everyone else who’s ever looked down on me!” Her mind screamed at her, especially you, the smug, infuriating enigma with your careless remarks, your rumours, your know-it-all arrogance. But it didn’t escape him.
Gojo’s smirk returned, sharper this time, honed like a blade, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, almost merciless light. For a fraction of a second, she felt prey beneath his gaze, exposed, naked in more ways than one.
“Please,” he drawled, voice dripping with venomous condescension, slow and deliberate. “You’re not even one of us. But you’re right about one thing, I’m not flawless. At least I don’t make everyone else’s life a problem.”
The words hit her harder than any physical strike could. Not even one of us. The truth she had spent years burying now stared her squarely in the face, cold and relentless. His judgment wasn’t just pointed at her human side, nor at her vampire half, it was all of her, and she felt it deep in her bones.
Of course he would judge her. He already had done it before.
For a heartbeat, Gojo faltered, just enough for her to register the cruel, unflinching honesty in his eyes. There was no mercy here, only the harsh reckoning of truth.
But she couldn’t show it. Not to him. Not ever. Weakness was a luxury she could never afford.
And yet, all she’d done this entire time was parade it, naked and unguarded, for him to see.
“It’s useless to argue with someone who doesn’t even have a brain,” she spat, the words leaving her lips before she could stop them. They sounded hollow, brittle, far too small to shield her from the tempest of emotions raging beneath her skin, but they were all she had. All she could use to build a wall between herself and the storm Gojo had stirred inside her.
His voice followed her like a shadow, relentless, unyielding. “Really? It takes one to know one.”
The silence that followed pressed down on her like a physical weight. Utahime’s hands skimmed the cold, smooth surface of the wall, movements sharp and jerky, as if each step threatened to unravel her completely. Every pulse of magic that throbbed beneath her fingers mirrored the thrum of her own heartbeat.
Beside her, Gojo remained motionless, a predator watching, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. The smirk that usually danced across his face had vanished, replaced by something harder, colder, more dangerous.
Utahime exhaled slowly, her breath curling into mist against the frigid air. Fingers brushing over the ancient carvings etched deep into the stone, she could feel them pulse faintly beneath her touch, as though the walls themselves were alive, aware of her presence.
“This is old magic,” she murmured, voice low and tense. “A containment spell.”
Her brow furrowed as she traced the symbols, lines etched with precision into the stone. “And… a binding spell. There must be a trigger, something we need to do to escape. They’ve trapped us here.”
Gojo’s eyes glinted, sharp as fractured glass, a muscle in his jaw twitching with restrained amusement. “Trapped? Oh, that’s cute. Here I was thinking you’d finally decided to take a vacation.”
Her anger flared like a live wire, white-hot, radiating through her chest. She stepped closer, voice rising, trembling with frustration and humiliation. “You really think this is a joke?”
He didn’t flinch. Arms folded, expression unreadable, he radiated an infuriating stillness, as if her fury were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Yet beneath the anger, beneath the irritation, the thirst gnawed at her relentlessly. Every emotion seemed magnified, every sensation sharper, every shadow and pulse in the room drawing her attention. Her gaze flicked over the glowing walls, scanning for anything that might give them an edge.
Gojo’s presence was a constant irritation, a reminder of everything she hated: his arrogance, his smugness, the way he always seemed to unsettle her without trying. She could hear him muttering under his breath, the sound grating against her nerves like nails on stone.
“Stop talking,” she snapped, not even glancing at him, her patience fraying.
“Stop listening,” he shot back, voice calm, every word designed to needle her.
Her fingers brushed against the wall, and the glow surged violently, the room shuddering around them. For a heartbeat, their argument was forgotten as the magic rippled, thrumming through the air like a living heartbeat.
“Did you do that?” Gojo asked, voice sharp, accusing, narrowing the space between them.
She spun, fury flaring in her chest. “Of course you’d blame me! Maybe if you actually helped instead of standing there being useless—”
“I am helping,” he interjected, stepping closer, stance rigid and unyielding. “You’re just too busy being pissed off to notice.”
And then they were there, face to face, mere inches apart. The air between them crackled, thick with tension, magic, and something unspoken. Her pulse thundered in her ears, every fibre of her being straining against the closeness, against him. Every instinct screamed at her to pull away, but the heat of his presence, the suffocating weight of his gaze, pinned her where she stood.
For the first time, she felt completely exposed, not just physically, but in every secret, every hidden weakness. And he seemed to know it, feeding off it, reveling in it.
Their breathing came in ragged bursts, sharp and uneven, each exhale a tremor of suppressed anger and exhaustion. The air between them was thick, viscous almost, as though the space itself had soaked up every ounce of their frustration, every unspoken insult, and held it hostage.
“It just had to be you… out of all people,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of something she couldn’t name, fear, anger, all tangled together, suffocating her.
