Chapter Text
The workshop is too hot. Heat clings to Toji’s skin, settling between his shoulder blades as he wipes sweat from his forehead with the old handkerchief he keeps in his pocket. The AC has been out for two days, and every tool he touches feels warm.
“Hey kid!” His voice bounces off the metal walls, sharp enough to make Yuji look up from where he’s sorting wrenches.
Yuji jogs over, quick and eager as always. “Yes, Mr. Fushiguro?”
Toji shakes his head. Kid’s too polite. “Tell ’Gumi to call the AC tech. Today. Before we all melt.”
“Got it!” Yuji shoots toward the office—toward the working AC—and Toji watches him go with a faint exhale. Good kid. Loud, but good.
He turns back to the workbench, the heat buzzing in his ears, when someone clears their throat. Too rough to be Yuji and definitely not Megumi. Someone deeper.
Toji looks up.
A man stands in the garage doorway, framed by sunlight. Pale pink hair, ink cutting across his skin in clean, deliberate lines. His eyes linger, and something about the way he holds himself tells Toji exactly what he doesn’t want walking into his shop today.
Yakuza.
The man’s mouth lifts at one corner. “Your sign says you do walk-ins.”
Toji doesn’t answer right away. He takes in the stance, the confidence, the car idling just outside—dark windows, low hum.
“What do you want?” Toji asks, voice low. Not welcoming, not hostile. Just tired.
“Engine trouble,” the man says. “Name’s Sukuna.”
Toji grabs a rag, rubbing grease from his palms. “If this is clan business—”
“It’s not.” Sukuna interrupts. “Just a car. And a mechanic who looks like he knows what he’s doing.”
There’s a pause. A long, quiet one.
Sukuna doesn’t fill it with words, or posturing. He simply watches Toji, like he expects him to understand the difference.
And maybe Toji does. Just a little.
“…Pull it in,” he mutters.
Sukuna’s smile is small, but satisfied. He moves past Toji, close enough that Toji feels the shift of air at his shoulder.
The car rolls forward on a low growl.
Toji focuses on the engine, on anything he can anchor himself to, until he feels it — a gaze on his back. Persistent. Heat tracing the line of his spine.
“You always stare this much?” he asks, not looking up.
“Only when the view’s worth it,” Sukuna murmurs.
Toji stands, slow and deliberate. “Move before I rearrange your face.”
A quiet laugh. Not mocking—more impressed.
“I’ll take my chances,” Sukuna says.
And Toji hates that the sound lingers in the room even after he turns away.