Gojo’s gaze softened ever so slightly, a shadow of something human flickering behind his usual arrogance, but it vanished almost instantly. The hard lines of his face remained, carved sharp as blades. “Too bad,” he muttered, low, voice heavy with something like exhaustion. “Because like it or not… we’re stuck here together.”
The walls pulsed again, responding to the tension between them. The room itself seemed alive, feeding off the bitterness, the unvoiced grievances, the unacknowledged truths. Light shimmered and danced across the walls, thick and unnatural, as though the magic thrived on their unrest.
Then, without warning, a sudden pulse of golden light erupted, filling the chamber. Both of them flinched, snapping their heads toward the walls as ancient symbols lifted from the stone, glowing and floating like molten embers in a windless inferno.
Gojo arched a brow, voice dry, a flicker of his usual cocky tone returning. “Huh. That’s… new.”
The symbols writhed, twisting and contorting, before settling into words that glowed with unearthly intensity:
“Only those who share one heart may break these walls .”
The sentence hung in the air like a branding iron. Its meaning struck her like a physical blow, each word searing into her mind with impossible clarity. Share one heart.
Her chest tightened, breath hitching as her stomach turned over in knots. The implication was suffocating, invasive, and the unrelenting weight of it pressed down like a hand around her ribcage. She could feel the pulse of the magic vibrating against her skin, echoing the thrum of her own racing heartbeat.
A thick, suffocating silence followed, broken only by the faint hum of energy dancing across the walls.
Utahime stiffened, eyes darting between the sentence and Gojo. Every instinct screamed at her, this was dangerous, this was wrong, and yet her chest ached at the unbidden closeness of him.
Gojo tilted his head, lips quirking into a smirk that had none of its usual warmth, razor-sharp and cutting. “This is bullshit,” he said lightly, almost casually, but his fists curled at his sides, knuckles pale.
“Careful, silver tongue,”
The runes responded as if they had heard him, twisting violently, bleeding into new shapes that seemed to pulse with intention. Their light shifted, morphing from white-hot brilliance to a sickly, unnatural green that made her skin crawl.
The chamber itself seemed to exhale, and a whisper of movement stirred the air. The magic was alive, watching, waiting, its pulse syncing with the frantic beat of her heart.
“Hubris is a dangerous poison.”
Utahime’s glare snapped to Gojo, silent but piercing, a warning she hoped he understood. His smirk faltered, just for a fraction, and she felt the quiver of her own chest tighten as though the air itself had grown heavier. She swallowed, forcing her breath steady, though the chill crawling along her spine made it almost impossible.
The temperature dropped suddenly. Frost crept along the stone walls like white veins, and the light dulled to a deep, oppressive blood-red, pulsing with every heartbeat.
“You must seek what has been lost. A memory… a regret… a truth you refuse to face.”
The words wrapped around them like chains, tight and suffocating, every syllable weighing down on her lungs.
Then, twisting, rearranging themselves with a malevolent intent, the letters formed something far crueler:
“One must speak the truth. The other must listen. A punishment will be given for each lie.”
A sharp crack ripped through the chamber like lightning through stone. Utahime stumbled, clutching her chest as a searing heat surged through her veins, burning with a fire that was both external and wholly within her.
Gojo’s presence beside her was suffocating, his body unnervingly close, his eyes glinting with a mixture of challenge and amusement that made her chest tighten further. She hated him.
she couldn’t deny the pulse of something else, a shiver of awareness that his nearness was affecting her more than she cared to admit.
The chamber waited, the magic hungering, and Utahime realised, there was no escaping this moment. Not the room, not the spell, and certainly not him.
And so the game truly began.
Gojo’s expression shifted, subtle but unmistakable. He understood. He knew what the magic, the runes, and their cruel implications demanded of them.
Utahime’s pulse thundered in her chest, every beat a hammer driving panic through her veins. Her mind screamed at her, warning her of the truth she had always tried to bury: her blood— what it was— the curse she carried silently, a mark of her difference,
part of herself she could never escape. And now, those forces, that magic, sought to twist it into a test— a cruel, intimate gauntlet designed to strip her of control.
Her thoughts raced, spinning in dizzying circles, but it wasn’t the labyrinth, the puzzles, or the runes that consumed her. It was something far more insidious. Something primal.
Her hunger.
A hunger she had spent years burying beneath layers of iron will, beneath careful routines and rigid control. But it had never left. It simmered just beneath her skin, gnawing at her insides like a beast trapped behind invisible bars, clawing for release.
Three months.
Three months without feeding. The longest she had ever endured. And now, standing in that room, she felt it clawing at her chest, sharp and insistent, tearing at the edges of her composure.
Tears threatened to blur her vision, hot and bitter with frustration and desperation. She turned abruptly, as if the motion could shield her from herself. Her fingers trembled, curling into fists so tight her nails bit deep into her palms, red staining the skin. Pain grounded her, a reminder that she was still here, still human enough to resist.
She forced her focus, willed herself to steady her breath. To focus on the task at hand. To push the hunger down where it belonged, buried beneath layers of pride and stubborn defiance.
“Fine,” she muttered, voice low, almost a whisper. “Let’s just do it… and get out of here.”
Gojo said nothing, but she could feel him— always him— the weight of his gaze pressing down on her like a living thing, heavy and unrelenting.
“Just… don’t lie,” she added finally, voice firmer, though it still trembled with the effort of holding herself together.
The room seemed to contract around them, the air thickening, hot and suffocating. The walls pulsed with the magic, reacting to their tension, reflecting the storm that raged silently between them. Every shadow seemed alive, coiling closer, watching, waiting. And Utahime felt herself at the centre of it all, her chest tight, stomach burning, hands trembling, from the hunger that gnawed relentlessly beneath her ribs, whispering that control was fleeting.
This was no longer a game of magic. It was a war against herself, and the stakes had never been higher.
***
Two hours. Two agonising, suffocating hours that stretched on like an eternity in the cramped, cursed space.
Not a single word had passed between them.
The room itself mocked them, its ancient walls pulsing with silent laughter, as if relishing in their helplessness, feeding off the tension seething between them.
And yet, the silence that lingered between them was deafening. Every movement in the room felt charged with an unspoken challenge, like the forest itself was watching them, waiting for the inevitable next misstep, the fatal mistake.
Gojo was still. Too still. He hadn’t moved much since they realised there was no easy way out. He stood with his arms crossed, his back against the cold stone, unreadable behind that usual mask of carelessness. But Utahime wasn’t fooled.
She saw the way his jaw tightened. The way his fingers twitched every now and then, as if resisting the urge to do something .
He hated being trapped.
So did she.
Utahime’s voice cut through the tense silence, hoarse and desperate. “There has to be another way.”
Gojo exhaled, slow and measured, running a hand through his hair. He looked almost thoughtful, almost too calm, but Utahime could see the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw.
“Don’t suppose you have a brilliant plan, huh?” His tone was light, teasing, but there was no real amusement behind it.
Utahime turned sharply, eyes burning as she gestured to the cursed walls surrounding them. “We don’t even know if this will work,” she snapped. “What if it’s just a sick game? What if the moment we start answering, we give it more power?”
Gojo didn’t answer right away.
He was thinking.
That alone made her pulse quicken.
When he finally moved, it was slow, deliberate. His head tilted, that sharp gaze locking onto hers, watching her, his expression unreadable, peeling apart every layer of her carefully built defences.
She hated when he looked at her like that—like he could see through her, past her defences, past the anger she clung to so tightly. She looked away before looking back at him.
“There has to be another way, ” she said again, almost desperate this time. she just looked at him.
Her eyes, glassy, wide and dark, held a desperation she couldn’t voice, a silent plea that clawed at her throat but refused to form into words.
Please.
Gojo stiffened. His breath came slower, his gaze darkening, the way his hands clenched at his sides.
She wasn’t sure what she was begging for.
Escape. A solution.
Him .
But he understood. She knew he did.
Because for once, Gojo Satoru had nothing to say.
Gojo hummed, glancing at the inscriptions again. For a moment, she thought he was going to argue, throw out one of his infuriatingly smug responses just to get a rise out of her. But he didn’t.
Instead, he sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Alright,” he muttered, stepping closer. “Then let’s figure it out.”
Utahime blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
His eyes didn’t hold their usual mirth, didn’t sparkle with their typical arrogance. Instead, there was something different. He wasn’t fighting her.
“Let’s figure an alternative.”
***
Her fangs throbbed, a dull, relentless ache that pulsed with every beat of her heart, threatening to spiral beyond her control. His scent lingered—sharp, intoxicating, a cruel reminder of how little time she had before the hunger consumed her entirely.
And Gojo— damn him— wouldn’t shut up. His voice filled the room, steady, maddeningly calm, like he had all the time in the world, as if they weren’t suffocating in a cursed space with no exit in sight.
“Try that one,” he said, his tone so casual it felt like mockery.
“I already did,” she snapped back, her words brittle, too sharp, betraying her fraying composure. “Maybe if you stopped pacing like a caged animal, we’d actually get somewhere.”
“Oh, forgive me,” he drawled, every syllable dripping with that insufferable arrogance. “I didn’t realise your method was so revolutionary. Please, do enlighten me.”
The words grated, sharp as glass, sliding under her skin until she felt raw. Her nails scraped against the stone wall, leaving pale crescents in the rock, her fingertips aching from the force. She turned to him sharply, eyes flashing, fury burning bright enough to match the heat in her chest.
It shouldn’t have mattered. His jabs, his smirk, his infuriating smugness, they were always the same. But right now, with her hunger clawing at her insides, with the air thick and stifling, it all landed harder, cutting deeper.
She wasn’t just furious. She was starving.
“You really think this is funny?” she hissed, her voice trembling, her control fraying at the edges.
“Funny?” His lips curved in that razor-smile she loathed. “No. Pathetic? A little.” He leaned back against the glowing wall, arms folded, the smirk carved into his face like it was made to taunt her. “Face it, Utahime, you’re just as clueless as I am. Difference is, I’m not pretending otherwise.”
The words sank into her chest like barbs. She moved before she even realised it, propelled by the fire boiling in her veins. One step, then another, and suddenly she was inches away from him, her fists clenched tight, her body trembling with the weight of her fury.
“You’re insufferable,” she spat, every word laced with venom. “Do you even care that we’re stuck here? Or are you just getting a kick out of watching me struggle?”
His eyes narrowed, smirk fading into something harder. The room seemed to chill, the air growing dense, heavy, like his voice when it dropped low enough to scrape against her bones.
“You think I like this?” His tone was jagged, a blade cutting the silence clean in two. “You think I enjoy being trapped here with someone who can’t even admit they need help?”
Her vision wavered. For the briefest heartbeat her gaze betrayed her, flicking to his throat, just a glance, but enough to remind her of the burn in her throat, the ache in her jaw, the beast whispering beneath her skin. She swallowed hard, forced it down, her breath shuddering as she wrenched her eyes away.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she hissed, her voice breaking, sharp but faint, as if saying it any louder would shatter her completely. She turned abruptly, hands shaking as they fussed with the fraying hem of her shirt, tugging hard enough to nearly tear it.
“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, the sound cracking with desperation. The weight of wasted hours pressed down on her, fruitless searching grinding into her nerves until she felt raw. The words clawed their way out before she could stop them, part curse, part confession, part scream muffled by the walls.
And still, the hunger lingered, coiling, waiting, reminding her she was seconds away from breaking.
For a long, strained moment, there was nothing but the rasp of her breathing and the scrape of their movements against stone, both of them fumbling through the chamber like shadows chasing their own tails. The silence pressed in thick, broken only by the frantic rhythm of her pulse in her ears.
Then Gojo’s voice cut through, low but taut, the bite of it dulled though not gone. “We’re not getting out of here if we don’t work together, Utahime. Whether you like it or not.”
Her head remained bowed, jaw clenched so tightly her teeth ached. Words trembled on her tongue, sharp, poisonous, desperate, but she swallowed them down. Every heartbeat, every breath, every wasted second in this cursed place was another thread of her control snapping loose, slipping further beyond her reach.
“Fine,” she muttered at last, though the strain in her voice betrayed her. “But stay out of my way.”
Laughter followed, but it was nothing like his usual careless chuckle. This one was low, bitter, echoing off the walls in jagged ripples. “Trust me,” he said, almost a growl, “I’d love nothing more.”
The words should have steadied her, should have given her back the upper hand, the illusion of control she craved. But instead, they only deepened the suffocating quiet that swallowed them both whole. The chamber seemed to tighten around them, the glowing walls shrinking with every insult, every barbed glance, as though the very air thrived on their hostility.
Time dragged, sluggish and cruel, each passing moment an eternity. Her limbs trembled with fatigue, her stomach a hollow void gnawing deeper and deeper, the hunger clawing at her insides until she thought it might tear her apart from within.
It burned now— her veins hot, her chest constricting as though iron bands had been fastened around her lungs. Her fangs ached with a feverish throb, and each second demanded more strength than she had left not to break.
She would not let him see. She couldn’t.
But Gojo— damn him— watched. She felt his gaze skimming over her, sharp and unrelenting, lingering too long on the tremor in her hands, on the falter in her step. He masked it with that usual veneer of nonchalance, but she knew better. He knew. They both did.
Time was bleeding away, and so was she.
Still, she set her shoulders, forcing her body into rigid stillness. She would not give him the satisfaction. She would not let him witness her unravel. Not him. Never him.
And yet, deep in the hollow pit of her stomach, beneath the burning hunger and the brittle pride, the truth settled heavy as lead.
She needed him.
And it was that truth, not the hunger, not the curse, not the chamber itself, that felt most unbearable of all.
***
The walls pulsed again, the eerie glow casting shifting shadows across the stone. The ancient magic stirred, whispering through the cracks, weaving itself into the air between them.
And then, the words returned.
A reminder. A demand . The rules of this cursed game were clear, and there was no escaping them. Not now. Not ever.
Gojo exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. The tension in his shoulders finally broke, his usual composure cracking under the weight of the room’s oppressive energy.
He ran a hand through his hair, the motion jerky and uncharacteristically agitated. “This isn’t going to work,” he muttered, his voice clipped, controlled, but laced with a frustration he couldn’t fully hide.
Utahime swallowed. She didn’t want to admit it, not to him, not to herself, but deep down, she knew he was right. This whole thing felt wrong, twisted in ways they couldn’t yet see.
Her nails dug into her palm as she looked away. “Fine.” She looked away, unable to meet his gaze, unable to face the truth in his words. The word left her lips barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loudly would make it real, would make it irreversible.
Gojo’s jaw ticked, a subtle but telling sign of the tension coiled within him. He hesitated, his sharp eyes flickering over her face, searching for something she couldn’t— wouldn’t —give him. But then, with a quiet resignation that felt like a punch to the gut, he spoke. “I’ll go first.”
Utahime’s gaze snapped to his, startled by the sudden shift. Just quiet resignation.
His lips parted, and for the first time, he spoke with honesty . Raw, unfiltered honesty. “I don’t hate you.” His voice was steady, unwavering, but there was a weight to his words that made her stomach twist. “Not even a little. Not at all.”
The words echoed in the space between them, heavy and unrelenting, as if the room itself was considering them, testing them. The pulsing walls stilled, the air growing thicker, and heavier, waiting with bated breath for her response.
Utahime’s breath caught in her throat, her mind racing, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She could say anything. Any truth about them.
But the words that pushed their way to the surface were the ones she’d spent years swallowing down, burying deep, hiding from the world, and from herself.
“I—” she hesitated, fingers tightening at her sides.
She swallowed, but the dry feeling in her throat only intensified, the scent of his skin lingering in the air like a cruel temptation.
Gojo, of course, noticed. When has he not?
But it was getting harder to think clearly. The thirst was a wildfire now, licking at the edges of her control, eating away at her concentration.
She could feel her fangs pressing against the inside of her lips, aching with the desperate need to feed. Another surge of magic rippled through the room, the letters beginning to shift as if responding to her struggle.
Her vision blurred as her emotions and instincts began to clash. The need to escape. The need to control the hunger. The overwhelming frustration of being trapped with Gojo. She couldn’t focus. Not with him standing so close, his presence filling the air like a storm cloud, dark and electric and impossible to ignore.
Her chest heaved, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she fought to keep herself together, to keep the pieces of her crumbling composure from falling apart. “You’re about to lose it again, huh?” Gojo’s voice was a low murmur, edged with a quiet sharpness that cut straight into her fraying nerves.
Her head snapped towards him, hair whipping across her face, her chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven breaths. Her voice came out raw, trembling with anger, but beneath it lurked something far darker, something she couldn’t name. “What the hell do you know? You’ve never been in this situation.”
Her nails scraped against the rough stone, clawing until they split skin, the grit embedding itself into her flesh. Her desperation carved itself into every movement, every rasp of breath.
For the first time in hours, Gojo’s expression shifted, his usual mask of smug defiance tempered by something sterner, something dangerously close to concern. He tilted his head, those blue eyes no longer mocking but watchful, calculating.
“You think I don’t see it?” he asked, his tone quiet but weighted, deliberate. “You think I don’t know what’s happening to you? You can barely stand, Utahime. I’m not an idiot.”
His words lanced through her pride, a truth she refused to accept. Her fury flared in defence, burning so bright it drowned out reason. “Shut your damn mouth, Gojo,” she spat, her voice cracking as it rose. Her eyes shone with fire, with fury, with the unbearable sting of being seen. “You don’t get it. You don’t get anything.”
For the briefest heartbeat, his gaze softened, dangerously so, a flicker of humanity that threatened to unravel her completely. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by the familiar sharpness she knew all too well.
“Maybe not,” he conceded, though the words carried a weight he didn’t intend to show. “But I know this— if you don’t calm the hell down, we’ll be stuck here even longer. And that won’t be good for either of us.”
Her mind spun, a chaotic mess of hunger, humiliation, rage, and despair. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. The walls seemed to pulse with her heartbeat, each throb louder, heavier, until it drowned out everything else.
“Get it together,” he said firmly, taking a step back as though the space between them could cool the fire threatening to consume her. “You want to get out of here or not?”
Something inside her snapped. Her hand lashed out, slamming into the wall with a hollow crack, skin tearing against the jagged stone. “I’m trying!” she screamed, the rawness of her voice splintering into something almost childlike, fragile, breaking under its own weight. “And I have been since I entered the damn forest!”
The words echoed in the chamber, desperate and hollow, and for the first time, she realised how close she was, how very close, to breaking completely. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath her feet, one breath away from tumbling into an abyss she’d never climb out of.
Gojo’s eyes darkened, a shadow of something unspoken flickering there. For a moment, she thought he might push her, might say the words that would shatter her last defence and send her spiralling.
But he didn’t. Instead, he turned away, his shoulders stiff, his back a wall she couldn’t scale. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, tinged with irritation but laced with something subtler, something that almost sounded like guilt. “It’s your turn.”
The words broke her.
The tears came hot and violent, spilling past her lashes before she could stop them, searing her cheeks as though shame itself burned her skin. Her breath hitched, uneven, her body trembling as she tried to hold herself together, to keep from falling apart completely. But the weight of everything— the cursed room, the suffocating hunger, the tension that bled between them like an open wound— was crushing.
He hadn’t meant to push her that far. Not really. He was good at needling people, hell, it came naturally to him, slipping under their skin with a grin and a careless word. With Utahime, it was almost instinct, like breathing. He told himself it was fun, told himself she deserved it for always snapping back.
But when the first tear slipped down her cheek, hot and unchecked, he froze.
For a moment, the entire cursed room seemed to still, its oppressive energy dulling to nothing beneath the raw weight of that sound, the ragged hitch of her breath, the tremor in her shoulders.
It was jarring. Utahime never let anyone see her break. Not in all the years he’d known her. She was stubborn to the point of self-destruction, proud enough to carry boulders on her back rather than ask for help. He’d mocked her for it a thousand times, thinking it was some ridiculous quirk of hers, something to roll his eyes at.
But now, watching her fists tremble against the stone, blood streaking her knuckles as she tried to hold herself together, it hit him, this wasn’t stubbornness. This was survival. And he had just made it worse.
His chest tightened, an unfamiliar weight pressing against his ribs. Guilt. Damn it, he hated the feeling. He wanted to brush it off, make a joke, say something flippant to shove the moment aside. That was what he did best. But the words stuck in his throat.
She looked so small. Not weak, not pathetic never that, but small in a way he had never seen before, as though the room itself was crushing her, suffocating her beneath the weight of everything she carried.
And he had been too busy running his mouth.
“Utahime…” The name nearly slipped past his lips, soft, unguarded. He swallowed it down, jaw clenching. No. He couldn’t say her name like that, couldn’t let her hear that part of him. She didn’t need his pity.
Still, his gaze lingered, drawn against his will.
And yet, even as the tears streamed, even as her chest constricted with sobs she refused to let loose, she forced words out of her mouth, brittle and breaking.
“I’ve never needed anyone,” she whispered, her voice a trembling ghost of defiance. “I’ve always been fine on my own. I don’t need anyone to save me.”
But the words rang false, each syllable a hollow clang in the silence. The lie hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating. It was the same lie she had wrapped herself in for years, weaving it like armour, convincing herself she was strong enough to carry it all, alone, always alone.
But she knew better. She had always known.
She wanted someone. She wanted warmth, understanding, connection, someone who saw her, truly saw her, and stayed anyway. Someone who wouldn’t recoil from her hunger, from her weakness, from the curse that haunted her blood. She craved it so badly it hurt, a wound she pressed down on daily until she bled beneath her skin.
Her voice faltered, caught between truth and pride, between longing and fear.
Because deep down, she knew this much:
She had lied.
The truth had been buried for so long, smothered beneath layers of denial, shame, and hollow insistence. Her real truth. The one she couldn’t bring herself to admit, the one she had fought against until it carved her raw from the inside out: I need you. I’ve always needed you.
Gojo’s head snapped toward her, his sharp gaze cutting through the haze of the cursed chamber. His eyes narrowed, not with anger but with something quieter, heavier, disappointment. The kind that lingered, the kind that hurt more than rage ever could. His expression was unreadable at first, but the intensity of it was enough to make her chest tighten. He knew. Of course he knew she had lied. He had always known.
And before he could call her out, before the truth could slip from his lips, the floor gave way.
It was sudden, a violent shift, the ground buckling beneath them with a sickening lurch. The walls spun in dizzying circles, symbols smearing across the stone like bleeding ink. Utahime’s stomach twisted as the glowing markings warped into a single jagged word that pulsed with venom:
LIE.
The letters seared themselves into the air, vibrating with such force that the sound rattled in her skull. The chamber shuddered as though the curse itself had drawn blood from her deception, punishing her for daring to hide.
The vibration deepened into an angry hum, a resonance that shook the marrow of her bones. The world tilted sharply, the room pitching sideways at an impossible angle. Her feet slipped out from under her, her body flung forward into the chaos.
Instinct screamed through her as her hands reached for purchase, but the enchanted room allowed no mercy. She collided with Gojo, the impact jarring, her lungs emptying with a startled gasp as her chest struck hard against his.
For one stunned heartbeat, they were tangled together, limbs in disarray, breath caught between them, bodies pressed close in a way that sent heat racing across her skin. His voice broke the silence, low and rough, almost swallowed by the room’s furious hum.
“You really had to go there, huh?”
There was no mocking lilt, no sharp bite of sarcasm. His words were steady, but threaded through with something that cut deeper than anger ever could. Saddened. Weariness. A shadow of vulnerability he rarely let slip.
Her breath caught, her pulse thundering in her ears. His chest rose and fell against hers, steady, grounding, even as the world seemed to tilt endlessly around them. The cursed walls trembled, their punishment still reverberating, but all Utahime could feel was the weight of his gaze, hard, searching, aching in a way she couldn’t bear to meet.
And in that fragile moment, the truth pressed harder against her ribs than any curse could: she had lied, and he had seen right through her. Their faces were a breath apart, his exhale brushing against her cheek, hot and maddeningly close.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither moved. Neither dared to. The silence between them was taut, straining, brimming with every unspoken truth and every unacknowledged wound that had festered between them. The air itself seemed alive, trembling with the weight of all they had never said.
Utahime’s body reacted before her mind did, her palms pressing weakly against the hard plane of his chest. She meant to shove him back, to break the unbearable closeness, but her movements were sluggish, unsteady, her body betraying her.
And by then, it was already too late.
Out of the corner of her vision, a glint of silver cut through the dim light, a cruel, merciless flash that allowed no time to react. A jagged shard, sharp and pitiless, drove into her side with a wet, splitting crunch that turned her blood to ice.
The sound was obscene, grotesque, a tearing, rending noise that echoed in her skull like a death knell, louder than her own strangled gasp. It was not the clean slice of steel but the brutal rip of flesh and muscle, the intimate destruction of her body turned into a raw, monstrous sound.
Her breath hitched, collapsing into her throat in a choking gurgle, as though the air itself had been stolen from her.
And then the fire came.
The silver wasn’t content to wound her, it consumed her. The moment it pierced her, it spread its venom like liquid lightning through her veins, a corrosive fire that gnawed through her insides with ravenous cruelty. It wasn’t pain she felt, it was annihilation, as though her very being were being burned away from within.
Her vision blurred, her body convulsing against the agony, and yet, somehow, she was acutely aware of the warmth of his chest beneath her trembling hands, the steadiness of his presence against the storm ripping her apart. Her stomach lurched, bile rising in her throat as her body convulsed, trying to reject the poison that was already too deep, too far gone.
Her hands flew to her side instinctively, fingers clawing at the wound, but the shard was buried too deep, and the pain was too much. Her vision blurred, the world tilting on its axis as her knees buckled beneath her.
“Get it out!” she choked, her voice a raw, broken thing, barely audible over the roar of blood rushing in her ears. Her hands trembled violently, slick with her own blood, as she tried to push herself away from the source of her torment.
Her breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, each one a knife to her lungs. The hunger, sharp, primal, and insatiable, clawed at her throat, a desperate need that paled in comparison to the inferno raging in her veins.
The silver wasn’t just killing her; it was unravelling her, stripping away the very essence of what kept her alive.
Her vision swam, tears mingling with the sweat and blood streaking her face, as she clawed at her side, her nails digging into the wound in a futile attempt to rip the shard free.
Her body betrayed her, limbs heavy and unresponsive, every movement sending fresh waves of agony rippling through her. Every breath she took was ragged, and desperate, the silver now digging deeper with each beat of her heart.
It was burning her from the inside out, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t process anything beyond the raw, unrelenting agony that consumed her. Gojo’s voice cut through the haze, a curse spat into the air like a weapon. His hands were on her in an instant, firm and unyielding, anchoring her as the pain threatened to drag her under.
His body was warm against hers, a stark contrast to the icy fire consuming her from within. She wanted to scream, to thrash, to tear herself away from him, but her body was no longer her own. It was a broken, bleeding thing, trembling and writhing in his grasp. “Hold still,” he rasped, the words tearing out of him raw, unpolished, trembling at the edges with something she had never heard from him before— fear, sharp and unguarded.
His hand pressed hard against her side, his fingers slick, slipping in her blood as they wrapped around the jagged silver buried deep in her flesh. Her world had narrowed to a narrowing tunnel of light, her vision blurring until all that remained sharp was him, the pale outline of his face, the icy burn of his touch, the frantic thud of his heartbeat against her collapsing frame.
She wanted to beg him not to touch it, not to move it, not to make it worse, but the words dissolved before they could form. What broke free instead was a whimper, raw and shuddering, a sound stripped of dignity, almost inhuman.
Gojo didn’t recoil. He didn’t even blink. His grip only tightened, his arm steady as steel even as his breath shuddered against her hair. And then, without warning, without giving her the mercy of time, he pulled.
The world detonated inside her.
Pain, white and incandescent, flared through her body like lightning cleaving her open from the inside out. It wasn’t pain she could register or fight against, it was too vast, too consuming, obliterating everything else. The silver shard tore free with a grotesque, wet rip, the sound obscene, echoing in her head louder than her own scream.
Her cry wrenched out of her throat, jagged and broken, part sob, part yell, her body arching helplessly against his as every nerve in her frame lit up with fire. Hot blood gushed in torrents, soaking into her clothes, his hands, the floor, her very life spilling away, relentless and unstoppable.
He dragged her against him before she could collapse, lowering her into his lap, his arms caging her trembling body as though he could hold her soul inside her through sheer force. His palm pressed firm against the wound, desperate to staunch the flow, to anchor her, to stop her slipping away.
Her vision was breaking apart into fragments now, dark clouds pressing in at the edges until even his face seemed to swim and distort. The room spun violently, tilting, her breath nothing but shallow, ragged catches in her throat.
“Shh,” he breathed into her hair, his voice harsh, stripped bare of its usual ease, the words scraping with urgency. “I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere.”
But there was no soothing in his tone, only command, only desperation. His voice was shaking even as he fought to keep it steady, pitched low, close to her ear, as though words alone could keep her tethered.
“Stay with me,” he ordered, his tone breaking on the edge of a plea. “Utahime, stay with me.”
But she was already slipping. The dark was too heavy, too deep, curling around her bones and dragging her under.
She was drowning— drowning in the hunger, in the pain. It was suffocating, a tide that dragged her down with merciless hands. The blood loss alone was crippling, but paired with the gnawing, ceaseless hunger clawing at her insides, it was unbearable.
Her body betrayed her, sinking further into the haze of desperation. Her nails curled into the fabric of his shirt, tearing faint grooves into the cloth as she fought to hold herself upright, as though anchoring herself to him was the only thing keeping her from being swallowed whole.
“You’re alright,” he murmured, but his reassurance was a fragile thread, one she could scarcely grasp.
The last time she had felt pain like this had been years ago, when the scar upon her face was first carved into her skin. That wound had never truly healed; it remained an unyielding reminder of how breakable she really was.
But this… this was worse. This was no clean cut or lingering scar. This was agony that went deeper than flesh, beyond bone, reaching into the marrow of her being. It devoured her from the inside, a cruel marriage of silver’s venom and her own starvation.
And she knew, knew with a clarity more terrifying than the pain itself, that her body might not recover this time. Hours, days, perhaps never.
Her throat burned as though she had swallowed fire; the hunger tore through her like knives.
The world tilted violently. Shapes blurred, shadows bled into one another, colours drained into a dull wash of red and black. The room became nothing more than a smear of shifting darkness.
And in the midst of it, his arms. Gojo’s hold was the last sensation she clung to, his voice echoing dimly as though from another world, a fragile beacon against the void.
Her body gave one last shiver, a final protest against surrender, before the weight of exhaustion crushed her down. Limbs slackened, breath faltered, and at last, she slipped, limp in his arms, as though the fight had finally been stolen from her.
Gojo felt it the moment her strength faltered, the subtle shift of her weight against him, the way her body sagged as though surrendering, her trembling easing into something far worse. His chest clenched, his breath catching in a way he hadn’t felt in years, a sick, heavy lurch that lodged itself in his throat.
“No,” he muttered, his voice breaking before he could stop it. He pressed his palm harder against her wound, the blood seeping hot between his fingers, sticky and relentless.
He had faced deathly creatures, death, devastation. He had seen lives snuffed out in an instant, and it had never once shaken him. But this— her in his arms, her blood soaking him, her lashes fluttering as her eyes fought to stay open, this was different. This was unbearable.
Utahime.
The one who always held herself together even when she broke in silence. The one who carried her own burdens and pushed him away because she refused to be seen as weak. And here she was, trembling, fading, her breath stuttering against his collar. And he couldn’t stop it.
He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening, his frustration folding into something far heavier. Disappointment burned in his chest, but it wasn’t at her. It was at himself. “Damn it, Utahime,” he whispered harshly, his voice cracking. His forehead pressed against hers, a rare gesture of intimacy he hadn’t even realised he was capable of.
His breath shook as he drew her closer, his free hand trembling as it brushed her hair from her damp forehead. He had never begged anyone for anything. Not once. But the words came unbidden, tearing out of him before pride could swallow them down.
“Please… don’t leave me.”
For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru, untouchable, untouchable Gojo, felt powerless. All of his strength, all of his arrogance meant nothing here. He couldn’t reverse the damage. He couldn’t erase the pain. He could only hold her together, piece by fragile piece, and hope she chose to stay.
With one hand still pressed firmly against the gaping wound, Gojo yanked his arm back sharply, teeth clenching as fabric tore with a harsh rip. He’d never cared much for the clothes he wore, but now every shred of it felt like it carried her survival.
He twisted his sleeve into a makeshift bandage, movements brisk but desperate, and bound it tightly around her waist.
The strip of fabric darkened almost immediately, soaking through as blood seeped past his trembling fingers. He pulled it tighter, tighter still, as though sheer force alone could hold her life in place. The knot dug cruelly into her skin, but she didn’t react, not a flinch, not a cry.
That terrified him.
Gojo had also never prayed in his life, not to God, not to fate, not to anyone. But in that moment, his trembling hands and frantic whispers were a prayer of their own.
A prayer that she would choose to stay.